Much Ado About Murder

There was, unfortunately, no denying that the future of the Queen’s Men seemed anything but bright. Even before they had their recent unsuccessful tour, they had suffered two devastating setbacks. Dick Tarleton, their popular clown, had succumbed and passed away after a long illness and the thundering Ned Alleyn, star of their company and the undisputed leading actor on the English stage, had defected to the Lord Admiral’s Men. Alleyn had left in part because the Rose was a much better playhouse than the Burbage Theatre and in part because its owner, Philip Henslowe, had a pretty, buxom daughter and no sons to inherit his fortune.

It was, on a smaller and much lower scale, not unlike an alliance of nations, Smythe reflected wryly. Henslowe offered up his young daughter in marriage, in return for which he got England ’s finest and most popular actor to play upon his stage and draw larger audiences to his theatre. Alleyn got a better playhouse in which to showcase his talents, a brilliant young poet to write new plays for him, a pretty young wife, and upon his father-in-law’s death, he stood to inherit a small fortune in business interests, including the Rose Theatre and a chain of brothels.

For Alleyn, it had been a smart decision and an excellent investment in his future. Sadly, the result of this strategic theatrical alliance did not bode well for the Queen’s Men. With the combination of a better playhouse, the country’s finest actor, and brilliantly innovative new plays produced by their flamboyant young resident poet, Christopher Marlowe, the Lord Admiral’s Men had quickly started to draw audiences away from the Burbage Theatre. The new life that Shakespeare had breathed into their old repertoire had given them something of a respite, but some of the more seasoned players in their company now believed that it was merely postponing the inevitable. At one time the leading players in the land, the Queen’s Men had been reduced to second-raters and, given the sorry state of their finances and the closure of the playhouses, there was serious doubt as to whether or not they could survive.

Smythe did not know what the answer was. Some of the hired men had already given up and found other employment, which was in itself no easy task these days. The city was teeming with people from the country, desperate for work of any kind, and with the shortage of jobs and housing, crime was on the increase. Ministers were preaching sermons from their pulpits in which they not only spoke out against the evils of crime, but also sought to advise the members of their congregations how to avoid being victimized. And if Robert Greene was no longer able to write plays successfully, or even sell his poetry, he was finding a new and thriving market for his cautionary pamphleteering. Even Shakespeare, whose passion for writing plays burned more brightly than the candle flames with which he illuminated his dogged efforts late into the night, was making his money elsewhere, selling laudatory poems to foppish noblemen. He was not too proud. He had a family in Stratford to support, not to mention helping out his fellow players.

For his own part, Smythe knew that his connection to the theatrical world was rather tenuous, at best. He had no illusions about what he could offer to the Queen’s Men. Much as he was loath to admit it, he had no talent as an actor. It was a constant struggle to remember the few lines he was given, and though he felt that he was making some slight improvements in that regard, those few lines were doled out grudgingly and more and more sparingly as time went on. More often than not, he was nothing more than a mere spear carrier. His value to the company was primarily for the strength of his limbs and his skills as a blacksmith and farrier. He was constantly repairing things, or else lifting heavy objects, or ejecting troublemakers and seeing to the horses and making sure the ostlers did their jobs properly during the performances. He had been promoted, in a sense, from a mere ostler to a sort of general, all-around hired man, a sort of apprentice stage manager, but his acting responsibilities were still slight compared to all the others. To some extent, he provided a visual appeal that Shakespeare had termed “stage-dressing.” Will had told him, trying to be reassuring and supportive, that it was always good to have some good-looking bodies on the stage and, regretably, there were few good-looking bodies left among the Queen’s Men. Somehow, Smythe had not felt very reassured to know that he was valued more for his brawn than for his brains.

On the other hand, Liam Bailey believed he had a future as a craftsman. While not quite openly contemptuous of his job with the Queen’s Men, Liam merely shook his head anytime Smythe mentioned it. The burly old smith was not unsympathetic. He understood, at least, what it meant to have a dream. In that, he reminded Smythe of his beloved Uncle Thomas.