Much Ado About Murder

The Queen’s Men, sadly, did not fare so well. By the time the playhouses finally reopened, after numerous postponements and delays, the companies had all suffered from the length of the enforced closure. The Burbage Theatre was as much in need of refurbishing as ever, and there was simply no money to effect the necessary repairs. The chief rivals of the Queen’s Men, the Lord Admiral’s Men, also found themselves in difficulties. After a number of their productions had done poorly, their biggest draw, the celebrated and mercurial Ned Alleyn, had bolted their ranks and joined another company, Lord Strange’s Men. Will Kemp soon followed suit, leaving the Queen’s Men to join Alleyn’s new company. The difficult times brought about a reorganization in which companies of players that had formerly competed with one another now combined in order to survive. The Lord Admiral’s Men joined with Lord Strange’s company to act together at the Rose. And this alliance made the future of the Queen’s Men very grim.

“How do you feel about leaving the Queen’s Men?” Shakespeare asked Smythe one night.

For a moment, Smythe did not respond. Finally, he took a deep breath and asked his roommate, “Are they going to let me go?”

Shakespeare chuckled. “Nay, Tuck, we are going to let them

go. I have been invited to join Lord Strange’s company. I told them that I would consider it if they took you as well.”

“You did? And they agreed?” said Smythe.

“Oh, readily. Your reputation precedes you, you know. They thought that since they already had the country’s finest actor, they would not be complete unless they also had the worst.”

“Thank you,” Smythe said, wryly. “ ‘Tis good to know that I have at least some sort of standing in my craft. But what about the others?”

“Well, Kemp, as you know, has already departed. Pope and Bryan are the next to go. They have already accepted offers to join Lord Strange’s company, who have lost some of their members after the long closure and must now fill out their ranks.”

“And the Burbages? What of them?” asked Smythe.

“For a time, we shall have to part company, it seems,” Shakespeare replied. “The Queen’s Men, I am sorry to say, shall not survive. And the Burbage Theatre may not, either. James Burbage does not own the land whereon the playhouse stands, you know. I have spoken with Dick and he has told me that the landlord has been complaining and may not renew the lease.”

“And if the lease is not renewed?”

“Well, then the landlord shall acquire a playhouse,” Shakespeare said. And then he smiled. “Or so he thinks.”

Smythe frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my friend, that Dick and his father may yet have a few surprises up their sleeves. For the present, Dick has told me that we must take what offers we are given so that we may have work. The winds of change are blowing through the companies of players here in London and, like fleets of ships at sea, we shall all be blown asunder for a time. Then, when the storm has passed, we shall reunite. The formation of the fleet may not be quite the same, and some ships, sadly, may be lost, but those that will remain shall continue with their voyage. And, for some, there may be new ports of call that did not even exist before.”

“New ports of call? What does that mean?”

“Well, do not go bruiting it about,” said Shakespeare, leaning forward conspirationally, “but Dick has told me that his father has a plan. If the landlord refuses to renew the lease, then rather than lose the Theatre, James shall tear it down and carry off the timbers, using them to build another Theatre, even better than the first, one that shall eclipse even the Rose.” “Where?” asked Smythe.

“He has not yet decided. Southwark, perhaps. The better to throw down the gauntlet to Philip Henslowe and the Rose. ‘Twould all take time, however, and meanwhile, you and I must eat. Therefore, I propose that we follow Ned Alleyn and Will Kemp and join Lord Strange’s Men. Afterward, we shall see what the future may bring.”

“Another Theatre, better than the first,” said Smythe, trying to imagine such a thing. “And even better than the Rose? Twould be something marvelous, indeed. Would it still be called the Theatre?”

Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Dick said the name would need to encompass greater grandeur. Something better… something bigger. He rather likes the Globe.”

“The Globe,” repeated Smythe. He nodded. “ ‘Tis a grand name, indeed.”

“Aye, but for the present, we shall be playing at the Rose,” said Shakespeare. “When times are lean, a man must find what work he can. And, to that end, I am once more embarking upon my sonneteering. I have been working upon this one, tell me what you think…”

“Oh, Will, you are not going to read me another poem?”

“ ‘Tis just a short one.”

Smythe rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “You found us work, after all. I suppose the very least that I can do is listen to your doggerel.”

“ ‘Tis a sonnet, not doggerel, you carbuncle!”