The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. by Neal Stephenson
Tristan Lyons had only his underclothes on, of course, but in this part of town that hardly draws attention, no matter he was such a large fella. Crowds were streaming into the Globe’s gates. Trumpets did sound from within, and then I recognized Hal Condell’s voice like an oratorio, which meant they were beginning some fool play. Tristan’s attention turned toward the gate as if he were curious to go in.
“’Tisn’t that way we’re going,” I said.
“That phrase,” he said, looking surprised. “Even I know that phrase. ‘Star-crossed lovers.’ They’re doing Romeo and Juliet in there. The original Romeo and Juliet.”
“No, the original had Saunder Cooke as Juliet,” I said. “That was much better than whoever’s doing it since Saunder grew a beard. Anyhow it’s a shite play, just a stupid court-sponsored rant against the Irish.” I grabbed his arm and began to pull him through the floods of people streaming back into the theatre. We must need get around to the back of the stage where the tiring-house was.
“How is it anti-Irish?” Tristan asked.
“The villain is a Catholic friar,” I pointed out. “He being a meddling busy-body who traffics in poison—he’s the reason it’s a tragedy and not a comedy, and everyone knows Catholic is code for Irish.”
“Aren’t the French Catholic?” asked Tristan. “And the Spanish?”
“The friar’s name is Lawrence,” I countered, as I pulled him along. “So obviously named after St. Labhrás. He was martyred by drinking a poison of his own concocting. The whole play is just a coded insult to the Irish, a demonstration of how amoral we supposedly are. It’s bollocks. You be missing nothing. Especially now that Saunder’s grown a beard.”
“I don’t want to see it, I just never heard that Shakespeare hated the Irish before,” said Tristan, only it was so crowded there that he was shouting just to be heard as all the people pressed past us to get inside.
“Why would anyone in your time give a shite about Will Shakespeare’s politics? But, aye, he does,” I said. “I can quote reams of examples, same as anyone. Worst of all was just the other year, one of them plays about some English king, and there was a terrible drunk Irish character staggering about the stage wailing about how all the Irish are villains and bastards and knaves. And awhile before that he had a play about some other English king who went to conquer Ireland, and he said the Irish live like venom. Venom. That’s poison, so it is. He’s obsessed with the Irish and poison. Trying to convince the masses that one of us is planning to poison the Queen.”
“Are you?” asked Tristan.
“Course not. Not worth the risk. She’ll be dying soon anyhow and ’tisn’t as if she could suddenly produce an heir at her age. There’ll be chaos soon without us meddling.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
“It is not fair enough. It would be fair if she’d died years ago. ’Tis always the wrong ones living too long and the wrong ones dying too young.” And then because this touches a subject near to my sensitive heart, of course I pressed on: “Like my Kit Marlowe.”
“Who’s Kit Marlowe?”
I stopped walking, and let the crowd bump past me as I turned to him. “Christopher Marlowe? Are you telling me you’ve never heard of Christopher Marlowe?”
“Christopher Marlowe. Of course I know the name.” He thought a moment. “He was a spy and a writer, but I was not briefed about him in depth because he died years before I needed to arrive here.”
“Briefed? There’s nothing brief about him, except his life, he is only the greatest playwright that ever was, who only wrote the greatest play that ever was.” And because no light of recognition went on in his pretty eyes, I prompted, “It’s Tamburlaine I mean.”
He shrugged. “I do not know it.” I was incredulous and I expressed my incredulity with colorful language. “More famous than Hamlet?” he asked.
I figured he was codding me and almost fell over with the laughter. “Are you taking the piss, Tristan Lyons?” I asked. “Hamlet’s a dull fuck of a story where a fellow stands around lamenting how useless he is even to his own self, and then there’s one pansy swordfight and it’s over. The only good part of that is what he nicked from Kit’s Dido.”
Tristan shrugged again. “I’m not much of a theatre-goer.”
“No theatre, no whoring . . . pray what is it you do for recreation, then?”
But before he could answer, we’d reached the back of the Globe, and they know me in the tiring-house, so I grabbed him by the hand and in we marched.
The tiring-house is a fair way to madness, and it was a big masquerade-ball scene they were gearing up for, with all the supernumeraries donning gorgeous gowns and robes and masks the like of which could have afforded us half Your Grace’s navy for a season. The Prop Man (I never have learned that fella’s name) and his lads were flying around, handing out masks and candles and chalices and bated rapiers and kerchiefs, and I could hear the musicians in the gallery above tuning quietly, while Dick Burbage was bellowing on the boards, pretending to be a horny young man, which he is, except for the young part.
“Here to see Dicky,” I say to the Prop Man. He looks disgruntled, which is his usual state, and he says, “Come back after the show is down.” Then he sees Tristan and his eyes fix on him, because Tristan is big and I realize Prop Man is worried about costuming him—he’s there in nothing but undergarments, so he looks as if he must be expecting a costume (which is true in a way).
“He’s with me,” I say. “Only I need to speak to Dicky about some clothes for him.”
Prop Man frowns, cocks his ear toward the upstage center curtain. “He’s almost off,” he whispers. “And he’s not in scene three.”
Tristan and I try to stay out of the way of all the foot-traffic by pushing ourselves against the wall. It smells foul in there—there’s some silks being worn by boy-actors that stink like they came right from a brothel, and I don’t mean that in a nice way. But we’re only there a few moments when in through the curtain, right from the stage, comes Dick, trussed up like a boy although it’s a bit long in the tooth he is now for the likes of Romeo.
He sees me through the crowd of milling minions and the smile he gives me could light the heavens, he’s that fond of me, and sure why wouldn’t he be? “Gracie,” he calls out to me, for that’s how they say my name here (and yours as well, Your Majesty—in England they do say Grace O’Malley). The Prop Man hushes Dick with irritation, but like always, Dick ignores the Prop Man. “What do you mean finding a bigger man than I?” Burbage says. He pushes his way through the crew of underlings, all of whom disregard him as if he were one of them and not the richest and most renowned actor in all Creation.
He comes to us, looking Tristan Lyons up and down. Tristan Lyons says nothing, just gazes levelly back at him. “You a comedian, fellow?” he asks Tristan, and claps him hard on the shoulder. Then he looks surprised, as if he had just struck a boulder while thinking he’d be striking wool.
“No,” says Tristan. “Soldier.”
And Dick, he backs up a bit, looks respectful. “Who do you fight for, then, lad?” he asks.
“Classified,” I say.
Dick looks impressed.
“If you be Gracie’s friend, then you’re a friend of mine,” he says, without introducing himself (assuming he would not need to, assuming everyone knows him already, sure). “And I’ll help you out howe’er you need it.”
“It’s costumery he’s needing,” I say. “Nothing outlandish, mind you. Needs to blend in with some fellas down by Whitehall. I was thinking you had Ned Alleyn’s—”
“I do indeed,” says Dick. And to Tristan, “Honored to be of service to you, sir. I’m back on in a moment so we must be quick, but follow me.” He gestures us to follow him through the whispering mob, to a tiny closet along the inner wall—he being a principal shareholder, he has the privilege of some small privacy. In this closet are some pegs and on them hang clothes custom-made for a man of easily Tristan Lyons’s height. These were some
“Make him a gentleman or a knight or a wealthy merchant,” I suggested, as Dick glanced between the pegs and Tristan.
“All right, I’ve an idea,” he said. He chucks aside some galligaskins and then a pair of French hosen filled with bombast, and Tristan’s looking relieved he won’t be wearing anything so ponce-like. Finally Dick pulls out some longer Venetians, that tie below the knee. They’re made of damask, pluderhosen-style, a dark blue with red showing through at the slashes. He also pulls out some black silk netherstockings to go under them. And then a blue velvet vest. Also a blue worsted doublet with a codpiece attached, but I protest that, on account of the heat of the day. “Haven’t you a mere jerkin?” I ask, and sure enough he has, a red velvet one with gold and ivory buttons, and stiff shoulders sticking out like the stubs of angel wings. “No codpiece with it though,” says Burbage. “Sorry, fellow.” Then a crowned felt hat and a ruff for the neck, and cordwain boots, which are nicer than the workman’s galoshes I’d found for him back at Tearsheet. “You’ll have to dress yourself, I’m back on stage in fifteen lines,” he says when he’s hauled it out and then reclosed the closet. I thanked him and promised him to return the costumes quickly. He kissed my cheek, saluted Tristan, and dashed back out onto the stage, groaning like a man suffering unrequited love, followed by a handful of merry lads with masks and torches and one godawful pipe player.
Tristan had throughout this remained quiet and somewhat stiff, taking it all in. I wonder what his home-time must be like in comparison. I help him to dress, the mad hushed bustle of getting ready for the ball scene all around us. He’s a wee bit shorter and a wee bit broader than Ned Alleyn, but the clothes fit him well enough.
“Who was that man?” he asked when we’re safely outside the bounds of the Globe.
“Among many other fellows, Hamlet,” I say, and I roll my eyes. “And Romeo.” He doesn’t look so very impressed and my regard for him, it rises a bit. Plus he’s easy on the eyes, with the jerkin all laced up and his muscles nearly bulging through it. Ned Alleyn didn’t have those lovely teeth either. So I’m enjoying our little assignment, it’s a grand way to pass the day.
I say it’s to Whitehall we’re heading. He appears to know something of it. We walk out to the Thames, and himself sees that massive long London Bridge to the east, with all its fine buildings, and some two dozen traitors’ heads decaying on the Great Stone Gate, and his eyes pop right open like a caged monkey’s, so I reckon he’s from a place without much architecture to speak of. I can’t wait for him to see Savoy Palace and all them—he might fall right into the Thames! I budge his elbow and point to the west. “This way,” I say. He follows, looking like I did the first time I ever stepped into St. Paul’s. The tide’s starting to turn and the upstream boats are starting to struggle, so I decide we’ll walk to the river-bend and go across there.
I find the walk refreshing, for there’s open air over the Thames which is nicer than the open sewers of Southwark, but the mild dyspeptic look he’s had on his face hardly lessens as he walks along. He must be from some small village in the New World, to have such a hard time with the city air. But then, he gazes upon all the barges and ships and wherries with a keen look that makes me think he might have a nautical background. He’s fascinated by all of them—the dung boats no less than the Queen’s glass barge, and he asks questions that I answer best I can. I try to make some conversation about himself, but he’s not at all forthcoming about himself or the reason for his mission. I don’t push him for it now—that can come in time. Trustingly dependent I’ll make him, then when he is particularly in need of my assistance, I’ll demand cooperation. I’ve done it often enough.
We walk by the Paris Gardens, and you can hear the bears and the dogs and isn’t the crowd loving it. It always gives me a laugh that the Queen will bring herself all the way over here to watch the bear-baiting but has never once stepped into the Globe, for all Will Shakespeare’s trying to kiss her arse with his Irish-hating sentiments.
Less than halfway along our walk, where the Narrow Wall begins on our shore, all the palaces of bishops and nobility become visible on the far bank—Salisbury House, all the Inns of Court, Arundel House, and the rest. I point them out to him (of course I know them all from various dalliances I have contrived on Your Grace’s behalf), but he does not goggle at them as he had at London Bridge. “A little different from my own time,” is all he says.
At this point, the Thames bends to snake south, and soon as I hear a ferryman calling “Westward ho!” I hail him. “We’re taking this wherry,” I explain to Tristan, “for a penny, which will come out of your money that I procured so cleverly for you from the dim fella.” The ferryman fetches us across, brings us to the far side without the tide causing him too much grief. Tristan pays his penny, and then it’s just a street away we are from King Street, in the shadow of Whitehall Palace, and right away is the Bell Tavern. One of three taverns where the minor courtiers like to eat and drink and sometimes do other things. I’m more at home in Southwark, and less conspicuous, but as Your Grace knows, it’s plenty of time I spend here.
It was quiet there for the time of day, as the last of the diners were finishing. A strange stillness after the din and bustle of the streets and the Thames. I nodded to Mary, who works there. She nodded back at me—and her eyes found Tristan, and they opened wider, then she gave me an approving look. I sauntered over to her and said low in her ear, “Sir Edward Greylock? You have said he was a dinnertime regular.”
“Indeed he is, and you’re in luck, he’s just finishing his lamb.” With a jut of the chin she gestured toward a fellow of perhaps thirty years, tall and elegant but with a willowy, pale presentation, sitting alone at a table by the door, the dregs of another diner’s meal across from him. As if a strong wind would bend him over. Curly reddish-brown hair and pink cheeks made him look almost feminine. A pretty man all around, but not impressive. I recognized him from a few times when I was spending the evening with one of his acquaintances. I in turn pointed him out to Tristan.
It is now that Tristan begins to impress himself upon me in a good way. For what does he do but approach Sir Edward and with the most nuanced mixture of respect and swagger, he does bend the knee just a wee bit and lowers his head, doffs his hat and holds it down by his right leg, kisses his left hand and says, “God give you good day, m’lord,” and then as if turned to stone, he awaits to be noticed by Sir Edward.
Sir Edward looks up from his lamb pie and stares at Tristan, perhaps as distracted by his manly physic as Mary was. “Well met, sir,” he said, uncertain of Tristan’s rank from his piecemeal attire.
“I cry you mercy, m’lord,” says Tristan, not at all like a fellow who comes from a time and place without any English nobility oppressing him. “I’m a gentleman soldier from the Isle of Man and I would beg a boon of you.” And when Sir Edward did not appear ready to disregard him, he pressed on, in a steady enough voice: “The world speaks of you as friends with the Earl of Cumberland, and he is a lord I fain would meet, but have no means of introduction.”
“And who might you be, sir?” asked Sir Edward, without malice he said it, studying him.
“I am called Tristan Lyons, and I am a Manx adventurer, recently returned from Java.”
Confusion flashed across Sir Edward’s face. “An adventurer?” he said, and then seemed to choose polite caution by gesturing warmly to the seat across from him. “Pray be seated,” he said. “What would you with the Earl?”
“Faith sir, in Java I befriended some agents of the Earl of Cumberland, and heard from them of some ambitious plans intended by the Earl and his aldermen and knights.”
“Ay, the East India Company,” says Sir Edward.
“Just so, m’lord. My connexions are all abr
Sir Edward says he regrets to inform Tristan that Sir James set sail back in April, and Tristan begs his pardon and asks him does he think it might be possible to make an investment anyhow, toward future returns?
Then Tristan goes on a bit and begins to speak in tones of wonder and reverence, as if he were merely musing aloud to himself, of Hither India. There is one thing in particular he goes on about, and that’s spices called turmeric and saffron, the both of which create a cheery yellow-orange dye for silks and cottons—fabrics easy to obtain in Hither India. And now it’s Sir Edward I’m watching, as his face becomes a marvel of interest. Suddenly he says he’s a mind to speak to the Earl himself and see about such an investment, and if Tristan will come to see him in two days’ time, he will happily inform him of the possibilities. Tristan falls all over himself with appreciation and gratitude, honors Sir Edward as if Sir Edward were a king and himself a peasant, and then with some assistance from me (whom Sir Edward never once regarded directly), removes himself from the building.