Dark Labyrinth 1 Read online

  Enter Thomas Radclyffe, moving tentatively, looking nervous, a little shaken.

  Burbage kept his eye on the stream of black powder, pouring slowly so as to spill none of it. He heard the young actor approach. “One moment, Thomas . . .” he said aloud, and thought he saw Radclyffe jump, startled, from the corner of his eye. Burbage inspected his work and looked at the other two cannons for a moment, then turned to face Thomas Radclyffe.

  The young actor fumbled with his words for a moment, and found it easiest to say, “What are those for?”

  “They are cannons, Thomas! Stage effects! You know, in the first act, when you, King Henry, and your party enter Cardinal Wolsey’s palace all cloaked and hidden? Well, when the King enters, we shall fire these cannons—armed with only paper wadding, of course—to let the audience know that the royal presence has just arrived—and also to give them a little start!”

  Burbage smiled, rubbing his hands together, then looked at Radclyffe, dissolving his expression into a frown. The young actor was pale and gaunt, obviously frightened. “And where is the bold, proud young actor who drives us all nearly mad with his outbursts of eagerness?”

  Radclyffe seemed to fumble for words; he found different ways for his fingers to interlock with each other. “Well, Mister Burbage, sir, it is difficult to—”

  “Speak!” Burbage snapped, not angrily, but with a tone of get-down-to-business that stopped all further stuttering from the young actor.

  “Down in the basement—this theatre—Mister Burbage, there are ghosts!”

  “Hissst!” Burbage turned him away, then looked worriedly down to the stage where some of the other actors were rehearsing. None of them seemed to be paying any attention. “King’s deathbed, man! Hush when you speak of such things! Ghosts? If that rumor were to be unleashed, it would ruin us as surely as if we were to burn the place down ourselves!”

  Burbage shook his head, concerned, then looked hard at Radclyffe. “Now, these ghosts—you have seen them? Where?”

  “In the basement—I didn’t see them, but rather heard them.”

  Burbage let out an audible sigh of relief. “The basement! Thomas, any man can get the jitters when he’s alone down there among all the old props and shadows. The wood creaks a little, a few rats rustle about here and there. And your imagination makes the rest—”

  “No! It wasn’t like that, Mister Burbage! Not just odd sounds, but words! I had a conversation with the ghosts!”

  “And what did these ghosts have to say?”

  “They tried to force me to say my lines in different ways, making me act in their manner, and not my own. They tried to twist my talent, taking the . . . the life out of my portrayal.”

  Burbage almost laughed, but contained himself. “Most ghosts try to murder people, Thomas—but your ghosts want to be your acting coaches!” He saw the expression on Radclyffe’s face, became serious. “Maybe it’s Havermont come back to help you?”

  “No!” Radclyffe looked angry, upset, downcast. “You don’t understand! They are evil! They try to twist my acting talent to their own ends! I cannot perform that way!”

  The young actor stopped and changed his emotions abruptly, saddened, almost accusing. “You can’t understand—you’re not an actor. You don’t know what it means to me.” He drew in a deep breath. “You don’t believe me.”

  Burbage didn’t. But he had enough tact to pause a moment, considering the best way to handle the young actor. He reached up to put a hand on Radclyffe’s shoulder. “I know you, Thomas. I know that your temper is a little short, and that you are inclined to act without thinking sometimes. But I have never known you to have a wild imagination, and I have never known you to lie. Seeing this change in your mood, now, it is obvious to me that you believe what you say. But I ask you this, Thomas—say no word of this matter to anyone. If you must speak further on it, come to me, and only me. Surely you realize how this could ruin us if handled improperly. Any demon a man might find at the bottom of a bottle of ale would be seen as a ghost of the Globe—and people would flock away from this ‘haunted theatre’ as if it were a plague house! No, we must keep silent about this.”

  “But the ghosts will still be here!”

  Burbage sighed. “Thomas, what would you have me do? I cannot get two strongmen and have them evicted as we would any other troublemakers!”

  “Bring a bishop! Someone, anyone from the Church! To exorcise the ghosts!”

  Burbage widened his eyes almost in shock. “A priest? King’s deathbed, Thomas! Do you spend no time out in the city, or are you always sheltered here in the theatre? Have you not heard the Puritans’ outcry against all places of amusement, theatres in particular? Did you not know that my father was forced to build the original Theatre outside the city of London because of the public outcry? And even then he was brought before the London Lord Mayor in the Middlesex Court more times than you can count on your hands. No priest would come near the Globe, unless he wanted to burn it down. The Puritans would like nothing more than to hear that Satan has haunted our playhouse.”

  Radclyffe seemed to hear, but not believe. He lowered his voice, almost glaring at Burbage. “You and your brother should never have used the old wood from The Theatre.” Radclyffe’s face was angry, and he turned to walk away.

  “Thomas!” Burbage called, worried. The young actor didn’t turn. “Don’t do anything rash!”

  Radclyffe didn’t answer as he disappeared down the ladder leading from the loft. Burbage looked after him for a long moment, folding his lips into a troubled frown, then he began to load gunpowder into the other two cannons.

  SCENE IV.

  “Things done well and with a care exempt themselves from fear.”

  —William Shakespeare, Henry VIII, first performed at the Globe Theatre, June 29, 1613

  Setting—the basement of the Globe Theatre. It is mid-afternoon on the day of the first performance of “All is True.” Upstairs, offstage, noises can be heard as people file in to fill the theatre. The play will begin soon.

  Enter Thomas Radclyffe, afraid, but moving with determination. He carries a torch he has made, naked fire pouring light into the darkness.

  He paused, swallowing hard, forcing his mouth into a grim, determined line, holding the torch in front of him like a weapon. He filled his mind with anger and obsession. Martyr—like Buckingham in the play. If need be.

  “Hear me, ghosts!” Radclyffe’s voice trembled, then gained in strength. “You are evil! You are oppressive! You stifle the creative expression of all actors—I must destroy you to save my profession. ‘Ye blew the fire that burns ye!’“

  He picked up the mask from the floor. “What? Are you silent? Have you fled?”

  Radclyffe dropped the mask and crushed it under his feet, finding a small, inadequate, outlet for his anger and fear. He heard the people above, waiting for the play to begin. Someone would probably be looking for him.

  “You are brave, young actor—are you not afraid?”

  “‘Things done well and with a care exempt themselves

  from fear.’“

  Radclyffe looked up to find the source of the voice—and saw another mask, a new one he hadn’t seen before, propped in the corner of one of the beams, finely painted and detailed enough to look lifelike. Almost lifelike. It was Henry VIII, but subtly, hauntingly familiar, with definite traces of Radclyffe’s own face embedded within the features.

  The young actor shuddered briefly, then steeled himself. “I will burn this theatre down and destroy the cursed wood which you inhabit. You will not harm me—I have chosen this time with care—for if you do, you will expose yourselves to all of London!”

  He waited for a reply, hearing only the crackle of his torch in the silence, until the voice spoke again.

  “Ah, but you forget, young actor, that we ARE this theatre . . . and when we are filled with an audience—” Radclyffe’s torch was suddenly snuffed out, plunging him into darkness. “We are strongest of all!”


  And he felt a cold, icy grip, not quite like hands, around his throat . . . .

  SCENE V.

  Will not a filthy play with a blast of trumpet sooner call thither a thousand than an hour’s tolling of the bell bring to a sermon a hundred?

  —A preacher, Stockton, in a sermon against The Theatre, 1578

  Setting—the ground level of the Globe Theatre; the yard is filled with people, trying to get a clear view of the stage, which is raised above the crowd. At the entrance stands a placard announcing the day’s play. Similar leaflets are scattered throughout London, tacked onto wooden posts, competing with many other announcements.

  As people file through the single, narrow entrance, a man stands with a small box in hand, collecting one penny from all who enter. Those who are content to stand continue into the yard; those who wish a seat or a private box are required to pay an extra sum.

  Cuthert Burbage sits among others in a Twelvepenny Room, one of the best seats in the playhouse, with his guest, Lady Dalton. She is older than he, dressed in gaudy finery, decked with jewels. Burbage looks at the activity around him; he is impatient.

  “If they don’t start soon, we won’t finish the play before sunset,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t have a performance without daylight, you know.”

  “Cuthbert, this is so exciting!” Lady Dalton peered excitedly into the crowd, as if to find out which of her social acquaintances had failed to attend the play, and how many had failed to get seats as exquisite as her own.

  Burbage looked at her, scowling slightly. The Lady Dalton was rather rich . . . and rather old, and rather dim. Damn his business sense.

  “Is Shakespeare himself here today, Cuthbert?”

  “Of course he is—” Burbage snapped, “You don’t think he’d miss the first performance of his new play?” He caught himself, placing some sweetness into his voice. “There he is, just across the yard from us . . . see, in one of the other Twelvepenny Rooms.”

  “Sooo!” she cooed.

  Burbage looked around uncomfortably: he wondered if Radclyffe had been found yet. The play had to start soon—he was afraid the young actor was going to ruin his first important role by chasing after ghosts in his imagination. Radclyffe—don’t be a fool!

  The noises of the audience waned like a dying fire after one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men stepped out onto the stage, speaking the Prologue. People smothered their random sounds, focusing on the words being spoken, waiting to be taken away to another reality.

  And the play began.

  Burbage leaned back in his seat, relaxing slightly, or at least seeming to. They wouldn’t have started the play without Radclyffe, even though he didn’t make an appearance until the second scene.

  Lady Dalton seemed to be more interested in the audience than in the play. Burbage watched his brother Richard perform, strutting around as Cardinal Wolsey in all his evil glory—Richard enjoyed the villain parts at times, but then Burbage could never tell what his brother really enjoyed and what was just an act.

  (Wolsey accuses the innocent Buckingham, the martyr, of treason, and has him arrested, to be brought before the King’s court.)

  The first scene ended, and Burbage grew tense again. He sat up, waiting the unbearable few moments. Why was he uneasy? The performance was of prime importance—Radclyffe knew that—he imagined himself to be a devoted actor, and he would never miss his first important role.

  The audience background noise rose up quickly for a few moments, but was dampened again as Scene II began. King Henry entered with pomp and glory—and Burbage finally felt at ease. After all, he should never have been worried. He knew Thomas Radclyffe—the young actor had been so proud of himself after receiving this part that he wouldn’t have forfeited this performance for anything.

  Yet Burbage squinted—and thought he saw something strange about Radclyffe’s face. Of course, the makeup would have changed it somewhat—but he thought he saw sharp edges, shadows, almost as if Radclyffe were wearing a very detailed mask . . . but no, he could see the mouth move.

  Still, he felt uneasy again. Lady Dalton probably couldn’t even see that far.

  “What’s happening, Cuthbert?” she whispered.

  Burbage almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes heavenward. “This is the trial of Buckingham at the King’s court. Queen Katherine has just entered to beg the King to withdraw an tax which takes one sixth of every man’s possessions—”

  Lady Dalton seemed to be barely listening. “Who’s Buckingham?”

  Burbage sighed.

  The scene progressed. Radclyffe’s voice was the same, but Burbage seemed to notice some special quality, a lilt, an intonation, which made the young actor’s voice stand out. Burbage had never considered himself a theatrical critic—he heard the lines, saw which ones were delivered more masterfully than others. And people paid to see the performances—he drew his livelihood from that. But he hadn’t felt any special drive, any special presence about acting. Until now, in Radclyffe’s voice, he felt the very embodiment of a performance, the life, the calling—yet he couldn’t pin it down. He couldn’t say why, but he was somehow aware that Radclyffe was giving the best performance he had ever seen.

  Richard, though, seemed to be acting strangely. There—he had just stumbled over a line. Richard had never stumbled over a line before, not in all Burbage’s recollection. Was it jealousy? No, it was almost as if he were . . . scared of something. But what would Richard ever be so afraid of that he couldn’t successfully cover it up?

  The scene continue; and Burbage felt a low buzz in the audience as the people remarked on how outstanding, how superb, the young actor was. What would have seemed an almost interminably long scene any other time, now held them enthralled.

  And at last the scene was over.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. Burbage was startled and turned to find the man next to him pointing out into the corridor where stood a young boy, one of the apprentice actors of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The boy looked agitated, pale and sweating. He seemed unable to speak, but gestured desperately for Burbage to come to him.

  “Excuse me, Lady Dalton,” he whispered in her ear. She smiled. “One of my actors wishes to speak with me.”

  “Oh, of course, Cuthbert—please hurry back.”

  Burbage went to the boy as the third scene began. They spoke in quiet voices. “What is it?”

  The boy was trembling. “I’ve found him, Mister Burbage!”

  “What? Who?”

  “Come! Quickly!” The boy took his arm and drew him down the corridor through the curtains behind the tiring room, backstage, and to the narrow basement steps.

  “What could possibly be down here, boy?”

  “He is dead, sir! Murdered!”

  “Thomas Radclyffe, sir! He’s hung up on the wall, by his neck—on one of the clothes hooks!”

  “You’re mad. boy! He’s just been—”

  They entered the dimness of the basement, surrounded by the muffled echoes of the performance overhead. Burbage didn’t need to look very closely to see a burned-out torch on the floor, and a shadowy figure hung on the wall with its feet dangling off the floor. And the face was that of Thomas Radclyffe.

  “King’s deathbed!” Burbage gaped a moment, realized what he was doing, then composed himself almost immediately, thinking fast. The boy stood next to him. Burbage made his face firm and expressionless, but he felt cold.

  “This . . . could ruin us. A murder! At the Globe Theatre!” He looked quickly at the boy. “You have told no one?”

  “No, sir! I thought it wisest to speak only to you!”

  “Good! You are intelligent, boy. I have a gold piece for you if you tell no one. Not one word. If you do speak of this, I will find it very easy to destroy your acting career for the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, not one word, sir. Please don’t feel you need to use threats, Mister Burbage.”

  “No . . . no. I know. I have to think of what to do. Keep quiet and be sure
no one else comes down here. Calm. I must be calm. We must remain calm.” He sighed. “I’d best be back to the Lady Dalton before she says anything. Until I can talk to Richard.” He heaved a long breath, then muttered, “Oh, deathbeds for the entire royal family! How are we ever going to patch this up?”

  They walked up the stairs. “But, Mister Burbage—if Thomas Radclyffe is dead down here . . . then who is on the stage?”

  Burbage paused, gripping the rail. “I don’t know . . . and I am afraid to know.”

  He walked slowly back and seated himself beside Lady Dalton as Scene IV was just beginning. He gripped the arms of the chair to stop his hands from trembling. Burbage was surprised to find her watching the play.

  She pointed to the action on the stage. “What are they having a party for, Cuthbert?”

  Burbage tried to get his mind back on the play, to focus on something other than his cold fear. “Uh . . . the Cardinal Wolsey, my brother Richard, is having a great dinner at his palace, with many lords and ladies. See . . . they’re all sitting around having idle dinner conversation, until—” He waited: it would have been glee and childlike anticipation in other circumstances. Trumpets sounded; drums rolled; and the cannons blasted, thundering in his ears.

  And as his ears rung, Burbage thought he heard Thomas Radclyffe’s voice, somehow—the real voice, not the false acting voice on the stage, this was different, a whisper running through his head, though not intended for his own ears.

  “Now, we fight on equal terms.”

  Unseen, some of the burning paper wadding settled on the thatched roof, smoldering, kindling itself, setting fire to the roof.

  The Lady Dalton squealed in terror at the cannon sound, then in delight. The audience, half-deafened, murmured in confusion.