‘Here,’ he said triumphantly, pointing to the tree on the edge of a farmer’s orchard. ‘Enough for us to set up shop.’
The old tree looked as though it would never bear apples again, for the mistletoe had colonised it entirely. Great balls of the fleshy growth sprouted from every branch, so large I would barely have been able to close my arms around one, each ball studded with berries as white as the pearls embroidered on one of the Queen’s gowns.
Burbage made a face. ‘We cannot help ourselves to this, not without the farmer’s permission. I shall enquire.’
With that he strode off. From the impressive straightness of his back, I knew he was casting himself into one of his kingly parts. It reminded me of Simon’s advice when I was about to go off to the Fitzgeralds’ house in the role of tutor. I had used it again, when playing the messenger boy.
Think yourself into the skin of the person you are playing, and everyone will believe you.
Burbage, in his own mind, was a king, an emperor, benignly bestowing a favour upon the farmer, in seeking his permission to gather the mistletoe. Who could resist him?
While Burbage was away on his royal embassage, we sat on the edges and shafts of the carts and ate the food we had brought with us until he returned, beaming.
‘He has granted us permission and has even given half a sovereign to the hospital. Here you are, Kit. Take charge of this.’
I put the half sovereign carefully into my purse. I had not carried so great a value in coin since Sir Anthony . . . But I would not let myself think of that.
Christopher Haigh twirled a ball of mistletoe over his head. ‘Are there many pretty maidens at the hospital, Kit? I’ll wager you know a few.’
I grinned. Christopher played the young lover in romances and fancied himself an irresistible ladies’ man.
‘There are all the nursing sisters,’ I said, wickedly. ‘Droves of them.’
His eyes sparkled.
‘I don’t believe any of them are a day over . . . seventy. And none under forty either.’
I ducked and ran as he chased me through the orchard, shouting abuse.
The entertainment at the hospital was a great success, neither as lively as Master Burbage would have liked, nor as restrained as the governors would have preferred. On the whole I think it did the patients good. Certainly the children had the best Christmas of their lives, for they came from homes where no one would ever have heard such music or eaten such bonbons as Guy extracted mysteriously from behind their ears or under their chins. Many families of the patients came too, and took back word of the players’ Twelfth Night comedy, so when the day came they had a good audience. Even my father agreed to attend. It was not the serious play I had hoped would change his view of the playhouse, but to my relief it was not too vulgar either.
Because of the early dusk on this January day, the performance took place early. Afterwards, Master Burbage treated the company to a supper at the Dolphin, to which my father and I were invited. My father declined and set off home, but I went gladly enough. After our supper, we sat over some good French wine, which I suspected might have been smuggled in through one of the Sussex ports, and people exchanged Twelfth Night gifts. I had bought a large box of crystallised fruits for the company, which went the rounds of the table. For Simon, however, I had an individual gift, a beautifully tooled leather belt with a silver clasp. He put it on at once, rolling up his old belt and stuffing it in his pocket.
‘This is very fine, Kit! Thank you.’
‘I am told it is Spanish. It does look Spanish. Probably some of Drake’s loot.’
He laughed. ‘I shall wear it with a swagger then. I have this for you.’
He handed me a small square parcel wrapped in a piece of blue cloth. There was no mistaking what it contained, from the feel and weight of it.
‘Oh, Simon.’ It took my breath away. It was a volume of Sir Philip Sidney’s poems, privately printed and bound in soft blue leather, the same colour – the azure of a midsummer sky – as the piece of cloth in which he had wrapped it. It must have cost a month of his wages. I gave him a quick hug and longed to do more. Yet dared not. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. My life had been filled with books before I met Simon, but they were learned works by serious scholars, on astronomy and mathematics and medicine. Simon – and Guy, too – had opened up for me a whole New World. The world of the poets and play-makers. Before I knew them, the nearest I had come to this had been the words of songs, but I was beginning to understand that words by themselves possess the power of music, and can sing and soar even as music does.
‘This is doubly welcome,’ I said. For all I could do, my voice was somewhat hoarse. ‘It is not only Twelfth Night today. It is my seventeenth birthday.’
At that everyone had to drink my health, and I am afraid we made a rather raucous party.
The Christmas festivities were over, though the epidemic of winter illness was not, when Cassie arrived at our door one noontide with a request from Sir Francis that I would come to see him. I insisted that Cassie should take a bowl of Joan’s thick soup before we set out, for his hands were blue with the cold. There was a bitter wind blowing up the river from the east and the feel of snow in the air. Up until now it had been bitterly cold, with a heavy frost every morning, but there had been no snow.
‘Do you know why Sir Francis wants to see me?’ I asked, as we battled our way into the wind, crouched forward.
He shook his head. It was too cold for conversation.
Sir Francis greeted me kindly, wished me good fortune for the year ahead, and steepled his fingers as we sat down in front of his desk.
‘And are you busy at St Bartholomew’s Kit?’
‘Very busy, Sir Francis,’ I said, and embarked on an account of overflowing beds, more patients every day, the epidemic of chest infections. I could make a shrewd guess as to why I was here. But I was more confident now, better able to withstand persuasion. As far as I knew, there was no treasonous conspiracy afoot, although of course I was no longer privy to secret knowledge, as I once had been. Besides, Poley was a prisoner in the Tower and could do me no harm. I was safe in my male disguise as long as he was confined there.
‘Thomas is also very busy,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Although the late conspirators have been dealt with, there is still much activity in France and Spain, which causes us concern. He misses your assistance.’
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘if you are about to offer me further employment here, I will save you time and trouble, and say that I cannot accept. My days are fully occupied at the hospital. I was glad to be of service to you during the crisis last year, but I cannot return now.’
My heart was beating very fast as I defied one of the most powerful man in the land, but I was relieved to see that he was not angry. I think perhaps he expected my answer, though he sighed.
‘Very well, Kit. I promised Thomas that I would ask you, but I see that you are determined not to be persuaded.’
We both rose.
‘However,’ he said, and my mouth went dry, dreading what he might say next, ‘if another crisis should arise and we should be in serious need of your assistance, might you be willing to return?’
‘If that should happen, and my work at the hospital is not too heavy,’ I said, smiling at him, ‘I might be able to help. For a short time.’
On my own terms, I thought. Without the threat of Poley.
We both bowed. At the door I turned back.
‘Please wish Master Phelippes God speed for the new year,’ I said. ‘And Arthur Gregory and Thomas Cassie. And of course Nicholas Berden and Master Mylles.’
He was smiling broadly now as well. I think we understood each other. ‘I will do so,’ he said gravely.