This was one more sign of how Winchester’s importance was growing in men’s eyes. Players, like thieves and tricksters, will always flock where there are full pockets to be emptied, and they had heard talk of our wealth and prosperity. But it was not just a question of money. Their chief player and manager, a lean arrogant man in his thirties with a black pointed beard and showy dress, let it be known that they had come because it was fitting that the greatest city should have the greatest company of players.
This swaggering was typical of him. When he paid his respects to me and to my Captains, he brought his hat down in a bow that caused the feather on top of it to sweep the floor, but the gesture was empty. He made it plain that in truth he thought little of warriors or nobles, or anyone who did not belong to his own seedy profession. And that in that profession he believed that no other could come near him. I had never met even a Prince with such overweening pride.
Of my own inclination I would have sent him packing back to Salisbury. But his reputation had traveled ahead of him. The people were anxious to see these players, and it was true that if they were any good they would help relieve the winter’s tedium. Blodwen spoke for them also. She had been used to plays and theaters in her own city, and missed these diversions.
So they set to work to turn the malt-house to their ends, and dwarfs worked busily under the direction of this man who called himself, in further illustration of his modesty, the Player King. At last it was finished, and news of the first play cried in the streets. His messenger came to the palace, humbly inviting me and my court to be present at the opening.
We arrived as a gray evening was turning into a hard black night. Snow which had threatened all day had not yet come, but the frost was sharp. A knifing wind blew from the east.
Inside braziers had been set up and it was less cold, but we still had need of our cloaks. The dwarfs had done their work well, and I acknowledged that the direction had been good. The walls had been brightly painted, and the ceiling also. And the floor had been constructed to be on three levels. The highest part was at the back where there were benches; for the common people, but empty now. Then came the section where chairs were set out for us. Below that again was the part they called the stage. A heavy curtain, draped from ceiling to floor, covered the front of it.
When we were seated the Player King came. He said to me:
“Are you comfortable, sire?”
There was that in his voice which suggested that our discomfort would insult him. I said:
“Well enough. And it is a fine theater. Though some might think it strange that you set the commons above their betters.”
He smiled. “Would you rather they came between you and the stage? As it is, if they were not raised up they would see little of the play. And you must remember, sire, that in the realm of dream and imagination all men are equal.” He bowed. “It is our privilege to offer a place in which even a Prince can put aside both cares and crown for an hour in exchange for the airy stuff of fantasy.”
He said it glibly. What was not said because no saying was needed was that not all in fact were equal here: others must yield to the authority of the Player King. I said shortly:
“What play will you give us?”
“It is called ‘Tristram and Iseult,’ ” he said. “I have written it myself, though the story is ancient.” He bowed again. “And if you are ready, sire, we will waste no further time.”
He pulled his cloak about him and went through the curtains onto the stage. Soon after that the curtains drew away to either side. Some of the ladies exclaimed with pleasure. In front of us was the representation of a throne room. There were two thrones, painted to look like gold, and other gaudy trappings. Although the space was small, the eye was deceived into seeing grandeur there. Side walls had pillars cunningly painted on them, and at the back a painted window looked out and down to crags in a bright blue sea. It was the palace of a great king, set high on a seagirt cliff. And into the throne room from a door at one side, his cloak thrown off to show a dress of garish magnificence and a golden crown on his head, strode the Player King.
He played the part of Mark, king of this imaginary country. The story told how Mark had a lieutenant and friend called Tristram, whom he sent on his behalf to request the hand of the daughter of the king in a land called Ire. The contract was made and Tristram brought Iseult, the daughter, back with him to Mark’s court.
Iseult’s mother, seeking to ensure her daughter’s happiness, gave a love potion to the serving maid who was to go with her. This was to be given to Mark before the wedding, and would ensure that he loved her all his days. But Tristram and Iseult, not knowing what it was, found the flask with the potion and drank it together. So they must love each other, as long as they should live.
A strange uneasiness grew in me as this tale unfolded. I had expected to be bored, never having had much taste for minstrels or mummers, but this was not boredom. I felt a sickness in my stomach, a tightness in my chest as though a giant’s hand gripped my heart.
A scene came in which, with long poetic speeches, Tristram and Iseult declared their love but swore to fight against it. Tristram was Mark’s friend, Iseult his affianced bride. They knew they loved each other but they would not betray him. And as they talked on the stage they drew closer together and then, still swearing they would never yield to love, embraced and kissed.
It was a moment of high drama. All eyes, it seemed, were fixed upon the players. But my eyes went to Blodwen. I saw her look not at the stage but at Edmund; and as though word had gone silently from heart to heart his eyes met hers. For a long moment they locked, then turned away.
The sickness and tightness grew worse, and coldness was added to them. My legs shivered. I had to clamp my jaw tight to keep my teeth from chattering.
I had tried to put aside all thought of what Jenny had said in the garden. If by chance the memory came to me I dismissed it. Now all flooded back. I heard the soft music again in the distance and heard her voice, hard with contempt: “Listen . . . Listen, blind Luke . . .”
The play ran its course. I saw nothing in it but resemblances. Tristram was a skilled player of the harp and sang a love song to Iseult. I thought of Edmund playing his lute in the water meadows and singing: “Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight . . .” The Player King made Mark a man stupidly blind to what was happening, concerned only with the affairs of state, a dull and heavy creature. I saw myself riding away to Romsey, leaving the pleasant scene behind.
And there rage supplanted sickness. Jenny had said: “Yours are the only eyes that do not see it.” Could that be true? Could the fact of my betrayal be as clear as Mark’s was? Was it the talk of Winchester? The Player King had said he had written the play himself. Were these things jibes at me?
I had an urge to leap down onto the stage, to knock aside the wooden sword the Player King wore with my steel one, and spit him with it. But as always my mind worked coldly behind my rage. There might be killing needed yet, but this was not the time.
The play ended somehow. Mark killed Tristram, I think, and Iseult stabbed herself. I was only concerned that it should be over. The players paraded for our applause and then the Player King came to me again, and asked if their poor efforts had met with my approval.
“It was entertaining,” I said, “as these things go.”
He bowed stiffly, disconcerted. Blodwen said:
“Oh, it was good! We have no better players in Klan Gothlen. And the play was finely written. Luke, you must reward him well.”