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 of the costumes of Edward Alleyn, tallest actor of our age and the leading man of the rival company the Admiral’s Men. So tall he is, nobody can fit into his clothes, not even Burbage, who stole them as a prank when Ned retired a few year back.
“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.