Crimson Rose by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow [Trow, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 16th Century, England/Great Britain, Fiction - Historical, Tudors, Mystery
ISBN: 9781780104539
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2014-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

‘And I tell you he’s not here!’ an exasperated Thomas Sledd was all but screaming at the High Constable who stood in the centre of the Rose’s stage like an ox in the furrow.

‘What’s all this fuss?’ Philip Henslowe clattered down the stairs from his counting house. ‘High Constable.’ He half bowed. ‘I’m afraid we’re full for this afternoon. Perhaps you could come back in August.’

The last time Philip Henslowe had met Hugh Thynne, the owner of the Rose had been more circumspect, as soon as he realized who Hugh Thynne was. But Philip Henslowe had made rather a lot of money since then and he could probably buy the High Constable three times over by now. That fact made him a little cavalier.

‘I’m looking for the actor William Shakespeare,’ Thynne told him flatly.

‘I keep telling the High Constable.’ Sledd sighed. ‘He was of this company. Now he’s in the Clink.’

‘He’s not in the Clink!’ Thynne lost his temper at last, roaring at the boy-actor-turned-stage-manager. ‘He was released from the Clink by one Robert Greene … Do you know him, either of you?’

‘No,’ both men chorused and, for once, it was half true. Henslowe had met the crawler once and didn’t like him. To Thomas Sledd, Greene was one of those groatsworths who hung around theatres like grey miasma hung around graveyards.

‘Search it,’ Thynne barked to his catchpoles. ‘Every nook. Every cranny. And get under this!’ He thumped his right foot down on the stage so that the floorboards jumped and the dust flew.

‘Just a minute …’ Henslowe stopped them. ‘Where’s your warrant?’

Thynne turned to the man and fixed him with his basilisk stare. ‘My warrant, apple-squire? Can you be serious?’

‘Apple-squire?’ Henslowe spluttered. Tom Sledd had to wander away rather than burst out laughing. ‘Apple-squire?’ So outraged was Henslowe that he had to repeat it.

‘You are familiar with the term?’ Thynne checked.

‘Of course I am,’ Henslowe fumed. ‘And if you are insinuating that I am a pimp, a serving man in a bawdy house …’

‘Well?’ Thynne raised a dismissive eyebrow.

‘I own three of them,’ Henslowe roared. ‘The Punk Alice along Rose Alley. The Upright Man in Maiden Lane—’ Suddenly he stopped, realizing the extent to which he had incriminated himself.

An eerie sound rattled across the stage of the Rose; it was the sound of Hugh Thynne laughing. ‘Don’t worry, Master Henslowe,’ he chuckled, ‘I know the haunts you own and what goes on in them. I can close you down with a click of my fingers.’ He stepped closer to Henslowe and leaned in. ‘Do we have an understanding? About the warrant, I mean?’

Henslowe licked his lips and turned to Thynne’s men, already dispersing in pursuit of their enquiries. ‘Search away, lads. We’ve nothing to hide here.’ He dashed across the O and hurtled behind the gates of Babylon, already in position for the afternoon’s sell-out performance of Tamburlaine. ‘Tom, Tom,’ he hissed. ‘He’s not here, is he?’

Sledd looked at him, aghast. ‘No! I told Thynne, he’s in the Clink.’

Henslowe waved him away.

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