Fools and Mortals (9780062250919) by Cornwell Bernard

Author:Cornwell, Bernard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

THINGS BASE AND VILE

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

Love can transpose to form and dignity:

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Act I, Scene I, lines 232ff

EIGHT

TELL ME ABOUT Romeo and Juliet,” I said to my brother.

I was walking with him. He had looked irritated when, as we left the Blackfriars mansion, I had fallen into step beside him, and had since ignored everything I had said. He had pointedly paused outside a saddler’s shop to examine the wares. “It helps to have the horse before buying the saddle,” I had said, a comment that he pretended not to hear. Instead he had paced on down Cheapside, hurrying to escape me, but I had easily kept up with him. “Tell me about Romeo and Juliet,” I now said again.

“It’s a play,” he said caustically, his anger at the loss overcoming his irritation at my company, “and that shriveling little bastard has stolen it.”

“So now I’ll steal it back.”

That earned me a sneer. “From where? From whom?”

“From whoever has it,” I answered airily.

“And whoever has it,” he snarled, “will already be copying it.”

“It will take at least a week to copy,” I pointed out, “and it was only stolen last night. Maybe they’ve copied one page by now? Perhaps two.”

We walked on in silence. My brother had the brim of his hat pulled down to hide his face so he would not be recognized. Folk did notice players as we walked around the city, and they frequently stopped us, wanting to tell us how they had enjoyed a play, though few people would want to accost us on this freezing evening. Some players welcomed the praise, while others tried to avoid it. Simon Willoughby, of course, could never receive enough compliments, and, like Will Kemp, he would prance in the street to attract attention. My brother preferred to hide. “The plaudits of fools,” he once told me, “are worthless. Gratifying, maybe, but ultimately without any meaning.”

“You don’t enjoy being praised?” I had asked.

“If the compliment comes from a person of wit, yes. Otherwise it’s just the yapping of a dog.”

Now he kept his gaze low, not just to escape recognition, but to help negotiate the frozen slush and dung that paved Cheapside. He glanced up occasionally to gauge the sky, which, always sullen with London’s smoke, was now threatening with purple dark clouds. “There’ll be more snow,” he said.

“We should sleep at Lord Hunsdon’s,” I said.

“I doubt his lordship would welcome that,” he remarked scathingly, “and after Fair Em he probably regrets inviting us at all.” A gust of wind whirled snow from a roof, plastering it down onto our cloaks. “Shouldn’t you be out of the city before curfew?” he asked.

“I should,” I said, “but I want to know if there’s a part for me in Romeo and Juliet.”

He sighed, as if I were being tiresome, which I suppose I was. “That is up to the Sharers, not me.

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