Free The Pale Companion by Philip Gooden Page A

some smiles break out at this point, otherwise I’d have begun to wonder what we were doing in this place. An altogether warmer mood stole over the group, and after a moment Lord Elcombe himself stepped forward and, with a curious circular motion of his arm in the air to draw our attention, he spoke to us.
    “Gentlemen all, you are welcome at Instede. You must forgive us if we are somewhat distracted with preparations for our son’s nuptials and do not give to the players the honour that is their due. But we are sensible of the honour that you do
us
by your presence. One or two of you are familiar to me from the old days but I see that there are many fresh faces in the Company. To you in particular a hearty welcome.”
    It was difficult to imagine this gentleman being hearty about anything but he nevertheless came to join us, to shake hands with some and exchange pleasantries with others. Lady Elcombe remained talking with Richard Sincklo and Thomas Pope. Their gloomy-looking son had disappeared while the more cheerful Cuthbert was mixing gladly with the players.
    I was standing next to Laurence Savage and, referring to Elcombe, said, “There, you can hardly say that this is ungracious behaviour.”
    “You do not know him.”
    The shadow that had earlier passed across his face now reappeared.
    “And you do?”
    I was curious to know what it was about Elcombe that Savage didn’t like.
    “I do not know him in the sense that you mean, Nicholas. He is not my drinking companion or my friend. How can a mere player aspire to that? But know him in other ways, I do.”
    I waited but he was obviously disinclined to say more. Before Elcombe had reached the part of the chamber where we were standing, Laurence shifted to avoid having to speak to the nobleman.
    I turned to look through the window. Outside was a glorious summer morning. I turned back and found myself face to face with our host. Someone close by, possibly Jack Horner, said in the way of introduction, “Nicholas Revill, my lord”, and I made the gesture of a bow.
    “Your servant, Master Revill.”
    “My lord.”
    “You’re new to the Company, are you not?”
    “Since last autumn, my lord. My first acting part was in Master Shakespeare’s
Hamlet.
”
    “And what did you enact, hm?” said Elcombe. He had clear blue eyes which, because of their colour or their close-settedness or both, somehow gave the lie to his warm questions. Or perhaps it was that I’d been listening too closely to Laurence Savage.
    “Small parts. A poisoner, an ambassador.”
    “But you are grown to greater things in this midsummer dream?”
    “Lysander. One of the lovers.”
    “One among many,” he said with a sideways movement of the lips which could have been read as a smile.
    “Willing and unwilling,” I said.
    “What do you mean by that, hm?” said Elcombe.
    I’d meant nothing, or next to nothing, but was now forced to lay some foundation under my words.
    “The play is full of lovers both voluntary and compelled,” I said, seeing the owner of Instede House staring hard at me, no trace of a smile now. “Like . . . like Titania and Bottom. The Queen of the Fairies doesn’t
choose
to fall in love with an ass. Or – to take the case of my own Lysander – watch how mischievous Puck squeezes magic juice over my eyelids. So that when I wake I shall fall in love with the first person that I see. That is what I meant by involuntary love.”
    “Caused by a juice or a potion, hm.”
    He had an odd, interrogatory trick of ending his words with a “hm”. Maybe it was that which provoked me to go on.
    “Ah, my lord, I think that –”
    “Yes?”
    I hesitated because I’d been about to say what I thought Master Shakespeare meant by this business of juices and potions, when the notion of explaining the playwright to someone else (and that someone a lord of the realm) suddenly struck me as presumptuous. However, thought is free and W.S. wasn’t here to contradict me – so I