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beginnings – any play, it doesn’t matter what. The
run-through that morning in the Globe tire-house had been a bare affair and now we were going to clothe that skeleton with action, expression and gesture. I pointed out to Peter the area at the end
of the room, telling him that this was the very spot where the law students mounted their own performances and where our own
Troilus and Cressida
was to be staged. I enjoyed playing the
expert.
    First, though, I had to gain approval for Peter’s presence here. I looked about for a likely senior, that is, one who wouldn’t raise objections. Fortunately the playwright himself
was in attendance. He hadn’t been with us at the earlier chamber practice. Now he was standing, as he often did, a little to one side, regarding. His acting days weren’t quite over but
he was always more prominent backstage than on the boards.
    WS looked up and nodded slightly at my approach. He seemed preoccupied but greeted me courteously enough.
    “This is Peter Agate, a friend of mine arrived from the country,” I said. “He has come to see how we do things.”
    “He is welcome.”
    “Peter, here is our playwright – and senior – and share-holder – and sometime player – Master Shakespeare.”
    Peter looked abashed – he knew who it was standing opposite him for WS’s fame had spread quite far among the lettered classes. No words came out of his slightly open mouth but he
stuck out his hand in response to WS’s own I took some pleasure in seeing an old friend shake hands with a man I greatly admired and liked. And I took a more covert pleasure in the thought
that now Peter knew that
I
knew a man like WS. Reflected glory.
    “Peter wishes to become a player.”
    “He is doubly welcome then,” said Shakespeare, sounding as though he meant it.
    Peter looked even more abashed, as though I shouldn’t have revealed this ambition. WS’s warmth contrasted with my own coolness back in the Goat & Monkey, and I regretted having
been discouraging to my friend, even briefly. I wondered whether to amuse WS by telling him of the tavern encounter with the chalky-faced old man and of our rescue by the boatmen. But there were
other more serious matters running through the author’s head.
    “You can read, Master Agate? I mean, read with feeling rather than by rote?”
    “I hope so, sir,” said Peter, seeming unsurprised by the question.
    “We have a sudden gap in our ranks, Nicholas.”
    “Somebody’s late?” I said hopefully, wanting Burbage’s waspishness directed elsewhere.
    “Not late now – but I fear that our patron will be shortly.”
    Deliberately or not, Shakespeare had misunderstood me. We were all aware that our patron Lord Hunsdon – who had succeeded his father to the post of Lord Chamberlain only a few years
earlier – was sick, too sick to attend the Privy Council. This meant that the Chamberlain’s Company was without a voice at court or in the highest circles of the land. I had glimpsed
this great man on a handful of occasions but knew nothing of him except that he had a great fondness for music. What I knew besides was that every company needed a patron and protector. During any
sickness of Lord Hunsdon, we might have looked to the Queen to be our guardian but rumour whispered that the royal decline, hitherto slow, was gathering pace.
    “Thomas Pope has gone off on a visit at Hunsdon House,” said WS. “It is a delicate business. He left for Hertfordshire this very afternoon.”
    I nodded. It must have been an urgent departure if Thomas Pope was compelled to travel in this weather. He’d been present at the morning practice. I noticed that Peter Agate looked both
interested and baffled, as well he might. I was a bit baffled myself.
    “We want a first-hand account of our patron’s health,” said Shakespeare. “And our obligation to Hunsdon demands that a senior visit him.”
    This was surely a sudden decision on the part of the shareholders, the