William Shakespeare Seeks a New Direction

 

It was early in 1593, during one of Will Shakespeare’s frequent home visits to Stratford after he had based himself in London, that the subject of his ongoing career came up in the conversation.

“So how’s the playwrighting going?” asked his wife Anne.

“It could be better”, Will replied. “I’ve done four history plays, to wit three Henry VIs and Richard III, and I’ve just tried turning my hand to comedy.”

“That sounds promising,” said Anne. “Everybody likes a good laugh.”

“I agree”, said Will, “but they seem to get more giggles watching Richard III than The Comedy of Errors”.

“Bit of a flop then?”

 “Could be. And then there’s the fact that it needs two sets of identical twins – finding one set of twin actors in London is bad enough, but two?”

“So what’s your plan, Will?”

“I’m thinking of jacking in the theatricals lark”, Will replied. “I need a new direction for my talents, so I’m planning on retraining for a completely new career.”

“Which is?”

“Hitman.”

“You what?”

“Hitman. Paid assassin. There must be plenty of opportunities with all the plots against Queen Elizabeth. Her spies are very good at tracking down the baddies, but they need people to do the actual job of bumping them off. I could do that.”

“But you’ve never killed anyone”, said Anne.

“I've had a few murders in my plays”, said Will. “Richard III was full of them. But you’re right – I need a proper training course in dagger skills and that sort of thing. I’ll have a word with some of my fellow playwrights when I’m next in London – I’m sure they could point me in the right direction.”

So that was what he did. A few weeks later he was to be found at a pub in Deptford, knocking back the ale with Thomas Kyd, Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe. This was a regular get-together when they were all in town. They quite often took part in the pub quizzes and played a game or two of darts before they got too drunk to aim properly and were a danger to any passer-by.

They were all a bit surprised that Will Shakespeare was proposing to give up writing plays, as they all reckoned that he could make a proper go of it if he really took it seriously, but saw no problem with him becoming a paid assassin. Tom Kyd and Kit Marlowe had both written plays that contained a vast amount of violence, not to mention many and various ways of doing somebody to death. If Will wanted a few tips, he had come to the right people.

“Mind you”, said Kit, “You’ll probably want to be a bit less imaginative than some of my characters were. The red-hot poker up the backside technique, as in “Edward II”, although doubtless highly satisfying – for the hitman that is, not the victim – might be a trifle impractical for real purposes. I recommend sticking with daggers – in both sense of the phrase.”

“As it happens,” said Tom, “I just happen to have one of my stage daggers with me. You know – the sort that has a retractable blade. They look so effective when combined with copious amounts of pig’s blood. If I don’t get half the front row passing out with shock I always reckon I’ve failed.”

“You could practice on Kit”, said Ben. “Suppose he’s your target. Just creep up behind him and stab him in the neck. You OK with that, Kit?”

“No problem”, said Kit. “That’s a really good stage dagger, by the way. It looks just like the real thing.”

So Will followed Ben’s instructions and duly plunged the dagger into Kit Marlowe’s jugular. Kit’s response was immediate. He gave a loud cry and slumped forward, with blood spurting all over the place.

“Wow!” said Ben. “That’s just brilliant. I never realized you were such a good actor, Kit. And where did you get all that pig’s blood from? It’s very realistic!”

“Just one little thing, Tom”, Will said. “Didn’t you say that the blade was supposed to retract into the handle? I’m not completely sure that it did.”

“Whoops”, said Tom. “I think you’re right. I might have to take this dagger back to the shop I bought it from. They seem to have sold me a dud. It’s a shame about Kit, though”.

“How can you tell a stage dagger from a real one?” Ben asked.

“Easy”, said Tom. “Stage daggers always have a green band round the handle.”

“This one has a red band.”

“You sure?”

“Certain”, said Ben. “That band is red.”

“Well, what do you know?” said Tom. “I always wondered if I might be red/green colour-blind. Now I have the answer.”

“Might I suggest”, said Ben, “that we put off any further discussion for the time being? I have an inkling that it might not be good for our health to be found in a pub alongside the dead body of a renowned playwright, so let’s make ourselves scarce.”

Once they had done precisely that, and after a few days’ reflection, Will decided that the hitman idea was probably not such a good one after all, especially after he had seen a performance of Thomas Kyd’s “The Spanish Tragedy”, with its constant portrayal of hangings and stabbings, plus a character biting off his own tongue.

The audience reaction was so enthusiastic that Will determined to go one better, which was why he returned to playwrighting and produced the graphically grisly “Titus Andronicus” not long afterwards. The rest, as they say, is history.

© John Welford