Tower and Town, March 2015

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The Lord Chamberlain's Men

The Mysterious Visitor

It was a sharp January evening. A velvety silence folded the town of Marlborough into sleepy content. In the distance a cloaked figure walked brusquely down a shadowy alleyway. He stopped at an inn, lit softly by a buttery glow of a street lamp. A leaflet was pinned to the door: ‘The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark, to be performed here at the
White Hart Inn tonight by the Lord
Chamberlain’s Men, featuring Richard
Burbage as Hamlet.’

The figure smiled surreptitiously and pushed open the polished oak door. The inn was filled with raucous laughter mingled with the musty smell of ale and tobacco. Several men were slumped against the bar, a pipe at their teeth, winking at the blushing barmaid.

The play was in full swing but the muffled conversations were stopped abruptly as Richard Burbage took centre stage. The barmaid scowled as the men turned to face the stage, slopping their ale across the table. In the corner the cloaked figure tensed, his hood still raised.

Burbage cleared his throat before throwing out an arm:
“To be or not to be - that is the question...”

The unknown visitor closed his eyes and let out a strangled sigh of irritation. Not again Burbage, he thought. However many times they rehearsed that opening line, Burbage always managed to swallow the first few words. Was it so hard to enunciate?

But as the speech continued the cloaked figure relaxed. He took a chair near the back of the inn and watched Burbage. Maybe he would keep him, he thought. After all, it was only those first few opening words that he ever seemed to struggle with and was that really worth finding a new Hamlet for?

Time passed. At the close of the performance the bloodied Hamlet rose from the dead to take his bow and was met with much cheering and applause. The figure fastened his hood and turned to the door, his head bowed. In his haste he bumped into the surly barmaid as she collected the tankards.

“Watch yourself!” she snapped.

In the scuffle his hood fell and she turned to look up into his face.

“Oh Sir! Mr Shakespeare! I’m so sorry!”

Emily Symington