The London Bard. One Poet's Olympic Struggle Against Tyranny (Part One)

By L.A. Coltrane

1605 and Ben Jonson is skint.
But he’s got a play that could make him a mint.
A Scottish King on London’s throne,
Has made English Lords grumble, grimace and groan,
Resentment, more so than ever before, will...
Provide markets for mockery, and patrons galore.
But it’s risky, and the stakes are high.
Sedition still carries the death penalty.
If it goes pear-shaped who’ll come to his aid?
His lordly connections or the lowly handmaids,
That people his plays and make him his living,
Will they persuade the King to be more forgiving?
And will the King learn to forgive and forget,
And make his public enemy number one,
Our Nation’s first Laureate?

In this heart warming piece, L. A. Coltrane drops our first ever Poet Laureate, into his greatest play, to rescue him from his gravest mistake, to solve, once and for all, the longest standing mystery surrounding Benjamin Jonson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Azimuth Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465990693

Book preview

The London Bard

One poet’s Olympic struggle against tyranny

By L. A. Coltrane

The London Bard, One poet’s Olympic struggle against tyranny

L.A. Coltrane

Copyright 2012 by L. A. Coltrane

Smashwords Edition

The right of L. A. Coltrane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover by L.A. Coltrane

The London Bard

One Poet’s Olympic Struggle Against Tyranny

Contents

A Grave Day’s End

Night Openings

Unwelcome Drafts

Poison from Mother

An English Oak for a Bed

A Spot of Eavesdropping

Tricks of the Trade

Wedding Bells from Hell

Political Pick Locking

Justice in the Stocks

Black Friars’ Eastward Ho! By Ben Jonson!

As I stare at the banner, I’m thinking to myself, yeah, I do prefer it to ‘Every Man in his Humour’. ...starring William Shakespeare... they didn’t even mention I’d written that one.

Backstage I’m now hiding between props and the like, silently I place down my bricklaying tools for they’re too heavy for my shoulder.

One of my players, Leatherhead - he’s never told me his real name – is pushing a wooden shipwreck onstage, towards a signpost: ‘The Isle of Dogs’.

In front of the empty theatre, two English gents spar with wooden swords. I catch a glimpse of how this goes down with the other players backstage. They’re all poor, as I am, and they find these unpaid hobbyists tedious.

Leatherhead has his breath back and the stage keeper’s ushering him away. For, out of the ship’s porthole, he’s keen to have a clear view of Sir Petronel Flash’s debut, pardon the rhyming.

He’s one of the King’s knights and however hazardously, he's finally reached land. I almost jeopardize my spying place but manage to muffle my laughter in the drapery I’ve wrapped myself in. What a wonderful thing it is for me to portray the King’s purchasers of political allegiance with such playful mockery. For just thirty pounds, you can be a knight these days!

The aggrieved English Lords will love this and patronize me accordingly; at least that’s the plan. These days of adversity will soon be over.

‘Remember this is a story of virtuous love in battle with ignorance and greed.’

The stage keeper’s words make me feel a little guilty; I should be writing the final draft not spying. I look for an exit strategy that evades the players but suddenly Sir Petronel Flash pipes up and asks whether he’s landed on the French coast.

The English gentlemen have stopped sparring now. One of them, Ned, replies: This is not France but the Thames and recognizing Sir Petronel, he says to Tom, the other English gentleman:

‘I ken the man weel; he’s one of my thirty-pound knights!’

This has me in stitches for I’m still required to lock the laughter inside. For an English gentleman to have perfected the Scottish accent so quickly and accurately is quite a feat. I do not like the man but his acting skills have to be admired.

It could be King James onstage. But I’m glad it isn’t.

‘Jonson!’

I peek between the curtains. The stage keeper’s dedication has waned after seeing my face.

‘Chapman and Marston are writing the final draft. Black Friars’ doesn’t need you. They do. A licensed draft by five o’clock, it’s in the contract, if it’s not here by then, you won’t be paid and I will not be lending you any more money until you’ve repaid what you’ve borrowed already. They’re drinking in Cow Lane, now be gone.’

The Rising Sun is heaving inside. Searching for my collaborators through the tobacco smoke, a pair of wrestlers barge into me, keen they are to get to the bar.

Trouble from anyone else and I’d have stood my ground, but not these giants. After apologies, I lose myself to the smog, with the thought that once again, the fair is in town.

Pulling up a pew to an abandoned table piled high with papers, I see Marston returning from the toilets and I raise a finger to Chapman who’s purchasing ales from the far end of the bar.

After placing them down, I drag my pew closer, knocking the table and spilling ale across the title page.

‘Is that your contribution?’ Marston says. The hint of Italian in his accent turns a few heads at the bar. Chapman sniggers at me as he slots Act Two Scene Two into the pile.

Marston has irritated me many times in the past and I’m now used to it. I ignore him and flick through the play. My cement-dried hands scrape against the papers and seem external to the writer in me. As time passes, Chapman drowns his disloyalty to me in a large mouthful of ale pleased that the leading playwright is once again in the frame. He, being I if you get my meaning.

‘My mother’s a gentlewoman and my father’s a?’

I see a Judge peer into the pokey window. He frowns at