A small slice of the early life and times of one Adrian Talbot--pre-turning. See if you can guess
which CotN it is the poor boy encounters in this piece we like to call...
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Shadowed Laughter
copyright 1996 by A. Fraser and C. Wright
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Raw nerve had gotten him through. Raw nerve and the professionalism that had been trained
into him. The smoke from the torches and the brazier that had produced the effects of hellfire
on stage ("dabbling in sorcery") was making him cough as he stumbled off the stage that was
erected in the dirty courtyard of the Saxon's Head. Now that the audience could no longer see
him, he cared little what impression he made. His fellow players knew him, knew his moods
after a performance.
This performance had been, literally, hell. A controversial play, large parts of it hastily rewritten
after the playwright's death to please the censors, it had been a waking nightmare. He was
pleased enough with his own portrayal of the student Wagner, even the long, unnecessary comic
bits that some heavy hand had added had gone well.
He walked, slumped and world-weary at 17, to the shabby inn room he shared with three other
players. They did not expect this play to go over well enough to pay for luxury accommodations.
And the new master had made it plain that he, Adrian Talbot, was no more special than any of
the other boy actors, no matter what his relationship with the previous master had been.
It wasn't the same. Nothing had been the same since Kit's death.
He hastily wiped his eyes lest anyone catch him weeping for a man three years dead. Say what
they like, the ill-bred jackanapes, Kit had been kind to him. Spotting some of his fellow players
already at the ale in the taproom of the inn, he straightened, squared his shoulders, and assumed
a sneer.
"Ho, Talbot!" called out the one who had been Faustus. He looked none the worse for having
been cast into the mouth of Hell at the end of the play. "I wouldst buy thee an ale, lad, save
there's someone to see thee."
"Someone to see me?" Adrian stared at the older man, certain his leg was being pulled. He
looked around, not seeing the troupe master, and his heart sank. Surely he had done nothing
during the performance to earn a session with the master's cane?
"Nay, tis not Master Hickory," the older player guffawed. "An admirer, boy." He winked, and
sped Adrian on his way with a well-placed boot. "Go to, and see for thyself. He sits in the
private snug, there, we're not good enough for him, seems."
Still certain that he was the victim of a practical joke, and that someone was waiting with a sack
of flour or a bucket of slops to throw on him, Adrian hesistated at the doorway of the "snug", a
small private room off the taproom with but one table and a few stools.
There was a man sitting in the snug, but it was no one Adrian had ever seen before. Tall and
rangy, dressed in black, he lounged easily behind the small table as though he owned the entire
inn. Remote hazel eyes regarded him for a moment, before the stranger brushed his dark hair
back from his sharp white face and spoke. Adrian started at the lush quality of the stranger's
voice, as it filled the snug without effort.
"Adrian Talbot, I do believe? Sit awhile, lad, after thy exertions. Ale lies there within the
pitcher... drink your fill, an it please you. Thy performance was most impressive, though the
alterations to the play were much less so." The stranger smiled sardonically, though his eyes
remained remote. "You may call me Luke, if you will. I have traveled here this night to deliver a
message, at the request of someone who knew you." Dark laughter burned in the stranger's eyes
at the last comment, and his sardonic smile widened a fraction.
Adrian slid warily onto one of the stools. He poured himself some ale, all the while his eyes
never leaving the stranger. The man's clothes were of good quality, and there was no dust or
mud upon them. Yet he was no dandy, his ruff was smaller than usual and he wore no jewellery.
Nor was he looking at Adrian like one who wanted sexual favours--the boy had certainly seen
that look often enough to know it.
The dark laughter bothered the young player. This "Luke" was far more than he seemed to be.
There was danger here, sharp like sulpher in the air. "At the request of someone who knew you."
What could _that_ mean? A poor young player, even with a respected company, had few
acquaintances. This sardonic lord would never have sought out a boy actor at the request of
another player or a chance lover. And surely no-one from Adrian's life before Kit Marlowe
would have troubled to look for him?
"Good sir," Adrian said, relieved that it came out steadily, even boldly, "I entreat you." He
carefully used the formal "you", as to a superior--if this man was a lord, calling him "thee" would
be a terrible mistake. It could earn him a flogging or worse. "Wilst not explain your meaning,
sir? I canst not think of whom you speak."
Luke widened his smile still further, dark amusement still burning in his grey eyes. "Ah, lad, fear
not. I have no interest in thee this night. Solely for my amusement have I travelled here, though a
promise binds me also, and well it is that I did. I speak of Christopher Marlowe, lad, who knew
thee most well some years hence, did he not? He disports himself with my people, now, yet still
he remembers thee. Aye, even so, still he remembers, and even such as I must respect that. My
message to thee is simple, lad."
Luke widened his dark smile still futher. When he spoke next, his voice changed pitch and
timbre and resonance, becoming the voice of someone extremely familiar to the poor boy
confronted with the demon. Kit Marlowe. "I knew not how well I wrote, nor the depths to which
I would fall. Save your soul, Adrian, I entreat you, while you still have time!" He leaned back in
his chair, then, and watched Adrian as a hawk watches a rabbit. Sardonic amusement twisted his
lips at the expression which Adrian wore.
Adrian was terrified. He was highly superstitious, as any good actor and Elizabethan would be,
and he could only think that he was being confronted by a demon sent to torment him. He fell
onto his knees, weeping.
"Ah, what have I done, to deserve this demonly visit?" he wailed. "What wrong have I
committed? What means this message from one dead, demon? Prithee, spare me, I am but a
poor young player, who wishes no harm." He grasped Luke's knees, quivering with fear and
grief. He was not, for a wonder, acting--he was genuinely frightened out of his wits. He was
very much a product of his times, after all. "Good sir, I beseech you, pray spare me. Canst
explain the message from the dead?" Adrian huddled under the table, "Say not that Kit suffers
the torments of the damned! He was good to me, sir, he deserves not such a fate."
But he swallowed hard, thinking of the charges of heresy that Kit had only avoided by being
stabbed to death. More tears fell, soaking through "Luke's" hose.
Luke widened his dark smile still further, laughter still burning in his emerald eyes, and gently
wiped the tears away from Adrian's eyes. "Done, lad? Why, thee hast done nothing. Yet. That is,
I believe, the entire point of the message, is it not? Torments are often inflicted by thy own guilt,
a lesson which thee has yet to learn. Mortal stupidity also plays a part, in truth. Consider the
charges of heresy..." He sighed, and then continued. "Spare thee I shall, for this time and this
place. By my word am I bound, even as mortals are not. As for an explanation of what has
transpired here... make up thy own mind. Never accept someone else's version of who you are."
Standing, the dark stranger bowed, and said with a sardonic smirk, "Now, it seems, I must bid
thee farewell. Another awaits me, and time is short. Remember what I have spoken here... it may
suffice to change thy life. And thy future shall be wondrous strange, Adrian Talbot. Wondrous
strange, past anything you can imagine." Golden fire blasted within the snug for a moment, and
Luke swirled into nothingness, gone in seconds.
The boy quivered under the table, too frightened to move for several minutes. Then slowly his
courage returned and he stood up, ensuring to himself that the demon was gone. He poured
himself some more ale and drank it without tasting it or feeling the kick. He was pondering the
strange message.
"Save yourself." From what? Surely a simple life of acting could not lead to damnation? The
church's censors had passed Kit's play, with heavy amendments. They disapproved of players,
but had not condemned them.
And then there was Luke's message, not from Kit, but from the demon himself. "Thy future shall
be wondrous strange." Whatever did that mean? It was almost exciting to think about, puzzling
enough to overcome the fear and grief that Luke's earlier message had rendered. "Past anything
you can imagine." Did that not sound promising?
Considerably perked up, the young player left the snug and returned to his fellow actors in the
taproom. They apparently had not seen the flash of golden fire, and there was surprisingly no
teasing about his encounter with the mysterious stranger. They recognized that something
strange had happened to the boy, and that perhaps it was better left alone than spoken of.
"'Wondrous strange'," Adrian thought to himself as he retired later to his pallet in the cramped
inn room. "'Past anything you can imagine.' That must mean something wonderful." He hugged
the thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.
He did not see the image of a red-haired man in a cowled robe that hovered above his mean bed
for a moment, then faded in a golden haze.
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