Chapter Forty-Two: The Shakespeare Code

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TW// Racially insensitive comments, dodgy comments about trans people (if the Harry Potter references didn't give it away, a bigot wrote this. I've tried to fix it but let me know)

"But how do you travel in time, what makes it go?" Martha has to shout over the roaring of the engines, keeping a tight hold on a handle fixed into the console.

"Oh, take the fun and the mystery out of everything! Martha, you don't wanna know. It just does. Hold on tight!"

The warning doesn't do much. Another harsh tremor sends us to the floor. "Blimey! Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?"

"Yes, and I failed. Now, make the most of it, I promised you one trip and one trip only." The Doctor races past us, stopping at the foot of the exit ramp with a barely suppressed grin. "Outside this door... brave new world."

"Where are we?"

He raises his eyebrows and eases open the doors behind his back. "Take a look. After you."

The first thing to become apparent in this new place is the smell, like animals and rotting food. The street is busy, full of peasants in what I calculate to be 16th-century clothing. The lead-paned windows glow, some draped with drying laundry. Woody smoke hangs faintly in the air, forming a welcoming haze. The houses of wood and white painted wattle and daub.

"Oh, you're kidding me. You're so kidding me. Oh my God, we did it! We travelled in time. Where are we?" Before either of us can speak, she raises a hand to stop herself. "No, sorry, got to get used to this, whole new language. When are we?"

Beaming, he looks up, realising just in time to pull us back as a slosh of pungent, brown liquid streams from one of the windows. "Mind out!"

"Gardez-loo!" a distant voice warns, far too late.

The Doctor seems particularly unimpressed as he looks down at the new puddle on the straw-padded earth. "Somewhere before the invention of the toilet. Sorry about that."

"I've seen worse, I've worked late-night-shift in A&E." We step around it but, once again, she hurriedly gestures for us to stop. "But, are we safe? I mean, can we move around and stuff?"

"'Course we can, why'd you ask?"

Finding it obvious, she warily glances around. "Like in those films: you step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."

I leave it to him to answer, sending him a slight nod of teasing encouragement. "Tell you what then," he says, "don't step on any butterflies. What have butterflies ever done to you?"

It seems to be enough, so she follows us along. "What if — I don't know — What if I kill my grandfather?"

I frown. "Your grandfather was alive now?"

"Well, if President John Tyler could manage. Are you planning to?"

"No!"

"Well then."

Falling in step beside her, I can't help but keep my attention on her rather than the civilisation around us. She and Donna are the only people I have ever witnessed to see this life and world as we do — as Rose and Mickey knew the Doctor before me, and Jack and I had already been familiar with a far cruder form of time travel. It's oddly fascinating just to see her face and listen to her questions. The best of humanity would struggle to comprehend this but Martha tries and succeeds with little difficulty. Once again, I am comforted by her excitement. "This is London?"

He digs his hands into his pockets as he replies, "Think so, round about... um... ooh... 1599."

"Oh, but hold on. Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?"

Her question brings him to a stop, staring back at her in confusion. "Why would they do that?"

She gestures sarcastically to her brown skin. "I'm not exactly white, in case you haven't noticed?"

"I'm not even human. Walk about like you own the place, works for me."

I roll my eyes and give him a nudge in the ribs. "My Gods, you've been a white man for too long. Don't worry, Martha. As long as you're with us, we will make sure nothing happens. That's a promise."

"Besides, you'd be surprised... Elizabethan England, it's not so different from your time. Look over there, they've got recycling," he remarks, pointing to a man shovelling matted straw and dung from the ground back into a bucket. Then to two people chatting over a barrel, sharing drinks. "Water cooler moment."

A preacher calls out to us as we pass, "And the Earth will be consumed by flame!"

"And global warming. Oh yes, and entertainment! Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right, we're just down the river, by Southwark, right next to..." He takes each of us by the hand and breaks into a run, rounding the corner of the street.

On a slight hill, over the houses, a large building looms. Save for some boxed towers jutting out, its shape is rounded. Light flickers from within small windows set into the white walls, slightly shadowed by the thatched roof.

"Ah, yes! The Globe Theatre, brand new, just opened! Though strictly speaking, it's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon — fourteen sides — containing the man himself."

A mixture of horror and wonder brightens her eyes. "Whoa, you don't mean..." We both nod enthusiastically. "Is Shakespeare in there?"

"Oh, yes. Miss Jones, will you accompany me to the theatre?" he asks, already linking his arm with mine and holding the other out for her.

"Mr Smith, I will!

"When you get home, you can tell everyone you've seen Shakespeare!"

"And then I could get sectioned!"

——————

We make it just in time for the beginning of Love's Labour's Lost, jostling our way through the thick crowd only to reach the middle of the theatre floor. Raucous laughter and heckling sounds throughout most of the play but there are moments of utter silence, of pure admiration.

It seems that the longer we spend here, the closer the Doctor and I get. Our arms are still linked but I gradually find my head lowering onto the support of his shoulder. His trench coat is still around me and adds further to the warmth I feel right at my centre as if coming from my heart itself. It is only slightly too big and hangs loose around my shoulders, although I don't need to worry about it getting dirtied. Like with the Doctor, it falls to just above my ankles.

In the end, the entire theatre is abuzz. People cheer and applaud from all around us — peasants on the floor and richer guests, decked out in their finest robes, in the boxes above. The noise doesn't shock us out of our comfort. Somewhat sleepily, I keep my head down and awkwardly clap without moving my arm from his.

"That's amazing! Just amazing!" Martha praises over the din. "It's worth putting up with the smell! And those are men dressed as women, yeah?"

He nods. "London never changes."

"Where's Shakespeare? I want to see Shakespeare! Author, author!" Quickly cutting herself off, she glances up at us. "Do people shout that, do they shout 'author'?"

Neither of us can answer before the cry starts up from behind us. "Author! Author!"

Soon it becomes a chant across the whole theatre. "Well, they do now."

The ornate doors at the back of the stage open and a golden-haired man emerges. He is certainly better looking than most images of him suggest, with a short, scruffy beard, a loose blouse covered with a fitted jacket, and a general air of confidence. He bounds to the front, hands raised, and soaks up the applause. His grey eyes twinkle with firelight and adoration.

Still enthusiastically applauding, Martha remarks, "He's a bit different to his portraits."

"I'll say." My agreement earns a sharp look from the Doctor which I return with an innocent smile.

"Genius!" he concludes after a moment. "He's a genius — the genius. The most human human there's ever been. And now we're gonna hear him speak! Always, he chooses the best words; new, beautiful, brilliant words!"

We drop into silence, awaiting his voice. It rings out clearly, "Ah, shut your big fat mouths!"

"Oh, well."

She chuckles as his face drops with disappointment. "You should never meet your heroes."

The Bard raises a hand to command quiet and we eagerly give it. "You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that." He points to a random man in the crowd. "Oh, that's a wig!" Finally, the joking dies down enough for him to speak again, "But I know what you're all saying, Love's Labour's Lost, that's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops! Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle. You'll find out soon!"

He is met with a chorus of, "When?"

"All in good time, you don't rush a genius." He bows deeply to further mark his arrogance. Suddenly, as if pulled by some invisible force, he stands again and is followed by a murmur of surprise. The twinkle is gone, just grey staring blankly out at us. "When? Tomorrow night! The premiere of my brand new play — a sequel, no less. And I call it, Love's Labour's Won!"

We follow the stream of the crowd back out of the theatre but my thoughts linger on the beauty of that place and the words we witnessed — the first to ever hear them performed. "It's an imaginative title, I'll give him that," I muse.

Martha grimaces. "I'm not an expert but I've never heard of Love's Labour's Won."

"Exactly. The lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumours. It's mentioned in lists of his plays but it never, ever turns up. And no-one knows why."

It seems to give her a sly idea, as she breaks into a smirk. "Have you got a mini-disk or something? We can tape it. We can flog it, sell it when we get home, make a mint."

"No."

"That would be bad..."

"Yeah. Yeah."

My hands find the pockets of the coat and I sink further into its comfort as we are hit by the cold, late-night air. The metal of the ring rubs against my skin and I trace it again. It doesn't make sense just how much it brings me comfort.

Curiously looking around at the strangers that surround us, Martha continues, "But how come it disappeared in the first place?"

The thought process is clear on his face: the consideration, the reluctance, and eventually that trademark Doctor realisation that he can never let sleeping dogs lie. He has made up his mind before he even speaks. "Well... I was just gonna give you a quick little trip in the Tardis, but I suppose we could stay a bit longer."

——————

Merriment and singing can be heard long before we enter the Elephant Inn. We weave through a sea of people just to get to the stairs, following vague pointers in the direction of where the Bard himself should be, drinking and discussing the play with his best actors.

The Doctor takes the lead, knocking on the open door before entering without invitation. "Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mr Shakespeare, isn't it?"

The man in question strikes a dramatic pose, a hand pressed between his eyes as if to stave off a headache. "Oh, no. No, no, no. Who let you in? No autographs. You can't be sketched with me, and please don't ask where I get my ideas. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good boy and shove..." His gaze lands on Martha, peering out from behind him. A boyish smile takes over. "Hey nonny, nonny..." he marvels, gesturing to one of the preoccupied seats closest to him. "Sit right down here next to me. You two, get sewing on them costumes, off you go."

The landlady comes along, patting one of the younger actors on the back. "Come on, lads, I think our William's found his new muse."

"Sweet lady. Such unusual clothes, so... fitted."

She smiles shyly, batting her eyelashes down at her red leather jacket, then back at him. "Um... verily, forsooth. Egads!"

"No, no, don't do that. Don't." He whips out his psychic paper but Shakespeare is barely looking. "I'm Sir Doctor of Tardis and these are my companions, Dame Inara of Capitis and Miss Martha Jones."

When he does notice it, his eyes flare with amused curiosity. His face flickers in the light of a single candle set into a skull, the wound of its protrusion oozing beads of wax like blood. "Interesting. That bit of paper, it's blank."

"Oh, that's... very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius."

I also see nothing but Martha leans over me, tapping it. "No, it says right there — Sir Doctor, Dame Inara, Martha Jones. It says so."

"And I say, it's blank."

"Psychic paper. Um... long story. Oh, I hate starting from scratch," he sighs, although I can tell that he's lying, if only to himself.

Shakespeare raises his eyebrows and sits back in his chair, lounging out to take up as much space as possible. "'Psychic'. Never heard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you? More to the point, who's your delicious blackamoor lady?"

"What did you just say?" she scoffs, insulted.

If he is truly apologetic, his uninterested demeanour easily covers it. "Whoops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl, a swarth, a Queen of Afric?"

Wincing, I hide my face in my hands and take a deep breath. "Oh, Minerva grant me patience."

"Can't believe I'm hearing this."

The Doctor rubs his eye, squinting for something to say. "It's political correctness gone mad. Um, Martha's from a far-off land — Freedonia."

"Excuse me! Hold hard a moment," booms a luxuriously dressed man who storms through the door. His bushy ginger beard stands out starkly from the dark velvet of his robes, and a gilt chain of jewels glitters around his shoulders. He surveys the room with a burning glare before landing on Shakespeare. "This is abominable behaviour. A new play, with no warning! I demand to see a script, Mr Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed."

A sigh causes his shoulder to deflate as he replies with obvous boredom, "Tomorrow, Lynley, first thing. I'll send it round."

If possible, his round face grows even redder. "I don't work to your schedule; you work to mine. The script, now!"

"I can't!"

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled."

Her eyes darting between the two men, Martha comments, "It's all go round here, innit?" The copper-haired maid in the corner quirks an eyebrow as if in agreement but otherwise timidly keeps to the shadows.

"I am returning to my office for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labour's Won will never be played." With another loud humph, he stomps back down the stairs.

Martha helps herself to a tankard from a grimy salver and offers me another, clinking them together. "Well then, mystery solved! That's Love's Labour's Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know, more mysterious?"

A yell carries from the window. Someone screams.

Jumping up, we race for the stairs. The Master of Revels, staggers in the street. He claws at his throat, spewing something from his mouth. At first, I think he might just be ill, but it is clear and leaves no coloured stain on the straw. "It's that Lynley bloke," she gasps.

"What's wrong with him?" Nobody answers, they only stare. "Leave it to me, I'm a Doctor."

"So am I — near enough."

They both rush to either side in order to steady him, while I survey our surroundings. I can see no signs of a struggle, no needles or vials for a poison, nothing. Lynley's eyes bulge. With the last spout from his blue lips, he collapses.

Martha is quick to kneel beside him and begin chest compressions while the Doctor joins me in searching the street. "Mr Lynley, come on. Can you hear me? You're gonna be all right." We return to her side. She tries to open his mouth in the hopes of administering rescue breaths but a gurgle is heard, a spurt of the liquid dribbling into his beard. "What the hell is that?"

"I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water, he drowned."

My eyes narrow and I try to open up his jacket to search for any puncture marks or burns. There is nothing of the sort. "But that was quick, far too quick. Drowning's nothing like this. What happened?"

"I don't know, like a... blow to the heart? An invisible blow?" With a sense of urgency, he stands and addresses the landlady, "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural, if unfortunate, demise. Call a constable, have him taken away."

She stoops into a hurried curtsy. "Yes, sir."

The red-haired maid appears beside her. "I'll do it, ma'am."

When he crouches beside us again, Martha huffs, "And why are you telling them that?"

"This lot have still got one foot in the Dark Ages. If I tell them the truth they'll panic, think it was witchcraft."

"Okay, what was it, then?"

"Witchcraft."

Somehow the events of the past ten minutes are enough to tire us out. Trudging back up to Shakespeare's lodgings, we are unsure of what to say. The landlady smiles sympathetically at us. "I've got a room, Sir Doctor. You and the ladies are just across the landing."

After a nod of thanks, she leaves. Shakespeare sighs, "Poor Lynley. So many strange events. Not least of all, this land of Freedonia, where a woman can be a doctor?"

"Where a woman can do what she likes."

Now his grey eyes fixate on me. "And it is a rare occurrence that I have ever heard a goodly woman such as you invoke the names of past gods."

Cautious after the mention of witchcraft, I offer a demure bow of my head and say, "And it is a rare occurrence that a goodly man such as you articulate them with such colour. But are they truly so far in the past that they should not be invoked? After all, 'When love speaks, the voices of all the gods—'"

"Make heaven drowsy with the harmony'," he finishes with a smirk. "I see you enjoyed tonight's play." I can feel a pair of eyes burning into the side of my face at the hint of flirtation in his voice. "And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading."

"A trite reply. Yeah, that's what I do. And you," he continues to Martha once again, "you look at him like you're surprised he exists. He's as much of a puzzle to you as he is to me. But the Dame understands, don't you? I notice that tell-tale softening when you see him."

She makes for the door with a somewhat cold reply, "I think we should say goodnight."

We remain. Sensing the Doctor's discomfort, seeing the shadow in his eyes, I slip my hand into his. Shakespeare catches sight of it and the brewing storm in his eyes passes long enough for a brief glint of recognition. "I must to work, I have a play to complete. But I'll get my answers tomorrow, Doctor, and I'll discover more about you, and why this constant performance of yours."

He pauses in the doorway, still holding on to me. "All the world's a stage."

The man hums at that. "I might use that. Good night, Doctor."

"Nighty night, Shakespeare."

"And a good night to you, my lady."

"Good night."

A/n:

I love this episode so much. Shakespeare is... something else.

Like I said at the start, this one does get a little dodgy in some parts. From what I understand, the writer is a bigot. That one about "walking about like you own the place" has always bugged me, tbh. The Doctor can be insensitive sometimes but that's just out of character for him, he's not ignorant.


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