Shakespeare's Scribe (10 page)

Though he was galloping along like a man on a fresh horse, I was fading fast. My eyelids drooped; my lines of charactery symbols, normally straight as a privy path, began to wander. I glanced at the watch that lay on the desk. It was past midnight.

Mr. Shakespeare seemed to notice neither the lateness of the hour nor my nodding head, so caught up in his creation was he. I pinched my leg mercilessly, to jar myself into wakefulness. Now that he was racing along at last, it would not be fair of me to bring him up short by pleading exhaustion. I kept up as best I could until, finally, he began to stumble and came to a halt.

“End of Act Two,” he said with satisfaction. “A fair night's work.”

“Fair?” I said, and yawned widely. “I doubt whether I could survive a
good
night's work, then.” I looked about at the papers I had strewn this way and that in my haste.

“Go on to bed,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “I'll clean up here. Did I work you too hard?”

“Oh, Lord, sir,” I said, and we shared a final, fatigued laugh.

When I stretched out on my mattress in our sleeping room, Sam stirred and murmured, “How did it go?”

“Like the wheel of Fortune,” I said. “Now up, now down.”

“I don't see why he agonizes so over it. After all, it's only a play.”

For a change, the room was not filled with Jack's snoring. “What's happened to Jack?” I whispered to Sam.

Jack's grumpy voice replied from the darkness, “You're keeping me awake with all your gabbling, that's what.”

“Sorry.”

After a moment, I heard Jack's voice again. “I know what you're up to,” he said.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“With all your extra work. You're trying to get in good with the sharers, so they'll keep you on.”

I made no reply to this. In fact I said nothing until I heard him begin to snore. Then I poked Sam.

“What?”

“Jack says I'm trying to get in good wi' the sharers so they'll keep me on. Do you suppose there's some chance they
won't
?”

“Why wouldn't they?”

“Well, we're making no money at all. An this keeps up, perhaps they'll ha' to let some of us go.”

“Who would they have to play girls' parts, then?”

“Sal Pavy, for one.”

“Ahh, you're far better than he is.”

“How do you ken?” I said. “You've not seen him perform yet.”

“Ha! I see him perform every day for the sharers, in the role of the Good Prentice.”

“Aye, and they seem to find him very convincing.”

“Then perhaps it's our duty to enlighten them.”

“Nay, it's not,” I said. “Whatever his faults he's one of us.”

Sam laughed ironically. “Just don't try to tell
him
that.”

12

S
al Pavy soon had the chance to show the rest of the company how capable an actor he was. To our great relief, we were welcomed by the mayor of Newark. He did question us closely, though, to be sure none of the company had any symptoms of the plague. Though the contagion had not yet reached his town, rumors of it had.

In London, when we were to perform for the Queen, we first had to present our play to her Master of Revels. Here, though our audience would be nothing like royalty, we were expected to play first for the mayor and his aldermen, who would then pass judgment on whether or not we were fit for public consumption.

Since we had failed in our attempt to perform
Love's Labour's Lost
in Newbury, the sharers determined to do it now, assuming that a provincial audience would prefer comedy to tragedy. Perhaps, I thought, recalling what Mr. Shakespeare had said about the Queen's taste, they were not so different from royalty after all.

We were all of us a bit rusty from not having exercised our skills for so long, but once the play was under way we performed smoothly enough. Sal Pavy's early-morning practices served him well; so did his naturally haughty manner. It was difficult for me to watch him play the Princess of France or to act alongside him. In truth, I suppose I was resentful, for always before, Sander had been the one to play the Princess. But even I had to admit that Sal Pavy brought to the role an uncommon dignity and grace.

After the performance, he had praise heaped upon him by the sharers. Sam and I, not wishing to seem poor sports, said a few complimentary and wholly unconvincing words. The mayor and his friends were enthusiastic, too, and a public performance was set for the following afternoon. Again, we prentices were given a sheaf of handbills to scatter through the town.

We split up, to make the task go more quickly. As I was returning to our inn, I spotted a troupe of a dozen or so men, some on horseback and some afoot, approaching on the highway. When they drew nearer, I noticed that they wore brown cloaks and orange caps—the livery of Lord Pembroke's Men.

I had seen Pembroke's company perform at the Swan, but not often enough so I could recognize the individual players, particularly without their makeup. One of their number—a stout fellow of perhaps twenty, with a ruddy complexion and a generous belly—did look somehow familiar at first, but as he drew nearer I saw that he wore a leather patch over his right eye. I didn't recall ever encountering anyone with such a distinctive feature.

I hurried to the inn, ran upstairs, and burst into Mr. Armin's room. He looked up in surprise from a sheet of paper he had filled with his neat, elegant script. “Remind me to add to your other instruction a class in courtesy,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” I said breathlessly, “but I thought you'd want to ken.”

“Ken what?”

“The Earl of Pembroke's Men are coming.”

He set paper and pen aside and rose. “Are you certain?”

“I recognized their livery—brown cloaks, orange caps.”

“Shrew them! They've had the same idea we did, it seems. I didn't foresee having to compete with another London company.”

“But we're here first. They'll have to be content wi' the leavings, will they not?”

Mr. Armin played idly with the handle of the dagger he always wore at his belt. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. Then he looked up and smiled slightly at me. “Thanks for the warning, at any rate. Next time knock, though.”

“Aye. I will.” I glanced at the sheet of paper. “Are you writing a letter home?”

“That? No, no. It's a—” He paused, as though unsure whether or not to go on. “Just between us, it's a play.”

“Truly? I didn't ken you were a playwright.”

“I'm not much of a one. Not of the same rank as Will, certainly. I'm revising an old work of mine called
Fool Upon Fool, or A Nest of Ninnies
. I thought something mindless might appeal more to these Yorkshire wights. No offense. I'm Yorkshire born and bred meself, as you ken,” he said, lapsing into the speech of the region. “I can't say I'm thrilled to be back. What about you?”

I shrugged. “It's nothing to me one way or the other. If there's time, though, I'd like to visit th' orphanage in York where I spent me early years.”

“We'll make time,” said Mr. Armin. “For now, let's go and see what Pembroke's Men are up to.”

But it seemed that our rivals had not taken rooms at our inn, for we saw no sign of them, nor had the other members of the company. “P-perhaps they've no money for b-bed and b-board,” said Mr. Heminges with concern in his voice.

“They did appear somewhat shabby,” I said. “They had no carewares and no trunks, only packs slung over their saddles.”

“My guess,” said Will Sly, “is that they've been forced to sell or to pawn some of their gear. They may have to change their name to Pem's Broke Men.”

“We ought to keep an eye on our own equipment, then,” put in Jack.

“Oh, I hardly think they'd stoop t-to stealing,” said Mr. Heminges. “They're a reputable c-company, after all.”

“Well, if they do,” said Sam, “Sally will surely stop 'em.” This brought a laugh from some of the others and a kick under the table from me.

If we could have seen a few hours into the future, no one would have found Sam's jest the least amusing. Sometime after midnight, the door to our sleeping room burst open and a voice shocked us from our sleep with a single word: “Fire!”

I sat upright, rubbing at my eyes. Mr. Armin was stalking about among us, shaking the sleepers roughly. “Get up! The wagons are afire! Come! There's no time to dress!” He flung open the door that led to the gallery and ran outside. The hired men and prentices staggered after him, half asleep still, barefoot and clad only in our nightshirts.

We had brought the carewares into the inn yard and pulled them alongside the stable, assuming they would be safe there. We were wrong. The fronts of both wagon boxes were ablaze, and the flames were climbing the sides, threatening to set the canvas tops alight. In their flickering light, I spotted Sal Pavy shuffling across the inn yard, straining at the weight of a leather water bucket whose contents spilled onto the cobbles and onto the hem of his nightshirt.

Stunned, I stood clutching the railing of the gallery for a moment. “Gog's blood!” I heard Jack cry as he rushed past me. “Pembroke's Men are trying to burn us out!” Then Will Sly yanked at my nightshirt, setting
me in motion. As I scrambled down the stairs, a splinter jammed into one bare foot, but I ran on.

Sal Pavy tossed what little remained of his bucket of water ineffectually at the burning wagon. Mr. Armin took the bucket from him and handed it to Jack. “Fill it at the horse trough! The rest of you, take hold of the wagon tongues! We've got to get them away from the stable! Widge! See if you can pull those canvas tops off!”

While the men hauled at one careware, trying to get it rolling, I clambered aboard the other and, clinging to the high wooden side, began fumbling with the loops of rope that held the canvas in place. “All together—heave!” shouted Mr. Armin, and their wagon lurched into mine, nearly dislodging me. My bare foot struck someone on the pate. I glanced down to see that it was Mr. Shakespeare, straining with his good arm at the spokes of one of the wheels.

I pulled the last of the ropes free, flung the canvas aside, out of the reach of the flames, and sprang for the other careware. I was too late. The canvas top on it was already burning. I believe we would have lost our battle with the flames had we not at that moment received reinforcements in the form of the innkeeper and his ostler. With their help, our men got the careware moving and pushed it across the cobbles to the horse trough.

While Jack and Sam and I doused the fire with bucket after bucket of water—Sal Pavy seemed to have disappeared—the rest of the men returned for the other careware. Within minutes, both fires were out. The players dragged our costume and property trunks from the wagon beds. Even in the pale light from the innkeeper's lantern, I could see that the wood was badly charred and, of course, soaked with water.

We carried the trunks into the stable and inspected their contents. The armor and weapons and other properties were mostly undamaged, but the top layer of clothing was scorched, and all of it was wet. We spread the garments on the hay in the loft to dry and, leaving Jack and Will Sly to guard them, retired to our beds, grateful that our bedding, at least, had not been in the wagons.

We found Ned Shakespeare still in the room and still sound asleep. “The devil take him!” muttered Sam. “He's slept through the whole thing!”

“Mr. Shakespeare will be furious. Perhaps we'd best not tell him. ‘A may not have noticed.” But as I said this, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye and turned to see Mr. Shakespeare standing in the doorway. He clearly saw his brother's sleeping form, but he said nothing, only shook his head as though he had expected nothing more, and turned away.

After we washed up, I got Sam to draw the splinter—or at least most of it—from my foot. “How do you suppose the fire began?” he asked me.

“Mr. Armin said it looked as though someone had dropped burning bundles of straw into the front of the wagon beds.”

“Who would do such a thing, and why?”

“Someone who dislikes players, I'd say. A fanatical Puritan, perhaps.”

“Or maybe Jack was right. Maybe it was Pembroke's Men, trying to get rid of the competition.”

After the night's exertions, we were all—with the exception of Ned and Sal Pavy—cross and tired the next day. Mr. Phillips and Jack had suffered superficial burns. To my surprise, they came to me—grudgingly, in Jack's case—for medical advice. The best I could do for them was to smear on a salve of tallow mixed with comfrey, but it seemed to give them some relief.

Despite everything, we managed a passable performance that afternoon and took in a respectable box—most of which we promptly laid out again to have the damaged costumes repaired. The town councillors profited as much as we did, or more, for they had men passing through the crowd hawking bottles of ale.

As we stood behind the curtain waiting to go on, Sal Pavy, in his guise as the Princess, surveyed my dress, which was less elegant than the one I usually wore when playing Rosaline. “Why are you wearing
that
?” he asked distastefully.

“Because me better one has half the skirt burned away.” This dress, too, had an unpleasant smoky odor to it, as did Sam's. Sal Pavy's costume had escaped the conflagration; dandy that he was, he had taken it from the trunk beforehand and hung it in the stable to air out.

“Well, you look more like a milkmaid than a maid in waiting,” he said. I let his remark pass, but I suspected Sam would not, and I was right.

“Did you know you've a hole there?” Sam said innocently.

“Where?” Sal Pavy demanded, twisting his head around and feeling the fabric at his rear with both hands.