Shakespeare's Scribe (13 page)

He scratched his short beard thoughtfully. “Hmm. It's been a long time; give me a moment. Rogers, that's it.”

“Has she no kin left here?”

He shook his head. “None. If she had, I would have found them.”

“Would you?” I said, more bitterly than I meant to. “You failed to find me.”

He turned to me with a look that was half angry, half reproachful. “I had no idea you existed,” he said.

We walked on in silence. Despite the fact that I was a head shorter, I found myself having to slow my pace so as not to get ahead of him. He did not limp, exactly; he seemed merely to favor his left side a little, to hesitate slightly each time he brought his left leg forward. Though he carried an impressive hardwood walking stick with a carving of a snarling
lion's head on the handle, he did not lean on it but walked along rigidly upright, swinging the stick at his side.

“I'm sorry to slow you down,” he said. “I've a wound that gives me a twinge now and again.”

“A sword wound?” I asked.

“No, a fragment of an Irish cannonball. It went through my hip, the surgeon told me, and lodged near the base of my spine.”

“Gog's blood!” I breathed. “All I've ever done is mock fighting on the stage. I can scarcely imagine what it's like to be in the thick of a real battle.”

“I hope you never have to learn,” said Jamie Redshaw soberly.

I hoped so, too. Yet I couldn't help feeling, for the first time, a trifle ashamed of my profession, and wondering what a man who had truly known death and tragedy would make of our pale imitations.

“It's very odd,” I said, “that you should be a soldier.”

He frowned slightly. “Why? What do I look as though I'd be? A plowman?”

“Nay, nay,” I replied hastily. “I only meant it's odd because not long ago someone asked about me father and, on a whim, I said ‘a was a soldier. Ha' you always been, or were you a prentice, like me?”

“I apprenticed to a boatwright.”

“A boatwright? Not in Yorkshire, surely?”

Laughing, Jamie Redshaw held up his stick as though to ward off my onslaught of questions. “Patience, boy, patience! We can't hope to make up for fifteen years in as many minutes, you know! As I said, I'll not disappear. There will be plenty of opportunity later for all your questions. For now, let us simply get to know one another, as new-made acquaintances do, shall we?”

I nodded, embarrassed. “Aye. I'm sorry.”

By the time we reached the Merchant Adventurers' Hall, a long stream of playgoers were paying their pennies to Sam, who had a gatherer's box suspended by a thong around his neck. “Where have you been?” he wanted to know. “Everyone's been asking me.”

“I've been—I was—” It was all too much to try to explain. “I'll tell you later,” I mumbled, and squeezed past the paying folk.

“‘Here!” Sam called after Jamie Redshaw. “You've got to pay your penny, sir!”

“‘A's wi' me, Sam,” I told him.

“Who is he?” asked Sam, never one to hold back a question, however difficult.

I glanced uncertainly at Jamie Redshaw, who gave me a conspiratorial wink. “A new-made acquaintance,” he said.

At one end of the hall, the city had erected a stage for us nearly as large as the one at the Globe. I led Jamie Redshaw around the curtain to where the players, already in costume, were making up one another's faces in the absence of a decent mirror.

“Sorry I'm late,” I blurted, before anyone could take me to task for it. “It won't happen again, I promise.”

“It's not l-like you,” said Mr. Heminges. “We thought you m-must have good reason.”

“Actually,” said Will Sly, “we were taking wagers. Mr. Shakespeare fancied that your old master had kidnapped you. Jack was sure you'd deserted and gone back to London. My contention was that you'd spent all your salary on strong drink and were out cold in a tavern somewhere.”

“Well, you're all wrong,” I said, “though I was in several taverns.”

“Aha!” cried Will triumphantly. “I was nearest the mark!”

“Who's your friend?” asked Mr. Armin. “A would-be player?”

“Nay, ‘a's …” I hesitated. The notion of having a father at hand was still so unfamiliar to me.

“I'm Jamie Redshaw,” he volunteered. “And you have a performance to do, so I'd best let you get on with it. Widge, we'll talk later.” He stepped down from the platform and disappeared behind the curtain.

Alarmed, I ran after him. “You're not leaving?”

“No, no,” he assured me. “I'll just be out front here, watching the play.”

I nodded and backed away, keeping an eye on him as long as possible, fearful still that he might vanish and, with him, the only link I had to my heritage.

The company were all too busy to question me further. I helped make up faces and pin together splitting seams; I made certain all the properties were in their places; I retrieved from the script trunk the plot of the play, which showed all the actors' entrances, and hung it on the back side of the curtain. It was fortunate that I had done all these things a hundred times before, for my mind was not on them.

In between tasks, I stole a look out into the audience to make certain Jamie Redshaw was still there. When I could not spot him at once, my heart seemed to stop; then I caught sight of him off to one side, perched upon one of the stools that were reserved for those who could afford an extra sixpence.

Once the performance began, I volunteered to hold the book and throw lines out to those actors who were floundering. Though Sal Pavy had never before played the part of Lavinia on the stage, he showed no sign of needing help. On the few occasions when he did lose his way a little, he managed to get his bearings again with no prompting from me.

I wished now, more than ever, that I had not been so obliging as to let him have the part. I longed to make my father proud of me, and I could not do that from behind the stage. And yet perhaps it was just as well this way; considering the state my mind was in, I would likely have forgotten half my lines.

I did my best to pick out flaws in Sal Pavy's performance and did, indeed, find two. When he came on at the end of Act II with his hands lopped off, I could see the tips of his fingers poking out of one sleeve; and when he tripped over the hem of his dress in Act III, I distinctly heard him mutter a curse, despite the fact that his tongue was supposedly cut out.

But as far as acting ability was concerned, I had to admit—difficult as it was for me to do so—that he played the part, as theatre folk say, to the life. All trace of the spoiled and self-important Sal Pavy had vanished, and in his place was a piteous young woman who had been “ravished and wronged.” When I had played Lavinia, and was called upon to scratch out the names of the villains in the dirt, holding the staff in my teeth and guiding it with my stumps, my clumsiness sometimes elicited laughter, not pity, from the audience. When Sal Pavy did the scene, there was not a single snicker, not a sound except perhaps a sniffle or two from some softhearted member of the audience. I could not help it; I disliked him more than ever.

True to his word, Jamie Redshaw rejoined us after the play was done and returned with us to the inn. Though the situation was an awkward one for me, I should have known how to conduct myself. I had, after all, had dozens of fathers before this—Leonato in
Much Ado
, Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice
, Polonius in
Hamlet
. Yet I had always been a daughter, never a son. I felt as though I were living out that dream every actor dreads, the one in which he is unexpectedly called upon to play a role totally unfamiliar to him. I had no notion of what to say, or where the day's developments might lead.

Happily, Jamie Redshaw seemed more sure of himself than I. Over dinner, he revealed to the company what he had implied to me. I had expected my fellow players to react with surprise to this revelation, and they did. I had also expected them to be delighted for me. I had, after all, after fifteen years of thinking myself an orphan, discovered that I had a family, or at least part of one.

They were cordial enough, to be sure, and offered their congratulations, but I sensed a certain reserve, especially on the part of Mr. Armin and Mr. Shakespeare, as though they were taking Jamie Redshaw's measure. It put me in mind of the way they behaved toward the players who auditioned for temporary roles at the Globe. I had the feeling they were debating whether or not he was suited to the part.

As for me, I was, I suppose, more like a playwright who has waited year upon year for some actor to audition for a crucial role in his play and gotten not a single prospect. I would likely have taken anyone who happened along.

Not that I was disappointed in the player I got. Watching Jamie Redshaw converse with the members of the company, I felt an unexpected and unfamiliar swell of something that I could only identify as pride. Though he was a simple soldier, a man of action, and not a scholar, he seemed quite comfortable in the company of men as intelligent and witty as the sharers. In fact, he behaved as if they were not new-made acquaintances but the oldest of friends. If he was discomfited at all by their appraising manner he did not show it; indeed, he seemed not to notice. He proceeded to give a highly entertaining—and highly exaggerated—account of how he and I had met. When he recounted how I fell off my stool in astonishment, it drew a round of raucous laughter. Though I did not recall doing such a thing, I did not spoil the hilarity by saying so.

In the midst of Jamie Redshaw's story the innkeeper approached us and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but there's a wight outside says ‘a desires to speak wi' someone in your company.”

“Well, h-have him c-come in,” said Mr. Heminges.

“‘A says ‘a wishes to talk out there.”

The sharers glanced at one another. Mr. Armin got to his feet. “I'll go see what it's about.”

When he was gone, Jamie Redshaw resumed his story, but was interrupted again by a sudden loud snoring sound close at hand. I turned to see that Sam had put his head down on the table and was fast asleep. Several of the company laughed, but I did not, for I had taken note of how flushed Sam's face looked and how the sweat stood out on his brow. “I hope ‘a's not ill.”

“J-just tired, I expect,” said Mr. Heminges. “That g-gathering box is a heavy b-burden for a boy.”

“Especially considering how much money we took in,” added Mr. Phillips. “Why don't you help him up to bed, Widge?”

I hesitated, reluctant yet to let Jamie Redshaw out of my sight. Seeming to sense my dilemma, he smiled and nodded. “Go on. I'll still be here when you get back.”

As I assisted Sam in mounting the stairs, I heard Jamie Redshaw take up the thread of his story again. I could not make out the words; whatever they were, they drew more appreciative laughter from his audience. When I returned to the main room of the inn, however, no one was laughing, and Jamie Redshaw was no longer holding forth. Everyone was silent and sober-faced. “What's wrong?” I asked.

Mr. Armin, who had taken his place again at the table, looked up at me. “Our stay here has been cut short.”

“For what reason?” I cried. “Did they not like us?”

“I'm afraid we've been upstaged,” replied Mr. Armin. “By the plague.”

16

T
he man Mr. Armin had gone to speak with was the town's bailiff. His message was that, since our company's arrival in York, there had been a rash of plague deaths. No one was accusing us of having brought them on, but the local officials thought it best to ban any public gatherings for a time, until the threat died down.

We had scheduled a shortened version of
The Taming of the Shrew
for the following morning, and we would be permitted to proceed with it, but we were not to finish out the week. Every member of our company was upset by the news, for it meant only half the profit we had anticipated. I had even more cause for distress; I would have to leave behind my newfound father without ever having gotten to know him. I did have an alternative, of course. I could drop out of the company and remain in York. But that prospect was even more painful than the first.

“I'm sorry, Widge,” said Mr. Armin. “I know this creates a dilemma for you.”

“If you f-feel you need to stay a few m-more days,” said Mr. Heminges, “we c-could manage without you, I suppose.” Though I knew he meant only to ease my mind, his words stung me. I would have preferred to hear that I was indispensable, that the company could not possibly spare me.

“No,” Jamie Redshaw put in unexpectedly. “It would not be fair to the company for Widge to stay on here. You're having to double up parts as it is.” I stared at him in dismay. Now I was being betrayed by both sides. Why was he so ready to let me go? Did I mean nothing to him?

“B-but you've only j-just found one another. We've no w-wish to wrench him from you so s-soon.”

“Nor do I wish you to,” said Jamie Redshaw calmly. “Fortunately I have a solution that I think will suit everyone.”

“You do?” I said.

Smiling, he spread his hands palms upward. “It's simple,” he said. “I'll come with you.”

After only a few minutes' discussion among themselves, the sharers agreed to Jamie Redshaw's proposal. Mr. Heminges made it clear that they could not afford to pay him a hired man's wages; but, like every prentice's father, he was entitled to two shillings a week from the company in return for his son's services.

“Well,” said Jamie Redshaw amiably, “it's more than I'm receiving at the moment. By rights, I should be collecting an army pension, but they continually deny me it.”

“Why?” I asked.

There was more than a trace of bitterness in his laugh. “Because,” he said, “they're the army.”