Shakespeare's Scribe (16 page)

Mr. Armin turned over the crucifix. “Yes, I see. A bit of advice. I wouldn't wear that where it may be seen.”

“Why not?”

“Folk may take you for a Papist.”

“A what?”

“A Catholic. Now, you may be one for all I know, or for all I care. But it's not wise to advertise the fact. There may be no problem here in the north, where Catholics are said to be as common as cowpies, if not quite as visible. But the nearer we get to London, the more chance you'll run afoul of Papist-hating Protestants and bring trouble not only upon yourself but upon the company. We players are held in low enough regard already.”

I held up the cross and gazed at it. “Perhaps I should not wear it at all, then.”

“That's up to you. If you like, we can put it in the treasury trunk. It'll be safe there.”

“All right. I worry about the chain breaking anyway,” I said. “Sal Pavy nearly clove it in two out there.”

He stepped closer and pulled aside the neck of my linen shirt. “And your collarbone as well, if I'm not mistaken. You'll want to put something on that welt.”

“I will.”

“If there's trouble between you two,” he said, “I'd like to know about it.”

“Nay, no trouble.”

Smiling skeptically, Mr. Armin said, “I applaud your loyalty, Widge. But don't imagine that we sharers are fooled. We know well enough that Sal Pavy is not the model prentice he pretends to be. He shows a great deal of promise, though, as a player. All he needs is a bit more self-discipline.”

I rubbed my shoulder. “And some serious scriming lessons.”

Mr. Armin laughed. “I'll work on that. You work on being more tolerant. Bear with him, Widge. He's had a hard time of it.”

“Not to hear him talk. ‘A makes it sound as though at Blackfriars ‘a was treated more like a prince than a prentice—a bedroom of his own, a private tiring-room, no chores of any sort—”

Mr. Armin shook his head soberly. “As I'm sure you realize, he's exaggerating … considerably. Come; let's head back, and I'll tell you something of his story.” As we walked to the inn, he continued. “I learned what I know from Mr. Pearce, the choirmaster at St. Paul's. Sal was sent there at the age of eight, to be educated and to be trained for the choir. Mr. Pearce tells me he had an extraordinary voice, clear and pure as rain.”

“That doesn't sound like such a terrible fate to me.”

“It wasn't, of course. But when he was ten or eleven, Sal was forced into service by the Chapel company.”

“How could they do that?”

“They kidnapped him, essentially. It's done all the time, and no one dares object, since the Children of the Chapel come under the Queen's direct protection. Theoretically the Chapel company is permitted to take boys only for its choir, but of course their choir doesn't turn a profit, and their acting company does, so you may guess where most of the boys end up—including Sal.”

“Why did ‘a not simply run off?”

“He did, I gather, several times—and was caught and punished.”

I winced. Now I knew the source of those stripes that decorated his back.

“What's more, the masters of the Chapel company all but ruined his singing voice by constantly making him strain to speak his lines
vociferato
and to mimic an old man's voice. Apparently they know no more about vocal techniques than they do about sword techniques. The one good thing to come of all this is that, rather than giving up, Sal determined to be the best actor he could, to draw enough attention to himself to tempt some other company to take him on. And he's done that.
We're trying to undo some of the damage that's been done, to his voice and to his … to his soul, if you will. If you and Sam can manage to treat him … sympathetically, it will help.”

I sighed. “I've been trying. It's not easy.”

“Nor is what he has been through. His saving grace, and the thing that makes him so gifted an actor, is that he's been able to make use of all those hardships and disappointments. He puts something of himself—his pain, his anger, his frustration, his desires—into every role he plays.”

I nodded glumly. “And I do not.”

As Sander so often had done, Mr. Armin put a hand on my shoulder, being careful to choose the uninjured one. “You will, Widge, in time. Perhaps you won't be able to truly put yourself into a part until you're a bit more certain who you are.”

I had no immediate opportunity to practice being sympathetic to Sal Pavy for, as usual, he did not share our tiring-room, and he made short work of his supper. More unexpected was the absence at supper of two others of our company, Ned Shakespeare and Jamie Redshaw. I tried not to let myself worry over this. Most likely my father was having a drink in some tavern, that was all. But I could not dismiss the nagging notion that he might suddenly have decided he did not particularly want to have a son or to travel with a band of gypsy players, and had gone back to York and his old way of life. He was, after all, as unused to having a son as I was to having a father.

As casually as I could manage, I asked the others if they had noticed him about after the performance. Will Sly recalled seeing him and Ned outside the Golden Lion. There, you see, I told myself, it's just as you imagined; he's only tossing back a few, and will be along in due time.

But night came, and Jamie Redshaw did not. Mr. Shakespeare and I toiled on the third act of
Love's Labour's Won
, but I found it difficult to concentrate, and several times I had to ask Mr. Shakespeare to repeat himself, which galled him, for he was having difficulties of his own. This play was, he swore, the sorriest piece of work he had ever put his hand—or anyone else's—to, and had he not already promised it to the Queen, he'd have gleefully burned it, page by page, like the rubbish that it was.

“Nay,” I said, trying to be helpful. “It's not so bad. I've seen any number of plays that were worse:
Fortune's Tennis
, for example, or
The Battle of Alcazar
.”

Mr. Shakespeare stared at me as though I'd brought up some subject not fit for polite company. “If I thought for a moment that my work had sunk to the level of those …
abominations
,” he said acidly, “I
would use my pen knife to open a vein and write a farewell note to the world in my own blood.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. The world would not be able to read it, though, you ken, for you'd ha' to write it left-handed.”

His look of exasperation gave way slowly, reluctantly, to a sort of smile. “Yes, well, when I reach that point,” he said, “I'll be sure to call you in and have you write it for me.”

When I returned to our common room, neither Ned nor Jamie Redshaw was there. Though it was late and I was weary, I left the inn and walked through the dark streets of Leeds to the Golden Lion. When I stepped inside the door I saw Jamie Redshaw at once. He and Ned sat at a table with two other men, playing at cards. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air about their heads. In the center of the table was a pile of coins; smaller piles lay directly before each of the players—except for Jamie Redshaw, who seemed to have not so much as a gray groat.

I nearly turned and left the tavern. I was well aware that the sharers did not approve of gambling; in fact, there were pointed rules against it. Discovering Ned and Jamie Redshaw engaged in this forbidden pastime put me in an awkward position. Clearly it was my duty to report their transgression to the sharers. But if I did, the two would likely be slapped with a substantial fine, and I did not care to be the one responsible. I thought it even possible they might be dismissed—or at least Jamie Redshaw might be; Mr. Shakespeare would likely be more lenient with his own brother.

As I stood there in the shadows near the doorway, debating with myself, one of the men playing at cards let out a startling whoop of triumph and, leaning across the table, gathered in the central pile of coins. Jamie Redshaw sat even more stiffly than usual, with an equally stiff smile upon his face. “Well,” he said with a careless tone that was quite convincing, “easily gotten, easily gone, eh?” He rose carefully to his feet with the aid of his walking stick. “Shall we meet again tomorrow night, gentlemen?”

One of the strangers gave a crooked-toothed grin. “You mean we've not got to the bottom of your purse yet?”

Jamie Redshaw shrugged. “This one, perhaps, but I've several others. Coming, Ned?”

Ned glared grimly down at the pitiful few pennies before him. “Not as long as I've a farthing left.”

That should have been my cue to exit, but I missed it. As Jamie Redshaw strode to the door, I shrank back farther in the shadows, not wishing him to know that I had been spying on him. My movement caught
his eye, though, and he stopped and raised his cane. “Who's there?” He peered into the dim corner. “Widge?”

“Aye.” I came hesitantly forward. “You weren't i' the sleeping room, so I came looking for you.”

“Still afraid I'll run off?” He put an arm around my shoulder, making me flinch. “What's wrong?”

“I hurt meself i' the sword fight this afternoon. It's not much; only a bruise.” When I thought of his awful war wound, I felt foolish for even mentioning my inconsequential injury. As we headed back to the inn, I said, “Did you watch the play this afternoon?”

“Some of it.”

I waited for him to go on, perhaps even to praise me a bit for my performance. When he did not, I prompted him shamelessly. “Did our swordplay look at all real?” I winced again, recalling just how real it had been.

He laughed. “I didn't suppose it was meant to. It was a play.”

I nodded glumly. “I suppose it didn't much resemble a real battle.”

“No.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “You should have joined us at cards.”

I wanted to mention the rule against gambling, but I did not wish to seem prudish or chiding, so I said, “I ken naught about card games, and I've no money to wager.”

“There were no vast sums involved, just a few pennies to keep the game interesting.”

“What that man won looked like more than a few pennies.”

“Well, a few shillings, then.”

I couldn't help wondering where he'd come by his share of it. “Do you truly ha' several other purses full of money?” I asked.

He laughed. “Of course not. But I couldn't let them think they'd cleaned me out. A fellow has his pride.”

I spent a restless night; my mind was still wrestling with the problem of where my loyalties lay. Jack's snoring did not help matters. To get some respite from it, I dragged my sleeping mat out onto the gallery of the inn. As I lay looking up at the stars, I heard a faint sound floating across the inn yard. At first I could not identify it. It blended with the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of frogs, and might have been mistaken for either of them but that it was more sustained and more musical.

Curious, I sat up and listened more closely. Still I could not be certain of its source. When I felt my way down the gallery stairs to the yard, I determined that the sound was coming from the stable. As I drew
nearer, it became clear that what I was hearing was a high human voice, a slightly hoarse voice that sometimes wavered, sometimes cracked, but for all that had a haunting, moving quality to it.

It was Sal Pavy, singing.

20

I
mmediately after breakfast the next morning Mr. Armin gathered us prentices in the yard of the inn for a scriming session. Though the instruction was mainly for Sal Pavy's benefit, Mr. Armin did not say so, and did not spare Sam and me in the slightest.

While he worked with Sal Pavy on delivering and parrying edgeblows, Sam and I practiced thrusting, alternating rapidly between the
imbrocata
, which is delivered above the opponent's blade, and the
stoccata
, delivered beneath the opponent's blade. Though our rapiers were blunted, they were capable of inflicting a nasty bruise, so for protection we strapped on the light, boiled leather breastplates that passed for metal armor on the stage.

“Why do you smile, infidel,” said Sam, “when you are about to die?”

“I was just recalling the time Nick stuck me wi' his sword and we all thought ‘a'd done me in—all except Sander. There I was, swooning and breathing what I thought were me last breaths, and Sander takes one look and says, ‘You sot! He stuck your blood bag!' I didn't feel half a ninny.”

Sam grinned and shook his head. “I wish Sander was here now,” he said.

I merely nodded. As we were hotly engaged in mock battle, I heard a voice from the second floor gallery say, “It's fortunate that you're playing to townfolk and not to a company of infantrymen.” I glanced up to see Jamie Redshaw leaning on the railing, watching our practice.

Mr. Armin and Sal Pavy left off swiping at one another. “Oh,” said Mr. Armin coolly. “Why is that?”

Jamie Redshaw laughed a bit uncomfortably, like someone who's been put on the spot. “Well, because they'd hoot you off the stage.” He descended the gallery stairs and crossed the cobbles toward us. “I mean, anyone who's ever fought in earnest knows it's nothing like what you're
doing.” He seemed to realize how condescending this sounded, for he added, “I don't mean to be critical; of course you can't be expected to re-create the feel of a real battle upon the stage.”

“No, no,” replied Mr. Armin in a tone that might have sounded cordial to someone who did not know him well. “We want to be as convincing as possible. Perhaps you'll give us a few pointers.”

Jamie Redshaw shrugged. “If you like.”

“Sal, give your sword to Mr. Redshaw, will you?” Sal Pavy obliged and backed well out of the way. “Now,” said Mr. Armin, raising his blade and his eyebrows, “what is it we should be doing, exactly?”