Shakespeare's Scribe (18 page)

“Has ‘a, truly?” I said. “‘A seldom says so to me face.”

“It's not his way.” Mr. Armin turned to Jamie Redshaw. “Widge has been a valuable addition to our company, sir.”

If I hoped to see some trace of fatherly pride, I was disappointed. Jamie Redshaw simply said, “I'm glad to hear it,” then got stiffly to his feet. “I believe I'll retire.” He waved a stack of handbills at me. “I've been given the job of posting these around town in the morning.”

I would have left with him, for I hoped to learn what had been said in regard to Sal Pavy's charge. But Mr. Armin asked me to stay. It took him several minutes to get to what was on his mind. Finally he said, “How much do you know of this Redshaw?”

“Well … very little, I suppose,” I admitted reluctantly. “I ken ‘a's me father.”

“Has he said so?”

“Not in as many words. But ‘a was … well acquainted wi' me mother. They would ha' wed, ‘a said, had it not been for her parents' objections.”

“You're certain he knew her?”

“‘A kenned her name, and that it was engraved on the crucifix. Why? Do you doubt him?”

“I've no real reason to, just … just a feeling.”

“What sort of feeling?”

“That not everything he says is so. For example, his statement that he and your mother were well acquainted implies that he grew up here in Yorkshire. Yet his speech says otherwise. I put him down as a Dorset man, or Somerset.”

“‘A never said ‘a grew up here. Besides, ‘a's spent many years in other lands, as a soldier.”

“So he says.”

“You doubt that, too?” I tried to keep my tone calm and reasonable but did not entirely succeed.

Mr. Armin shrugged. “As I said, I've no real reason to, so let's let it drop for now. I can see it's upsetting you, and I can't blame you.”

I was upset mainly because Mr. Armin was bringing into the light a shadowy something that I myself had secretly suspected but had always managed to dismiss. After all, I told myself, who was I to condemn a man for the occasional falsehood? Besides, even if Jamie Redshaw did stray from the truth from time to time, it did not mean that he had lied about everything. In any case, I felt it was my duty to defend him. “I suppose you have him down as a thief, too, on Sal Pavy's say-so?”

“No. Clearly not everything that Sal says can be counted on, either.”

“Oh.” My anger subsided a bit at this. “You did not accuse him, then?”

“I told him that Sal had accused him.”

“And what did ‘a do?”

“He laughed. And then he admitted that he had indeed taken several coins from the box.”

My heart sank at his news. “‘A did?”

Mr. Armin nodded, then fished in his wallet and held out something for me to see. “They were these.” In his hand were three circles the exact size of a penny but made of wood, with some silvery substance—quicksilver, perhaps—rubbed on the surface.

“Wooden coins?” I said.

“Coney-coins, some call them.”

I shook my head in disgust. “What sort of wight would do such a thing?”

“A woodman?” suggested Mr. Armin slyly.

“Aye,” I said, “a woodman would. Particularly a woodman who's wood,” I added, certain that Mr. Armin would know that, hereabouts,
wood
was used to mean “insane.”

He smiled appreciatively. “Aye, a wood woodman would, though I would ‘a would not.”

I could provide no further puns, only a prodigious yawn. In the street outside the inn a night watchman cried, “Ten o'clock, and all's well!”

“Holy mother,” I said wearily. “I hope so.”

When we headed for the town hall next afternoon, I noticed that many of the town's walls and fences still sported handbills for yesterday's
King John
, and only a very few held papers announcing that day's performance of
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
. In addition, most of the
Two Gentlemen
handbills had no date or time printed on them. “Oh, gis,” I said to Sam. “'A's not done his job!”

“Your da?” Sam said.

I nodded grimly. Even worse, when half past one came around, Jamie Redshaw did not turn up to act as gatherer. “I'll do it,” Sam offered.

“Nay,” I said, “you're still not strong. You help wi' makeup. I'll gather.”

Sal Pavy arrived late, as was his habit lately. When he saw me holding the box, he smirked and shook a finger at me as if to say, “No filching, now.” The gesture I gave him in return could not have been so readily translated, at least not by a person of good upbringing.

Jamie Redshaw did show up for supper, for a change. When Mr. Armin asked why he had not done his duty as gatherer, he said, with evident surprise and chagrin, “I assumed that, after yesterday, you would prefer that I not handle the money.”

“If I implied that, I did not mean to,” said Mr. Armin.

“There's the m-matter of the h-handbills, too,” said Mr. Heminges. “You were t-to replace yesterday's with today's.”

“I know, and I apologize. The truth is—” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Well … it's difficult, as an old soldier, to admit this but … I was ambushed.”

“Ambushed?” said Ned Shakespeare with an incredulous laugh.

Jamie Redshaw cast him a look sharp enough to sober him. “Attacked, if you will. I had posted but a few of the bills when I passed the mouth of a narrow alley. A moment later, someone struck me from behind with a cudgel or the like. When I fell to my knees, dazed, my assailant snatched the bills from my hand; before I could recover, he had vanished.”

Mr. Armin frowned skeptically. “Why would anyone wish to steal our handbills?”

“You would know that better than I.”

“For the same reason they'd set fire to our carts,” said Jack resentfully. “To make life difficult for us.” It was now Jack's lot to sleep in one of the carewares each night, lest they be molested again. Though it might be uncomfortable for him, it was a blessing for the rest of us, to be spared his snoring.

“Well,” said Mr. Heminges, “they c-certainly succeeded. The audience was f-far smaller today; p-presumably folk thought we were d-doing
King John
again.”

“It must be a rival company, then,” said Mr. Phillips. “But whose?”

“Lord Pembroke's Men?” I suggested.

“We d-don't know that they're in the v-vicinity, Widge.”

“But I—I think I saw one of them yesterday.” I noticed Ned Shakespeare giving me a warning look, as though reminding me not to divulge under what circumstances I had seen the man. “The wight wi' th' eye patch.”

“I don't recall anyone of that description among Pembroke's men,” said Mr. Phillips.

“Nor do I,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “But they may well have altered the company for touring purposes, as we have done.”

“They were at Newark, too,” I reminded them. “When the carewares were set afire.”

“B-but what do they have to g-gain by harassing us?” said Mr. Heminges.

Will Sly shrugged. “Simple. If they run us off, they'll have that much less competition.”

Mr. Armin still looked skeptical. “I find it hard to imagine them stooping to such base tactics, a respectable company like Pembroke's.”

“In desperate straits,” said Jamie Redshaw, “respectable men sometimes cease to be respectable.” He rose from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I mean to go and lie down. My head is still throbbing.”

“I'll bring you up some willow bark tea,” I said.

He gave me a dubious look. “I'd prefer brandy.”

“Nay, nay,” I protested. “Spirits will only make your head ache worse.”

“I'll vouch for that,” said Will Sly, and the others laughed, for Will was known for his tendency to overindulge in drink from time to time.

When I brought the tea to the common room, Jamie Redshaw was not lying down, but standing in the open doorway to the gallery, looking out on the inn yard. He turned to me. “Your Mr. Armin seems suspicious of me, somehow. Has he said anything of the sort to you?”

“Nay,” I lied. “I suppose ‘a's just naturally a suspicious fellow.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt guilty, for I well knew that Mr. Armin was a fair man, and that, if he seemed mistrustful or wary at times, it was only because he was concerned about my welfare, or that of the company.

We sat on our traveling trunks, and I poured some of the willow bark tea into an earthenware cup. Jamie Redshaw took a sip of it and made a face. “I still say it would be better with a dollop of brandy—a large one.” He set the cup aside. “You seem to have taken on the duties of physician as well as clerk and actor. You should demand an increase in wages.”

I shook my head emphatically. “I would never dare do that.”

“Why not? You deserve it. You heard how highly Armin spoke of you. Shall I do the asking for you?”

I shook my head again, even more emphatically. “I've no wish to appear greedy. They might conclude they could do wi'out me.”

“So? There are other companies. Perhaps one of them would better appreciate your worth.”

The mere thought of leaving the Lord Chamberlain's Men sent a stab of dread through me, like the mention of the plague. “Nay! You can't ask me to give up me position here!”

Jamie Redshaw held up a hand to calm me. “I'm not asking that. It was but a suggestion. I've no right to tell you what to do.”

“You're—you're me father,” I said.

He looked uncomfortable, as though his head or his war wound were bothering him. “Well,” he said, “you've done well enough without me up until now.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “For the past year or so, aye,” I said, more hotly than I intended. “For the fourteen years before that, I was not doing so well for meself. I could have used a father then.”

Jamie Redshaw seemed taken aback by my outburst.

“I'm sorry,” he replied, though not very sympathetically. “As I've said, I had no idea you existed.” He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “I'm feeling a bit dizzy. I need to rest now.” He stretched out on his mattress and closed his eyes.

Though he obviously meant for me to depart, I stubbornly lingered. “I was only wondering … that is … I ken how reluctant you are to speak of me mother, but …”

“But you want to know more about her.”

“Aye,” I said eagerly. “And about yourself as well.”

He turned his head to me and opened his eyes. “Why?”

“Why? Well, so that … so that I ken something of where I come from, I suppose.”

“That's not important,” he said. “All that truly matters is where you end up.” It was very nearly the same thing Mr. Armin had said to me a few weeks earlier, and it was not what I wanted to hear. “One thing I can tell you,” he went on. “You don't want to end up like me.” He turned
away again. “I'll try to recall more about your mother, and we'll talk again. We've plenty of time.”

22

B
ut the right time seemed never to come. When the players were on the road,
Jamie Redshaw and I were continually in the company of the other prentices and hired men, and though I could count Sam and Will Sly my friends, I could not say the same for Jack and Ned and Sal Pavy. Certainly I would not have cared to discuss so personal a matter before them.

When we were in residence in some town, our mornings were occupied with rehearsing and occasional lessons, and our afternoons with performing. In the evenings Jamie Redshaw was seldom at the inn with the rest of us. I suspected that he and Ned were, despite their pledge, still tarrying in the local alehouses, though heaven only knew what they found to wager with.

The sharers' plan—to play only the larger towns and thus avoid being associated with the company of thieves who were passing themselves off as players—proved to be flawed. The most populous places were, we found, also the ones most susceptible to the plague. Some of these contagion-racked cities turned away all travelers; others seemed to have a special dislike of theatre companies. The officials of some towns drove us off with threats; others paid us substantial sums not to perform.

When we reached Shrewsbury, which sat off the main road a little way, we found signs posted outside the town, forbidding anyone at all to enter. “That's unfortunate,” said Mr. Heminges. “We're short on s-supplies.”

“They can't keep us out,” said Jamie Redshaw indignantly and, gripping his walking stick like a cudgel, strode forward, past the sign and up the broad main street. He had not gone fifty yards before the first men began to emerge from taverns and shops. Several had swords drawn. One—a tavern keeper, judging from his apron—carried a gun, a wide-barreled matchlock blunderbuss.

“In case you can't read,” he called out, “the sign says no travelers allowed!”

Jamie Redshaw halted. “We need food and drink!”

“Go back beyond the sign, then. We'll bring it to you!”

When Jamie Redshaw rejoined the company, Mr. Armin said, “We would have handled the matter, Mr. Redshaw. It's not your concern.”

Jamie Redshaw smiled, more smugly than apologetically, I thought. “My stomach is my concern,” he said.

A short while later, a small group of men, led by the tavern keeper with the blunderbuss, approached us. One of the men carried a large basket of viands—cheese, bread, dried fish, apples—and another a small keg of ale. They set the provisions in the road. “That's seven shillings' worth,” said the tavern keeper. “Put your coins in the plague stone.”

“The p-plague stone?” repeated Mr. Heminges.

The man pointed to a limestone boulder that sat beside the road. A sort of bowl had been carved into the top of it, and this depression was filled with water. Mr. Heminges dropped a half-angel and two shillings into it.