Shakespeare's Scribe (19 page)

I leaned over to whisper to Sam, “They must imagine that the water somehow drowns the infection.”

“Doesn't it?” said Sam.

“I don't ken,” I replied and, more irritably, added, “Why does everyone seem to think I'm a physician? I'm an actor.”

“I can see that,” Sam said calmly. “This is your impersonation of Sal Pavy, right?”

I tried to glare at him, but it somehow turned into a grin. “You sot.”

In Telford we found that we had once again been preceded by the band of thieves posing as players. There was a new development in their deceit, now, though; this time they were calling themselves the Lord Chamberlain's Men.

The mayor pointed out to us one of the handbills the counterfeit company had posted, announcing a performance that the mayor paid for but never saw. The play it purported to advertise was none other than Mr. Shakespeare's
King John
.

“Gog's blood!” I said to Jamie Redshaw. “Now we ken who stole the bills from you, and why!”

I expected him to react with anger and vow to catch the culprits. Instead, he shook his head, tapped the handbill with the head of his walking stick, and said with something like admiration, “Well, there's no denying they're cheeky, clever rascals, is there?”

We moved on to Bridgnorth, where we played a single performance of
Fool Upon Fool
, then took ourselves to Kidderminster.
Like most of the towns we had played since leaving Leeds, these were not on the itinerary I had sent to Sander. “An we play none of the places we planned to,” I complained to Sam, “how can we ever hope for a letter from London to find us?”

Since few of these smaller towns had halls big enough to accommodate us, we often had to set up our wagon-bed stage in the courtyard of the inn where we were lodging. It was far from the ideal playing space; the boards sagged and swayed under our feet and, because the stage was so much smaller than we were used to, we were in constant danger of stepping off the edge.

In fact, I did just that during my
King John
sword-fighting scene with Sal Pavy. I was wary of his wild edgeblows still, and spent a good deal of my time retreating. He failed to warn me that I had run out of room, so off I went and landed, luckily, in the arms of one of the audience. For my pains, I got a round of laughter and applause.

As with the blow he'd delivered to my collarbone, I was certain this had been no accident. Though I was furious, I neither confronted him nor complained to the sharers. Jamie Redshaw, who had seen me take the fall, urged me to retaliate in kind. “The next time you play the scene, let him have an ‘accidental' thrust to the groin. Hell never expect it—and it's certain he'll never forget it.”

I laughed weakly. “‘A deserves as much. But I cannot. I've promised Mr. Armin I'd be patient wi' him.”

“It was a fool's promise. I know how boys like this Pavy work. If you don't strike back, he'll continue to push and push you until he's pushed you out of the picture.” He gave me a searching glance. “You're not afraid of him, are you?”

“Of course not,” I replied indignantly.

“Good. Then show him.”

There would be no opportunity to exact revenge on Sal Pavy until we played
King John
again, which likely would not be for a week or so. Our next stop was Worcester—a town that was, for a change, actually on our itinerary. I was prepared to perform at an inn once more, but Worcester proved to have an actual theatre, built as a venue for gypsy companies like ours—one reason why our sharers had put it on their schedule. Several other companies, we learned, had been here before us, including a much-reduced Lord Admiral's Men and a scaled-down version of the Earl of Derby's Men.

When we emerged from the town hall, having secured permission to play two afternoon performances, we discovered a bedraggled troupe of players who had, presumably, come there for the same purpose. Every
member of the company was afoot. Their single careware, which looked about to collapse, was pulled by two horses in much the same state. Though they wore no special livery, Mr. Armin recognized them as the Earl of Hertford's Men. He greeted the man who headed up the sorry-looking company, a tall, underfed fellow with crooked teeth, who would have looked more at home in a wheat field, chasing crows, than on a stage.

“Hello, Martin! You and your men look as though you're a bit down on your luck.”

The man named Martin looked over our company, who were clad in our fine blue caps and capes. “And you look as though you've prospered.”

“Only lately. We've had our share of hard times, too.”

“I suppose you've gotten permission to play here already.” At Mr. Armin's nod, Martin scowled. “We were counting on a brief engagement here to give us enough funds to limp back to London. We've already sold our livery, our best horses, and one of our wagons; we've nothing left to sell save our costumes and the clothes on our backs.”

The sharers offered to let them perform in our place, but Hertford's Men refused. “That would be unfair,” said Martin.

“Well, suppose we toss a coin,” said Mr. Armin.

Martin shook his head. “Too arbitrary. I propose, instead, that we hold an acting competition. The players who acquit themselves best in the opinion of the audience will then get to perform for profit. What say you?”

After a moment's consultation, the sharers accepted the challenge. “Shall we say here, before the town hall, at four o'clock?” said Mr. Armin. “We'll send a crier around town to announce it.”

23

T
hat gave us a scant hour to decide what scene we would enact, with what actors, and to prepare ourselves. “It should b-be a scene with a m-man and a woman,” said Mr. Heminges. “Those g-go over best.”

“And a comic scene is most likely to win the audience over quickly,” added Mr. Phillips.

“What about Viola and Feste's scene from
Twelfth Night
?” suggested Sam.

“Too insubstantial, I think,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We need something with more weight to it.”

“Lavinia's scene with the staff, from
Titus
, then,” said Mr. Armin.

Will Sly laughed. “Oh, yes, that's comical, that is. A ravaged girl reveals who it was that lopped off her hands and cut out her tongue. It'll have the audience rolling about on the ground.”

“It's to be an acting contest,” Mr. Armin reminded him, “not a jesting contest.”

“Lord Hertford's Men are so d-defeated already,” said Mr. Heminges, “p-perhaps we should let them win.”

“Deliberately do our worst, you mean?” said Mr. Shakespeare. “No. I'm sure they'd prefer to lose, rather than to win that way.”

Lord Hertford's Men did choose a comic scene, one from Peele's
The Old Wives' Tale
, and the audience responded with gales of laughter. By contrast, when Sal Pavy did his wordless turn as the unfortunate Lavinia, there was, as usual, scarcely a sound. But when we were done and those watching were asked to indicate their favorite, the applause given our scene was by far the heartier.

Though I had no right to be jealous, I was—fiercely so. I had been with the company far longer than Sal Pavy, after all, and the role had been mine before it was his. Why should I not be the one up there basking in the applause?

Lord Hertford's Men accepted their lot with good grace, consoled somewhat by the fact that our sharers offered to buy most of their wardrobe for considerably more than it was worth. We had no real need for the costumes, of course, nor any extra room in our carewares; it was a way of aiding a troupe of our fellows who were less fortunate than we, without wounding their pride.

In the morning Will Sly and I and Jamie Redshaw went about Worcester, putting up announcements for that afternoon's performance of
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
. Since the whole town could be traversed in ten minutes' time, the job did not require three of us; we only wanted to be certain that our handbills did not fall into the hands of some rival company again.

As we toured the town, Jamie Redshaw made a note of where the alehouses were. “Care to join me for a drink after the play?” he asked Will Sly.

“Thanks, but I'd liefer do my drinking at the inn,” said Will, “where I'm not so likely to be drawn into a game of chance.”

“You have a weakness for gambling, then, do you?” asked Jamie Redshaw.

“I have a weakness for everything. I've learned that my only hope lies in staying in sight of the sharers. They have a way of keeping at bay anything that looks remotely like a vice or pleasure.”

“Now, that's unfair,” I said, though I could not help laughing a little. “They're only trying to keep the company respectable, and give the lie to th' image of players as disreputable wights.”

“It seems to me,” said Jamie Redshaw, “that they're trying a trifle too hard.”

The sharers were cautious in other ways, too. After Sam's bout of ague, they had begun to insist that each of us learn several of our fellow players' parts, so that if one of the company was injured or fell ill, another could fill the breach. So it was that when Jack, against everyone's advice, ate some suspicious-looking brawn at lunch and came down with a gripe in his guts, Ned Shakespeare was able, if not exactly willing, to fill in for him.

Since Jack would be confined to our room anyway, we left the treasury trunk in his care, with instructions to keep both doors barred until our return. I gave him peppermint oil to settle his stomach, then set out for the theatre.

As I mounted the steps to the stage, I heard Ned's complaining voice say, “I don't see why you can't press Jamie Redshaw into service.”

The voice that replied was his brother's. “Because we cannot afford to pay out another hired man's wages.”

“Can't afford it?” exclaimed Ned. “The treasury trunk is near to overflowing!”

“And we've rents to pay upon our return, and new costumes to buy, and a hundred other expenses you know nothing of.” Though Mr. Shakespeare's tone was reasonable enough, Ned was clearly rankled by it.

“Yes, well, Redshaw's paying himself a good wage, anyway,” said Ned spitefully. “You may as well make him work for it.” He emerged, scowling, from behind the curtain, gave me a quick and hostile glance, and then pushed past me.

I stepped through the curtain. Mr. Shakespeare sat before a polished metal mirror, trying without the use of his right hand to turn his features into those of Antonio. He glanced up at my reflection. “When did you say this plaster bandage can come off?”

“I didn't say. I'd only be guessing.”

He sighed. “Well, if I can put up with it until we reach Stratford, I can consult the family's physician there. I presume he knows something about broken bones.”

“I would not be too confident of it. Most physicians, I think, dislike the messier aspects of medicine. They prefer to dispense pills and nostrums.”

“You may be right,” he said.

I opened the costume trunk and dug out my dress for Silvia. “I … I overheard what Ned was saying.”

“I'm sorry you did.”

“Did ‘a mean to say that me father is filching from the box?”

“Most likely.” Mr. Shakespeare paused. “I mean that it's most likely what Ned was implying, not that your father is most likely stealing money.”

“Oh. Do you think Ned may ha' seen it happen?”

“What I think is that Ned will say whatever suits his purpose at the moment.” He flung his makeup brush down in frustration.

“Shall I help you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I'd like to think I'm not totally helpless.” He turned and gazed in the direction Ned had gone. “It was a mistake, bringing him along. He's been more of a hindrance than a help, I think.” I made no reply, for I felt he was talking more to himself than to me. “But,” he went on, “he is family, and we must make allowances for family.”

To this I did reply, for the observation seemed to extend to me and Jamie Redshaw. “Aye,” I said. “They may not be as we'd have them be, so I suppose we must take them as they are, mustn't we?”

Mr. Shakespeare gave a rueful half smile. “Oh, Lord, sir,” he said.

The other players arrived, one by one, and set about transforming themselves into their characters. Beyond the curtain, I could hear the audience filling up the hall, getting their coughs out of the way before the play began, talking to one another in curiously hushed tones, like people anticipating some momentous event. As always, it was both heady and at the same time humbling to think that we were that event.

Just before we were ready to go on, a small, nearly bald man poked his head tentatively around the curtain. “I'm the town clerk,” he said. “Are you the Lord Chamberlain's Men?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Heminges, “and we have p-papers to prove it.”

“It's not that I doubted you,” said the man, coming all the way around the curtain. “I only wanted to be sure I was putting this into the proper hands.” He held out a folded paper sealed with wax. Mr. Heminges took it, read the back, and passed it on to me. “From S-Sander,” he said.

My hand trembled with eagerness. “Dare I read it now?” I asked.

“Of c-course,” said Mr. Heminges. “The audience c-can wait a few m-minutes more. B-but you must read it aloud.”

“Aye.” I broke the seal and unfolded the missive. I had expected another long, reassuring letter full of news and amusing anecdotes. It was, instead, succinct—two short paragraphs without even a greeting—and far from reassuring:

This is but one of half a dozen letters sent to various towns along your route, in hopes that one of them will reach you. The situation here is growing grave. The contagion has become more of a threat. None of us has been afflicted so far. Mr. Burbage has departed for the country, though, to escape it.