Shakespeare's Scribe (3 page)

Sander considered this. “Now that you say it, he did bear a certain resemblance, though I think that Nick, for all his faults, was a better actor. I wonder what's become of him?”

“‘A's drunk himself to death, most like, or been gutted by someone in a duel.”

Sander nodded soberly. “It would scarcely surprise me. I never knew anyone so determined to make himself miserable.”

“Not to mention those around him.”

Sander clucked his tongue. “We shouldn't speak so uncharitably of him. Perhaps he's learned the error of his ways.”

“Oh, aye,” I replied, “and perhaps a dunghill can learn not to stink.”

The look of disapproval Sander gave me was severely undermined by the snort of laughter that escaped him. We would not have been so quick to laugh had we known how near the mark our jabs had struck.

A few days later, as we were dressing for a performance of
What You Will
, Sam rushed in, wide-eyed and breathless. “You'll not believe what I just learned!”

Had I been wearing hose and not a dress, my heart would have sunk into them, for I expected him to reveal that there had been an outbreak of the contagion in the city. Instead, he said, “I've just been at the Swan playhouse, talking with a prentice from the Earl of Pembroke's Men. It seems they lately took Nick on as hired man.”

“What,
our
Nick?” Sander said.

“The very same. But that's not the news. He says that Nick had a falling-out with one of the other members of the company, and the man challenged him to a duel.”

“Gog's blood,” I muttered. “It's just as I said.”

“This prentice, he served as a second in the duel, and the weapon of choice was not swords but pistols.”

“I doubt that Nick has ever fired a pistol before,” said Sander.

“Apparently not,” said Sam, “for it was loaded wrong—they put in too much powder, perhaps—and blew up in his face.”

Sander drew in a sharp, sympathetic breath. “He's all right, though?” he said hopefully.

Sam shook his head. “This fellow says not. He and his man made a hasty departure to avoid arrest, but he seemed to think Nick was a gone goose.”

Sander and I glanced guiltily at one another. “It's as if we wished it upon him,” Sander said softly.

“Nay, don't think that,” I protested. “Though I'm sorry for him, it was none of our doing. ‘A brought it upon himself.”

“Widge is right,” said Sam. “You know as well as I what a hothead Nick was.”

“I know. But he wasn't a bad fellow. He didn't deserve to die.”

We relayed the sad news to the sharers. They made inquiries but could learn nothing more of the matter. This was no surprise. Though dueling was a common enough practice in London, it was also against the law. Pembroke's Men would naturally make every effort to protect the player who had been involved, as any company worth the name would do. We could only hope that poor Nick had been delivered into the hands of the church or the coroner's office and given a proper burial.

3

A
s the second act of a play follows without intermission upon the heels of the first, the warm, wet spring gave way without a break to a sultry summer. We at the Globe were, as usual, too busy to notice. Though our company was smaller than normal, the size of our audience was, the sharers said, at an all-time high. A portion of the profits went toward having the roof rethatched, purchasing properties and costumes, and buying new plays for our repertoire. But much of the money was paid to the temporary players.

It was hard for us prentices, always having to work with someone new. But I made no complaint; I had no wish to be but a temporary player myself. It could not have been easy for the sharers, either, constantly having to seek competent actors. If a player was not already attached to some company, there was usually a reason. Perhaps he drank too much, or was a thief, or was at that awkward age when his voice could not decide between treble and bass. The situation put a strain on Mr. Shakespeare especially. He could hardly tailor a play to suit the players when the players changed from week to week or day to day.

The only member of the company I heard complain, though, was Sam, and he was not being quarrelous so much as just speaking his mind—something that, as with the lines he spoke on the stage, he did with little or no prompting. Though he lodged with Mr. Phillips, Sam often dined at Mr. Pope's, where Sander and I lived, along with a small troupe of young orphans Mr. Pope had generously taken in. Over dinner one evening, Sam said, “I hope we never hire that Thomas fellow again. He's got two left feet, or perhaps three. Did you see him step on the hem of my gown?”

“Nay, but I heard it,” I said, and imitated the ripping sound.

“Is that what it was?” said Mr. Pope innocently. “I thought it was Sam passing wind.”

“Very funny,” Sam said. “In fact, the gown is in stitches over it.”

“Well, we will not be likely to use him again,” Mr. Pope said, “unless we're desperate. He tore his lines up rather badly, too, I noticed. It's fortunate you two are so adept at thribbling.”

I couldn't help feeling pleased, for thribbling—that is, improvising when another player falters—was something I'd only lately learned to do with any degree of skill. But Sam was in no mood for compliments.

“Why do we put up with such ninnies?” he asked. “Why does the company not take on more prentices or hired men?”

Mr. Pope stroked his beard thoughtfully, looking not as though he was unsure of the answer but as though he was unwilling to divulge it. “There are … a number of reasons,” he said finally. We waited, but he did not seem inclined to tell us what those reasons were.

We were not long in finding out.

When we arrived at the Globe in the morning, we found a notice tacked to the rear door announcing that, beginning Monday next, all public performances would be banned, by order of the Queen's physicians. A familiar thrill of dread went through me. “Oh, gis,” I murmured. “It's the plague.”

Sander stared at the paper incredulously. “No, surely that can't be it. The rule has always been that they close the theatres when the weekly death toll reaches thirty.” He turned to Mr. Pope. “It's been nowhere near that, has it?”

Mr. Pope pulled the notice from the door and carefully rolled it up. He did not seem particularly upset over finding it there. He looked, in fact, as though he'd expected it. “That has been the rule in the past,” he said. “But the Queen has a new chief physician, a Dr. Gilbert, and from what Mr. Tilney, the Master of Revels, tells us, this Dr. Gilbert has advised Her Majesty to ban all public gatherings
before
the plague becomes a problem.”

“Oh, what does he know?” said Sam. “I've heard he also claims that the earth is a giant magnet.”

“Anyway,” put in Sander, “what makes him think there'll be a problem at all? There can't be more than a dozen cases a month. That's fewer than the number of murders.”

Mr. Pope spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Apparently this doctor of hers is predicting a bad year for the plague, based on certain signs and portents.”

Sam sniffed skeptically. “What, the alignment of the planets, I suppose? Or has a comet been spied?”

“No, he's no astrologer.” Mr. Pope unrolled the paper and, holding it at arm's length, peered at the print. “Judging from this, he's more
concerned with conditions closer to home, such as … quote, ‘the unusually warm and rainy weather, the abundance of fog and vapors, the prevailing southerly winds, the great number of worms, frogs, flies, and other creatures engendered of putrefaction, rats and moles running rampant in the streets, birds falling from the skies, et cetera, et cetera.”'

“Birds falling from the skies?” Sam echoed. “When was the last time you saw birds falling from the skies?” He pointed up in the air and exclaimed in a comical old man's voice, “God's blood, Maude, look—it's raining pigeons!”

No one laughed. “What does this mean for us, then?” I said glumly.

Mr. Pope carefully rolled up the paper again. “That remains to be seen. We've been expecting this; that's why we've not taken on any new prentices or hired men. But we haven't yet decided what to do about it.”

They decided that very morning. The sharers gathered in the dining room of the theatre, behind closed doors, to discuss the matter while the prentices and hired men sat about, silent and gloomy, like prisoners waiting to be sentenced.

Mercifully, we had not long to wait. After no more than half an hour Mr. Heminges called us in. “G-good news. We've decided to g-go on performing.”

I stared at him, not certain I'd heard him properly. “Truly?” I said eagerly. “But—how can we do that?”

“By turning gypsy,” said Mr. Shakespeare.

“Traveling, you mean?” asked Sander.

“Exactly. We've done it before, eight or nine years ago, when the plague last hit London in earnest. It was …” He paused and, toying thoughtfully with his earring, glanced about at the other sharers with a curious, almost amused expression. “How shall I describe it, gentlemen?”

“Unconventional?” suggested Mr. Armin.

“Uncomfortable,” said Mr. Pope.

“Unprofitable,” said Mr. Burbage.

Mr. Heminges gave them all a disapproving look. “It was n-not so bad.”

Of course not, I thought optimistically. How bad could it be, a summer spent traveling from town to town in the company of my friends and fellow players, bringing the magic of theatre to poor country wights starved for entertainment?

“Now n-naturally,” Mr. Heminges went on, “the smaller the t-troupe, the m-more economically we can travel. So, you see, n-not everyone in the company will be able to g-go.”

The hope that had risen in me at the prospect of a reprieve abruptly subsided.

“Mr. P-Pope has begged off, on the g-grounds that his orphan b-boys need him—also on the g-grounds that he's getting t-too old to go g-gadding all over the country. Mr. B-Burbage will stay in London as well, t-to see to his many b-business affairs.”

I could not bring myself to ask the question that was uppermost in my mind: What would become of us prentices? But as we were on our way home, Sam asked it for me. “What about us?”

“Us?” said Mr. Pope.

“Us prentices. Are we to stay or go?”

Mr. Pope gave him a look of reproach, which I took to mean that we were foolish to imagine there would be room for us in a company that was pared down to the core. My heart felt as heavy as barley bread. “Boys, boys,” said Mr. Pope. “How could the Chamberlain's Men ever hope to manage without its bevy of beauteous ladies?”

His answer so filled me with relief that I was able to ignore for the moment all the other unanswered questions: How would we ever put on a play with only nine or ten actors? What would we do for properties and costumes? Where would we perform? Where would we lodge? How would we get from town to town? I told myself that I would find it all out in due time.

One thing I did learn was how long we were likely to lead the gypsy life. In past plague years, Mr. Heminges said, the theatres had been allowed to reopen in late September or early October, for the coming of cold weather, it seemed, reduced drastically the number of deaths.

That meant we would be on the road perhaps four months at most. I suspected I would not miss London overmuch. After all, I had lived most of my life in small country towns. What I would miss, though, were the things I had at Mr. Pope's: Goody Willingson's savory meals and kind heart, Mr. Pope's endless stock of theatre tales, the antics and affection of the orphan boys who boarded with us.

I made it a point to play longer than usual with the boys that evening, while I still might. To their number Mr. Pope had lately added a sober-faced girl of seven or eight who had lost both parents to the plague the summer before. Few households would have taken in such a child, but Mr. Pope reasoned that, if she had shown no symptoms of the plague by now, she never would.

I knew from my years of assisting Dr. Bright that this was probably so. But I also knew how capricious—and how deadly—the plague could be. Though I was a little ashamed of myself for it, I carefully
avoided any close contact with the girl, whose name was Tetty. Sometimes I felt her solemn, dark eyes upon me and turned to see her gazing at me from across the room. Though she seldom spoke, I fancied that those eyes were saying, “You of all people should understand; you're an orphan, too.”

Sander and the rest of Mr. Pope's boys seemed to have no such qualms as I did. Her fellow orphans included her in their games and made room for her at the table without a second thought—or, I expect, even a first.

The sad prospect of leaving Mr. Pope and the others behind was made bearable by the knowledge that at least I would have Sander along. Or so I imagined.

4

L
ong after we were abed I lay sleepless, with my head full of all that had happened lately. I assumed that Sander had long since dropped off; he seemed able to lose himself in the arms of Morpheus anytime and anywhere—the sign of a clear conscience, I supposed.

But to my surprise I heard him whisper, “Widge? Are you awake?”

“As awake as a fish,” I said.

“I've thought it over,” he said, “and I'm not going.”

“Not going where?”

“On the tour.”

I sat up as if bitten by a bedbug and stared at him. In the moonlight that came through our small window, I could see that his eyes were closed, and his face had a peaceful look, as though he were perfectly at ease with his decision. I was not. “What possible reason could you have for not going?” I demanded.

“Whist! You'll wake the boys.”

“Well,” I said more softly, “what's your reason?”