Shakespeare's Scribe (7 page)

“Gog's blood!” I breathed. “They've come to run us off!” I pushed back through the crowd, raising cries of indignation, and scrambled around to the rear of the stage, where the players were waiting to make their entrances. “There's a bunch of wights wi' wasters coming!” I blurted between gasps. “I think it's the catchpolls!”

“C-constables, you mean?” said Mr. Heminges calmly. “I'll s-speak to them.” He stepped through the curtain. I peered over the edge of the stage. The band of constables were dispersing the crowd, yelling, “Go home!” and brandishing their clubs.

“Gentlemen!” Mr. Heminges called in his best Pilate's voice over the clamor of the audience. “This is a lawful assembly! We are a licensed theatrical company! If you question that, we have here a decree issued by our patron, Lord Cobham!” He withdrew a paper from his wallet and began to read in a voice as mellifluous and dramatic as though he were reading the player's speech from
Hamlet
.

“To all justices, mayors, sheriffs, constables, headboroughs, and other officers, greeting. Know ye that I have licensed these my servants
and their associates to freely exercise the art of playing comedies, tragedies, and histories—”

He got no further, for two of the catchpolls had climbed onto the stage and seized him by the arms. Despite his protests and those of the audience, they dragged him to the edge of the stage—not an easy task, for Mr. Heminges was not nearly as old nor as frail as he appeared in his guise of Ferdinand, King of Navarre.

One of the constables cried, “Stop struggling, old man!” and raised his cudgel. Before it could descend, Mr. Armin was through the curtains and across the boards. As quick as a dog can lick a dish, he had Mr. Heminges's rapier out of its sheath and pointing at the constable's throat-bole.

Though the sword was blunted, it would have gone badly for the man had he not let his cudgel drop. His fellow officer, taken aback by this turn of events, had loosened his grip. Mr. Heminges elbowed him sharply in the stomach and he toppled from the platform, waving his arms wildly.

Now the rest of the catchpolls were swarming onto the stage, scowling and shouting in anger. Mr. Armin booted his adversary off the apron, and he and Mr. Heminges backed away, into the ranks of the other players, who had now made an entrance en masse, with their stage swords drawn. The battle was joined.

8

T
he fight that ensued was nothing like scriming on the stage. There was no elegant, choreographed swordplay, no dramatic cries of “Have at you, now!” or “Yield, cur!”—only blows and grunts and curses. At first our men held their own, but when the officers discovered that our stage swords were more dull than deadly, the tide quickly turned.

Ned Shakespeare was the first to fall. He was struck in the ribs by a constable's cudgel and doubled up, gasping for air. His brother rushed stage left to come to his aid, but was in turn felled by a blow to his forearm that made a sickening crack, audible even over the sounds of the struggle. Mr. Shakespeare gave a bellow of pain, dropped his weapon, and sank to his knees, clutching his arm to his chest.

As I was in ladies' attire, I had no weapon save the stones at my feet. I scooped up a handful and let one fly at Mr. Shakespeare's attacker. The man staggered downstage, holding his neck and howling. I loosed more stones whenever there was no danger of my hitting one of my fellows, and a few of them hit their mark, but it made no difference in the outcome.

Within five minutes' time, all our company were sprawled upon the stage, holding their bruised limbs and pates—all save Mr. Armin. He was backed up against the curtain with a dagger in one hand and a rapier in the other. But the look on his face, a sort of gleeful menace, was far more daunting than those dull weapons were.

The clump of catchpolls backed off, all breathing heavily, and many of them nursing wounds of their own. The largest of the men, who seemed to be their leader, took a moment to get his wind, then growled, “If it was up to me, I'd throw the lot of you in jail, but the mayor says only to make sure you leave town—as speedily as possible.” He glanced up at the clock on the town hall; it read a quarter past two. “You've got until three o'clock. Then we come back.” He nodded to his men. They swung to
the ground—more gingerly, for the most part, than they had ascended—and departed the square.

One by one our men got to their feet, wincing and groaning. Mr. Heminges's doublet was torn; Mr. Phillips's head was bleeding; Will Sly was holding a red-stained kerchief to his mouth and muttering muffled curses; Mr. Shakespeare was cradling his right arm against his body, his face drawn and white with pain.

I glanced around for Sam. He emerged from beneath the stage. In one hand he held the cudgel that one of the constables had dropped; in the other he clutched my cap and his, which sagged under the weight of the coins we had collected. “Sorry I didn't join the fray,” he told the others. “I thought I'd do better to guard the box.”

Mr. Heminges smiled wanly. “G-good lad. But we m-mustn't keep the m-money, for we've not earned it.”

“Not earned it?” Sam protested. “I'd say the audience got treated to quite a stirring performance.”

“But more like t-two minutes' traffic upon the stage than two hours.”

“Well, we can't just give it back, though, can we?” Sam gestured at the empty square. “They've all gone home.”

“We'll l-leave it with the innkeeper, then.”

“He's got enough of our money already—”

“That will do, Sam,” said Mr. Heminges sharply.

Sam hung his head, and thrust the caps full of money at me. “You do it,” he murmured. “I can't bear to.”

“Have you seen Sal Pavy?” I asked him.

“Not since the excitement began. Try looking in the stable.”

As we headed back to the inn, I said to Sam, “I don't think it's wise to speak back to the sharers, as you did just then.”

Sam gave me a curious look. “I seem to recall you speaking back a time or two yourself. When did you become so cautious?”

I did not reply.

We were hard-pressed to take down the stage and get the carewares reloaded before the specified time. Sal Pavy turned up and, to my surprise, worked as hard as anyone. For once, all the sharers lent a hand with the labor as well, including Mr. Shakespeare, though his right arm was obviously causing him considerable pain.

The granary of the inn, where we had stored our equipment, was the center of activity. As I was dragging a property chest from the room, Mr. Shakespeare came in, his arm still clamped to his chest, his face as
white as when he had played the ghost in
Hamlet
. “Where's Ned?” he demanded of the company at large. “Has anyone seen him?”

The other players glanced at one another uncertainly, and then Jack volunteered, “I seen him a quarter of an hour ago, in the kitchen, dallying with one of the maids.”

Mr. Shakespeare scowled. “A plague on him! We need all the hands we have.” He reached down with his uninjured arm and hefted one end of the property trunk I was struggling with. “Let me help with that.” He got halfway to the careware before his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed in a heap on the cobbles of the inn yard.

Alarmed, I called to Mr. Armin, who was hitching up the horses. “Come quickly!”

Mr. Armin knelt next to the playwright's limp body. “He's passed out. His injury must be worse than we thought.” Carefully he lifted Mr. Shakespeare's right arm and gently probed the lower limb with his fingertips. Even in his unconscious state, Mr. Shakespeare cried out. “It's badly swollen,” said Mr. Armin, “and I think I can feel the bone shifting. I'd say it's broken, but I can't be sure. My specialty is sword wounds. See what you think.”

“Me?” I said. “Can we not find a surgeon?”

“We haven't time. You were apprenticed to a physician, Widge. Surely you must have seen him deal with broken bones.”

“Seeing is one thing,” I said. “Doing is another.” Mr. Armin did not reply, only gazed at me expectantly. Sighing, I put my fingers very tentatively on the arm, then jerked back as Mr. Shakespeare groaned. But even that brief touch had confirmed the fracture. “Aye, it's a bad break. It'll need a splint.”

“Do it quickly, then. I'd just as soon not have to face the mayor's men again, even with a sharp sword.”

“But I don't—” I started to say, to no avail. He had already gone back to his task. “I don't ken what I'm doing,” I muttered, and then, because there was no one else to do it, I went about setting the arm as best I might, using soft cloth for padding and two stage daggers from the property trunk for splints, binding them in place with a scarlet sash from the costume chest. Then, with Jack's reluctant help, I hoisted Mr. Shakespeare, still unconscious, and laid him out atop the supplies in one of the carewares.

The company rolled out of the inn yard just as the church bells rang nones. Mr. Armin guided his fine black mare up alongside me. “Climb on,” he said. “You've earned a ride.”

Gratefully, I grabbed hold of his saddle and swung up behind him. “That splint will do for now,” I said. “Perhaps there'll be a surgeon in the next place we stop, who can do the job right.”

“Perhaps. But you know, no matter how well it's fixed, Will's going to be unhappy with it.”

“Why? ‘A'll still be able to act, will ‘a not?”

“No doubt. But I expect he'll have some difficulty writing.”

“Oh. I hadn't thought of that. 'A's working on a new play, then?”

Mr. Armin nodded. “He's trying. I don't think it's going very well.”

I wasn't surprised, considering how hectic the past several weeks had been for us. “But … when could 'a possibly find the time to write?”

Mr. Armin laughed a little, as though he found my question naive. “When the rest of us are abed.”

We did not attempt to account for many miles that day, for we were all of us spent, and most were sore and aching from the afternoon's skirmish. We put up at a small inn on the outskirts of Hungerford. Mr. Armin rode into the town to search for a surgeon, but without success. The best we could do for poor Mr. Shakespeare was to fortify him against the pain with brandy and put him to bed.

Over supper the rest of the sharers discussed what our next move should be. Back at the Globe, the prentices and hired men ordinarily would not have been privy to such matters, but here on the road the distance between owners and mere players seemed to have narrowed. There was an unexpressed sense of shared destiny, a feeling that we were all cooking at the same fire—or perhaps over it.

“Obviously,” said Mr. Heminges, “we c-cannot go on this way. If we are n-not to be allowed t-to perform, we m-might as well have stayed in London.”

Mr. Phillips tapped the side of his ale mug thoughtfully with his fingers. “I believe the problem may be that we're still too near to London. The towns here are the very ones that, during the last outbreak of the plague, were deluged with folk fleeing the city. They have not forgotten, and they're wary of travelers. I think we'll find that, farther north, or west or east, for that matter, we'll be more welcome.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Armin. “Northern towns especially, such as Sheffield and York, do not have dozens of theatre troupes passing through, as the towns here do. They'll be starved for a show. Isn't that so, Widge?”

So seldom did anyone ask my opinion of anything, it took me a moment to come up with a reply. “Aye,” I said, feeling myself go red from
all the sharers' eyes upon me. It was like being thrust upon a stage but without being told what to say. “Those few times when a company came to Berwick or even York, it was like a holiday. Shops closed, prentices were given the day off.” I scratched my head and shrugged wryly. “At least
most
prentices were.”

The company laughed—except, of course, for Sal Pavy.

The matter was put to a vote. To my surprise, the opinion of us prentices counted as one vote, as did that of the three hired men. With the exception of Ned Shakespeare, who felt we would find the pickings even leaner the farther we got from London, and Jack, who was generally opposed to everything, we all voted to proceed directly to the northern shires.

“I feel certain that M-Mr. Shakespeare will v-vote the same way,” said Mr. Heminges.

“He may vote as he will,” said Mr. Armin, “for the will of the company outweighs the will of Will, will he or nil he.”

“And the weal of the company,” added Mr. Phillips, “outweighs the weal of Will as well.”

Mr. Armin rose from the table and picked up one of the candles. “Well, we'll see if all's well with Will. Widge?”

As we went upstairs to the room he and Mr. Shakespeare shared, I said, “I've been trying to think of a way to keep Mr. Shakespeare's bones in place while they heal, wi'out using such a bulky bandage. ‘A needs something ‘a can wear beneath his costume.”

“And have you come up with something?”

“I believe I have.” I hesitated, unsure whether my idea would sound clever or crack-brained. “You … you ken how we make fake limbs wi' gauze and plaster of Paris?”

Mr. Armin nodded.

“Well, why could we not do the same wi' a real limb?”

Mr. Armin stopped on the stairs, looking thoughtful. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

My heart sank into my hose. “You don't?”

His face broke into a smile. “I think it's a brilliant one. Go get what you need from the wagons.”

When I removed the splint, I found Mr. Shakespeare's arm still badly swollen. I wrapped a layer of plain gauze around it as tightly as I might, though it made him squirm with pain even as he slept his drugged sleep. Over that we wound layer upon layer of gauze laden with wet plaster, to a thickness of half an inch or so. “Do you suppose that will suffice?” I asked.