“– to wit, clods, hobs and lobs . . . ouf . . .”
He kneed me in the back and I fell forward onto the cobbled ground.
“I haven’t finished . . . louts, clouts and clowns . . . ooh! ah!”
That was when he kicked me in the ribs.
And some of those roundabout joined in. Whether they’d heard what I said and were genuinely offended or whether they simply saw a man curled up on the ground and couldn’t resist laying into him, I don’t know. As kickings go, it might have been worse. They kept stepping in each other’s way so their feet got tangled up and then in the dark they missed me and struck one another. Two or three of them were women, no doubt as provoked as the men by my aspersions on their rusticity.
There’s another thing. I’m a player (Nick Revill, at your service) and a player has to know how to take punishment both simulated and real. Why, once when I was doing a brief stint with the Admiral’s Men and watching a rehearsal – ever eager in those days to pick up any tips I could – I tumbled out of the gallery of the Rose playhouse and into the groundlings’ area. I sustained nothing worse than a few bruises and a burst of applause. And when a player thwacks a player on stage with sword or club, although the blows may not be meant they are not altogether innocent either. So I knew that the secret in a situation like this, where one could do nothing to help oneself straightaway, was to remain supple and passive.
“What – do – you – say – now?” came a voice that I recognized through the roaring in my ears as that of my initial assailant, raw breath.
I said nothing. I tasted blood in my mouth. I wondered what had become of my friend Jack Wilson.
My muteness must have satisfied the little knot of men and women because I sensed them draw back from me. The circle became ragged as one or two quit the scene, perhaps ashamed at what they’d participated in and wanting to avoid trouble. This was my chance. I staggered to my feet and limpingly made off.
No-one tried to stop me. The square was still crowded and thumping noises and swearing continued from the stage. Evidently the battle between players and people wasn’t over. I slipped down one of the lanes that led from this public space.
I didn’t know Salisbury. The inn where we of the Chamberlain’s Company were putting up for the night was somewhere on the edge of the city but exactly where I couldn’t have said. Jack Wilson and I had arrived in the market-place during the last hours of daylight and our attention had been caught by the preparations for staging an open-air drama in a corner. We’d stayed to watch, even though the action unfolding on the bare scaffold was the fustiest, mustiest morality stuff, all to do with Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel. To give us all a taste of what we might expect, the play was preceded by some kind of sermon from the bearded, furrow-browed figure who was later to take the part of God (and whose name I subsequently discovered was Peter Paradise, leader of this fraternal threesome). He hectored and ranted and called us “brothers and sisters” like a puritan. He told us we were accountable to none but God and to have no truck with earthly power and wealth. That’s all very well for you, I thought, carting your few paltry possessions from place to place and no doubt living on crusts doled out at back doors, but some us have got livings to make and patrons to please.
Several times Jack and I sneered at the backward taste of the inhabitants of this town. If it hadn’t been for the surprisingly high quality of the playing we’d have gone off to join our fellows at the Angel Inn. But a professional always takes pleasure (sometimes of an envious kind) in watching another professional, even when he’s working with inferior material. So it was in this case.
Because we were only a little short of midsummer the west yet glimmered with some streaks of day. But then I remembered that we’d entered the town from the east, which was the side the Angel lay on, so I changed course and turned down another street and then once more until I found myself back in the market-place. Usually I have a good sense of direction, know my east from my west, &c., but the beating I’d sustained at the hands (or feet) of the locals had muddied my brain. Warily, I skirted the square. The fighting seemed to have stopped but people were still milling about in the gloom. I spat to clear my mouth of blood. One side of my face felt raw where it had scraped the cobbles. I wasn’t hurt – or not much – but I’d be glad enough to get back among my fellows and to slide into bed. Though not before I’d roundly rebuked friend Wilson for his flight from the field.
Fortunately, there was one way to establish my rough whereabouts in the town. There is a great church here in Salisbury, greater than any such edifice in London, indeed the greatest church I have ever seen. As tall as Babel tower, it looks roomy enough to house half the town. Its spire shoots heavenward like an arrow, as if impatient to be rid of the earth. Crossing the last few miles of downland that afternoon, we’d kept our eyes on the spire glinting in the sun and guiding us to our destination for the night. This mighty church lies a little to the southward side of the town. So, I reasoned, if I kept it on my right hand I’d be able to find my way back to the street of the Angel Inn. There were a few passengers out and about in the side-streets but my recent experiences of how they regarded outsiders – admittedly, an outsider who had said some provoking things – made me reluctant to ask for directions.
Down the end of the road which I was now travelling I could glimpse, above the roof-tops, the arrow-like spire, its slender form slipping upward into the twilight. So . . . if I crossed into this small street . . . and then turned left . . . no, right . . . or perhaps straight across and down that alley? I gasped as a sudden pain seized me in the side. I was not hurt, not much hurt, but I had to rest for a moment to recover from the insolence of the beating I’d received. If I got my hands on that raw-breathed fellow who’d kneed me in the back and then encouraged the bystanders to add their pennyworth, he’d know what it was to . . .
All at once I found myself on my knees in the middle of the highway, retching. A yellow and red taste in my mouth. Bile and blood. But not much. Ah, that was better. Nevertheless, I needed to stop for a moment to consider the way forward, or rather the way back to the Angel Inn, otherwise I’d be wandering around Salisbury until daybreak. There was a convenient doorway . . . yes, that one over there, with a sheltering porch. I crawled on hands and knees to the porch and hid myself in there.
It was dark, it was secure, and I must have fallen asleep for a few moments, because the next thing I knew was that a light was hovering in the air in front of me.
I put up my hand to shield my eyes. The lantern was shifted to one side but a firm, dry hand grasped mine and pulled it away from my face.
“Let’s have a look at you.”
Through half-closed lids I was aware of a large looming face.
“Ah yes,” it said.
“What?” I said.
“You are not from these parts.”
“Oh God, you’re not going to beat me up too?”
By now I’d fully opened my eyes and realized that my question was absurd. Crouching down in front of me was a man of middle years with a greying spade beard and mild grey eyes. He was wearing a nightgown. I was able to see so much because, in addition to the lantern which he’d placed on the ground, the door to the house was open and there was another figure in the entrance, dressed in white and holding a candle.
“I . . . I was on my way to the Angel Inn. Perhaps you can direct me to it?”
I made to get up, and the man hooked his hand under my arm and helped me to my feet.
“The Angel is in Greencross Street. A few dozens of paces from here.”
“Thank you, then I’ll be on my way.”
But I made no move and I don’t think the grey-bearded man expected me to.
“Will your company be anxious that you’re late?” he said.
“Company?”
“Your fellow players.”
“Not them,” I said. “As long as I’m there for the setoff tomorrow morning they’ll not trouble themselves about where I
am tonight. They’ll think I’ve found me a – ”
Some sense of delicacy made me break off, and the grey-beard said, “In that case you’d better come inside and take some refreshment. Can you walk unaided?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“Follow me then.”
He led the way into the house, the figure with the candle having by this time disappeared. He ushered me into a parlour, delaying in the passage for a moment to call out “Martin!” Candles were already burning on a table where a pile of papers and a clutch of pens were neatly arranged. I guessed I had interrupted my host in the middle of some business. He motioned me to a nearby chair. As I sat down I groaned involuntarily.
“My dear sir, you are hurt.”
“Not at all,” I said “or only slightly. A loudmouth’s penalty.”
“There’s blood upon your face. A little blood.”
“Only mine.”
A stocky man appeared in the doorway.
“I can offer you cider,” said my host, “or perhaps purging beer would be better for your case.”
“Cider,” I said rapidly. I wasn’t at all sure what purging beer was and didn’t like the sound of it.
The grey-bearded gentleman gave the order to the servant and then sat down at the table. He pushed a couple of candles nearer to me, apparently for my convenience but really, I think, to make a more careful assessment of what he saw.
“You were about to ask who you had the honour of addressing,” he said.
I was, but even so his quickness took me by surprise and I simply nodded.
“My name is Adam Fielding, citizen of Salisbury.”
This time I nodded more slowly.
“Nicholas Revill,” I said formally. “I’m –”
I stopped because he’d raised his hand.
“Wait.”
He leaned forward and squinted through the candle-smoke. As he cast his grey eyes up and down my front I became a little uneasy at his scrutiny. I wanted to wipe away the blood from wherever it was staining my face but didn’t move.
Then he sat back and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Master Revill. It’s only a little occupation of mine.”
“What is?”
“To, ah, see what someone is before he speaks what he is.”
“And what do you see, sir?” I said, prepared to humour this kindly gent.
At that point Martin returned with tankards of cider for his master and me. Fielding waited until the servant had gone and I’d had my first sip. Until I tasted the cider I hadn’t realized how tired and thirsty I was.
“This is made from my own apples. Pomewater. But you were asking what I could see.”
I nodded, then abruptly remembered that he’d mentioned my “company” on the doorstep. How had he found out about them?
“Well, Master Revill, you are a player, one of a travelling group newly arrived from London and currently lodging at the Angel Inn on Greencross Street.”
I almost spilled my cider.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said my host. “This I knew already. I am a Justice of the Peace for this town. One of our duties, as you surely know, is to license and superintend the visits which players make.”
“We are not playing here, your worship,” I said, to show that I knew the proper form of address for such a dignified gentleman. “We’re only travelling through.”
“No, the only company licensed to play these many weeks is the Paradise Brothers. They put on Bible stories and old morality pieces.”
“I know. I saw them in the market-place.”
“And you belong to the Chamberlain’s Company, so I imagine you’d have little time for the kind of thing which the Paradise Brothers present.”
“They are – professional enough,” I said. “How do you know I belong to the Chamberlain’s?”
“No magic,” said Fielding, although I sensed that he was enjoying taking me a little by surprise. “In a town like this, probably a small town to your London eyes, a Justice of the Peace makes it his business to know what is going on. Besides, the sister of my man Martin is married to the landlord of the Angel.”
“Oh,” I said, vaguely disappointed. “So that’s it then.”
Again the parlour door opened. This time it was the figure who’d stood, candle in hand, at the front doorway while I lay slumped there. She crossed the floor and moved towards where I was sitting. She was wearing a night-rail that concealed her shape but her face in the diffused light had a youthful sweetness, a quiet beauty. She carried a tray containing a bowl of water and a small pot and one or two other items.
Fielding had his back to her but smiled to hear her approach.
“My dear,” he said, “this is Nicholas Revill, who has fetched up on our doorstep. Master Revill, my daughter Kate.”
I made to rise, but she put a restraining hand on my arm.
“Please, Master Revill, stay still. I can see that you are tired – and that you have injured yourself.”
Ah, the softness and understanding of women!
“My own fault,” I said, “the injury, I mean.”
Kate the daughter placed the tray on the table. She dipped a cloth in the bowl of water and dabbed at my face to clear the crusted blood. I bore up bravely, though in truth I might have withstood her ministrations for longer, much longer. I could smell her sweet breath. All this while Adam Fielding, her father, gazed approvingly at her and her actions. When she’d done with the cloth, she turned once more to the table and dipped her fingers into the small pot. She smeared the unguent on one side of my face, explaining that it was a tincture for bruising and cuts, made with plantain leaves. It stung slightly. But this too I might have borne for longer, much longer. Her slender fingers seemed to have a healing touch of their own. I could sense the warmth of her body beneath the white night-rail she wore.
I wondered whether she was doing this of her own accord or whether her father had sent her off to fetch these salves when he first saw me at his door. I rather fancied – that is, I hoped – she was doing it of her own accord.
“There,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering whether to make some crack about how I’d been looking for my night’s lodging but had found the Angel in another guise and place. However, I kept my mouth closed, perhaps because her father was still looking at us though he had so far said nothing. Also, there are some women who are immune to my wit.
“I’m going to bed now, father,” she said. “Don’t stay up too late talking to our visitor.”
This remark, which on paper looks rather impudent, even from an adult child to a parent, was delivered fondly and received with an indulgent smile by Fielding.
When she’d gone, he said, “Now where was I?” but in a way that suggested he knew exactly where he was. Sure enough: “Ah yes, I was telling you about yourself. Humour an old man if you would. There’s more, you see.”
“More, sir?”
“More, Master Revill. Let us see. You are not originally from London but have lived there for a year perhaps. Your roots are in the west, further west than here . . .”
“From a village near Bristol. And it’s two years in London,” I said, a little aggravated that my voice still betrayed my origins. Fielding must have a good ear.
And a good eye and brain as it turned out.
“You’ve been walking today at the front of your company,” he continued, “with the wagon full of props and costumes trundling at the rear, where it was probably accompanied by the more senior players. You, though, would have kept pace with a fellow player of about your own age.”
“Go on,” I said, half smiling and sipping at my cider.
“You also thought occasionally and fondly – but not over-fondly – of she whom you had left behind.”
I sat up a little straighter at this.
“Because you are away from the city, thoughts of your parents most likely crossed your mind too –”
How on earth did he know that?
>
“– particularly of your father, the parson.”
At this I almost dropped my tankard on the floor.
I didn’t have to voice the question which appeared on my face.
Adam Fielding, Justice of the Peace, looked gratified at the effect he’d produced.
“You have an informant,” I said hopefully, “not a servant’s sister but a cousin or a grandfather in the church perhaps?”
He shook his head
“Then how?”
“It’s surprising how much information we give away gratis and unawares, Master Revill.”
“I said nothing, next to nothing, your worship.”
“There’s no such thing as saying nothing. Let me explain. I know already that you are a member of the Chamberlain’s Company spending the night here at the Angel. Therefore you must have completed your journey to Salisbury this afternoon. I’m familiar with the disposition of travelling companies, how the costumes and so on are borne in wagons while the poor players stumble along on foot.”
“We players are the least of it,” I said. “Our tire-man tells us again and again that people pay to see his robes, not our bodies.”
“As a youthful member of the Company, you’d have walked a bit quicker than average. And it’s unlikely you’d walk alone. Players are naturally gregarious. Also, I can see that the chalk kicked up from the way is still dusting your shoes while your front and leggings are pretty clear of marks – which certainly wouldn’t have been the case if you’d been walking at the back. There you’d’ve had to contend with all the dust thrown up by the others.”
“Well and good,” I said. “But how did you know my thoughts – some of my thoughts?”
Fielding smiled and took a long pull from his tankard of cider.
“The woman you left behind, you mean?”
“Oh there may be one,” I said, thinking of my whore Nell.
“Any young man who’s been in London a year or so will have furnished himself with a paramour – unless there’s something strange or unnatural about him. And there doesn’t look to be anything strange or unnatural about you, Master Revill.”
The Pale Companion Page 2