Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  “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.

  “Surely. You don’t want to make it so heavy he can’t lift it.”

  We bound the plastered arm to Mr. Shakespeare’s chest so he could not move it until it dried. Then I sat back and heaved a long sigh of weariness and relief. “I hope it works.”

  “It will.” Mr. Armin accompanied me into the hall. “I expect you’re looking forward to making a triumphant return to Yorkshire.”

  “Triumphant?” I said.

  “Well, you’re a member of—if I may say so—the most renowned theatre company in the kingdom. Surely that will impress all your old friends and your kin.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve no kin there that I’m aware of—and no friends, either, save Mistress MacGregor at the orphanage, who gave me a name.”

  “She had no notion who your parents might be?”

  “Not a hint. She once said me mother died in the poor-house, giving birth to me, and that’s th’ extent of it.”

  “It must be a sad thing, always having to wonder.”

  “Not sad so much as frustrating. I mean …” I hesitated. I had never spoken of this to anyone before, not even Sander. But I was weary, and my guard was down. “I mean, wi’out any sense of who they were I’ve only half a sense of who I am. It’s not just that I don’t ken me proper name. It’s that I don’t ken what … what I’m made of, you might say.”

  Mr. Armin nodded. “Well, I’ve always thought that what you’re made of is not as important as what you do with it.”

  “Aye,” I said halfheartedly. “I suppose that’s so.” I knew he meant well, but I did not think he truly understood.

  As I turned to go, he patted my shoulder in a way that put me in mind of Sander. With a sharpness and a suddenness that startled me, I found myself wishing that Sander were here. The days since we left London had been so exhausting and eventful, I had scarcely given a thought to him or to the rest of Mr. Pope’s household.

  Recalling Tetty’s picture, I fished it from my wallet, unfolded it carefully, and gazed at it for a long while. Then, even though I was even more exhausted than usual, thanks to the nerve-racking business of binding the broken arm, I shuffled past the room where the prentices and hired men were sleeping and on down the stairs. I borrowed pen and paper from the innkeeper’s wife and managed to put down nearly a page to my friend about the company’s fortunes before Morpheus made my nodding head droop onto the paper. Not wishing Sander to fret, I did not write how sorely I missed him.

  9

  By the time we set out from Hungerford the next morning, Mr. Shakespeare was strong enough to ride, though he had to have a bit of help in mounting. The effects of the alcohol he had consumed the night before seemed to bother him as much as the arm did. Though he pronounced my plaster bandage satisfactory, I was not satisfied, for I could see how hard his swollen flesh pressed against it, and I knew it must be painful. He dismissed my concern. “The swelling will go down in a day or two,” he said.

  But that evening, when Mr. Shakespeare summoned me to his room at the King’s Head in Wantage, I found the arm as swollen as ever. Mr. Shakespeare was clearly suffering; he had a glass of brandy at hand to ease the pain. “Perhaps I did something wrong,” I said anxiously. “Perhaps I should cut the bandage off again.”

  “No,” Mr. Shakespeare insisted. “But there is something you might do for me.”

  “Name it,” I said, assuming he meant for me to fetch him more brandy or the like.

  “Have you ever taken dictation?”

  “Dictation? You mean, writing down the spoken word?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well … aye. Dr. Bright often asked me …” I paused. Now that I had a clearer sense of right and wrong, it embarrassed me to admit my past transgressions. “‘A was a clergyman as well as a doctor, you ken, and ‘a had me visit neighboring churches and copy down the sermons of other rectors.”

  Mr. Shakespeare seemed more amused than disapproving. “Steal them, in other words?”

  “Aye.”

  “And then Simon Bass had you steal my play.” He shook his head. “You’ve had ill luck in masters.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  “Well put. What I’m asking is not dishonest, but it may be difficult. I have promised the Queen I would write a new comedy for her, to be performed upon our return to London. Her Majesty finds that such fare as Hamlet and Caesar puts her in a melancholy humor. She prefers something more … lightweight.” The pained expression Mr. Shakespeare now wore was, I fancied, due to more than just the swollen arm.

  “So,” he went on, “it is my duty as a loyal subject to concoct something her appetite finds more digestible—a trifle, as it were, and not the more substantial fare I am inclined to prepare.” He gestured impati
ently at his plaster-bound right arm with his left one. “And, since I cannot possibly put pen to paper for myself, I must have someone do it for me, or else fail in my duty to my Queen. If you think you’re up to the task, I am prepared to give you an extra shilling a week … presuming I have it to give—which, in view of our singular lack of success so far, may be in doubt. So, what do you say? Will you do it?”

  The offer came so unexpectedly that I found my tongue temporarily tied. “I … I …”

  “Good,” said Mr. Shakespeare, apparently mistaking an “I” for an “aye.” He picked up a leather-bound portfolio and opened it upon the small folding desk he had brought along. The portfolio was cleverly and compactly designed, with a pocket for writing paper, one for blotting paper, a pouch that held goose quill pens and a pen knife, even a strap that secured a bottle of ink. “You sit at the desk,” he said. “I’ll take the bed.”

  Feeling awkward and uncertain, I seated myself upon the trunk that contained the company’s play books and handbills and pulled up my sleeves. “Um … an I’m to write swiftly, a plumbago pencil would be preferable to a quill pen.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “No matter. I do.” I retrieved it from my wallet and tore off some of the paper wrapping to expose a half inch or so of the graphite core. I glanced at the pages he had written out already. From copying out the actors’ sides, I was used to reading Mr. Shakespeare’s undisciplined scrawl; nevertheless, I found it hard to decipher these words. A good half of them had been crossed out. In addition, there were black blotches everywhere, as though an ink plague had struck the paper.

  “They tell me,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “there’s a rumor about London to the effect that I never blot out a line. Obviously it isn’t so.” He sighed and added ruefully, “Would that it were.”

  One thing I could make out with ease was the title, for it was printed neatly in uppercase letters: LOVE’S LABOUR’S WON. I assumed it was to be a sequel to Love’s Labour’s Lost until I saw that, although it was set in France like that other play, the names of the characters were totally unfamiliar.

  “Read to me what I wrote last, if you will.”

  “I’ll try. ‘I have seen a medicine that’s able to breathe life into a scone—”’

  “That’s stone.”

  “Ah. Sorry. ‘Quicken a rock and make you dance … canary? … with sprightly fire and motion; whose simple torch—touch—is powerful to raise King Pepin, nay, to give great Charlemagne a pen in ‘s hand, and write to her a love-line.”’ I looked up from the page. “It’s a play about medicine?”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “Only in part. The heroine’s father was a physician, and she uses one of his nostrums to cure the king.”

  “Of what?”

  “A fistula.”

  “Oh,” I said. “But … I don’t think a fistula may be cured wi’ medicines. It needs to be cut away.”

  Mr. Shakespeare gave me a look that implied he’d just as soon I kept my opinions to myself. “This is a play, Widge, not a medical treatise.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. Let’s proceed. ‘And write to her a love-line.’ ‘And write to her a love-line.”’ He squeezed his eyelids shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead as if trying to force the words from his brain. “All right. King: ‘What her is this?’ Ahh, too many syllables, I’ll wager.” He ticked the syllables off on his fingers. “‘And write to her a love-line. What her is this?’ The meter limps a bit, but it’ll have to do. You have that?”

  “Aye.”

  “All right. Lafeu: ‘Why, Doctor She. My lord, there’s one arrived, if you will see her, by my faith I trow—’ No, no. ‘By my faith and honor’ is better, though it doesn’t scan. ‘By my faith and honor, if seriously I may convey my thoughts, hath in her wisdom and her constancy amazed me.’ Do you have that?”

  “Aye, every word.”

  “Let me see.”

  I held up the paper and he peered at what I had written, which was

  “Ah,” he said. “You’ve used your … what is it called?”

  “Charactery.”

  He handed the paper back to me with a quizzical smile on his face, altered by a wince of pain. “How will I ever know whether or not you’ve gotten it right?”

  “Well, sir, I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.” The moment I said these words, I regretted them. After all, what cause did he have to put his trust in someone who had a history of stealing sermons and play scripts?

  I feared he would say as much, but all he said was, “Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, you’ll copy it all out in normal script later, I trust?”

  “Aye.”

  He lay back on the bed with a slight groan, and continued. “Still Lafeu: ‘Will you see her, sire, and know her business?’ King: ‘Bring her on, Lafeu.’ Oh, God. That sounds as though she’s a platter of meat. ‘Bring her hence, Lafeu, that we may … that we may …’ That we may what? That we may admire? That we may wonder? Damn!” He struck the bed a blow of frustration with his good arm, which jostled his injured limb; he at once cried out and pressed it to his chest. “That was stupid,” he muttered brokenly.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No, no … unless it’s a new brain, one that works.”

  “It sounded well enough to me,” I ventured.

  “Yes, well, what do you know?” he snapped. Then he sighed, took a dose of brandy, and went on more kindly, “Go on to bed, Widge. I’m not accustomed to writing scripts in this second hand fashion, that’s all. It’ll go better next time.”

  “Aye, sir.” I rose and closed up the portfolio. “Shall I blow out the candle, then?”

  “What? No, leave it. I’ll be awake for some time yet.”

  As I slipped from the room, I said softly, “Good night, sir.” He made no reply. From the way he was staring at the candle flame, I judged that his thoughts were elsewhere—in France, perhaps … or in despair.

  10

  The room where the hired men and prentices slept was stifling. I longed to open the window and let in a bit of breeze, but I knew that I would be chastised if I did, for the others were, to a man, convinced that the night air was filled with ill humors. Jack was snoring with a sound like a dying pig, and I gave him a shove with my foot. He snorted, turned over on his side, and started in snoring once more, though at a more bearable level.

  With a sigh, I sank down upon my wool mattress. Just as I was drifting off, I heard Sam whisper, close to my ear, “I’ve got it figured out!”

  “What?” I murmured.

  “I said, I’ve figured it out!”

  “Figured what out?” I asked crossly.

  “Why Sourpuss Pavy sleeps in the stable and uses it for a tiring-room.”

  “Oh. Well, are you going to tell me, so I can go to sleep?”

  “I think it’s because …” He put his mouth even nearer to my ear. “He’s a she!”

  I gave out with something that was half a gasp, half a burst of laughter, and muffled it with my hands. “You’re daft!”

  “No, no, think about it! We never suspected Julia was a girl, did we? But looking back on it, it was easy to recall things she did, things she said that if we’d added them up would have given her away. Well, this time I’m adding them up in advance. One: He doesn’t sleep in the same room with us. Two: He doesn’t change in the same room with us. Three: He’s weak as water; he couldn’t even lift one end of the arms trunk. Where am I? Four? Four: When he relieves himself, he always goes far back into the woods, out of everyone’s sight. Five: He didn’t take part in the scuffle yesterday afternoon, you notice.”

  “Nor did you,” I pointed out. “As for how ‘a relieves himself, I go out of sight meself. I like a bit of privacy.”

  “All right,” Sam said defensively, “explain the stable business, then.”

  “I don’t ken. Perhaps ‘a’s one of those wights who talks wi’ horses. Ask him, why don’t you, and let me sleep.”
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br />   There was silence for a time, then Sam muttered, “I don’t care what you say; I think Sal is a Sally.” A moment later, he added, “Ow! You’ve no call to hit me!”

  Sam was like a small dog who, once he has his teeth into something, will not let go no matter what. At least twice a day over the next week or so, he came up with some bit of “evidence” that supposedly added weight to his Sally Pavy theory. Most were pure foolishness, ranging from the fact that Sal Pavy scrubbed his teeth with salt rather than just a rag dipped in wine like everyone else, to the way he often sat with his legs crossed.

  Though I scoffed at Sam’s fancies to his face, I could not help regarding Sal Pavy in a new light, weighing his words and actions as an actor does those of his character, looking for the meaning that lies behind them. There was no denying that his manner was rather effeminate at times, but that was hardly surprising, considering he was given daily lessons in how to accurately impersonate a girl. I myself had grown so used to wearing a dress that occasionally I found myself reaching down to lift a hem that wasn’t there. Besides, passing oneself off as another gender upon the stage was quite a different matter from keeping the pretense up all day, every day.

  On the other hand, Sal Pavy had proven himself a master of deception. Whenever one of the sharers was about, he was the very picture of a willing, eager worker. But when we prentices were alone with any sort of task, from washing the muddy carewares to grooming the horses to airing out the mattresses, he always contrived to avoid actually contributing anything.

  “At Blackfriars,” he said, “we were taught how to act, not how to clean things.”

  “Yes,” said Sam, with a meaningful glance at the sword Sal Pavy was supposed to be polishing. “I can see that. You know, Widge, when we return I believe we’d be wise to apply for a position at Blackfriars. It sounds as though it bears a striking resemblance to the land of Cockaigne.” Cockaigne was, I had learned, a familiar fancy among Londoners—a mythical land of idleness and luxury.