Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  “Aye. I will.” I glanced at the sheet of paper. “Are you writing a letter home?”

  “That? No, no. It’s a—” He paused, as though unsure whether or not to go on. “Just between us, it’s a play.”

  “Truly? I didn’t ken you were a playwright.”

  “I’m not much of a one. Not of the same rank as Will, certainly. I’m revising an old work of mine called Fool Upon Fool, or A Nest of Ninnies. I thought something mindless might appeal more to these Yorkshire wights. No offense. I’m Yorkshire born and bred meself, as you ken,” he said, lapsing into the speech of the region. “I can’t say I’m thrilled to be back. What about you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s nothing to me one way or the other. If there’s time, though, I’d like to visit th’ orphanage in York where I spent me early years.”

  “We’ll make time,” said Mr. Armin. “For now, let’s go and see what Pembroke’s Men are up to.”

  But it seemed that our rivals had not taken rooms at our inn, for we saw no sign of them, nor had the other members of the company. “P-perhaps they’ve no money for b-bed and b-board,” said Mr. Heminges with concern in his voice.

  “They did appear somewhat shabby,” I said. “They had no carewares and no trunks, only packs slung over their saddles.”

  “My guess,” said Will Sly, “is that they’ve been forced to sell or to pawn some of their gear. They may have to change their name to Pem’s Broke Men.”

  “We ought to keep an eye on our own equipment, then,” put in Jack.

  “Oh, I hardly think they’d stoop t-to stealing,” said Mr. Heminges. “They’re a reputable c-company, after all.”

  “Well, if they do,” said Sam, “Sally will surely stop ’em.” This brought a laugh from some of the others and a kick under the table from me.

  If we could have seen a few hours into the future, no one would have found Sam’s jest the least amusing. Sometime after midnight, the door to our sleeping room burst open and a voice shocked us from our sleep with a single word: “Fire!”

  I sat upright, rubbing at my eyes. Mr. Armin was stalking about among us, shaking the sleepers roughly. “Get up! The wagons are afire! Come! There’s no time to dress!” He flung open the door that led to the gallery and ran outside. The hired men and prentices staggered after him, half asleep still, barefoot and clad only in our nightshirts.

  We had brought the carewares into the inn yard and pulled them alongside the stable, assuming they would be safe there. We were wrong. The fronts of both wagon boxes were ablaze, and the flames were climbing the sides, threatening to set the canvas tops alight. In their flickering light, I spotted Sal Pavy shuffling across the inn yard, straining at the weight of a leather water bucket whose contents spilled onto the cobbles and onto the hem of his nightshirt.

  Stunned, I stood clutching the railing of the gallery for a moment. “Gog’s blood!” I heard Jack cry as he rushed past me. “Pembroke’s Men are trying to burn us out!” Then Will Sly yanked at my nightshirt, setting me in motion. As I scrambled down the stairs, a splinter jammed into one bare foot, but I ran on.

  Sal Pavy tossed what little remained of his bucket of water ineffectually at the burning wagon. Mr. Armin took the bucket from him and handed it to Jack. “Fill it at the horse trough! The rest of you, take hold of the wagon tongues! We’ve got to get them away from the stable! Widge! See if you can pull those canvas tops off!”

  While the men hauled at one careware, trying to get it rolling, I clambered aboard the other and, clinging to the high wooden side, began fumbling with the loops of rope that held the canvas in place. “All together—heave!” shouted Mr. Armin, and their wagon lurched into mine, nearly dislodging me. My bare foot struck someone on the pate. I glanced down to see that it was Mr. Shakespeare, straining with his good arm at the spokes of one of the wheels.

  I pulled the last of the ropes free, flung the canvas aside, out of the reach of the flames, and sprang for the other careware. I was too late. The canvas top on it was already burning. I believe we would have lost our battle with the flames had we not at that moment received reinforcements in the form of the innkeeper and his ostler. With their help, our men got the careware moving and pushed it across the cobbles to the horse trough.

  While Jack and Sam and I doused the fire with bucket after bucket of water—Sal Pavy seemed to have disappeared—the rest of the men returned for the other careware. Within minutes, both fires were out. The players dragged our costume and property trunks from the wagon beds. Even in the pale light from the innkeeper’s lantern, I could see that the wood was badly charred and, of course, soaked with water.

  We carried the trunks into the stable and inspected their contents. The armor and weapons and other properties were mostly undamaged, but the top layer of clothing was scorched, and all of it was wet. We spread the garments on the hay in the loft to dry and, leaving Jack and Will Sly to guard them, retired to our beds, grateful that our bedding, at least, had not been in the wagons.

  We found Ned Shakespeare still in the room and still sound asleep. “The devil take him!” muttered Sam. “He’s slept through the whole thing!”

  “Mr. Shakespeare will be furious. Perhaps we’d best not tell him. ‘A may not have noticed.” But as I said this, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye and turned to see Mr. Shakespeare standing in the doorway. He clearly saw his brother’s sleeping form, but he said nothing, only shook his head as though he had expected nothing more, and turned away.

  After we washed up, I got Sam to draw the splinter—or at least most of it—from my foot. “How do you suppose the fire began?” he asked me.

  “Mr. Armin said it looked as though someone had dropped burning bundles of straw into the front of the wagon beds.”

  “Who would do such a thing, and why?”

  “Someone who dislikes players, I’d say. A fanatical Puritan, perhaps.”

  “Or maybe Jack was right. Maybe it was Pembroke’s Men, trying to get rid of the competition.”

  After the night’s exertions, we were all—with the exception of Ned and Sal Pavy—cross and tired the next day. Mr. Phillips and Jack had suffered superficial burns. To my surprise, they came to me—grudgingly, in Jack’s case—for medical advice. The best I could do for them was to smear on a salve of tallow mixed with comfrey, but it seemed to give them some relief.

  Despite everything, we managed a passable performance that afternoon and took in a respectable box—most of which we promptly laid out again to have the damaged costumes repaired. The town councillors profited as much as we did, or more, for they had men passing through the crowd hawking bottles of ale.

  As we stood behind the curtain waiting to go on, Sal Pavy, in his guise as the Princess, surveyed my dress, which was less elegant than the one I usually wore when playing Rosaline. “Why are you wearing that?” he asked distastefully.

  “Because me better one has half the skirt burned away.” This dress, too, had an unpleasant smoky odor to it, as did Sam’s. Sal Pavy’s costume had escaped the conflagration; dandy that he was, he had taken it from the trunk beforehand and hung it in the stable to air out.

  “Well, you look more like a milkmaid than a maid in waiting,” he said. I let his remark pass, but I suspected Sam would not, and I was right.

  “Did you know you’ve a hole there?” Sam said innocently.

  “Where?” Sal Pavy demanded, twisting his head around and feeling the fabric at his rear with both hands.

  “Right in the middle of your bum!” Sam said, and went into a fit of laughter that, though he muffled it with one hand, I was sure could be heard out front. Sal Pavy flushed angrily and, hiking up his skirts, stalked off—a short stalk, as the area behind the curtain was but one pace in depth and perhaps ten from side to side. “Oh, my,” said Sam. “I’ve offended Her Majesty.”

  Halfway through the play, I caught a glimpse of one of Pembroke’s Men, the paunchy fellow with the eye patch, standing just inside the door of the hall, watching t
he proceedings soberly—not like one who has come to enjoy himself but like one who is sizing up the competition. Somehow I suspected he had not bothered to pay his penny.

  13

  We could not depart the following day until the town’s tailors had our costumes ready, and so we got only as far as Southwell before night fell. Though it was a far smaller town than Newark, the sharers decided to try a performance there, in the only enclosed space that was large enough—the wool market. Despite the stench, we drew an enthusiastic crowd that must have comprised two-thirds of the local population.

  Buoyed by our success, we went on to perform in Mansfield, Sheffield, and Doncaster, where we were equally well received. By the time we reached York, we were ahead enough so that Mr. Heminges could pay the hired men six shillings apiece, and the prentices three—our regular weekly wage. But we had been on the road for nearly a month now, and these were the first wages we had seen. Still, it was certainly better than nothing.

  I had hoped the company might send a share of our earnings home to Mr. Pope and Sander, but Mr. Heminges did not feel we could spare any yet. Mr. Burbage, he assured me, would see that they and the boys were provided for. All the same, upon our arrival at the Black Swan in York, I wrote a letter to Sander at once and enclosed a shilling to buy treats for the boys and Tetty.

  Because we had changed our route, no letter from London had reached us yet. The sharers had by now a firmer notion of where our travels were likely to take us. Once we left York, we were to turn southwest and make a long loop that would take us through Leeds, Manchester, Chester, Shrewsbury, Coventry, and Mr. Shakespeare’s home town of Stratford before we returned to London. I wrote out this itinerary for Sander, hoping he might send a reply in care of one of the towns along our route.

  The sharers had expressed concern that, with the slow progress we’d made since leaving Newark, Pembroke’s Men or some other company might have preceded us. We were gratified to learn that no London troupe had played here in years, only a few companies of lesser stature who hailed from the northern shires.

  The city fathers examined our papers carefully and, satisfied that we were a renowned and reputable company, engaged us to play the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall for an entire week. In addition, we were to receive our remuneration not from the audience but from the city treasury, to the tune of thirty shillings per performance.

  At the inn that evening we celebrated our good fortune with generous rounds of ale. Mr. Shakespeare even took a night off from struggling with Love’s Labour’s Won, for which I cannot say I was sorry. Despite the title, I had begun to wonder whether we would indeed win out as a result of all our labors, or whether the play would at some point simply fizzle out, like a firework with a faulty fuse.

  Sal Pavy, wearing his cheerful face, condescended to join us in our festivities for a time. Before he retired to his stable I saw him draw Mr. Armin aside and engage him in a conversation that, from their expressions, appeared to be a serious one.

  When we had drunk all we could hold—the ale they served us prentices was, of course, watered down, or my head could not have stood much of it—and were making for our beds, Mr. Armin beckoned to me. I stepped into his room. “I want your thoughts on something,” he said.

  I smiled amiably, in a mood to grant anyone anything. “Some ailment, no doubt,” I said, and hiccoughed. “I seem to have become the company’s unofficial physician—ah, there’s a tongue twister you can use, sir, in our elocution lessons. Say it three times rapidly: unofficial physician, un-afishy physician, unofficial position. I am most efficient in my unofficial position as a fisherman’s physician.”

  Mr. Armin patted my shoulder lightly, but it was enough to unbalance me, and I sat down abruptly. “You’ve had too much ale,” he said.

  “Aye,” I said, “that’s me ale-merit.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this tomorrow.”

  “Nay, nay, I’m all right. What is ’t? An upset stomach? A sore throat?”

  “I’m not looking for medical advice. It’s a theatre matter. Sal Pavy has asked that, when we do Titus Andronicus, he be given the part of Lavinia.”

  I blinked, taken aback. “But—but that’s me part.”

  “I know. But you’ve been so busy helping Mr. Shakespeare, I thought you might be happy to have one less responsibility.”

  “So you promised it to him?”

  “No. I told him I’d discuss it with you.”

  “Oh,” I said. Though I tried not to show it, I was hurt by the proposal, for it implied that I could readily be replaced. I did not wish to seem temperamental, or unreasonable, but neither did I care to give up one of my best parts, especially to Sal Pavy. “Does ’a ken the part?”

  Mr. Armin nodded. “He’s been studying it.”

  So that was what he’d been up to in those early-morning solo sessions. I wondered what other parts he’d been committing to memory. Feeling as though I’d been wronged, I said sullenly, “An you think ’a can do it better, then I yield to him.”

  “Widge. It’s not a question of who does it better, you know that. Sal feels we’re not using him enough, that’s all.”

  “Then let him play doctor and take dictation,” I replied heatedly. Then I slumped forward and wearily hung my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much.”

  “I know. I should not have brought this up now. Go on to bed. We’ll take it up at a more opportune time.”

  I rose and walked unsteadily to the door. “Nay,” I said with forced nonchalance, “an ’a wants the part, ’a may ha’ ’t. I’ve no claim on ’t.”

  We were scheduled to play Titus Andronicus on Wednesday afternoon; as I now had no need to review my lines, I asked for that morning off, and Mr. Armin granted it. Sam begged to come with me, but I put him off. A journey into one’s past must be made alone.

  The orphanage was even more dismal than I had remembered it. The squat, square stone building had once been a prison, and, though the bars had been removed from the narrow windows and from the doorways and the interior walls had been whitewashed, there was no getting rid of the air of gloom that pervaded the place.

  A clamor of children’s voices came from the big room that served as classroom and dining hall, and it sounded so like always that I fancied for a moment I truly had gone back in time—until I saw the figure coming toward me down the hall. At first I did not recognize her, so changed was she. In my memory, she was a vigorous, imposing woman with a voice that any player would have envied. The eight years that had passed since I left the orphanage to apprentice to Dr. Bright had not been kind to her. She was still rotund as always, but no longer robust. Her hair had gone gray/and the spring had gone from her step.

  “Mistress MacGregor?” I said uncertainly.

  “Aye,” she replied. “What is it?”

  “You may not recall me,” I said. “I’m Widge.”

  Her worn face brightened. “Not recall you? I should say I can!” To my surprise she put her arms about me and kissed both my cheeks, then stepped back to look me over, still gripping my arms. “You’ve grown!” she exclaimed, and then laughed. “Of course, ’twould be a wonder if you had not!”

  I smiled. This was the Mistress MacGregor I remembered. “Well,” I said, embarrassed, “I’ve not grown nearly as much as I’d like. I’m a player now, you know.”

  “Are you indeed?” she said enthusiastically. “A player? And what might that be?”

  “You ken—an actor. In plays. In London.”

  She put a hand to her mouth in astonishment. “You’re never!”

  “Aye. And wi’ the Lord Chamberlain’s men, too. We’re playing here in York this week, an you’d care to come.”

  She looked dubious. “Would a person have to dress up fine-like?”

  “Oh, nay. Only th’ actors.”

  “Then I’ll do it, if I can get away.” She squeezed my arm tightly. “Losh, I’m so happy to see you and to hear you’ve made something
of yourself. Not that I ever doubted it.”

  “Do you ken what’s become of th’ other boys?”

  She shook her head sadly. “The plague claimed many of them. Och, for a time this place was more like a pesthouse than an orphanage. Those who lived through it and left standing up seldom care to come back again.”

  I felt a painful pang of guilt. For some reason—or perhaps for none at all—Fortune had seen to it that I escaped the city before the plague struck in 1594.

  “Have you been to see your old master … I dinna mind his name.”

  “Dr. Bright.”

  “Aye, that’s him. I always thought it a poor name for him; he did not seem verra bright to me.” She threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Och, bless me! Had his name not come up, I’d have forgotten, sure as sure. I’ve something for you.”

  “You ha’?”

  “Aye.” She led me into her office—not by the ear, for a change. “I’d have sent it to you, but you’d gone from Dr. Bright’s and he could not, or would not, say where.” With one of the jangling keys at her waist, she opened the top of a battered desk and fished some object from one of the compartments inside.

  When she placed it in my hand, I saw that it was an ornate crucifix on a delicate chain. The figure of Christ was carved from ivory and set into a gold filigreed cross. I glanced up at Mistress MacGregor, bewildered. “What … why …?”

  “Bide a bit,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.” Obediently I took a seat on a rickety stool, feeling seven again and about to be chastised for my misbehavior. Mistress MacGregor sat at the desk and went on.

  “About a year ago, I was summoned to the poorhouse, to the bedside of a dying woman named Polly—not a resident of the poorhouse, you ken, but a housekeeper there.”

  I nodded, wondering where this could be leading.

  “I kenned the woman but little, so I was surprised that she should ask for me in her last hours. I was even more surprised when she took that crucifix from a table beside the bed and pressed it into my hand. ‘What’s this, then?’ says I, and she says, so low I could scarcely hear her, she says, ‘I done a bad thing and I want to make amends.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘perhaps I should fetch a priest, then.’ ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘only you can help,’ and she points to that crucifix. ‘I took that off a woman as died in childbirth, years ago. I kenned ’twas wrong to do it, but I liked the look of it, and I told meself she’d have no use for it any longer. I’ve regretted it ever since,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t even bring meself to wear it ever, or to tell anyone what I’d done.’ ‘Why tell me, then?’ says I. ‘Because,’ says she, ‘you ken who it rightly belongs to, for the child she bore was given over to you.”’