“Your da?” Sam said.
I nodded grimly. Even worse, when half past one came around, Jamie Redshaw did not turn up to act as gatherer. “I’ll do it,” Sam offered.
“Nay,” I said, “you’re still not strong. You help wi’ makeup. I’ll gather.”
Sal Pavy arrived late, as was his habit lately. When he saw me holding the box, he smirked and shook a finger at me as if to say, “No filching, now.” The gesture I gave him in return could not have been so readily translated, at least not by a person of good upbringing.
Jamie Redshaw did show up for supper, for a change. When Mr. Armin asked why he had not done his duty as gatherer, he said, with evident surprise and chagrin, “I assumed that, after yesterday, you would prefer that I not handle the money.”
“If I implied that, I did not mean to,” said Mr. Armin.
“There’s the m-matter of the h-handbills, too,” said Mr. Heminges. “You were t-to replace yesterday’s with today’s.”
“I know, and I apologize. The truth is—” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Well … it’s difficult, as an old soldier, to admit this but … I was ambushed.”
“Ambushed?” said Ned Shakespeare with an incredulous laugh.
Jamie Redshaw cast him a look sharp enough to sober him. “Attacked, if you will. I had posted but a few of the bills when I passed the mouth of a narrow alley. A moment later, someone struck me from behind with a cudgel or the like. When I fell to my knees, dazed, my assailant snatched the bills from my hand; before I could recover, he had vanished.”
Mr. Armin frowned skeptically. “Why would anyone wish to steal our handbills?”
“You would know that better than I.”
“For the same reason they’d set fire to our carts,” said Jack resentfully. “To make life difficult for us.” It was now Jack’s lot to sleep in one of the carewares each night, lest they be molested again. Though it might be uncomfortable for him, it was a blessing for the rest of us, to be spared his snoring.
“Well,” said Mr. Heminges, “they c-certainly succeeded. The audience was f-far smaller today; p-presumably folk thought we were d-doing King John again.”
“It must be a rival company, then,” said Mr. Phillips. “But whose?”
“Lord Pembroke’s Men?” I suggested.
“We d-don’t know that they’re in the v-vicinity, Widge.”
“But I—I think I saw one of them yesterday.” I noticed Ned Shakespeare giving me a warning look, as though reminding me not to divulge under what circumstances I had seen the man. “The wight wi’ th’ eye patch.”
“I don’t recall anyone of that description among Pembroke’s men,” said Mr. Phillips.
“Nor do I,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “But they may well have altered the company for touring purposes, as we have done.”
“They were at Newark, too,” I reminded them. “When the carewares were set afire.”
“B-but what do they have to g-gain by harassing us?” said Mr. Heminges.
Will Sly shrugged. “Simple. If they run us off, they’ll have that much less competition.”
Mr. Armin still looked skeptical. “I find it hard to imagine them stooping to such base tactics, a respectable company like Pembroke’s.”
“In desperate straits,” said Jamie Redshaw, “respectable men sometimes cease to be respectable.” He rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I mean to go and lie down. My head is still throbbing.”
“I’ll bring you up some willow bark tea,” I said.
He gave me a dubious look. “I’d prefer brandy.”
“Nay, nay,” I protested. “Spirits will only make your head ache worse.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” said Will Sly, and the others laughed, for Will was known for his tendency to overindulge in drink from time to time.
When I brought the tea to the common room, Jamie Redshaw was not lying down, but standing in the open doorway to the gallery, looking out on the inn yard. He turned to me. “Your Mr. Armin seems suspicious of me, somehow. Has he said anything of the sort to you?”
“Nay,” I lied. “I suppose ‘a’s just naturally a suspicious fellow.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt guilty, for I well knew that Mr. Armin was a fair man, and that, if he seemed mistrustful or wary at times, it was only because he was concerned about my welfare, or that of the company.
We sat on our traveling trunks, and I poured some of the willow bark tea into an earthenware cup. Jamie Redshaw took a sip of it and made a face. “I still say it would be better with a dollop of brandy—a large one.” He set the cup aside. “You seem to have taken on the duties of physician as well as clerk and actor. You should demand an increase in wages.”
I shook my head emphatically. “I would never dare do that.”
“Why not? You deserve it. You heard how highly Armin spoke of you. Shall I do the asking for you?”
I shook my head again, even more emphatically. “I’ve no wish to appear greedy. They might conclude they could do wi’out me.”
“So? There are other companies. Perhaps one of them would better appreciate your worth.”
The mere thought of leaving the Lord Chamberlain’s Men sent a stab of dread through me, like the mention of the plague. “Nay! You can’t ask me to give up me position here!”
Jamie Redshaw held up a hand to calm me. “I’m not asking that. It was but a suggestion. I’ve no right to tell you what to do.”
“You’re—you’re me father,” I said.
He looked uncomfortable, as though his head or his war wound were bothering him. “Well,” he said, “you’ve done well enough without me up until now.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “For the past year or so, aye,” I said, more hotly than I intended. “For the fourteen years before that, I was not doing so well for meself. I could have used a father then.”
Jamie Redshaw seemed taken aback by my outburst.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, though not very sympathetically. “As I’ve said, I had no idea you existed.” He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy. I need to rest now.” He stretched out on his mattress and closed his eyes.
Though he obviously meant for me to depart, I stubbornly lingered. “I was only wondering … that is … I ken how reluctant you are to speak of me mother, but …”
“But you want to know more about her.”
“Aye,” I said eagerly. “And about yourself as well.”
He turned his head to me and opened his eyes. “Why?”
“Why? Well, so that … so that I ken something of where I come from, I suppose.”
“That’s not important,” he said. “All that truly matters is where you end up.” It was very nearly the same thing Mr. Armin had said to me a few weeks earlier, and it was not what I wanted to hear. “One thing I can tell you,” he went on. “You don’t want to end up like me.” He turned away again. “I’ll try to recall more about your mother, and we’ll talk again. We’ve plenty of time.”
22
But the right time seemed never to come. When the players were on the road, Jamie Redshaw and I were continually in the company of the other prentices and hired men, and though I could count Sam and Will Sly my friends, I could not say the same for Jack and Ned and Sal Pavy. Certainly I would not have cared to discuss so personal a matter before them.
When we were in residence in some town, our mornings were occupied with rehearsing and occasional lessons, and our afternoons with performing. In the evenings Jamie Redshaw was seldom at the inn with the rest of us. I suspected that he and Ned were, despite their pledge, still tarrying in the local alehouses, though heaven only knew what they found to wager with.
The sharers’ plan—to play only the larger towns and thus avoid being associated with the company of thieves who were passing themselves off as players—proved to be flawed. The most populous places were, we found, also the ones most susceptible to the plague. Some of these contagion-racked cities turned a
way all travelers; others seemed to have a special dislike of theatre companies. The officials of some towns drove us off with threats; others paid us substantial sums not to perform.
When we reached Shrewsbury, which sat off the main road a little way, we found signs posted outside the town, forbidding anyone at all to enter. “That’s unfortunate,” said Mr. Heminges. “We’re short on s-supplies.”
“They can’t keep us out,” said Jamie Redshaw indignantly and, gripping his walking stick like a cudgel, strode forward, past the sign and up the broad main street. He had not gone fifty yards before the first men began to emerge from taverns and shops. Several had swords drawn. One—a tavern keeper, judging from his apron—carried a gun, a wide-barreled matchlock blunderbuss.
“In case you can’t read,” he called out, “the sign says no travelers allowed!”
Jamie Redshaw halted. “We need food and drink!”
“Go back beyond the sign, then. We’ll bring it to you!”
When Jamie Redshaw rejoined the company, Mr. Armin said, “We would have handled the matter, Mr. Redshaw. It’s not your concern.”
Jamie Redshaw smiled, more smugly than apologetically, I thought. “My stomach is my concern,” he said.
A short while later, a small group of men, led by the tavern keeper with the blunderbuss, approached us. One of the men carried a large basket of viands—cheese, bread, dried fish, apples—and another a small keg of ale. They set the provisions in the road. “That’s seven shillings’ worth,” said the tavern keeper. “Put your coins in the plague stone.”
“The p-plague stone?” repeated Mr. Heminges.
The man pointed to a limestone boulder that sat beside the road. A sort of bowl had been carved into the top of it, and this depression was filled with water. Mr. Heminges dropped a half-angel and two shillings into it.
I leaned over to whisper to Sam, “They must imagine that the water somehow drowns the infection.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Sam.
“I don’t ken,” I replied and, more irritably, added, “Why does everyone seem to think I’m a physician? I’m an actor.”
“I can see that,” Sam said calmly. “This is your impersonation of Sal Pavy, right?”
I tried to glare at him, but it somehow turned into a grin. “You sot.”
In Telford we found that we had once again been preceded by the band of thieves posing as players. There was a new development in their deceit, now, though; this time they were calling themselves the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.
The mayor pointed out to us one of the handbills the counterfeit company had posted, announcing a performance that the mayor paid for but never saw. The play it purported to advertise was none other than Mr. Shakespeare’s King John.
“Gog’s blood!” I said to Jamie Redshaw. “Now we ken who stole the bills from you, and why!”
I expected him to react with anger and vow to catch the culprits. Instead, he shook his head, tapped the handbill with the head of his walking stick, and said with something like admiration, “Well, there’s no denying they’re cheeky, clever rascals, is there?”
We moved on to Bridgnorth, where we played a single performance of Fool Upon Fool, then took ourselves to Kidderminster. Like most of the towns we had played since leaving Leeds, these were not on the itinerary I had sent to Sander. “An we play none of the places we planned to,” I complained to Sam, “how can we ever hope for a letter from London to find us?”
Since few of these smaller towns had halls big enough to accommodate us, we often had to set up our wagon-bed stage in the courtyard of the inn where we were lodging. It was far from the ideal playing space; the boards sagged and swayed under our feet and, because the stage was so much smaller than we were used to, we were in constant danger of stepping off the edge.
In fact, I did just that during my King John sword-fighting scene with Sal Pavy. I was wary of his wild edgeblows still, and spent a good deal of my time retreating. He failed to warn me that I had run out of room, so off I went and landed, luckily, in the arms of one of the audience. For my pains, I got a round of laughter and applause.
As with the blow he’d delivered to my collarbone, I was certain this had been no accident. Though I was furious, I neither confronted him nor complained to the sharers. Jamie Redshaw, who had seen me take the fall, urged me to retaliate in kind. “The next time you play the scene, let him have an ‘accidental’ thrust to the groin. Hell never expect it—and it’s certain he’ll never forget it.”
I laughed weakly. “‘A deserves as much. But I cannot. I’ve promised Mr. Armin I’d be patient wi’ him.”
“It was a fool’s promise. I know how boys like this Pavy work. If you don’t strike back, he’ll continue to push and push you until he’s pushed you out of the picture.” He gave me a searching glance. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“Of course not,” I replied indignantly.
“Good. Then show him.”
There would be no opportunity to exact revenge on Sal Pavy until we played King John again, which likely would not be for a week or so. Our next stop was Worcester—a town that was, for a change, actually on our itinerary. I was prepared to perform at an inn once more, but Worcester proved to have an actual theatre, built as a venue for gypsy companies like ours—one reason why our sharers had put it on their schedule. Several other companies, we learned, had been here before us, including a much-reduced Lord Admiral’s Men and a scaled-down version of the Earl of Derby’s Men.
When we emerged from the town hall, having secured permission to play two afternoon performances, we discovered a bedraggled troupe of players who had, presumably, come there for the same purpose. Every member of the company was afoot. Their single careware, which looked about to collapse, was pulled by two horses in much the same state. Though they wore no special livery, Mr. Armin recognized them as the Earl of Hertford’s Men. He greeted the man who headed up the sorry-looking company, a tall, underfed fellow with crooked teeth, who would have looked more at home in a wheat field, chasing crows, than on a stage.
“Hello, Martin! You and your men look as though you’re a bit down on your luck.”
The man named Martin looked over our company, who were clad in our fine blue caps and capes. “And you look as though you’ve prospered.”
“Only lately. We’ve had our share of hard times, too.”
“I suppose you’ve gotten permission to play here already.” At Mr. Armin’s nod, Martin scowled. “We were counting on a brief engagement here to give us enough funds to limp back to London. We’ve already sold our livery, our best horses, and one of our wagons; we’ve nothing left to sell save our costumes and the clothes on our backs.”
The sharers offered to let them perform in our place, but Hertford’s Men refused. “That would be unfair,” said Martin.
“Well, suppose we toss a coin,” said Mr. Armin.
Martin shook his head. “Too arbitrary. I propose, instead, that we hold an acting competition. The players who acquit themselves best in the opinion of the audience will then get to perform for profit. What say you?”
After a moment’s consultation, the sharers accepted the challenge. “Shall we say here, before the town hall, at four o’clock?” said Mr. Armin. “We’ll send a crier around town to announce it.”
23
That gave us a scant hour to decide what scene we would enact, with what actors, and to prepare ourselves. “It should b-be a scene with a m-man and a woman,” said Mr. Heminges. “Those g-go over best.”
“And a comic scene is most likely to win the audience over quickly,” added Mr. Phillips.
“What about Viola and Feste’s scene from Twelfth Night?” suggested Sam.
“Too insubstantial, I think,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We need something with more weight to it.”
“Lavinia’s scene with the staff, from Titus, then,” said Mr. Armin.
Will Sly laughed. “Oh, yes, that’s comical, that is. A ravaged girl reve
als who it was that lopped off her hands and cut out her tongue. It’ll have the audience rolling about on the ground.”
“It’s to be an acting contest,” Mr. Armin reminded him, “not a jesting contest.”
“Lord Hertford’s Men are so d-defeated already,” said Mr. Heminges, “p-perhaps we should let them win.”
“Deliberately do our worst, you mean?” said Mr. Shakespeare. “No. I’m sure they’d prefer to lose, rather than to win that way.”
Lord Hertford’s Men did choose a comic scene, one from Peele’s The Old Wives’ Tale, and the audience responded with gales of laughter. By contrast, when Sal Pavy did his wordless turn as the unfortunate Lavinia, there was, as usual, scarcely a sound. But when we were done and those watching were asked to indicate their favorite, the applause given our scene was by far the heartier.
Though I had no right to be jealous, I was—fiercely so. I had been with the company far longer than Sal Pavy, after all, and the role had been mine before it was his. Why should I not be the one up there basking in the applause?
Lord Hertford’s Men accepted their lot with good grace, consoled somewhat by the fact that our sharers offered to buy most of their wardrobe for considerably more than it was worth. We had no real need for the costumes, of course, nor any extra room in our carewares; it was a way of aiding a troupe of our fellows who were less fortunate than we, without wounding their pride.
In the morning Will Sly and I and Jamie Redshaw went about Worcester, putting up announcements for that afternoon’s performance of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Since the whole town could be traversed in ten minutes’ time, the job did not require three of us; we only wanted to be certain that our handbills did not fall into the hands of some rival company again.
As we toured the town, Jamie Redshaw made a note of where the alehouses were. “Care to join me for a drink after the play?” he asked Will Sly.
“Thanks, but I’d liefer do my drinking at the inn,” said Will, “where I’m not so likely to be drawn into a game of chance.”
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