The Playmaker

by J. B. Cheaney

  His wife tied on his ruff, with a glancing smile at me. “The voice is the vital thing. The rest can be learned. Though fourteen is late to start. Cole, Mary—kiss thy father good night.” Two small children leapt to his arms in turn, as one of the young ladies helped him on with his cloak, another handed him his hat, and the whole party swept over him in a wave of love and goodwill, as though he were setting out for an ocean voyage. He emerged from this fond farewell and approached me with hat in hand, brisk and cordial. “As for you, lad, you show promise and I shall tell my associates of you. If you wish to be an actor, I bid you come—”

  My jaw dropped. “An actor, sir?”

  He stopped abruptly as the room felt silent again; often I wish that my voice did not carry so well. “Why, yes,” he said mildly. “An actor. What did you think you were being sounded for?”

  I looked daggers at Starling, and said, “To speak true, sir, the position you were sounding me for … was not made clear to me.”

  “Hmmm.” He glanced from Starling to me and back again. “Well then, I must leave it to be explained. Perhaps both of us were imposed upon, young sir. Please accept my apology.”

  With a most gracious nod, he left us. I made my own farewell to the lady of the house, my face flaming, and as I passed took Starling firmly by the hand and pulled her out the door. “Why didn't you tell me?” I hissed, once we were outside.

  Her face, near as I could make it out in the twilight, had turned sulky. “Because I feared you wouldn't come. You Puritans paint the whole theater with one brush, and I wanted you to see Master Condell for the fine Christian gentleman he is, though an actor.”

  “What makes you think I'm a Puritan?”

  “Who else would be spouting Psalms on a quay?”

  She may have been half-right. My mother leaned toward the Puritan sect, far enough perhaps to fall into their camp. The rector who taught me Latin and figures was a Puritan, and always kind to me. I loved and respected them, but perhaps did not agree with them on everything. Taking my silence for hesitation, Star bent forward urgently.

  “Look you,” she said, “a chance like this won't come again. My master acts for the Lord Chamberlain's Men—there's no finer company in all of England. Every Christmas they are asked to perform before the Queen! Apprentices would almost cut their throats to get in, and at any other time you wouldn't stand a prayer. But the Company's lost three boys in two weeks and they have to fill those positions now. Tomorrow night there's a hearing at the Mermaid Tavern—”

  “Why would I have a chance, with boys all over London cutting their throats?”

  “They won't all be there, you berry-brain. This has happened so sudden, there's been no time to get the word abroad. Besides, you have the voice.” Her manner turned solemn, as though The Voice were a gift bestowed by angels. “It's the one thing that cannot be taught, the one thing you must be born with.”

  Her words, or the way she made them sound, gave me pause. The temptation to regard myself as extraordinary had a strong pull. But an actor—even with the stately image of Henry Condell fresh in memory, I could not shake my notion of actors as capering clowns or red devils falling through trapdoors. And another thing everyone knew that any woman's part must be played by a boy, since women were not allowed on the stage. If I were to appear in a play, it would be pranked up in a gown and wig. No; impossible. “It's impossible,” I told her.

  “Richard.” She all but stamped her foot. “All right then, be a fool.”

  “No fear for that,” I said, making my way to the gate. “You've seen to it this night.”

  “At least think on it. If you change your mind, come to the Mermaid Tavern tomorrow at seven o'clock. It's on Bread Street.”

  I turned at the gate, one hand on the latch, and sighed mightily. “Do me one good turn, Starling Shaw: leave off taking such a tender interest in my welfare.” Then I opened the gate and stepped through it, fully believing I had exchanged my last word with her.

  On the following day, I looked for those two silent overseers in every nook and shadow of the quay, but they were not to be found. No wonder—I had decided they were figments of one girl's over-wrought fancy. The air breathed damp but warm that morning, my belly was full, and the other boys had begun to treat me with some respect, even friendliness. Master Southern had commented upon my knack with figures and hinted there might be an opening in the counting house. No need to assume that I would have to toss kegs forever, with the ability to rise beyond that. And God willing, I would rise; I was an Englishman.

  Just after breakfast I glanced toward the street and felt a faint twinge in my guts: a lonely, furtive part of me missed Starling Shaw, a little. But London was full of meddling females, or any other kind of friend or companion I might wish to meet. I picked up the prongs of the barrow and gave it a shove to start my mid-morning delivery to the taverns of Cheapside, in the neighborhood of the Royal Exchange.

  The route was an easy one I had traveled three times already: most of the deliveries were to inns and taverns along Lombard and Fenchurch streets. After the Golden Bear came the Lord Loudon, then the Sail and Cleat, then the Unicorn. At each stop I unloaded a keg or two of Italian claret or Spanish sack and usually took an equal number of empty kegs to return to the warehouse. Each tavern had its own account with Motheby and Southern; payments, whether in coin or credit, went into a leather pouch tied to my belt. I was pleased that after so short a time the masters trusted me with their money.

  The streets were full, as always, with so many people on so many errands they made me dizzy. In the village where I grew up, everyone's business was known even before he did anything: when the blacksmith crossed the street at ten o'clock he was making for his morning dram at the Red Lion, and when Mary Fable ran from one house to another she was looking for “that devil Stephen,” her youngest. But in London, aims multiplied with the populace. Every carter, beggar, housewife, and lord spun his thread, weaving in a huge intricate pattern the life of the city. The liveliest threads were spun by apprentices. Most, like me, went about their work with more or less willing hands, minding their own business. But the shiftless ones were always roaming in packs and looking for trouble.

  I was between the Unicorn and the Roaring Bull at noon that day when—amid the shouts of tradesmen, the tunes of vendors singing their wares, and the groan of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones—my ears picked up the sound of running steps. Many steps, coming up directly behind me.

  Without thinking I swerved the barrow to one side. Three figures darted across the street to my right, making toward a small group of young men who had gathered to pass the time. One of them clipped a fellow in the knees, another snatched an apprentice's cap, the third butted shoulders with a lad hard enough to knock him to the ground. The street seemed to freeze for an instant, as though caught in a flash of lightning, then out of no particular throat came the bloodcurdling cry: “Clubs!”

  The street erupted. Women grabbed their children and dashed for shelter. Carters whipped their horses to the sidelines, snatched their halters, and covered their eyes. At the same time young men and boys boiled out of the shops and side streets, eager to join the fight, no matter its cause.

  I was not one of them. No one had to advise me to push my cargo aside and hold clear. But the barrow was scarcely turned when I felt a pair of arms grab me from behind. A hand clapped over my mouth and a hot taste of pewter flooded my tongue as a heavy ring jarred my teeth.

  With a strength born of panic I twisted loose, but not free. The grip that held me, unyielding as iron, pushed me into the rough plaster wall. Then a blow to the ribs and an exploding pain that forced all the air from my lungs. The riot entered and took possession of me, a steady roar in which no detail stood out separate and alone. Except for the knife at my throat.

  Thin and cold, the edge of the blade bit lightly into my neck. A dead-quiet voice without inflection spoke in my ear, seemed to bore directly into my brain: “If you want to stay well, you'll fly
away straight.” The knife then glided across my throat, and after it trailed a thread of sensation that was not yet pain. Fear, rather, as pure and cold as spring water. It emptied me, so that when I was released I slumped against the wall, with no more strength to stand.

  The city watch had arrived: constables with clubs and flails, dragging the warriors apart. None bothered with me, a mere piece of turf flung aside in the conflict. From the wall I gulped air like a cod, calling home my scattered wits. I felt a warm wetness on my neck and reached up to touch it; my fingers came away bloody. The words were burnt into my mind: “If you want to stay well …” Who could wish me ill? What danger or threat was I to any soul alive? I remembered hands clutching my chest—too many hands for one person only. There must have been two. My watchers? I leaned forward, felt the pain in my ribs, and caught my breath sharply.

  My wallet was gone. I searched my clothes and the ground all about, but knew it had been taken—that, and nothing else. The coins and receipts were still in the leather pouch at my side, the barrow lacked not one keg of valuable wine. What they had wanted was the one possession I would have fought to the death for.

  I felt my loss, cold as a gust of air through a bad tooth. They went right for it, as though knowing where it was, and what it contained. I blinked, taking in the scene before me: young men limping away or still prostrate on the rough paving stones; cracked heads, broken bones. Had it all come about because someone was after me?

  At that, rational thought deserted me entire. I abandoned my barrow and ran like a rabbit, darting down the nearest by-lane, scattering a knot of children who were playing some game in the street. They shouted abuse at me, but I ran on until I came to an alley, then dove into it to catch my breath.

  Though the stench almost gagged me, I waited there until I was satisfied no one had followed. Then I picked my way between the dark and fetid walls to the next lane, and stole down that one to the next, and on through the narrow crooked streets until I emerged on Cheapside, with St. Paul's directly ahead.

  Booksellers dominate the south common of the cathedral; here in a forest of fluttering ballads and broadsides I took refuge. A right unsavory-looking character by then, sweaty and begrimed, with blood staining my shirt, I sought to fend off notice by burying my nose in a small book of poetry. The quarto was poorly printed and cheaply bound, and the poems in it may have deserved no better. Still, they served as a painful reminder of what I had lost.

  On the day after my mother died, I had broken the lock on the small lead casket that held her dearest possessions. Susanna and I divided the contents: a ring, two silver spoons, a pendant passed down from our grandmother, the medallion rubbing, and a sonnet, which read in part

  But soft within the layered petals keep they curled,

  These poor sighs of mine by the rose concealed

  While in thy sweet possession rise to fly unfurled;

  My secret wound enbalmed, my hidden hurts healed.

  R.M., 1581

  “It should be buried with her,” Susanna had decided.

  My reply came after a long pause. “I want to keep it.”

  “Whatever for?” Her voice rose, becoming shrill. “‘Twas not written to you. Only our mother had a part in it, and that little enough.”

  “I want to keep it, though.” I could not have found the words to say why, but these lines were of my father's heart, and in his hand, and seemed to give back a little of what he had taken away.

  “Poetry,” Susanna muttered bitterly. “A treasure indeed. You can guess how much comfort it brought her.” But she put up no further argument, especially when I offered her the ring and pendant, and the spoons to keep for me. Only the papers had I taken, and thought them a fair trade. But now they were gone. And the rector's testimony, and those silly beads I had bought in my mother's memory, and the shilling given me by my first friend in London—all gone.

  “Will you be buying that book, sirrah?” The bookseller, a portly dame who looked better suited to selling iron skillets, folded her arms and glared at me meaningfully.

  For answer I replaced the quarto and turned away, speechless. Drawn toward the cathedral by a need for quiet prayer and reflection, I climbed the stone steps and passed through the arched doorway into the nave—where I paused for a moment, blinking in surprise. The interior of St. Paul's was almost as boisterous as the grounds. It appeared to be a kind of public meeting hall, where money changed hands over the very font, and hopeful tradesmen angled for work, and lovers whispered together in dark corners. London had confounded me once again; in a daze I made my way past all these doings and into the unoccupied south transept, where a row of short high-backed benches stood in a pool of light falling from the clerestory overhead. Here I knelt, with my elbows on a bench and my head in my hands, and tried to think.

  By now my fright had ebbed away, and another sensation was stealing in to take its place. I recognized this new arrival— a quality that was my mother's bane, the one thing in me that drove her to violence. “Ah, thou'rt ever a stubborn lad!” she would cry. One time I refused to apologize to Susanna for an offense I did not see myself to blame for, and Mother took my head and slammed it against the heavy oak door of our cottage. “Stubborn, stubborn lad!” she cried, and then clutched one hand with the other as though to restrain them, while I bit my lip so hard it bled, forcing back tears. She had a temper but also true humility; it was she who begged my pardon later, not the other way round.

  Alas though, she was right. When crossed, I am apt to dig in my heels and refuse to shift in any direction. I do not attack; I resist.

  And now I was crossed, as never before. I struck my head on the back of the bench and cursed my aunt, the so-called Holy Nan, with more passion than I had thought was in me. Without doubt she was responsible for this—she, and those she had set on me. “Fly away straight,” they said, but I hereby vowed not to oblige them. Those who had stolen my heart evidently expected me to run home with my tail between my legs. But I would not. I found myself knocking my head against the wood over and over, hard enough to hurt. Stubborn, stubborn lad. Almighty Lord, I prayed: let them not escape. Deliver me from unrighteous and evil men, and bring them unto thy most speedy judgment.

  Surely that judgment would fall, and soon. In the meantime I meant to stay, for no better reason than my enemies wished me gone.

  Returning to work at Motheby and Southern was out of the question. Somehow I must spirit back the pouch that held their bills and receipts and leave them to draw what conclusions they could. This was the very day we were to draw up the papers binding me to an apprenticeship, but fortunately that had not come to pass—I need not add bond-breaking to my list of woes. Most of my possessions, except what I carried on me, would have to be written off as lost. I dared not show my face on the docks; they would no doubt be watching, as they had before. Starling had been right about that. Perhaps she was right about other things as well.

  What I needed was a place in London where I might be free from detection and still earn a living.

  A place where I could fit immediately into a set or trade and go about in company—unnoticed, perhaps even disguised.

  A place where no one watching for me would ever think to look.

  THE COMPANY

  o, lad,” were Master Condell's first words to me. “You've had second thoughts about acting, have you?”

  “In a way, sir. If you still want me, I am willing to bind to you.”

  “You are willing.” His tone was dry. “That's all well, but I don't comprise the Lord Chamberlain's Men by myself. The rest of the Company must approve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then take a place at the board, and we'll hear you anon.”

  So I seated myself at one end of the table with six other boys, most younger than I, and all more presentable. My afternoon had been spent in outfitting myself by any means at hand to one who had no change of clothes, nor tiring place to change them, and scarcely two coins to rub together. I d
id manage to wash my shirt in a rain barrel behind the cathedral, and scrubbed most of the blood from it. With my next-to-last farthing I bought a strip of linen and tied it to cover the cut on my neck, hoping to create an impression of uprightness. In truth, I probably resembled an undersized street brawler, but no one at the table paid me much heed. The men at one end were deep in discussion about a trial, trade, and the city of Venice, carried on a tide of names all ending in “o.” The boys were engrossed in study—each held a piece of paper and scanned the words on it intently, with a fluttering of lips that told me they were memorizing the words thereon. No sooner had I understood this than Master Condell passed a scrap of paper down to me: “Con these words as best you can. You'll soon be asked to speak them without reference to the paper.”

  This was all the instruction I received. I looked down at twenty-odd lines of verse, and panic struck, hard as a blow to the side. I had not seen an entire play in my life, and my only notion of acting was pieced together from my memories of inn-yard performers and our village rector's dramatic reading from Scripture. The scheme I had determined in the clear, pearly light of St. Paul's appeared as insubstantial as a dream in the smoke and noise of the Mermaid Tavern. The speech began thus:

  The quality of mercy is not strained;

  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

  Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;

  It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.

  'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

  The thron'd monarch better than his crown …

  And so on for another sixteen lines in praise of mercy, the glory of kings and gift of God. I reckoned that these were the words of a play; the speech appeared to take place in a court of law and was addressed in part to a nameless Jew. But who was speaking, and to what end, and upon what occasion, I knew not. To make matters worse, scarcely five minutes after I had begun my study, one of the boys at the table was called upon to recite for the Company. My turn could not be far away.