Player's Wench

by Marina Oliver

  'He – merely said his father was coming to see mine, on an important matter. Would he not be as good a match as William Sutton? His father is wealthy, and influential too! He has much to do with the Merchant Adventurers.'

  Mistress Atwell sighed. 'Apart from Robert's character, it would not do, my love. The Merchant Adventurers, from what your father has been saying, are in deep trouble. They have lost some of their privileges, and as well are greatly in debt. They are not like to make a recover for many years, if at all, and a marriage with one of them would not do what your father wants.'

  'What he wants!' Honour burst out in anger and disappointment. 'Why should his desires be the most important? I am the one to make the marriage! Why must his business affairs interfere in that?'

  'Marriage is a business,' her mother replied, suppressing a sigh. 'We have never had any say in it, and are at the disposal of our fathers. We must make the best of it, and consider ourselves fortunate if we have a kindly husband. There is much consolation in our children, my dear. Your father has been kind to me, although he may appear stern at times, and I have been blessed with my daughters. I can only pray you have equal fortune. Now it is suppertime, and you must not appear distressed, for that would make your father anxious, and when he is anxious he is likely to become angry.'

  *

  Honour comported herself creditably during that meal, and the following day, but her composure was badly shaken when she met her intended husband. He was much older than she had imagined, being in his mid-thirties, and was already developing a bald patch which gave prominence to his bulging forehead. He greeted her coldly, subjecting her to a considering stare as if, as she resentfully complained afterwards to Patience, he was appraising a bargain in the market. Although he sat beside her at the meal, he made no effort to talk beyond asking her what housewifely accomplishments she possessed, and informing her he was rather set in his ways, and would expect his bride to conform in all matters to his wishes.

  Honour went to bed that night almost wishing she was being married to the older brother, for he had been much more pleasant, and talked to her of music and painting, admiring her needlework and encouraging her to voice her opinions. She wondered anxiously what William's sister was like, for that lady had been indisposed and unable to come to supper. Instead, William had coldly informed Honour as he took his leave of her that he would call for her on the following afternoon and take her to meet Mistress Young.

  'As well as introducing you to Elizabeth, it will give us an opportunity to become better acquainted,' he said, not appearing pleased at the prospect.

  Elizabeth Young was astonishingly like William in both looks and manner, and Honour came away from the meeting intensely depressed about the prospect of spending her life in such a family. She found it almost impossible to converse with William, for he dismissed every topic she introduced with apparent contempt. Gradually her misery turned to anger, and it was in a somewhat rebellious mood that she halted to read a bill displayed on a post near the Exchange.

  ' "The Silent Woman", indeed?' she said provocatively. 'Is that what you would have me be, William?'

  He gazed at her in pained surprise. 'What a fanciful notion, Honour! I like a woman to talk good sense, and in a godly fashion. There is no especial virtue in being silent, apart from when she has nought to say.'

  'It must be an amusing play,' Honour said reflectively. 'I would so dearly love to see such. I have begged Father to take us ever since the King's Men opened at their new theatre last year, but he will not listen to the idea.'

  'I should think not, indeed, and I cannot think well of you to even want to witness such a disgusting spectacle as a play!'

  'Why is it disgusting?' Honour demanded angrily. 'I see no harm in it!'

  'But you, my dear Honour, are but a woman, and young. You must permit your father, and your husband, to guide your tastes in this as in everything else. Under the Commonwealth and Protectorate such lewd and immoral entertainments were rightly frowned upon, and those who participated in them severely punished. One of the worst aspects of the King's Restoration is his ungodly encouragement of such dissipations.'

  'I think it has been much more cheerful these last four years, since the King came home,' Honour persisted.

  'Then it is time your thoughts were given a more sober direction by the cares and responsibilities of matrimony. No,' he said severely, as Honour began to speak, 'I will hear no more on it. The subject is closed.'

  *

  Fuming, Honour stalked along Cheapside, and left William at the house door, tossing her head as her only reply when he gravely bade her farewell. She knew her behaviour was excessively rude, and when he came to hear of it, as he surely would, her father would chastise her harshly. She was past caring, for she was determined nothing would force her to wed the stiff, censorious man her father had chosen for her.

  It was all very well to vow she would not marry him, but she was well aware that if her father cared to do so, he could employ methods to force her compliance. One of her friends had been all but starved until she had consented to obey her father, and another had been beaten so distressingly she had been carried to the marriage ceremony. Honour trembled at the thought of enduring such measures, but consoled herself rather hesitantly with the thought that her father was not, as fathers went, an especially harsh parent. Surely when she explained her great aversion to William Sutton, her father would be willing to select another husband for her. After all, he had boasted there were many merchants anxious to make alliances with his family.

  She had no opportunity of speaking with either her father or her mother before suppertime, and had to contain her impatience to have the matter settled, but the events at supper caused her father to become so angry Honour prudently delayed approaching him that day.

  Patience had also seen the play bills, which were being distributed all over the city. She had discovered one thrust under the knocker, and gleefully produced it to show the rest of the family.

  'Look at this, it advertises a play!' she exclaimed. 'How I would love to see it. Please, Father, will you take us? It does not cost a great deal, the cheapest seats are but a shilling.'

  'What is that you have there?' Mr Atwell demanded angrily, reaching out his hand for the bill.

  'It tells of a play, Father, at the King's House. That is new built, I think. Is it like the puppet plays you have taken us to see?'

  'No, of course not!'

  This interruption came from Ben Cobham, her father's young apprentice, who was a year younger than Honour.

  'How do you know?' Patience asked, turning to him. 'Have you been? Why did you not say?'

  'I haven't been to the King's House, but long ago, when I was a child, I saw plays at the Red Bull in Clerkenwell. Very fine, they were, too, not a mite like puppet plays,' he added scornfully.

  Mr Atwell had perused the bill Patience had handed to him, and now he looked up, and carefully tore it across.

  'I would ask you, Patience, never to bring such filth into my house again, and you, Ben not to talk of such. Bad enough it is you have been subjected to the evil influence of such deplorable displays, and when their performance was illegal, too, but while you are under my charge, you shall have nought to do with them. They are pernicious, evil devices of the devil!'

  Patience looked at him, wide-eyed.

  'Oh, no,' she exclaimed. 'They cannot be, for I overheard Mother telling Mistress Baker that she had seen performances when she was a girl, before the wars.'

  Too late to silence this innocent utterance, Honour kicked Patience fiercely under the table, and Patience let out a cry of pain and astonishment, and began to cry, telling Honour through her tears that she was a nasty, wicked beast. Mr Atwell rose slowly to his feet, and even Patience, awed, ceased her wailing.

  'What have I done to deserve two such unmannerly daughters!' he thundered, banging the table with his fist. 'You, Honour, behave in a most abandoned way, and cannot be trusted alone outside the
house, and then you create a commotion at the supper table by violence towards your sister! As for you, Patience, I can only trust you are too young to understand fully the wickedness you implore me to take you to witness! Plays are an abomination, but to have women who are no better than painted whores flaunting themselves before the rakes of the Court in breeches is an insult to all decent women! It should not be allowed, and if sober citizens had the ear of the King instead of riotous, unprincipled courtiers, it would be forbidden. I wish to hear no more of plays or players from any of you! Go to your rooms, and beg pardon for your wickednesses!'

  Thankfully they escaped from his wrath, and in the room they shared, after Honour had castigated Patience for her stupidity in mentioning what her mother had said, for fear their father would be angry with her, they fell, instead of considering their sins, into a discussion of the enchantments to be found at the theatres.

  'I did not know women wore breeches,' Patience commented. 'Why should they do so, do you think?'

  'I suppose they masquerade as men,' Honour said slowly.

  'What fun! Oh, how I would love to be an actress, if I could wear breeches instead of petticoats! I do not think it is really wrong, do you? I think father said so because he dislikes all women!'

  With that observation she turned over and went to sleep, and Honour, far from forgetting the desire to see a play, began to scheme as to how she might contrive such an adventure.

  *

  Chapter 2

  Hoping her father's anger would have subsided, Honour sought him out on the following morning, but he was on the point of going out to see another merchant, and he irritably told her he would be too busy to discuss trifling matters that day, but might be able to spare her some time on the following afternoon.

  With that he left her, and Ben, who had also been in the room, grinned at her in sympathy.

  'Has he been angry all morning?' Honour asked, sighing. 'I had hoped to find him in a pleasant mood.'

  'He's spoken scarce a word, Mistress Honour,' the boy answered.

  'Is he angry with you too?'

  'Indeed he is, and all because I went to see plays before I ever became his apprentice!' Ben said ruefully.

  'Oh, he is unfair! But Ben, tell me, what were they really like?'

  'I've never seen anything to compare them with,' Ben replied eagerly. 'I saw a tragedy, and I could scarce keep still for wondering whether the man would be killed or not, and wanting to fight the other one who was persecuting him! Then, another time, I saw a comedy, and laughed until I cried, and could not see for the tears in my eyes. To be sure, they were not in the least like the puppet shows we are allowed to see.'

  'The plays were forbidden, were they not? Did you not fear to be taken?'

  'Not as much as I would have been some years earlier. The authorities tried to suppress plays more than they had before, and then there were many raids, but by the time I was old enough to go to the Red Bull, there were very few.'

  'And so you were never caught in one?' Honour asked, a touch of regret in her voice.

  'No. Why, even Cromwell permitted Davenant to stage entertainments like "The Siege of Rhodes", thinking they were musical performances rather than plays.'

  'But wasn't Davenant imprisoned?'

  'I am not quite sure why. I know he was kept in the Tower for some years, for my mother told me I was born on the day after he was put there. He had been going from France to Maryland, to be Governor there, I believe, but his ship was captured. He must have been released at some time, because in the last year or so of the Protector, he arranged these performances. Then he was put in prison again because people complained that "The Siege of Rhodes" was too like a play. It must have been exciting,' he mused. 'Did you know it was then they first painted screens to represent the various scenes? I would love to see that. Just think of it, you could have any sort of country depicted – forests, deserts, the sea or things like ships and palaces! It is much simpler than trying to show such things in any other way!'

  'Do they do so at the King's House?'

  'Oh, to be sure, and in other ways the performances are said to be different. Even women act on the stage now, in public.'

  'But did they not before? I heard Mother saying once the old Queen Henrietta acted at Court.'

  'Oh, aye, at Court, in private.'

  'It must be so exciting to act. Have you never been to see a play since the King returned and they were allowed?'

  'No,' Ben confessed, 'for your father disapproves, and would be monstrous angry if he knew!'

  'If he knew! Why should he?' Honour demanded, the light of rebellion in her eyes. 'You have made me anxious to see a play, at least once. Let us go!'

  'In truth I did not intend that!' Ben said, aghast, but Honour laughed.

  'I wanted to go before you talked of it,' she informed him. 'The problem is how? Father will not permit me to go out unescorted while he is so angry with me, so I shall have to go when he is away from home. What are his plans, Ben? You should know.'

  'Really, Mistress Honour, you ought not!' Ben said in dismay.

  'Of course I ought. Why, when I am married to that sour-faced William Sutton it is certain I will never be permitted to go! This may be the only opportunity. Please, Ben, you must help me!'

  Ben looked at her, undecided. He was only too well aware of the anger her father would display if such a plan came to his ears, but he had for some time past nursed an adolescent adoration for the lovely Honour. When she turned her enormous green eyes towards him, and smiled somewhat tremulously, the very idea of disappointing her sent stabs of agony to his heart.

  'You'd be bound to be recognised, and your father would come to hear of it,' he said urgently.

  'That problem can be overcome if you help me,' she said gaily. 'When they talk of women wearing breeches in the plays, to masquerade as men, I wondered if it would be possible to do it off the stage. I shall wear a pair of your breeches, Ben, and tie my hair back under a broad hat, then no one could possibly recognise me!'

  'You dare not!' he gasped.

  'Why not? The more I think on it the better it seems. It even helps me to get out of the house, for if I am wearing breeches, I will be able to climb over the wall at the back of the house as I did when I was a child, and into the churchyard. No one will miss me if I choose a day when my father will be away. Tell me, Ben, what are his plans?'

  'I ought not to help you,' he said despairingly.

  'But you will, won't you?' she wheedled. 'I shall go alone, and in petticoats, if you do not,' she added as he still hesitated. 'All I want you to do is lend me some clothes, and tell me when my father will be away. I can discover that for myself, except that if I make such enquiries he will be suspicious, and I will go as a girl, which might not be such fun as dressing as a boy!'

  'The devil! I can't let you do that! I – I must come with you!' Ben said, the words wrung from him, and he blushed furiously as Honour, delighted, seized his hands and kissed him on the cheek.

  'Darling Ben! I knew you would not disappoint me! Now, when can it be?'

  *

  Having committed himself, Ben threw himself with thoroughness into the preparations, knowing the chances of discovery and disgrace would be greater if he were careless. Mr Atwell was due to visit a business acquaintance three days hence, and that was the day decided upon. On the following morning Honour seized an opportunity to visit Ben and receive from him the bundle of clothes he had made for her, and she bore it off in triumph to her room, where, having made sure Patience was safely occupied elsewhere in the house, she hastily dressed herself and paraded about the room in her breeches, trying to ape the style of the gallants she often saw in the streets.

  Then, with nothing more to do but wait as patiently as she could, she began to worry about her other problem. It was four days since she had met Robert Reade, and he had said he would be sailing in three, but before he did his father would be visiting Mr Atwell. Honour had no means of knowing whether Mr
Reade had seen her father, and even if he had made an offer for her she was sure her father would not now accept, but she longed for the opportunity of seeing Robert again. The past few days had been hot and sultry, and there had been no breeze, so she thought it more than likely the ships in the Thames might have been delayed. Making the heat an excuse for wanting to walk out, Honour begged her mother to permit one of the maids to accompany her.

  Sympathetic, for she knew the distaste Honour felt for her proposed bridegroom, and admired the way Honour appeared to be accepting the decision on her future, Mistress Atwell agreed, having no notion of what Honour's real motives were.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Honour turned towards the river, and quietened the maid's protests by saying she thought it would be cooler there. Slowly they walked along, and Honour carefully scanned the ships riding at anchor in the bustling river. When they reached Tower Stairs, Honour stopped, anxiously wondering whether any of the ships moored beneath the massive grey walls was the one Robert had offered to show to her. Unfortunately he had not said what the name was, and she was about to turn despondently away when she was hailed by a man just stepping out of a boat.

  'Mistress Atwell, good day to you.'

  Honour glanced at him, then smiled suddenly. It was Richard, the younger brother of Robert.

  'How do you do?' she asked breathlessly. 'Is one of these ships yours?'

  'Indeed it is, the nearest. She is a fine one, is she not?'

  'Robert told me one of the ships was sailing soon to the Baltic,' Honour said with an attempt at indifference. 'Is that the one?'

  'Aye, she'll be off as soon as the wind rises.'

  'Is – is Robert on her?'

  'Robert? No, he's already gone. He rode for Dover two days since.'