Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  “A sword wound?” I asked.

  “No, a fragment of an Irish cannonball. It went through my hip, the surgeon told me, and lodged near the base of my spine.”

  “Gog’s blood!” I breathed. “All I’ve ever done is mock fighting on the stage. I can scarcely imagine what it’s like to be in the thick of a real battle.”

  “I hope you never have to learn,” said Jamie Redshaw soberly.

  I hoped so, too. Yet I couldn’t help feeling, for the first time, a trifle ashamed of my profession, and wondering what a man who had truly known death and tragedy would make of our pale imitations.

  “It’s very odd,” I said, “that you should be a soldier.”

  He frowned slightly. “Why? What do I look as though I’d be? A plowman?”

  “Nay, nay,” I replied hastily. “I only meant it’s odd because not long ago someone asked about me father and, on a whim, I said ‘a was a soldier. Ha’ you always been, or were you a prentice, like me?”

  “I apprenticed to a boatwright.”

  “A boatwright? Not in Yorkshire, surely?”

  Laughing, Jamie Redshaw held up his stick as though to ward off my onslaught of questions. “Patience, boy, patience! We can’t hope to make up for fifteen years in as many minutes, you know! As I said, I’ll not disappear. There will be plenty of opportunity later for all your questions. For now, let us simply get to know one another, as new-made acquaintances do, shall we?”

  I nodded, embarrassed. “Aye. I’m sorry.”

  By the time we reached the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, a long stream of playgoers were paying their pennies to Sam, who had a gatherer’s box suspended by a thong around his neck. “Where have you been?” he wanted to know. “Everyone’s been asking me.”

  “I’ve been—I was—” It was all too much to try to explain. “I’ll tell you later,” I mumbled, and squeezed past the paying folk.

  “‘Here!” Sam called after Jamie Redshaw. “You’ve got to pay your penny, sir!”

  “‘A’s wi’ me, Sam,” I told him.

  “Who is he?” asked Sam, never one to hold back a question, however difficult.

  I glanced uncertainly at Jamie Redshaw, who gave me a conspiratorial wink. “A new-made acquaintance,” he said.

  At one end of the hall, the city had erected a stage for us nearly as large as the one at the Globe. I led Jamie Redshaw around the curtain to where the players, already in costume, were making up one another’s faces in the absence of a decent mirror.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I blurted, before anyone could take me to task for it. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “It’s not l-like you,” said Mr. Heminges. “We thought you m-must have good reason.”

  “Actually,” said Will Sly, “we were taking wagers. Mr. Shakespeare fancied that your old master had kidnapped you. Jack was sure you’d deserted and gone back to London. My contention was that you’d spent all your salary on strong drink and were out cold in a tavern somewhere.”

  “Well, you’re all wrong,” I said, “though I was in several taverns.”

  “Aha!” cried Will triumphantly. “I was nearest the mark!”

  “Who’s your friend?” asked Mr. Armin. “A would-be player?”

  “Nay, ‘a’s …” I hesitated. The notion of having a father at hand was still so unfamiliar to me.

  “I’m Jamie Redshaw,” he volunteered. “And you have a performance to do, so I’d best let you get on with it. Widge, we’ll talk later.” He stepped down from the platform and disappeared behind the curtain.

  Alarmed, I ran after him. “You’re not leaving?”

  “No, no,” he assured me. “I’ll just be out front here, watching the play.”

  I nodded and backed away, keeping an eye on him as long as possible, fearful still that he might vanish and, with him, the only link I had to my heritage.

  The company were all too busy to question me further. I helped make up faces and pin together splitting seams; I made certain all the properties were in their places; I retrieved from the script trunk the plot of the play, which showed all the actors’ entrances, and hung it on the back side of the curtain. It was fortunate that I had done all these things a hundred times before, for my mind was not on them.

  In between tasks, I stole a look out into the audience to make certain Jamie Redshaw was still there. When I could not spot him at once, my heart seemed to stop; then I caught sight of him off to one side, perched upon one of the stools that were reserved for those who could afford an extra sixpence.

  Once the performance began, I volunteered to hold the book and throw lines out to those actors who were floundering. Though Sal Pavy had never before played the part of Lavinia on the stage, he showed no sign of needing help. On the few occasions when he did lose his way a little, he managed to get his bearings again with no prompting from me.

  I wished now, more than ever, that I had not been so obliging as to let him have the part. I longed to make my father proud of me, and I could not do that from behind the stage. And yet perhaps it was just as well this way; considering the state my mind was in, I would likely have forgotten half my lines.

  I did my best to pick out flaws in Sal Pavy’s performance and did, indeed, find two. When he came on at the end of Act II with his hands lopped off, I could see the tips of his fingers poking out of one sleeve; and when he tripped over the hem of his dress in Act III, I distinctly heard him mutter a curse, despite the fact that his tongue was supposedly cut out.

  But as far as acting ability was concerned, I had to admit—difficult as it was for me to do so—that he played the part, as theatre folk say, to the life. All trace of the spoiled and self-important Sal Pavy had vanished, and in his place was a piteous young woman who had been “ravished and wronged.” When I had played Lavinia, and was called upon to scratch out the names of the villains in the dirt, holding the staff in my teeth and guiding it with my stumps, my clumsiness sometimes elicited laughter, not pity, from the audience. When Sal Pavy did the scene, there was not a single snicker, not a sound except perhaps a sniffle or two from some softhearted member of the audience. I could not help it; I disliked him more than ever.

  True to his word, Jamie Redshaw rejoined us after the play was done and returned with us to the inn. Though the situation was an awkward one for me, I should have known how to conduct myself. I had, after all, had dozens of fathers before this—Leonato in Much Ado, Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, Polonius in Hamlet. Yet I had always been a daughter, never a son. I felt as though I were living out that dream every actor dreads, the one in which he is unexpectedly called upon to play a role totally unfamiliar to him. I had no notion of what to say, or where the day’s developments might lead.

  Happily, Jamie Redshaw seemed more sure of himself than I. Over dinner, he revealed to the company what he had implied to me. I had expected my fellow players to react with surprise to this revelation, and they did. I had also expected them to be delighted for me. I had, after all, after fifteen years of thinking myself an orphan, discovered that I had a family, or at least part of one.

  They were cordial enough, to be sure, and offered their congratulations, but I sensed a certain reserve, especially on the part of Mr. Armin and Mr. Shakespeare, as though they were taking Jamie Redshaw’s measure. It put me in mind of the way they behaved toward the players who auditioned for temporary roles at the Globe. I had the feeling they were debating whether or not he was suited to the part.

  As for me, I was, I suppose, more like a playwright who has waited year upon year for some actor to audition for a crucial role in his play and gotten not a single prospect. I would likely have taken anyone who happened along.

  Not that I was disappointed in the player I got. Watching Jamie Redshaw converse with the members of the company, I felt an unexpected and unfamiliar swell of something that I could only identify as pride. Though he was a simple soldier, a man of action, and not a scholar, he seemed quite comfortable in the company of
men as intelligent and witty as the sharers. In fact, he behaved as if they were not new-made acquaintances but the oldest of friends. If he was discomfited at all by their appraising manner he did not show it; indeed, he seemed not to notice. He proceeded to give a highly entertaining—and highly exaggerated—account of how he and I had met. When he recounted how I fell off my stool in astonishment, it drew a round of raucous laughter. Though I did not recall doing such a thing, I did not spoil the hilarity by saying so.

  In the midst of Jamie Redshaw’s story the innkeeper approached us and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but there’s a wight outside says ‘a desires to speak wi’ someone in your company.”

  “Well, h-have him c-come in,” said Mr. Heminges.

  “‘A says ‘a wishes to talk out there.”

  The sharers glanced at one another. Mr. Armin got to his feet. “I’ll go see what it’s about.”

  When he was gone, Jamie Redshaw resumed his story, but was interrupted again by a sudden loud snoring sound close at hand. I turned to see that Sam had put his head down on the table and was fast asleep. Several of the company laughed, but I did not, for I had taken note of how flushed Sam’s face looked and how the sweat stood out on his brow. “I hope ‘a’s not ill.”

  “J-just tired, I expect,” said Mr. Heminges. “That g-gathering box is a heavy b-burden for a boy.”

  “Especially considering how much money we took in,” added Mr. Phillips. “Why don’t you help him up to bed, Widge?”

  I hesitated, reluctant yet to let Jamie Redshaw out of my sight. Seeming to sense my dilemma, he smiled and nodded. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  As I assisted Sam in mounting the stairs, I heard Jamie Redshaw take up the thread of his story again. I could not make out the words; whatever they were, they drew more appreciative laughter from his audience. When I returned to the main room of the inn, however, no one was laughing, and Jamie Redshaw was no longer holding forth. Everyone was silent and sober-faced. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Mr. Armin, who had taken his place again at the table, looked up at me. “Our stay here has been cut short.”

  “For what reason?” I cried. “Did they not like us?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve been upstaged,” replied Mr. Armin. “By the plague.”

  16

  The man Mr. Armin had gone to speak with was the town’s bailiff. His message was that, since our company’s arrival in York, there had been a rash of plague deaths. No one was accusing us of having brought them on, but the local officials thought it best to ban any public gatherings for a time, until the threat died down.

  We had scheduled a shortened version of The Taming of the Shrew for the following morning, and we would be permitted to proceed with it, but we were not to finish out the week. Every member of our company was upset by the news, for it meant only half the profit we had anticipated. I had even more cause for distress; I would have to leave behind my newfound father without ever having gotten to know him. I did have an alternative, of course. I could drop out of the company and remain in York. But that prospect was even more painful than the first.

  “I’m sorry, Widge,” said Mr. Armin. “I know this creates a dilemma for you.”

  “If you f-feel you need to stay a few m-more days,” said Mr. Heminges, “we c-could manage without you, I suppose.” Though I knew he meant only to ease my mind, his words stung me. I would have preferred to hear that I was indispensable, that the company could not possibly spare me.

  “No,” Jamie Redshaw put in unexpectedly. “It would not be fair to the company for Widge to stay on here. You’re having to double up parts as it is.” I stared at him in dismay. Now I was being betrayed by both sides. Why was he so ready to let me go? Did I mean nothing to him?

  “B-but you’ve only j-just found one another. We’ve no w-wish to wrench him from you so s-soon.”

  “Nor do I wish you to,” said Jamie Redshaw calmly. “Fortunately I have a solution that I think will suit everyone.”

  “You do?” I said.

  Smiling, he spread his hands palms upward. “It’s simple,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

  After only a few minutes’ discussion among themselves, the sharers agreed to Jamie Redshaw’s proposal. Mr. Heminges made it clear that they could not afford to pay him a hired man’s wages; but, like every prentice’s father, he was entitled to two shillings a week from the company in return for his son’s services.

  “Well,” said Jamie Redshaw amiably, “it’s more than I’m receiving at the moment. By rights, I should be collecting an army pension, but they continually deny me it.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  There was more than a trace of bitterness in his laugh. “Because,” he said, “they’re the army.”

  Through the night I heard Sam thrashing about restlessly and, when I put my hand on him to still him, I felt that he was soaked with perspiration; though the air in the room was close and warm, it did not account for such a surfeit of sweat.

  In the morning he was too weak to come down to breakfast, so I took him up a bowl of porridge. Once he’d gotten it down he seemed stronger and in better spirits. Even so, when we set out for the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, he seemed hardly able to keep himself upright. “Are you going to be able to go on?” I asked.

  “I’ll manage,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “After the performance, I’ll tell them you need to see a physician.”

  “The company can’t afford that,” he said. “Can’t you give me something?”

  “How can I? I don’t ken what’s wrong wi’ you.”

  He stopped and put a hand that trembled slightly on my arm. Softly he said, “It’s not the contagion, is it, Widge?”

  “Nay,” I said, trying to sound confident and trying, too, not to shrink back from his touch. “Nay, I’m sure it’s just some fever or other.”

  I took Sam’s place at the entrance, collecting the patrons’ pennies. I had expected, after what we learned the night before, to see our audience dwindle drastically. But either the news of the plague deaths had not yet reached everyone’s ears or else they had all determined to take in one last performance before the privilege was denied them, for folk were flocking to the theatre in greater numbers than ever.

  The box grew so heavy with coins that I had to set it at my feet and collect the money in my hand—until I came to think that someone in the throng might, in passing their money to me, also be passing on the plague. I opened the lid of the box, then, and asked each one to drop his money in.

  Sam, who was playing several small roles, held up somehow through the first three acts. But in Act IV, he came on as Biondello, spoke his line—“O master, master, I have watched so long that I am dog-weary”—and collapsed upon the boards. I froze, unable to think of how to thribble my way out of this.

  But Sal Pavy, in his guise as Bianca, was quicker-witted. “Ah, sir,” he said to Ned Shakespeare as Lucentio, “you work your men too hard by far”—a clever bit of improvised pentameter. Then he paraphrased Sam’s lines, still in perfect meter: “I spy a person coming down the hill will serve the turn.”

  I had presence of mind enough to change my line—“What is he, Biondello?”—to “What is he, Mistress, pray?” Sal Pavy replied with Biondello’s part. When he and Ned left the stage, they dragged Sam’s limp form with them. The audience must have thought it was all in the script, for it fetched a laugh.

  Though we revived Sam with tincture of myrrh, he was too weak to go on, so we worked around his absence. He still refused to see a physician. “All I need is to rest a while,” he assured us. The sharers, wanting to push on to the next town where we might perform, had him ride atop our rolled-up bedding in the careware, and this time no one objected, not even Jack.

  The pace of the procession was more brisk than usual and I could see that Jamie Redshaw, with his stiff gait, was finding it difficult to keep up with the carewares. “There’s no need
to tax yourself,” I told him confidentially. “We’ll catch up wi’ them on the hills.”

  When we fell a bit behind the others, I said, “Did you take in the morning’s performance, then?”

  He nodded but offered nothing further.

  “Well?” I prompted. “How did you like it?”

  He cast me an amused glance. “I suppose what you mean is, how did I like you?”

  I felt myself go red. “I did not want it to seem as though I were angling for compliments.”

  “You did well,” he said. I waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more on the matter. I tried to dull the disappointment I felt by telling myself that, of course, being a soldier he had likely had little experience with the theatre and did not know what to say. But I had used that same sort of reasoning over and over to excuse his lack of fatherly affection toward me, and it was wearing thin.

  It was well before dark when we spied the town of Harrogate ahead of us. We were spied in turn by a man—a merchant, from the look of him—approaching on horse-back. To my surprise, he at once wheeled his horse about and headed back toward town at a gallop.

  “Now that’s a bad sign,” said Ned Shakespeare.

  “Perhaps ’a merely forgot something,” I suggested, “and had to go back for ’t.”

  “Perhaps he’s gone to get up a welcoming committee for us,” said Jamie Redshaw.

  We did indeed find a committee of a dozen or so men waiting for us, but they did not have a welcoming air about them. They stood blocking the road, their legs planted wide, their arms crossed, as though daring us to try and pass.

  17

  We pulled up the carewares, and Mr. Heminges and Mr. Armin rode forward to talk with the apparent leader of the group, a lanky man wearing the leather jerkin of a constable. The discussion appeared to be a heated one. Finally the blockade of bodies opened up and let our little troupe move on. The townsmen looked no more cordial than before, however, nor did they disperse. In fact they walked alongside us, as though escorting us.