Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  Jamie Redshaw smiled in a friendly fashion and tried to exchange a few words with one of their number, but the man would not respond; he only stared straight ahead, with a scowl on his face. We came to an inn, but the sharers marched us on past it. We did not even pause until we were all the way through the town and into the countryside again. Then Mr. Heminges signaled us to halt, dismounted, and gathered us prentices and hired men about him.

  “Why did they not let us stay?” demanded Ned Shakespeare.

  “It’s the contagion, isn’t it?” I said.

  He held up his hands to silence us. “P-please. G-give me a chance to tell you. We were p-preceded, it seems, by another troupe of p-players.”

  “Pembroke’s Men!” cried Ned.

  “No, apparently they were no legitimate c-company at all, only a company of thieves. They p-passed themselves off as players, of course. They’d had ill luck, they said, and asked the m-mayor for money for f-food and lodging, to be repaid out of the b-box from the next day’s performance. They p-paid the innkeeper with promises as well, and then left in the m-morning with all the advance money and without g-giving a performance—save the one with which they d-duped the mayor. Naturally he was n-not anxious to be t-taken in again, by us.”

  “But we have papers!” protested Jack. “Did you show them our papers?”

  “Of c-course. But these rogues had p-papers, too—very official looking, and very f-false.”

  “When were they here?” asked Jamie Redshaw.

  “They left j-just this morning.”

  “Then we should not be wasting time,” Jamie Redshaw declared, smacking his walking stick impatiently against his palm. “We’ve got to catch up with them.”

  Mr. Heminges smiled wryly. “We are not s-soldiers, Mr. Redshaw, looking to d-do battle with the enemy.”

  “But if we don’t overtake them, they’ll spoil every town for us before we get there!”

  “I r-realize that,” said Mr. Heminges, a trifle more sharply. “But we c-can assume they will stick to the smaller t-towns, where n-no one is likely to know the real P-Pembroke’s Men. We’ll t-try our luck in more p-populous places.”

  Jamie Redshaw shook his head disapprovingly. “Avoiding them will solve nothing. I’d confront them now, before they do more harm.”

  “Ah, but you see, you’re n-not in charge of this c-company, Mr. Redshaw,” said Mr. Heminges pointedly, and walked away.

  I had watched the preceding scene with great discomfort. Though I felt my father’s reasoning was sound and I wanted very much to ally myself with him, I was at the same time reluctant to speak out against the sharers.

  While we were stopped, I got into our small stock of medicinal herbs and prepared for Sam an infusion of willow bark, a popular antidote for fever. But he no longer had a fever; he was trembling all over with chills. “How are you?” I asked as I covered him with my cloak.

  “Oh, Lord, sir!” he said, and laughed shakily. Mr. Shakespeare’s “answer to fit all questions” had by now become a familiar jest among the members of the company. “I heard what happened,” he added. “Where will we go now?”

  “Leeds, I expect. We should be there in a few hours, and then you’ll have a proper bed.”

  “I’m all right,” he murmured. “Don’t fret about me.”

  Jamie Redshaw had taken advantage of the pause to light his pipe. As I jumped down from the careware, he asked, “How is your friend?”

  “Not so good as I hoped, nor so bad as I feared.” Softly, so Sam would not hear, I added, “Would that I could examine his legs for red marks; it would give me a better idea of what we’re dealing wi’.”

  Jamie Redshaw puffed at his pipe a moment. “Whether or not it’s the plague, you mean?”

  “Aye. ‘A’s got his woolen hose on yet, from the play. An I ask him to remove them, ‘a may guess that I’m looking for signs of the contagion. I’ve no wish to alarm him. It may be naught but the ague.”

  “He shows no other symptoms, then? No pustules?”

  I shook my head. “Pray that ‘a does not, for an ‘a does, every one of us is in danger of being next.”

  Mr. Armin reined in his black mare and waited for us to come up alongside him. “This stretch of road between Harrogate and Leeds is a desolate one,” he said, so all the hired men could hear. “Keep your weapons handy. No one is likely to try to rob a group of this size, but we can’t be too careful.”

  “I ha’ no weapon,” I reminded him.

  “How can you say that?” he replied in mock surprise. “Is the road not full of rocks?” He urged his mount on to the head of the procession again.

  “Rocks?” said Jamie Redshaw.

  “Aye,” I said, embarrassed. “We had a skirmish back in Newbury, and I pelted our attackers wi’ stones. You’d think the company would trust me wi’ a sword. I’ve been taking lessons in scriming for most of a year.” Though I managed to sound resentful, secretly I was just as glad that no one expected me to exercise my sword-fighting skills except upon the stage. Sal Pavy, I noticed, had not called his lack of a weapon to anyone’s attention. I glanced down at Jamie Redshaw’s belt. “But … you’ve no weapon, either.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.” He shifted his walking stick to his left hand, gripped the carved lion’s head in his right, and, in one swift sweeping motion, drew forth from the stick a thin blade two feet or more in length.

  “That’s clever,” said Ned Shakespeare. “Where’d you come by that?”

  “I won it in a game of primero.”

  Will Sly eyed the abbreviated blade. “I should hardly think it a match for a full-length weapon.”

  “Nor is it meant to be. It’s the element of surprise that makes it effective.”

  “So, you’re a fair hand at cards, then?” asked Ned.

  “A bit better than fair, I should say.”

  Ned smiled slyly. “Shall we test your prowess when we reach our lodgings?”

  Jamie Redshaw made an exaggerated bow. “At your service, sir. Presuming that we do, in fact, find lodgings.”

  As the afternoon waned, it began to look as if we might not. The sun approached the horizon, and still there was no habitation in sight, only vast stretches of deserted moorland on either side of the highway, dotted with clumps of furze. The only signs that any soul had ever passed this way before us were the wheel ruts, a few crumbling horse droppings, and a tilted, weathered stone cross beside the road, erected ages ago, I supposed, by some religious order to give comfort to weary travelers. Jack fumbled in his wallet for a penny and placed it atop the cross.

  “What’s that for?” asked Ned Shakespeare.

  “Protection,” said Jack.

  Ned laughed and gestured at the bleak, treeless landscape around us. “From what? Do you really think it likely that a band of brigands will rise out of the ground and attack us?”

  Jack scowled. “You never know.”

  For once Jack proved to be right about something. No more than ten minutes had passed when I heard a startled cry of “Ho!” from Mr. Armin at the head of the company. I jerked my head in that direction. To my astonishment, a dense patch of furze that lay near the road seemed to be opening up, unfolding like some huge drab and ravaged bud bursting into bloom. From its center emerged not a blossom but a group of five fierce-looking armed men. One of them held a wheel-lock pistol aimed directly at Mr. Armin’s chest.

  “Dismount!” ordered the bandit, a big-bellied fellow with a filthy, pockmarked face; his bushy black hair and beard were tangled and full of furze twigs. His leaner but equally grimy confederates spread out, swords drawn, to block the road.

  Though I was taken aback, I was not as terrified as I would once have been. I had been with the ruthless Falconer when, unaided, he dispatched or disabled half a dozen brigands with astonishing speed and skill. Mr. Armin had proven himself even more able with a sword than Falconer. I expected that, with the help of the others, he would make short work of these shabby thieves. />
  Sure enough, instead of swinging from his saddle as he had been commanded to, Mr. Armin spurred his horse forward, at the same time jerking back on the reins so that the animal reared up, front hooves flailing. But the man with the gun, instead of dropping it in panic, calmly took a step backward and fired. The pistol gave off a puff of smoke and a loud report. The black mare gave a sort of shriek and toppled sideways, blood spurting from her neck. Mr. Armin tried to throw himself free, but one foot must have caught in its stirrup, for his leg became pinned underneath his fallen mount.

  Despite his bulk, the black-haired man moved swiftly. In an instant he was straddling the fallen rider and had the blade of a dagger pressed against Mr. Armin’s throat-bole. “Now the lot of you,” he shouted, “dismount and drop your weapons, or watch your friend bathe in his own blood!”

  Our hired men’s swords clattered onto the stony surface of the road—all except Ned Shakespeare’s. “He’s bluffing!” Ned whispered to the rest of us.

  Jamie Redshaw gave him a look of disgust. With one flick of his walking stick, he knocked Ned’s sword from his grasp. Then, wincing at the pain it caused him, he bent and laid the stick carefully on the ground.

  “Gather them up!” the leader instructed his companions. When they had done so, he lifted the blade from Mr. Armin’s throat and stepped away. “We meant only to relieve you of your money,” he told us, “but as you’ve put me to so much trouble, I believe we’ll have the horses as well.”

  Two of his men took hold of the sharers’ mounts. The other two set about unharnessing the teams from the carewares. “Oh, gis!” I murmured. “They’ll leave us stranded here!”

  Jamie Redshaw nodded grimly. Part of me wanted to urge him to do something, to fight back. But I knew, that if he had made a move to do so, I would have tried to hold him back. Now that we had found one another at last, I could not bear to risk losing him.

  The leader of the bandits reloaded his pistol, cocked it, and surveyed us prentices and hired men a moment. Then he stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun to Sal Pavy’s head. “Which wagon has the money?” he demanded. Sal Pavy was rigid with terror. Tears streamed from his eyes. His chin quivered, but no sound came out.

  “It’s the rear one,” growled Will Sly.

  “Thank you,” said the brigand, and showed his rotten teeth in a grin. “I didn’t want any more trouble. I don’t like trouble.” He uncocked the pistol, thrust it in his belt, and strode to the back of the nearest careware. But as he reached inside to seize one of the trunks, his hands froze in midair. An unaccountable look of distress came over his pockmarked features. He gave a hoarse cry and took a stumbling step backward; as though his knees had suddenly gone weak.

  I was momentarily bewildered by his unexpected reaction. Then Sam’s head emerged from within the wagon, and I saw what had alarmed the bandit so. Sam’s face had a bluish tinge and was blotched with what looked like open sores. There were dark circles about his reddened eyes; froth flecked the corners of his mouth.

  “Water!” he pleaded in a desperate, rasping voice. “Please! I’m dying of thirst!” He reached one shaking hand toward the bandit, and I could see that the skin of it was spotted, too, with red marks surrounded by blue-black patches.

  “Saints save us!” I breathed. “‘A’s taken wi’ the plague!”

  18

  “Don’t touch me!” cried the black-haired man. In his haste to distance himself from Sam, he collided with the cart wheel. The pistol fell from his belt, but he seemed not to notice. “Come away!” he shouted to his men. “Take nothing with you!” When they hesitated, he bellowed, “Now, you gawking gypes! It’s the contagion!”

  Sam had climbed out of the careware now, and was staggering about, begging for a drink of water. When he shuffled toward the bandits who were unhitching our horses, they bolted. The other two let go of the sharers’ mounts and took to their heels as well.

  Now that I could move without fear of being shot or stabbed, I hastened to draw a cup of water from the keg strapped to the side of the careware and held it out to Sam.

  “Don’t give him that cup!” protested Ned Shakespeare. “He’ll contaminate it!”

  “Then we’ll get another,” I said. “Go on, Sam; take it.”

  Sam turned his hollow eyes gratefully upon me and reached out for the cup. As his trembling hands closed over mine, I gave an involuntary shudder, wondering how much contact was required to transmit the plague from one person to another.

  Instead of gulping down the contents of the cup, Sam upended it over his head. The water drenched his tousled, matted hair and coursed down his cheeks. The blotches and sores began to melt away and slough off, as though he had anointed them with water from the Grail. I blinked in astonishment. “What in heaven’s name—?” And then the truth struck me like a fool’s bladder, and I began to laugh. Sam gave a weak grin and abruptly collapsed in a heap on the ground.

  “Help me get him back in the careware,” I said to Jamie Redshaw.

  He stepped forward uncertainly. “But is he not—”

  “Nay, nay,” I assured him, still laughing. “It’s not the contagion. It’s only face paint.”

  As we lifted him into the wagon, Sam came to and murmured, “I gave a good performance, didn’t I?”

  “You played the plague to the life,” I replied. “Or should I say, to the death.” I wet a rag and gently washed the rest of the makeup from his face. “How did you ha’ time to do all this?”

  He gave me a shamefaced smile. “The truth is, I started on it well before the bandits turned up. I had planned only to play a prank on you and the others.”

  “It would ha’ been a cruel prank,” I said. “We were all anxious about you.”

  “I just meant to give you all a good laugh and liven things up a bit. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, considering how things turned out, I expect everyone will forgive you.” I put a hand on his forehead. “The fever seems to ha’ broken. How do you feel?”

  “As though my limbs were made of new cheese,” he said.

  “Rest, then. You’ll feel stronger i’ the morning.”

  The rest of the company had managed to lift the dead horse enough to pull Mr. Armin free. He was limping about, rubbing his bruised leg. “You’re fortunate it’s not broken,” said Mr. Phillips.

  Mr. Armin did not reply. Though it was too dark to see much, he was staring out across the moor in the direction the brigands had gone. “We should have pursued them,” he said grimly, and put a hand to his throat as if feeling again the edge of the bandit’s blade.

  “How did they hide themselves so well?” asked Jack.

  Jamie Redshaw, who was examining the clump of furze from which the thieves had emerged, flipped over one of the shrubs with his walking stick. “They cut some of the furze and covered themselves over with it. A clever tactic.”

  “Men disguised by bushes,” mused Mr. Shakespeare. “I’ll have to use it in a play.”

  “We m-may as well c-camp here for the night,” said Mr. Heminges. “I d-doubt those brigands will b-be back.”

  We pulled the wagons off the road and then used one of the teams to drag Mr. Armin’s mare out of our sight. To my surprise, Mr. Shakespeare got out his travel desk and set it up next to one of the carewares. “You mean to work on the play?” I said. “Out here?”

  “Ideas come to me as I ride along,” he told me. “If I don’t capture them soon, they’ll be gone, like those bandits.” He lit a horn lantern. “How is Sam?”

  “On the mend, I think.”

  Mr. Shakespeare shook his head. “One hardly knows whether to fine the boy for playing such a stunt or reward him for saving our lives.”

  “Well, ‘a did tell me ‘a was sorry. Besides, as they say here in Yorkshire, all’s well that ends well.”

  Mr. Shakespeare smiled and played thoughtfully with the ring in his earlobe. “That’s what they say, is it?”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s a go
od line,” he said. “Let’s give it to Helena.”

  When we reached Leeds the next day, we were relieved to discover that neither the plague nor the mock players had been there before us. We were even more relieved to find a letter from Sander awaiting us. It did my heart good to hear his voice, which, even on paper, was good-natured and cheerful as a cricket. The letter was a long one, filled with anecdotes about what mischief the boys had been up to and with the latest news about events in London. He mentioned the plague only briefly, near the end of the missive.

  Though the death rate is rising, it has not yet reached the proportions everyone feared. Rest assured that all of us here are in good health, aside from a touch of melancholy when we think of you, our absent friends. Mr. Burbage is providing well for us, but asks that you send a share of the box as soon as you are able. For my part, I value your letters more than any amount of money. Good fortune follow you or, even better, precede you.

  Yrs. faithfully,

  Alexander Cooke

  I berated myself for not having written more often, and resolved to get a letter off to him that very evening if I could. Sander would, I knew, be nearly as pleased about my finding a father as I was myself.

  My only cause for disappointment was that there seemed to be so little opportunity for Jamie Redshaw and me to discuss the dozens of questions, large and small, that still waited impatiently in the back of my mind, like some important role I had studied but had never been given the chance to perform.

  More than anything else I wanted to know about my mother, but even in our rare moments of leisure I could not manage to pry more than a few sentences from him concerning her. It seemed painful for him, as though I were probing at his old war wound and not his memory. I concluded that he must have loved her a great deal, to be hurt so by the thought of her.

  We spent a profitable three days in Leeds. Sam had recovered enough to play small parts, provided he rested between scenes. So he would not feel useless, I gave him the book to hold while I took care of the more strenuous stuff. Jamie Redshaw volunteered to take on the task of gatherer. Though the money box must have weighed heavily on his injured back, he bore it without complaint. He went beyond the bounds of duty, in fact, calling enthusiastically to passersby, “Come in and watch the show! Only a penny to see the best that London has to offer!”