Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  Jamie Redshaw shrugged. “If you like.”

  “Sal, give your sword to Mr. Redshaw, will you?” Sal Pavy obliged and backed well out of the way. “Now,” said Mr. Armin, raising his blade and his eyebrows, “what is it we should be doing, exactly?”

  I had the distinct feeling that Mr. Armin was not so much interested in what Jamie Redshaw might teach us as in teaching a lesson of his own, something to do with not putting in one’s seven eggs where they’re not wanted. I only hoped he would not drive the point home too hard.

  Jamie Redshaw seemed to suspect nothing amiss. He came on guard, not in the usual sidewise fencing posture but with his body facing Mr. Armin almost straight on. “First of all,” he said confidently, “a fighting man does not waste much time in trading blows. That serves only to tire you out. The object is to put an opponent out of the way with as little ado as possible.”

  Before he had finished speaking the last word, his blade darted forward, like a striking snake. To my astonishment, Mr. Armin’s weapon flew from his grasp and clattered onto the cobbles. Though Mr. Armin was surely as stunned as I, he managed not to show it. His eyes narrowed a little, and he flexed his hand a few times as though it pained him.

  It took me a moment to realize what had happened. Jamie Redshaw, instead of engaging his opponent in the usual game of thrust and parry, had disregarded the rules and aimed his point directly at Mr. Armin’s sword hand. “The secret, you see,” said Jamie Redshaw, “is to do the unexpected.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Armin, his voice carefully controlled. “Thank you for that insight. Next time I’ll know not to expect what I expected. Good day.” Jamie Redshaw returned the sword to Sal Pavy and silently left the yard. Mr. Armin turned to us. “Remember that, gentlemen. If you wish to kill your opponent, do the unexpected. If you wish him to live until the next performance, stick to the script. Now, I imagine you’re expecting me to assign you fifty passatas.” He paused. “Well, I’m afraid I’m just hopelessly predictable. Proceed.”

  As we lined up against the stable wall and began thrusting, Sam said, “Your da made Mr. Armin look a bit of a fool, didn’t he?”

  I made no reply. I could not make up my mind whether to be proud of Jamie Redshaw’s actions, or ashamed.

  Mr. Armin had finally finished his play, Fool Upon Fool, and our first performance of it did a brisk business. So did our presentation of King John in the afternoon. When Jamie Redshaw brought the box to the sharers, his shoulders were sagging under the weight of it. The company’s treasury trunk had grown so weighty that it took two men to carry it to the town hall and back. We could not, of course, risk leaving it unattended in our rooms, nor could we spare a man to stay behind and guard it. I was glad to have it close at hand, for it contained not only my future wages but, more important, my mother’s crucifix.

  At supper that evening, to celebrate our good fortune, the sharers broke out a bottle of brandy from the small stock we carried with us and poured some for everyone—everyone, that is, save Ned Shakespeare and Jamie Redshaw, who were again conspicuously absent. I checked the common sleeping room, but without any real hope that they would be there. They were not. As I started for the stairs, Sam came pounding up them and dragged me back into the sleeping room.

  “What’s the matter?” I demanded.

  “I just overheard Sal Pavy telling Mr. Armin that he saw your father filching money from the box! He says he arrived late for this afternoon’s performance, after the entrance doors were opened, and he noticed your da dropping pennies in his purse instead of in the gathering box.”

  “The devil take him!” I cried. “‘A’s lying! Why would ‘a lie?”

  Sam shrugged. “To make trouble for you?”

  “Trouble for me? But why? I’ve done naught to him!”

  “You play the parts he’d like to play,” said Sam.

  I was speechless with surprise for a moment. Then an alarming thought struck me. “Will they confront me father wi’ this, do you think?”

  “No doubt.”

  There was no doubt, either, about where they’d find him and what he’d be doing. “Oh, gis!” I grasped Sam’s arm. “You’re a good friend, to tell me this. Can you do one more thing? Can you keep them here a minute or two longer?”

  “I can try.” Sam dashed back downstairs. I exited the room by the gallery door, scrambled down the outer stairs, and ran all the way to the Golden Lion. When I burst through the tavern door, Jamie Redshaw and Ned were at the same table as before, this time with four other men.

  As I strode up to them, one of the men rose, scooped up his small stock of money, and made a quick departure. Thanks to the haze of tobacco smoke, which made the dim interior of the tavern even dimmer, I did not get much of a look at the man, but his portly build and the eye patch he wore were familiar.

  “Why are you dropping out so sudden?” called one of the other cardplayers, but the one-eyed fellow did not bother to reply, or even to look back.

  I stopped at Jamie Redshaw’s side and bent to whisper in his ear, “I think the sharers may be on their way here.”

  “Yes?” he said without looking up from his cards.

  “You don’t want them to find you gambling!” I said urgently.

  “Why not?”

  “There’s a company rule against it!”

  “Ah.” He stood at once and gathered up the sizable pile of coins that lay before him. “Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me as well. Ned, I think you’ll also want to depart.”

  “What?” protested one of their playing companions. “You’ve got to give us a chance to win some of our money back!”

  “Another time, gentlemen, another time. Let’s go out the back way,” he said to me.

  With Ned Shakespeare along, I did not feel I should bring up the matter of Sal Pavy’s accusation. Instead, I said, “Who was that wight wi’ th’ eye patch?”

  “He didn’t mention his name,” replied Jamie Redshaw. “Why?”

  “I believe ‘a’s wi’ Lord Pembroke’s Men. I saw him in their company, back in Newark.”

  “Did you? Perhaps he’s spying on us.”

  “If so,” said Ned, “he learned little, and it cost him dearly. How much did you win from him and the others?”

  Jamie Redshaw cupped his purse in one hand, as though weighing it. “A fair amount. How much did you lose?”

  “A fair amount,” said Ned sourly. He glanced over at me. “You’ll say nothing to the others about … about what we were up to?”

  I shook my head. “Nay. That is,” I added, “an you promise to go and sin no more.”

  Jamie Redshaw laughed. “The boy drives a hard bargain. What do you say, Ned? Shall we forswear gambling?”

  “If we must,” Ned said grudgingly. “I don’t care for all these petty rules of the company’s. It’s like being back in Stratford, but with four parents riding me rather than just two.”

  When we reached the inn Ned went inside, but I held Jamie Redshaw back. “I … I don’t mean to pry, but you told me last night you’d been cleaned out.”

  “And so I was.”

  “Then what … I mean, where …”

  “Where did I get the money to wager tonight?”

  “Aye.”

  He raised his walking stick. For a moment I feared he meant to strike me with it for my impudence and, from old habit, I ducked my head. But he only tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again. “I wagered this. In truth, I’ve made far more use of it as a gambling stake than as a sword.”

  I laughed, more with relief than amusement. “I was right, then. ‘A was lying.”

  “Who?”

  “Sal Pavy. ‘A—’a accused you of taking money from the box.”

  “The little weasel! He needs a sound thrashing!”

  “Nay, nay. Let it pass, please!”

  “Let it pass? He’s insulted my honor!”

  “Aye, but it’s not worth stirring up trouble i’ the company over ‘t.”

 
“Not worth it?” Jamie Redshaw shook his head. “If you think that, you have a good deal to learn about the importance of honor.”

  “No doubt. But I ken a lot already about th’ importance of keeping peace wi’in the company.”

  “Then you need to teach it to your friend Master Pavy.”

  “‘A’s no friend of mine. But I don’t wish him to be an enemy, either.”

  “There is no middle ground. If you can’t count a man your friend, then you must count him your enemy.”

  I stared at him, trying to read his face in the dark. “You truly believe that?”

  “I’ve had to,” he said, “in order to survive.”

  “In battle, you mean. But not in ordinary life, surely?”

  He let the walking stick drop to his side, and its metal tip clanged on the cobbles. “All of life is a battle.”

  When we entered the main room of the inn, Mr. Armin still sat at our table, with a pint of ale in his hands. He glanced up at me. “Mr. Shakespeare’s waiting for you,” he said. “Mr. Redshaw, I’d like a word with you.”

  As I headed for the stairs, I caught Jamie Redshaw’s eye and gave him a pleading glance that said, “Please don’t make trouble for me.”

  21

  Though I was distracted with wondering what went on downstairs, I managed to do a fair job of transcribing. We were into the fourth act of what Mr. Shakespeare was now calling All’s Well That Ends Well. I was delighted to have made such a significant contribution to the play, but he was as unhappy as ever. In the past week or so, he had taken to muttering to himself, like a litany, “Something’s missing; something’s missing.” But he seemed unable to hit upon just what the missing thing was.

  I was anxious to cheer him up, but I knew that I must be cautious in what I said, lest I make his melancholy mood worse. “Perhaps you’re being too harsh in your judgment of the play,” I ventured. “It seems to me to ha’ quite a number of good things in ‘t.”

  I half expected him to reply, as he had before, “What do you know about it?” He did look peevish but instead of berating me he challenged me: “Name one.”

  “Well … there’s Helena.”

  He rolled his earring about between thumb and finger meditatively. “You like her, do you?”

  “Oh, aye. In truth, I admire her. She’s loyal, she’s clever, she’s strong-willed. She kens exactly what she wants, and she’ll not be deterred.”

  “Yes, yes, I grant you that. But however strong she may be, she cannot carry a play all by herself.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighed. “I don’t have the time just now to give you a course in how to construct a well-made play.”

  “I’m sorry. I was only trying to understand.”

  “I know, I know.” He toyed with his earring again for a time and then went on. “A play is like a balance, you see. If, on one end of the arm, you place a certain quantity of loyalty and cleverness and strong will, on the other end you need an equal weight of something else, to offset it.”

  “Well, you ha’ Bertram. ‘A’s selfish and haughty and rude.” Though I did not say so, I was thinking what a pity it was that Sal Pavy had not yet graduated to men’s roles, for he could have played Bertram to the life without any effort at all.

  “But Bertram is no villain—nor can we let him be, or the audience will never accept the notion that Helena is in love with him so unswervingly.”

  “An you love someone,” I said, “do you not overlook their faults?”

  “Only to a point. No, we can’t depend on Bertram to bring things into balance. Let’s leave him in the middle, halfway between Helena on the one hand and, on the other hand, someone … someone truly despicable. But what someone?” He pressed a hand to his head and sighed again. “Never attempt to write a play, Widge,” he said.

  “I had no plans to.”

  “Good. They always betray you. When you’re only imagining them, they seem so ideal, so full of promise and possibility. Then, when you try to get them down on paper, they turn on you and refuse to live up to your expectations.”

  One of the uncanny qualities about Mr. Shakespeare’s words, I had learned, was that, however general they might seem, at the same time they somehow managed to speak directly to each individual who heard them, and to address his particular plight. “Perhaps the fault is ours,” I said, “in hoping for too much. We cannot expect people to be flawless.”

  “People?” he said. “I thought we were speaking of plays.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Of course. I was only—”

  “I know.” Wearily he closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. Then abruptly he stopped and raised his head, his eyes wide open. “I know,” he repeatedly softly. “I know. I know who he is.”

  “Who who is?”

  “The someone. The balancing someone. The despicable someone.” As I had seen it do before, Mr. Shakespeare’s mood transformed in the space of a few seconds from melancholy to manic. “He’s a soldier—a friend of Bertram’s, but not a true friend. He’s a braggart. He’s deceitful. He’s a coward. Bertram, though, will not hear a word against him—like Helena, he’s loyal—” Mr. Shakespeare waved his good hand at me. “Go back, go back,” he commanded.

  “Back?” I echoed.

  “To Act One. We’ll write him in.”

  I flipped frantically through the pages of the script. “What’s his name to be, then?”

  “I don’t know. Something despicable. Menteur. Poltron. It doesn’t matter. Just write.”

  And we were off, galloping once again. The demands of keeping up with the stampede of words that followed put all thought of Jamie Redshaw and Sal Pavy’s accusation out of my mind for the moment. When Mr. Shakespeare was done with me at last and I hurried back down to the main room, I found Mr. Armin and Jamie Redshaw still there, and not at one another’s throats but conversing amiably over their ale. “How did it go?” asked Mr. Armin—the very words I would have liked to ask.

  “Quite well,” I said. “‘A was a bit downcast at first, but that’s naught of note.”

  Mr. Armin nodded. “He can hardly expect to write Hamlet every time. By the bye, he’s told me he greatly appreciates your help and your patience.”

  “Has ‘a, truly?” I said. “‘A seldom says so to me face.”

  “It’s not his way.” Mr. Armin turned to Jamie Redshaw. “Widge has been a valuable addition to our company, sir.”

  If I hoped to see some trace of fatherly pride, I was disappointed. Jamie Redshaw simply said, “I’m glad to hear it,” then got stiffly to his feet. “I believe I’ll retire.” He waved a stack of handbills at me. “I’ve been given the job of posting these around town in the morning.”

  I would have left with him, for I hoped to learn what had been said in regard to Sal Pavy’s charge. But Mr. Armin asked me to stay. It took him several minutes to get to what was on his mind. Finally he said, “How much do you know of this Redshaw?”

  “Well … very little, I suppose,” I admitted reluctantly. “I ken ‘a’s me father.”

  “Has he said so?”

  “Not in as many words. But ‘a was … well acquainted wi’ me mother. They would ha’ wed, ‘a said, had it not been for her parents’ objections.”

  “You’re certain he knew her?”

  “‘A kenned her name, and that it was engraved on the crucifix. Why? Do you doubt him?”

  “I’ve no real reason to, just … just a feeling.”

  “What sort of feeling?”

  “That not everything he says is so. For example, his statement that he and your mother were well acquainted implies that he grew up here in Yorkshire. Yet his speech says otherwise. I put him down as a Dorset man, or Somerset.”

  “‘A never said ‘a grew up here. Besides, ‘a’s spent many years in other lands, as a soldier.”

  “So he says.”

  “You doubt that, too?” I tried to keep my tone calm and reasonable but did not entirely succeed.

  Mr.
Armin shrugged. “As I said, I’ve no real reason to, so let’s let it drop for now. I can see it’s upsetting you, and I can’t blame you.”

  I was upset mainly because Mr. Armin was bringing into the light a shadowy something that I myself had secretly suspected but had always managed to dismiss. After all, I told myself, who was I to condemn a man for the occasional falsehood? Besides, even if Jamie Redshaw did stray from the truth from time to time, it did not mean that he had lied about everything. In any case, I felt it was my duty to defend him. “I suppose you have him down as a thief, too, on Sal Pavy’s say-so?”

  “No. Clearly not everything that Sal says can be counted on, either.”

  “Oh.” My anger subsided a bit at this. “You did not accuse him, then?”

  “I told him that Sal had accused him.”

  “And what did ‘a do?”

  “He laughed. And then he admitted that he had indeed taken several coins from the box.”

  My heart sank at his news. “‘A did?”

  Mr. Armin nodded, then fished in his wallet and held out something for me to see. “They were these.” In his hand were three circles the exact size of a penny but made of wood, with some silvery substance—quicksilver, perhaps—rubbed on the surface.

  “Wooden coins?” I said.

  “Coney-coins, some call them.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “What sort of wight would do such a thing?”

  “A woodman?” suggested Mr. Armin slyly.

  “Aye,” I said, “a woodman would. Particularly a woodman who’s wood,” I added, certain that Mr. Armin would know that, hereabouts, wood was used to mean “insane.”

  He smiled appreciatively. “Aye, a wood woodman would, though I would ‘a would not.”

  I could provide no further puns, only a prodigious yawn. In the street outside the inn a night watchman cried, “Ten o’clock, and all’s well!”

  “Holy mother,” I said wearily. “I hope so.”

  When we headed for the town hall next afternoon, I noticed that many of the town’s walls and fences still sported handbills for yesterday’s King John, and only a very few held papers announcing that day’s performance of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In addition, most of the Two Gentlemen handbills had no date or time printed on them. “Oh, gis,” I said to Sam. “’A’s not done his job!”