Shakespeare's Scribe

by Gary Blackwood

  That situation changed abruptly. As the constable ushered his prisoner toward the door, Jamie Redshaw crowded him a bit. The officer knocked his knee against one of the benches. Before he could regain his balance, Jamie Redshaw swung his heavy purse upward in a swift arc. It caught the constable on the chin and sent him reeling backward. In an instant, Jamie Redshaw had seized the man’s sword by its guard and brought the handle down across one knee, breaking its owner’s grip.

  Mr. Armin unsheathed his sword and came to the constable’s aid, but a moment too late. Jamie Redshaw had turned to face him with the stolen rapier held at broad ward. “I’ve disarmed you before, and I’ll do it again,” warned Jamie Redshaw. “Let me pass.”

  Mr. Armin’s reply consisted of a single word: “No.” Then he closed in and their two rapiers clashed. Jamie Redshaw had no more to say, either; clearly, all of his concentration was taken up with turning aside Mr. Armin’s blade as it darted in all directions, threatening first an edgeblow to the legs, then a stoccata to the stomach, a downright blow to the pate, an imbrocata to the chest.

  “Stop!” I shouted, but of course they paid me no heed. I snatched up a heavy earthenware ale mug, meaning to launch it at someone’s head, but I could not decide whose. If my aim was true and I managed to brain one of them, he would be at the mercy of the other. Though I did not wish to give Mr. Armin a chance to run Jamie Redshaw through, no more did I wish to let my father deal a deadly blow to my friend. In the end I could only stand gripping the handle of the mug, jerking it about this way and that in sympathetic movements, as though I were parrying phantom thrusts.

  Under Mr. Armin’s attack Jamie Redshaw gave ground again and again, unable to gain the offensive. Several times he tried the maneuver that had proven so successful in their previous bout, aiming the point of his rapier directly at Mr. Armin’s sword hand. But now he did not have the element of surprise on his side. Each time Mr. Armin easily beat the blade aside and put him on the defensive again.

  The constable had gotten to his feet, rubbing his jaw, but he made no move to interfere. I am sure it was as obvious to him as it was to me that Mr. Armin was the more skillful scrimer and would win out in the end. The grim look on Jamie Redshaw’s face told me that he realized it, too. The stiff way in which he moved said something more to me—that the wound in his hip was causing him a good deal of pain. Yet he fought on so doggedly despite it all that it hurt my heart to see it.

  When Mr. Armin at last left an opening—deliberately, I am sure—Jamie Redshaw lunged forward. Mr. Armin did a deft traverse to one side and delivered a stramazone, or slicing blow, to his opponent’s unprotected forearm. The stolen rapier clattered to the floor and Jamie Redshaw took several staggering steps backward, clutching the wound.

  Without stopping to consider the consequences, I sprang forward; swept up the fallen weapon, and came on guard before Mr. Armin. “Widge!” he said as sharply as a sword thrust. “Stay out of this!”

  “I will not!” I cried. “Whatever ‘a may ha’ done, ‘a’s still me father!” Over my shoulder I called to Jamie Redshaw, “Go! I’ll buy you some time, at least!”

  “Just see that you don’t buy it with your life,” he replied, and then I heard his retreating footsteps. The constable seemed about to pursue him, until I blocked his path with my sword point.

  “Step aside!” Mr. Armin ordered. “I’ve no wish to fight you.”

  “Nor I you,” I said, my voice as unsteady as my sword hand.

  He swung his sword suddenly, meaning, I am sure, to catch me off guard and disarm me. But he had trained me too well for that. I turned the blow aside and automatically countered with one of the passatas I had practiced so interminably. The point of my sword nicked his doublet, and perhaps his ribs as well, for he drew in a sharp breath.

  I had never meant for us to come to blows, only to give Jamie Redshaw time to escape. I am certain Mr. Armin did not wish it, either. But sometimes, I believe, our instincts override our intentions, and so it was now. There may have been other, less obvious elements at work as well. Mr. Armin surely resented being challenged by one of his pupils, and for my part I was still angry with him for being so suspicious of my father; the fact that his suspicions were well founded only made matters worse. I may even have felt compelled to prove that I could acquit myself well in a fight that did not involve stage swords and moves planned in advance.

  Whatever our reasons, we found ourselves striking at one another in deadly earnest. Though my breath came in panicky gasps and my blood pounded in my ears, I do not recall feeling frightened, particularly. My brain seemed numb, in fact. But my body responded as it had been trained to. I held my ground and gave as good as I took.

  Mr. Armin had taught me that a skillful scrimer always looks his opponent in the eyes, for in that way he can read what his opponent will do before he does it. At first, the look in his eyes was hard and determined, but that quickly gave way to puzzlement, as if he were wondering how we could have let this happen. Then, suddenly, he scowled, and made a move I could not have anticipated: he stepped back and disengaged. “Enough,” he said. “This is foolishness. I am not your enemy.” He spread his arms wide, offering himself as a target for my sword, “Here. Run me through, if you will.”

  When I made no move to do so, he turned and stalked from the room. The constable took his sword from my unresisting hand and followed, leaving me standing there alone, feeling bewildered and bereft. No longer was I torn between two forces pulling me in opposite directions. I had succeeded somehow in cutting myself loose from them both.

  25

  I had not the slightest notion what I should do next. I could hardly return to the company, after having taken Jamie Redshaw’s side against them. But I could not very well join Jamie Redshaw, either. Even if I could have swallowed my scruples enough to take up with a thief—and, if Jack should die, a murderer as well—I still had no way of knowing where he could be found.

  Though I was not thinking all that clearly, I realized I was probably not wise to stay where I was. Once the constable learned that I was Jamie Redshaw’s son, he might decide to clap me in irons as an accessory to the crime, or possibly detain me as a sort of hostage, a means of keeping my father from fleeing the vicinity.

  I wondered whether Jamie Redshaw would, indeed, leave town without knowing what had become of me. Surely not, after I had risked my life on his behalf. Besides, he was wounded, how seriously I did not know. He might require a surgeon to tend to the cut on his arm; heaven knew he had plenty of money now to pay for such services.

  The money itself might hold him here as well, at least for a time. There was a good deal of it, and all in small coins—too much for him to carry about comfortably, at least on foot. More likely he would look around for a horse to buy before he went anywhere.

  These thoughts reassured me a little and set me in motion. I had somewhere to begin looking for him, anyway. When and if I found him, perhaps I could somehow convince him to make amends. Though he might be impulsive, I was certain he was not a bad man at heart. If I told him how urgently the money was needed to aid Sander and the boys, I might persuade him to give it up, or at least some of it. If nothing else, I would surely be able to retrieve my mother’s crucifix.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. My first task was to locate Jamie Redshaw, and my most immediate concern was that, if I had guessed where he was likely to be, then Mr. Armin would surely have done the same.

  Keeping to the back streets and snickleways to avoid Chamberlain’s Men and constables, I sought out the few local physicians and surgeons. None had treated a man with a sword cut recently. Late in the day, I inquired at the town’s sole stables and was told that no one matching my description of Jamie Redshaw had purchased or hired a mount. In hopes that he might yet do so, I asked leave to lodge in the hayloft. The stable owner, a short, bandy-legged fellow, agreed to this; he even provided me with supper, in the form of one of his wife’s meat pies. I would have offered to pay f
or it but that I had only a bit more than a shilling left from my wages, and no notion of how long it might have to last me.

  The feeling of being all alone in the world was threatening to overwhelm me; to keep it at bay I engaged the man in conversation, asking if the plague had been a problem hereabouts. He said that, God be thanked, only a few townfolk had contracted the contagion, and those had been immediately confined in a pesthouse, thus preventing the spread of the disease.

  We went on to talk of other things, including the performance of Two Gentlemen the stable owner had taken in that afternoon. Though I thought it best not to reveal my connection with the company, I asked him how they had acquitted themselves, in his opinion. “Quite well, overall.” he said. “Not so good as the Admiral’s Men, who were here a month ago, mind you. Not near enough laughs for my taste.”

  I nodded, and held my tongue, with some effort. According to Mr. Shakespeare, all the world’s a stage; it seemed to me, rather, that all the world was a critic. “I can’t fault the acting, though,” the stable owner went on, “particularly the fellow who played the main bloke—Protocol, was it?”

  “Proteus,” I said.

  “That’s the one. I liked his lady friend as well—I disremember her name.”

  “Julia,” I said—Sal Pavy’s part, of course.

  “You saw the play, too, then?” he said.

  “Aye. Tell me, what did you think of Silvia—th’ other lady friend?”

  “Oh, she was good as well. Very natural.”

  Though it was hardly high praise, I was gratified all the same. I had not been overwhelmed with favorable comments on my acting lately. In truth, since we had set out on tour several months earlier, I had begun to feel that my command of charactery and my rudimentary skills in the healing arts were of more consequence to the company than my ability as a player. Yet with me gone and Jack out of commission for a good while—if, indeed, he lived—they would surely have trouble filling all the roles.

  I wondered whether they would miss me. I was certain Sam would, and equally certain that Sal Pavy would not. The others would, I imagined, be regretful, but I had no doubt that, being practical men, they would not hesitate to fill my place with the first suitable candidate.

  I forced myself to think no more on the matter. I could not bear it.

  Jamie Redshaw did not turn up that evening, or the next morning, either. It would be a waste of time, I was sure, to look for him in the alehouses. But time was one thing I had a surfeit of, so I squandered it. Not surprisingly, no one had seen him since the previous afternoon.

  I slept in the stable again that night. When I woke in the morning, it was with the certainty that Jamie Redshaw had departed, and so must I. If I could not salve my conscience by helping remedy the ills he had caused, I might at least return to London and do what I could to aid Sander and Tetty, Mr. Pope and the boys.

  The stable owner pointed out the proper route, which led straight south. “When you get to Cheltenham,” he instructed me, “turn east. That’ll take you to Oxford and thence to London.” He also sent me off with a full stomach, and another meat pie for the road.

  I got as far as Upton before night fell, slept once more in a stable loft, and set out southward again in the morning. The miles went by slowly, with no companions to talk to. At first, out of old habit, I went over my lines in my head for the roles I was least sure of. But after a time I gave up on it. What was the use, when I had so little hope of ever playing those parts again?

  I tried to pull myself out of the bog of despair into which I was slowly sinking by telling myself that perhaps I was better off this way. Perhaps I should think about finding a new career. There was no denying that acting was a tough and a thankless profession. It required so much hard work for so little return. It afforded not a groat’s worth of security or stability. One could easily see why the sharers disliked and discouraged gambling; the everyday existence of a player was gamble enough without adding to it.

  It occurred to me, then, that all these same things were true of life in general. Yet folk were not ordinarily eager to abandon it in hopes of finding some better alternative. To my knowledge there was but one other option, and not a very satisfactory one at that.

  As tiresome as it is to travel in solitude, it is even worse on an empty stomach. I had had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon, save a little cracked corn I had filched from the horse trough at the stable in Upton. To make my misery complete, the skies, which had been as gray as my mood all day long, decided that since there was not a tree or any other shelter in sight, now was a good time to let loose with a deluge.

  When I reached Gloucester at last, I was as wet and weary as I had ever been, with no prospect of anything better ahead of me than another night of sleeping on straw and a handful of horse feed to eat. So desperate was I that I might have turned my hand to begging, had there not been strict rules against it. Beggars were, like players, required to show the proper papers.

  As I shuffled on my last legs down the street, looking for a place to lodge for free, I passed one of the thick upright posts that towns often provide for displaying public announcements. A familiar handbill tacked to it caught my eye.

  A Performance of

  the Pleasant Conceited Comedie

  called

  LOVES LABOURS LOST

  by Wm. Shakesper

  Plaide by the Right Honourable

  the Lord Chamberlain his Servants

  Lately of the Globe Playhouse, London

  TO-MORROW 2 O’CLOCK

  I am certain my mouth must have fallen open in surprise. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men? Here? I had understood that, upon leaving Worcester, they would proceed directly east, to Mr. Shakespeare’s home at Stratford. Perhaps the theft of the money had altered their plans. Perhaps they had decided, as I had, to return at once to London. Apparently they still were not overly concerned about Mr. Pope’s plight, if they meant to waste a day in performing.

  The stable owner in Worcester had said that I would come to a fork in the road here. I already knew which route to choose. I had not been prepared for this figurative fork in the road, though, and had no notion how to proceed. Should I seek out the company and ask their forgiveness? Or should I go on my way, making no attempt to reconcile with my friends—if indeed I could still count them my friends?

  If I took the first course, would it mean I was somehow betraying my father? I was not sure it mattered; had he not betrayed me, after all, by using me as a means to insinuate his way into the company, and then making off with all our money?

  After living most of my life without family or friends, I had only lately begun to learn about loyalty, so I did not yet know all it entailed. I wished to be faithful to my father, but if he had committed a crime I was not sure I still owed him any loyalty. Besides, what about my obligation to the Chamberlain’s Men? In the hierarchy of loyalties, which came first—family or friends?

  Though I knew little about the demands of honor or of duty, I was well acquainted with the demands of the body and, unprincipled as it may seem, these were what finally swayed me. If the company took me back, I would at least have decent food to fill my stomach and a soft place to lay my head. Besides, if I did not rejoin them soon, Sal Pavy would surely usurp all my old roles.

  All that remained was to find the players. If they had managed to put on a performance in Worcester, as scheduled, they might have made enough to pay for lodgings, so I checked at the first inn I came to. My friends were not there, but the host directed me to another inn, the Wheat-sheaf. By the time I found the place, I was faint with hunger and fatigue and, despite the warmth of the evening, shivering in my wet clothing.

  As I stepped from the dark outdoors into the main room of the inn, the light of the candles fairly blinded me. The smell of roasting meat filled my nostrils. Supporting myself against the doorframe, I surveyed the room, hoping to see a familiar and welcome face. To my painful disappointment, I recognized no one there.


  Or nearly no one.

  As I turned to leave, I caught sight of a figure that made me stop and stare: a fat-bellied man with an eye patch. Though he had his back to me, I was certain it was the same familiar-looking fellow I had seen weeks before, with Lord Pembroke’s Men, and again at the tavern in Leeds, playing cards with Jamie Redshaw.

  He was engaged in a game of cards now, with three other men. Piles of coins on the table told me that there was gambling involved. Apparently the one-eyed man was not faring well, for there was not a single coin in front of him. As I watched, he pulled something from his wallet and dangled it before the others, evidently offering it as a wager, in lieu of money. In the light of the small chandelier that hung over the table, the object in his hand glinted gold, and I gave a gasp of surprise, for even at that distance, I knew at once what it was—my mother’s crucifix.

  26

  For a moment I stood transfixed while my brain, muddled by exhaustion, tried to work out what this meant. The cross had been in the company’s treasury trunk; when Jamie Redshaw had stolen the contents of the trunk, he must have taken it, too. That meant he was here somewhere, or had been recently, long enough to lose the cross to the one-eyed fellow.

  This realization set me in motion. I strode unsteadily across the room to the quartet of cardplayers and leaned over to get a closer look at the crucifix. There was no mistaking the ornate design. “Where did you come by that?” I demanded.

  The man turned to me and, though his face was shadowed by his hat brim, I saw his one good eye widen in an expression I could not quite read. “What business is it of yours?” he said, between teeth that were clenched around a pipe stem. His voice was not the sort I expected from an actor. It had a rough, hoarse quality, as though he’d strained his vocal cords by shouting or was suffering from the grippe.