For most of the company, going home for dinner would have meant a walk of a quarter hour or more in the cold, so we customarily dined downstairs, at a long trestle table set up specially for us by the innkeeper. As we would not have the leisure for another bona fide meal until after the evening performance, we made a feast of this one, often lingering at the table until nearly nones.
It was my favorite part of the day—a time for companionship, conversation, a congenial game of cards. Today we had even more companionship than usual, for Mr. Garrett had joined us. Before sitting next to him, Mr. Armin sniffed him warily, like a dog. “Just checking, to make certain you’d gotten the smell out.”
“And have I?” asked Mr. Garrett.
“For the most part. You smell less like a stable now, and more like a brewery.”
“That’s because I rinsed myself with ale, at Ben Jonson’s suggestion.”
“Well, you have it from an expert, then,” said Will Sly. “No one knows more about ale and its uses than Ben.”
“Are you a c-cardplayer, sir?” asked Mr. Heminges. “We n-normally engage in a r-rousing round of whist after d-dinner.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be delighted to join you.”
Mr. Garrett proved an entertaining dinner companion. Though he seemed to know little enough about the theatre, he had something intelligent, and often witty, to say about nearly every other topic on which we touched.
I watched him closely and listened to him carefully, looking for some clue to his identity and why he chose—or was compelled—to conceal it. He spoke with a slight lisp, but not the precious sort so often affected by fops. His seemed, rather, to be the result of some injury to his upper lip, where a thin scar was still visible beneath his newly bleached mustache. When he turned toward me, I could see traces of other old wounds on his neck and on his forehead. Whatever else his past life might have been, it had certainly been dangerous.
I was, I noticed, not the only one in the company who was taking Mr. Garrett’s measure. Ned Shakespeare was regarding him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, as though still trying to recall where he had seen the man before. Ordinarily Sam paid far more attention to the food and drink than to the conversation, but when Mr. Garrett began to speak of all the countries he’d traveled to and all the strange things he had seen, Sam hung on his every word, as though he hungered far more for adventure than for the mackerel and the parsnip fritters on his plate.
Mr. Garrett could also hold his own when the talk turned to such popular pursuits as hunting, falconry, and gardening. And, although he had been in London but two days, he was already knowledgeable on the subject of most concern to us all—the state of the queen’s health.
“This morning,” he said, “I spoke with … with someone in a position to know. He tells me that Her Majesty grows weaker with each day that passes. She often seems confused and forgetful, and will seldom speak except to complain that her limbs are cold. Yet she adamantly refuses to take any of the medicines prescribed by her physicians, apparently because she fears being poisoned.”
The sharers glanced solemnly at one another. “What I fear, gentlemen,” said Mr. Armin, “is that we players will not have Her Majesty’s protection much longer.” He turned to Mr. Garrett. “Do you know whether or not she has given any indication of who she wants to succeed her?”
“According to the man I spoke with, she has not. Everyone expects, of course, that her choice will be the Scottish king.”
“Lord help us,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
“Is that bad?” I asked. I knew nearly nothing about King James, except that he was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, who once tried to claim the English throne and had her costard chopped off for it.
“Well,” Mr. Shakespeare said, “let me put it this way: How many Scottish theatres have you heard of?”
I thought for a moment. “None.”
“And how many famous Scottish playwrights are there?”
“None?”
He nodded grimly. “How well do suppose we players are likely to fare, then, under James’s rule?”
“I understand, though,” said Mr. Garrett, “that his queen, Anne of Denmark, often presents elaborate masques at court, and even performs in them.”
“Oh, good,” said Mr. Armin. “We’ll all become courtiers, then, and prance about before a lot of fake scenery, pretending to be gods and goddesses, and spouting doggerel.”
“P-perhaps it won’t be as b-bad as you imagine,” put in Mr. Heminges, always the optimist.
“And perhaps it will be a good deal worse,” said Ned Shakespeare. “After all, His Royal Scottishness was raised by Puritans, and most, if not all, of his advisers are Puritans.” He took a great gulp of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If you ask me, we’d better all pray very hard that Her Majesty makes a miraculous recovery.”
15
The congenial, companionable mood had vanished. It was as though a sneaping southerly wind had swept into the room, bringing oh its wings a load of melancholy, which hung over the company like a dark and dreary cloud.
There was a long stretch during which no one spoke very much and everyone drank a lot. Then Mr. Heminges cleared his throat. “I w-was reluctant to bring this up b-before, but as we’re all in a f-foul humor anyway, I m-may as well.” He glanced at the other sharers as though for moral support, and then went on. A short wh-while ago, it was discovered that yet another c-costume has d-disappeared from its trunk.”
Murmured complaints and curses went up from one end of the table to the other. Mr. Heminges’s voice rose above them. “Now, one or two m-missing garments may be chalked up to c-carelessness, but when the t-toll reaches half a dozen, we c-cannot help suspecting …” He paused and cleared his throat again. “Well, n-naturally we do not w-wish to accuse anyone, but—”
“If you’re looking for someone to blame,”put in Ned Shakespeare, “I’d begin with the tiring-man. He has the most ready access to the costumes, after all.”
“P-perhaps. But R-Richard has always been v-very reliable. Besides, the trunk I m-mentioned was sent over from the Globe only t-two days ago, and Richard has b-been laid up for n-nearly a week. In any c-case, as I said, we d-do not wish to accuse anyone, so we’ve decided to t-take the following m-measure: From n-now on, the t-tiring-room and property room will be kept locked d-during the day, until an hour b-before the performance. That should leave sufficient t-time for all of you to dress and c-collect your properties.”
There was another round of discontented murmurs. Mr. Heminges held up his hands for silence. “I would j-just like to add that the n-necessity of replacing the costumes p-puts rather a severe b-burden on the company’s finances. As you’ve n-no doubt noticed, the s-size of the audience has been gr-gradually diminishing these l-last few weeks.”
“Yes, I have noticed that,” said Sam. “It’s gotten so that they can scarcely see over the edge of the stage.”
The jest drew a few halfhearted chuckles from the company at large, and a faint smile from Mr. Heminges. “Thank you, S-Sam, f-for that attempt to introduce a b-bit of levity into the proceedings. But I’m afraid there’s n-nothing very amusing about the s-situation. Once we’ve m-met our expenses, gentlemen”—he lowered his voice a little—”including the p-percent-age we g-give to the Cross Keys, there’s b-barely enough left over to p-pay your wages. Now, as you m-may also be aware, M-Mr. Henslowe has raised the pr-price of admission to the F-Fortune Theatre, by a p-penny.”
Will Sly gave a low whistle. “That means it’ll cost the groundlings twice as much to get in.”
“V-very good, Will. We considered f-following his example, but we c-concluded that we would be in d-danger of pricing ourselves out of b-business. I suspect that a g-good half of our audience s-simply could not afford to hand over an extra p-penny just to see a p-play. They have b-better uses for the m-money—such as buying f-food, for example.”
“How will we manage, then?” asked Sam.
Mr. S
hakespeare answered. “We sharers have agreed to put some of our past profits back into the company, to keep it afloat until warmer weather, when, we trust, the playgoers will return to the Globe in great flocks, like so many swallows.”
“An it will help,” I said, “I’m willing to forgo me wages for a while.”
Sam gave me a sharp poke in the ribs, and a look that said, Have you gone mad?
“Thank you, W-Widge,” said Mr. Heminges, “but that won’t be n-necessary.” I thought I heard him add, under his breath, “I hope.” I could not be certain, though, for the noise level in the room had escalated as the players began talking animatedly among themselves.
“You nupson!” Sam whispered. “Don’t offer to give up money that way! They might ask us all to do the same!”
“I’m sorry. I only wanted to do me part.” In truth, I would have given nearly anything—though heaven knew I had little enough to my name, and not even a proper name for that matter—to keep the Lord Chamberlain’s Men from ruin. Julia had once said to me, soon after I joined the company, that she would gladly forgo her wages as long as she was allowed to perform. At the time I did not see how a person could want something so much. Now I understood. It was not just about performing; it was about belonging.
It had puzzled me, too, when Julia said that she and I were birds of a feather. I knew now what she meant: that neither of us had ever belonged anywhere before. Though she was not technically an orphan, she might as well have been, for her mother was dead and her father was a common thief with no interest in her beyond what money she could bring in.
Like me, she had found a family in the theatre. Unfortunately membership in that family was limited to men and boys, at least in England. I only hoped that, across the Channel in France, she had managed to make a more permanent place for herself.
Even as I was turning all this over in my mind, our all-male province was invaded by two fair and fashionably dressed young ladies. So finely turned out were they, in fact, that I almost failed to recognize them. But my heart did not; it leaped in my chest. “Judith!” I exclaimed softly.
Sam elbowed me again. “Come now, if you want her attention, you’ll have to speak up.” But even had I been brave enough to call out to her, I could not have done so, for my breath had deserted me. The company rose as one to greet the girls. “Who’s the wench with her?” Sam whispered.
“Mary Mountjoy, the daughter of Mr. Shakespeare’s landlord.”
Sam pursed his lips appraisingly. “She’s even better looking than Mistress Shakespeare.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You truly think so?”
He grinned. “No. I was just trying to get a rise out of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith was saying, “that we couldn’t join you all for dinner. We were too busy buying things.”
“What sort of things?” Mr. Shakespeare asked, apprehensively.
“Why, our dresses, Father!” Judith lifted the hem of her gown and turned in a slow circle so we might admire it, then gestured to Mistress Mountjoy, who giggled and made a cursory twirl. “And our shoes!” Judith gave us a glimpse of a pair of chopines with soles a good six inches high, designed to keep her skirts from dragging through the mud and slush. “And our billiments!” She patted the satin band, garnished with jewels, that adorned her hair.
Radiating disapproval as a stove does heat, Mr. Shakespeare led his daughter over near the window. But, though the rest of us did our best not to notice them, it was impossible. Over Mr. Armin’s voice inviting Mistress Mountjoy to have some fruit and cheese, I could hear Mr. Shakespeare asking how much all their finery had cost, and Judith replying nonchalantly that she wasn’t certain but it might have been seven or eight pounds. I nearly choked on my cheese; that was a full year’s wages for a prentice.
Mr. Shakespeare sounded nearly as astonished as I was, and considerably more upset. “And how did you manage to pay for it?”
“I asked them to send the bill to you,” she said, as though the answer should have been obvious. “They said they were happy to, and were certain you were good for it.”
“Then they’re far more certain than I am,” growled Mr. Shakespeare.
“Oh, Father, you can’t expect me to come to London and not buy a few new things for myself.”
“I didn’t expect you to come to London at all.”
Mr. Armin, who had been patiently listening to Mary Mountjoy prattle on, saw that we were eavesdropping. “I’m sorry to cut short our delightful conversation, my dear, but it’s time I took these wag-pasties upstairs and put them through their paces.”
“Paces?”
Mr. Armin pretended to run her through with an invisible sword, eliciting a burst of giggles. “Sword practice, mademoiselle.”
“Oh!” cried Judith from directly behind me. “May we watch, sir?”
I had seldom seen Mr. Armin taken off guard, either by sword or by speech. “Well, I—I—” He looked to Mr. Shakespeare for help. “What do you think, Will?”
Mr. Shakespeare took half a step back, as though he meant to stay out of it. “It’s up to you, Rob.”
Mr. Armin frowned. “I’m not certain it’s such a—”
“We won’t be any bother,” Judith assured him. “Will we, Mary?”
“No! Not a bit!”
With obvious reluctance, Mr. Armin said, “All right—provided you’re quiet and stay out of the way.”
Since none of the chambers at the Cross Keys was spacious enough for swordplay, we held our practice sessions in the long gallery, before the stage. As we mounted the stairs, Judith called over her shoulder, “How is your play progressing, Widge?”
I groaned inwardly, knowing what was coming next. Sure enough, Sam spoke up. “His play? You’re writing a play, Widge?”
I murmured something noncommittal, hoping they would let the subject drop. It was a vain hope. “Hasn’t he told you?” Judith said.
“No, he hasn’t.” Sam gave me a reproachful look, as though hurt that I should tell Judith before him. “What’s it about, then?”
“So far, it’s about two pages.”
“Pages? The sort that wait on nobles, you mean?”
“Nay, the sort you write on.”
To my relief, Mr. Armin cut the conversation short by handing us our wooden singlesticks. “Sam, you and Sal square off. Widge, you’ll work with me.”
Judith and Mary were as good as their word, sitting far up in the two-penny seats, well out of reach of even the most wayward sword thrust. But perhaps it was too much to ask them to be silent as well. No sooner had we begun our practice than they began whispering and tittering behind their hands. I suspected, from their sidelong glances, that we were the source of their amusement.
We did not mean to be amusing. Under Mr. Armin’s unforgiving eye, even Sam was on his best behavior—for a time, at least. We prentices had more or less mastered the basic cuts and thrusts—the stoccata, the passata, the imbrocata, the stramazone, the dritta and riversa—and had lately been working on a new move. The montano was an underhanded sweep of the sword, designed to catch the opponent’s blade from beneath, where his wrist is weakest.
At first, I was painfully self-conscious, afraid of embarrassing myself before Judith. But serious swordplay requires such concentration, such precision, that after half a dozen blows I lost all awareness of being watched—until I heard the sounds of stifled laughter coming from the two-penny seats. I glanced toward the girls, and saw at once the reason for their merriment: Sam’s last montano had not been quite according to Caranza, as they say. It ended up not beneath his opponent’s sword but between his opponent’s legs. Sal Pavy was standing practically on tiptoe, with an extremely worried expression on his face. Sam was giving his singlestick little jerks upward and snarling, “Yield, varlet!”
Something struck my left shoulder painfully, making me cry out. “That is what happens,” Mr. Armin said, lowering his weapon, “when you allow yourself to be distracted.” He turned
to the other two scrimers. “That’s enough, Sam.”
Sam hung his head. “I was only having a bit of fun.”
“Oh? Well, I like a bit of fun myself. Why don’t you and I have an amusing bout or two while Widge and Sal blade it out?”
Sam looked as though Mr. Armin had proposed a round of shin-kicking with hobnailed boots. Reluctantly he took my place and I took his.
The girls had gone back to merely whispering. I did my best to ignore them and concentrate on Sal Pavy. He wasted no time in striking the first blow. No doubt he was humiliated by Sam’s horseplay and anxious to redeem himself, for he swung his stick much harder than he should have. My weapon went flying.
Angry, I snatched up the stick and delivered a blow that made Sal Pavy draw back. He replied with an edgeblow aimed at my knees. I knocked it aside and, without thinking, gave him a stoccata that would have knocked the wind out of him had he not dodged. Even so, it scraped his ribs. He cursed under his breath and swung at me again, harder than before. Without our really meaning it to, our friendly practice had degenerated into a hostile duel.
16
When Sal Pavy first joined the Chamberlain’s Men, I had regarded him as a rival for the choicest roles and had naturally resented him. Though I had come to accept him as one of us, there were times when that old enmity welled up unexpectedly, like some intermittent fever that, just when you think you’ve rid yourself of it, makes you sweat again.
This was one of those times. Though I am not ordinarily a violent sort, I laid on as though I meant to disembowel him at the very least. In truth, I had no wish to harm him, only to show him up, to make him look bad and myself look good.
I was very much aware of the audience now. Judith and Mary called out words of encouragement, though which of us they were aimed at, I could not tell. Mr. Armin was shouting at us, too, and I suspected that his were not words of encouragement. We were too intent on each other to heed him.
Though I hated to admit it, Sal Pavy put up a good defense. Not only did he turn aside my every blow, he answered with several that nearly found their mark. For the first time, I began to wonder whether he might be the one to show me up.
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