The troupe carried with them no tent, but rather, performed on a brightly decorated stage cleverly made up on the flat of one of the wagons. People simply gathered around, and therefore the mummers could not charge an admission fee, relying, instead, on money thrown on stage by an appreciative audience. It was therefore imperative that all acts, whether sent out to shock, amuse, or amaze, had to perform at their very best. A bad fall by one of the acrobats, or a poor lift by the strongman, and the day’s pickings would be lean.
On those nights, Budsby would stare morosely into his jug of wine and order his right-hand man, Nick Sayers, to tell the troupe to smarten up, practice their routines, and ensure that such sloppy performances were eliminated.
He would get the offenders to reprise their act by the fire until the problem was ironed out.
Then, after a couple of more drinks, a hearty feed, and a warm-up by the flickering flames, the optimist in Budsby would re-surface and roar heartily, “Tomorrow, my friends, those coins will clatter across the stage like the sound of rolling thunder.” Then he would let out the bassoon laugh and stagger off to sleep in his wagon, leaving Soho to batten things down.
Shakespeare would return to his cart, too, and survey the work needing to be done next morning.
While he had had great success with the softer leathers, using the relatively primitive tools left behind by Mr Mullins, he struggled initially with the tougher, thicker leather for the bridles, harnesses and other more utilitarian gear. The large, unwieldy needles and the sinewy thread regularly ripped his skin. But sitting in the maintenance van, amid a ramshackle collection of tools, strips of leather, and jobs in need of repair, he willed himself to overlook the blood and discomfort to show his appreciation for his new family.
As they travelled that summer through Dorset and Somerset, reaching the western seaboard for an extended stay - a long way from Stratford, he reflected - he stuck at his task, developing thick calluses on his hands as a protection against further cuts.
By the time Christmas had come, he had mastered most jobs, not only with leather, but any other repairs to vehicles and equipment that were needed.
He was therefore ready when presented with a vital challenge - to fix the rapidly deteriorating leather strapping for “The Mighty Hercules, The Strongest Man in all of Merry England.”
Almost eighteen inches wide at its broadest, the thick embossed belt was wrapped around Hercules’ rock-hard stomach by Soho prior to each performance, then pulled tight and locked with two huge brass buckles at the back.
While adding glamor and drama to the act, the belt had an important duty - providing support for Hercules’ spine when he bent down and picked up the bar with the huge, perfectly-round metal spheres on each end.
As the season wore on, the stitching had started to unravel, making the procedure, which was the climax of his engrossing act, all the more precarious. By the time they reached Taunton, immediate action was required.
“It’s been terrible, Will,” Hercules said to Shakespeare, as he handed over the belt in the cluttered van.
“I think I should be able to do something with it,” replied Shakespeare, closely examining the frayed webbing and picking at it with a fingernail.
“I haven’t been able to lift with confidence, you know what I mean?” continued the big man, his giant waxed moustache twitching with anxiety.
“I think I do.”
“You’ve got to feel confident in my game.”
“I see.”
“Otherwise, you never get the thing off the ground.”
“Right.”
“I know blokes, some stronger than me - farm-boys, that type - big enough to pull a stuck bull out of the mud.”
“Yes?”
“But they can’t do what I do. Bring them up on stage, and they go to water. They can’t pick up that bar.”
“I’ve seen them.”
And it was true, too, one of the highlights of Hercules’ act was to challenge locals to a test of strength, and in doing so, reassure even the most cynical that the round weights were genuine.
Peering from out of his van, Shakespeare had witnessed many a strong young country lad, red-faced from embarrassment as back-slappers pushed him forward, fail at the first hurdle. Even though they sometimes rivalled Hercules in size and bulk, they could rarely get the bar with its two dead-weight orbs off the ground, much less over their head.
“That’s because they don’t think about it, they don’t have the timing, they don’t have the confidence,” said Hercules.
“Right.”
That’s what life’s all about it, isn’t it, hey? Three things. Thinking. Timing. Confidence.”
Shakespeare, The New Shakespeare, that is, looked up from the stitching with wonderment on his face.
He was taken aback that such a simple but potent philosophy on life could be presented to him by a man whose success in matters seemed to be based more on things muscular than cerebral.
“Yes, yes! You are right, Hercules, you are absolutely right!”
“Aw, just call me Max. Hercules is only my stage name.”
“Max. Okay, Max it is then.”
“Can you fix it?”
Shakespeare peered again at the big man in front of him. The mighty handlebar moustache flourished beneath two high cheekbones. Above them sat a pair of brown eyes, which sparkled, a tribute to the fellow’s fitness and good health. On top, a thatch of glossy black hair matched the moustache in both colour and flair.
Shakespeare thought to himself how, out of his traditional stage clothes of leopard-skin loincloth and calf-high boots, and standing in simple trousers and shirt, Hercules looked a true gentle giant.
It was said that despite his size, he had never raised a fist in anger to anyone, and that somewhere back in London there was a wife and two children that he adored, and which he supported by saving whatever he could from his displays of strength on the road, and took back to his little family when the opportunity presented itself.
“Yes, I can fix it,” Shakespeare reassured him.
“Beautiful. Beautiful,” said Hercules. “I’ve never felt confident at all since we were in that little seaside village a couple of weeks ago, and I bent down, the belt started to slip, and I couldn’t get a grip of my balls.”
Shakespeare couldn’t help it. A glimmer of a smile came to his lips.
“And I let go of both of them.”
The smile began to develop into a discrete laugh.
“And they rolled into the crowd and flattened a little old lady!”
It was too much. Shakespeare cast the belt aside and burst into laughter.
“What?” said Hercules, puzzled. “What?”
“It’s nothing, Max, nothing.”
“Oh, I see,” said Hercules, smiling as the picture developed in his mind. “My balls!”
“And the little old lady,” added Shakespeare, tears streaming down his face, “the poor old thing … Ohhh, dear …”
“My balls nearly killed her!” roared Hercules, bursting into laughter, and slapping Shakespeare on the shoulder.
Shakespeare bent forward under the pressure of the mighty blow, his laughter suddenly changing into a spluttering, coughing sound.
“Ohhh,” said Max, patting him apologetically. “Sorry, Will. Don’t know me own strength!”
The pair began to roar laughing again, but suddenly stopped when the van began shaking.
It was rocking up and down, and side to side so violently that even the strongman began to blanch. They looked at each other in fear, as the rocking continued, Shakespeare’s tools began to roll across his mottled work-board, and the pots and pans hanging at the back began to clang.
“Blimey,” said Hercules.
“Is it an earthquake?” said Shakespeare.
“Ha! No, no, only me,” came a booming voice, followed by a hearty chuckle. Shakespeare and Hercules turned to the entrance of the van, to see Budsby trying to heave his giant figure up fr
om the step onto the platform, rocking the wagon as he struggled for balance. “These steps are getting higher every day,” he said, as Soho appeared from behind and began pushing his boss. “Remind me, if we should ever make a fortune, to buy myself a wagon that is built lower to the ground. It’s all I can do to get into bed at night.”
Hercules moved forward, grabbed his boss by the hand and in one quick movement, pulled him inside.
“Ah, thank you Master Hercules,” said Budsby, catching his breath, which was icy from the December cold. “I know it is said that intellect rules the world, but just occasionally a bit of brute force wins the day.”
“Hercules, er, Max, that is, is a thinker as well,” said Shakespeare.
“Oh, I know, I know,” said Budsby, catching his breath. “I would not want you to believe that I feel otherwise. Thinking. Timing. Confidence. That’s what it is all about, isn’t it, Max?”
“Certainly is, Mr Budsby.”
“Mr New Shakespeare, one day, when you are running your own show, you will be able to relate to your associates how the most successful travelling mummer outfit you ever came into contact with, worked on a three-point philosophy espoused by the show’s resident muscle-man.”
There was a pause.
“Plus,” added Budsby, winking to Max, “other unique strategies developed by its owner, of course!”
“Let me hear that again? My own show?” said Shakespeare, with surprise.
“The time has come, Mr New Shakespeare, for you to spread your wings.”
“But, Mr Budsby, I’m happy in my job. I’m grateful that …”
“Sssh,” he said, just like he did the first day they met at the stream, waving the big silver-capped Blackwood stick at him to cease. “You don’t need to be grateful to me. I am grateful to you for what you have done.”
“I’ve enjoyed every day since we met.”
“Excellent. But remember what we discussed on that first night, around the fire? I will not blame if you cannot recall the conversation, considering the state you were in.”
Shakespeare looked down at the strongman’s belt and then back at Max.
Max gave him a nod, a knowing nod, as if to you say “Come on, Will, I’ve told you how to do it. The three steps.”
Will nodded.
First up, think, he said to himself. Think.
He cast his mind back to that night. There was the fire. And the beer that the big man drank. And the acrobatic man that handed him the beer. Nick Sayers. That’s it. The acrobat. Who is also the manager.
Of course, I remember what he said!
But, wait, he thought. Don’t spill the beans too quickly now. Timing. It’s all in the timing.
Thinking. Timing.
He paused, and looked up.
“Versatility,” he said, with confidence.
The chubby red face of the big man split into a smile. Max beamed with pride.
“Splendid,” said Budsby. “Splendid, Mr New Shakespeare. Versatility it is, and that is what I have in mind for you. I thought we might take you away from the confines of the maintenance wagon, bring you out front of house, and begin your education in the world of entertainment.”
“But …”
“Will,” said Budsby kindly. “You have cut, sewed, repaired and re-fitted every piece of leather in the entire troupe. Twice! The bridles on the horses match those of the Queen’s Guard. And you have learned how to make pots, repair pans, and fix wagon wheels.”
“It’s just that,” said Shakespeare, waving at a collection of pieces of leather hanging on hooks, “I’ve got to finish Max’s belt, and a couple of other jobs.”
“Enough!” said Budsby, flourishing the stick, and turning around. “I have that problem solved. Soho!”
The little man jumped at his name, turned and walked to the back of the wagon. He looked outside and waved.
There was more movement of the wagon as Shakespeare could feel another person climbing on board. But this time the rocking was not of earthquake proportions, and the reason soon became apparent.
The visitor appeared at the doorway, a figure Shakespeare had never seen before. He was a short, wiry character, his skin well weathered by the sun and wind. Under a thick greatcoat, he wore a blue and white striped top, and in his hands he carried some sort of cap, which he nervously turned over and over again.
“Mr New Shakespeare,” boomed Budsby grandly, “allow me to introduce to you - originally from Colchester, late of Norway, and fresh from jumping ship at Deptford - Mr Mullins.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Halt, who goes there?”
“What do you mean ‘Who goes there?’” bellowed a thundering voice out of the twilight. “We go here, of course!”
“And who is we?” replied the voice.
“Good heavens, man, take a look will you? It’s a troupe. The Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Mummers, the most famous travelling show in all of England. And I am Rufus J. Budsby, entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant, himself.”
“Never heard of you. What do you want?”
The big fellow was taken aback. He turned and whispered to the little gargoyle on his left. “Never heard of us? What does he mean he’s never heard of us?”
The gargoyle shrugged.
Leaning to the bearded young man on his right, Budsby added mellowly, “You had better have another look at that marketing strategy of yours, young Will.”
There was silence.
“Well?” said the first voice impatiently. It came from a short, squat figure. He was dressed for battle, his chain-mail vest and shiny helmet glistening in the dimming light. A giant spear was held in a metal-gloved hand, a long sword hung from a studded belt, and Shakespeare could see he wore unusual protective leggings made from strong thick hide. Ox, the leather-man in him surmised.
Under the helmet, a pudgy face with squinting eyes, a three-day stubble and a mouth with full lips screwed itself into speech again, “So what do you want?”
Budsby cleared his throat and stepped forward a pace on the dusty forest track. “We seek the opportunity to repose on the outskirts of the village, kind sir.”
“Why?”
Budsby moved forward another three paces and continued, “As I said, sir, we are a travelling troupe of mummers. And once we have rested tonight, then tomorrow we propose to set up our stage and present for the good people nearby such a summer performance of sights and sounds, the like of which they have never seen before.”
“Sights like what?”
“Ah, I see sir is an incisive critic of the performing arts,” Busby added warmly, moving another five paces closer. “Sights such as the amazing Siamese Twins, one black, one white. Sights such as the incredible fire-eater, who can project two yards of flame from his mouth.”
“And?”
“Sights such as Hercules, our mighty strong man, the strongest in all of Merry England,” continued Budsby enthusiastically, moving within ten yards of the guard, and peering at him. “Who I suspect, powerful as he is, might be challenged by a man of such obvious strength as your good self.”
“Oh, reckons he’s strong does he?” said the guard, relaxing his hand on the spear just a little.
“He does, sir,” crooned Budsby. “But even from this distance and in this dimming light I can see that your experience as a guard has gifted you with a most powerful body, too, ready to take on all-comers.”
“Well, I do my job.”
“Exactly,” said Budsby, moving rapidly to within two yards of his quarry. “And that is why the good citizens of this area, and indeed, people all across this wonderful country of ours can go about their duties knowing full well that men such as you are providing protection from our mortal enemies.”
And so saying, he unscrewed the silver top from his walking stick, extracted the phial, pulled out the cork and offered it, saying, “Do you fancy a little tipple, good sir?”
The guard peered down at the silver tube, looked quietly left and right, and ease
d the grasp on his spear further. “Don’t mind if I do, sir,” he said, grabbing the phial with his free hand. “It’s a nice reward near the end of a long day.”
And as the man tilted his head back and swallowed the rough, warming liquid, Budsby slyly turned back to Soho and Shakespeare standing twenty yards away at the front of the first wagon, and winked.
“Thank you sir,” said the guard, handing it back when he had finished. “I appreciate your kindness. It’s just that around here these days, we can’t take no chances.”
“Oh?” said Budsby distractedly, going to have a swig himself, he discovered that the guard had finished the lot off.
“Being over here on the east, we get a lot of dangerous types smuggled on shore and heading for London.”
“What sort of, er, types?” asked Budsby carefully.
“French and Spanish, mainly. Enemies of the state. Spies, messengers, and rumour-mongers.”
“Spies?”
“And atheists.”
“Atheists, too?”
“And Jesuits.”
“Jesuits, hey, well I’ll be damned.”
Budsby kept all these responses as neutral as possible. He never cared much about all this spy stuff, but it was dangerous to indicate any feelings one way or another.
“All trying to challenge the authority of the Earl and of the Queen herself,” continued the guard.
“Ah, yes, the Earl …” said Budsby slowly, trying to elicit just which Earl the man was talking about.
“The Earl of Oxford. Edward de Vere himself!”
“Oxford? You’re a long way from Oxford, aren’t you? Why, Norwich is just up the road.”
“The Earl has properties everywhere, sir. Don’t forget he is the Lord Chamberlain, second only in rank to Her Majesty.”
“True, true. But I thought, you know, most of the estates he inherited when he was twelve, he had since sold off.”
The Playmakers Page 6
