Player's Wench

by Marina Oliver

  'Dover!' Honour was surprised. 'But why? I thought he went on your ship?'

  'Oh, he often does, but he has other business, you see, and our ships do not always take him where he wishes to go.'

  Puzzled, Honour was about to demand what sort of business, when Richard bade her farewell, saying he must speak with someone who had just landed from another boat.

  He moved away, and Honour, after a last puzzled glance at the ships, turned her steps towards home. Not only was she disappointed to learn there was no chance of seeing Robert, but she was wondering what his business was, and why he had not mentioned it to her. He had said he was going to the Baltic, and so was this ship, so why should he change his plans and go to Dover?

  *

  Unable to answer the questions, Honour had to swallow her disappointment. The prospect of the coming visit to the theatre helped enormously, and by the following day she was thinking so exclusively about this that her mother, failing to obtain answers until she had spoken several times when she addressed Honour, began to be seriously worried.

  Suddenly perceiving how she could make use of this on the following day, Honour admitted a slight headache, due, she thought, to the oppressive weather. She went early to bed, and lay there hugging to herself the excitement she dared share with no one, not even Patience, who would be too angry at being left out of such an adventure to keep a discreet tongue.

  On the following day Honour did her utmost to appear sickly, a difficult task when her heart was singing at the thought of the joys before her. Heroically she barely touched her dinner, and then, accepting her mother's solicitous prompting, agreed to spend the afternoon in bed. Having permitted her mother to close the shutters to keep out the hot sun, and tuck her up in bed, Honour sighed, and said she felt better already, and after a long sleep would be perfectly well.

  'Please don't disturb me, for even the opening of the door awakens me,' she murmured sleepily as her mother went from the room, and a moment later had sprung out of bed and was pulling Ben's shirt and breeches and jacket from the chest where she had hidden them.

  Hastily she donned them, and then pulled on a pair of old buckled shoes which he had lent her, thanking her good fortune that everything fitted tolerably well, although the shoes were rather loose. If she spread out her toes and walked carefully they would do. Cautiously she opened the door and peered out. There was no one about, and she gained the small room whose window opened onto the roof of an outhouse in safety. Scrambling out of the window, she looked anxiously about her, but the yards at the back of the houses were deserted at this hour, when the women were busy after the midday meal, and the men had gone back to their shops and counting houses.

  From the outhouse she was able to slide down to the ground, and then, a few yards away, clamber onto a rainwater butt and so up to the wall separating the yard from that of a neighbour. Once over that there was a small gate which led into the churchyard, and Honour slipped through it, then made her way as fast as she could to the site of old Paul's Cross, where she had previously arranged to meet Ben.

  He was already there, waiting in considerable apprehension, and looked none too pleased to see Honour appear.

  'I thought you would not come,' he said slowly. 'We ought not to go!'

  'Nonsense!' she retorted, grasping his arm and urging him to move. 'After all the trouble I've taken, and having been successful so far, I'm not going to become a coward and give in now! But you may, if you are afraid, for I've no fear of going by myself.'

  This he could not permit, and so he began to walk along beside her.

  'Have we much time to spare?' she asked.

  'Not a great deal, for the doors open at three. We'll have to run for the seats, you know,' he warned her, 'it could be rough!'

  Honour laughed. 'Is there not a system where we can watch the first act free?' she queried. 'Shall we do that, and pretend we are so accustomed to coming to the theatre we are very particular in what we see?'

  'Best not draw too much attention to ourselves,' Ben protested. 'I've heard there are often fights when the numberers come round to collect the money.'

  *

  As they went, Honour questioned Ben avidly, making him repeat all he knew of the theatre, and all he had heard. Sooner than she had thought possible they turned into Drury Lane, and then Ben plunged into a narrow alley which led to the doors of the theatre. Already a sizeable crowd was gathered, and they were good humouredly jostling for the best positions near the doors. Staring about her with great curiosity, Honour waited, while Ben looked about him anxiously for fear they should be seen by an acquaintance.

  That calamity did not befall them, however, and as the time for the doors to open approached, Ben began to forget his fears and enjoy himself as much as Honour.

  'Are we going in the upper gallery?' Honour suddenly asked. 'I've only got one and sixpence, and if I spend all of that on a seat in the middle gallery, I shall not have enough to buy an orange, and I did so want to be able to do that.'

  Ben looked at her in some dismay. 'We can't go with all the riff-raff,' he said urgently. 'We must go in the pit. I can't afford a box, but the pit is only two and sixpence, and I've just enough to buy us oranges too.'

  Honour looked rather rebellious, but agreed when he told her all the notables went in the pit, even some of the gallants from the Court, who often scorned to take boxes. By the time this was settled, the doors were open, and Ben held her arm to steady her as they were swept forward into the theatre.

  Since they were not habitues of the theatre, they lost some ground to the more experienced, and found when they reached the pit that the first seven rows had all been filled, but Ben swiftly guided Honour to the bench behind, and as the back rows of seats were raked more steeply than the front ones, she declared she had an excellent view of the stage.

  Having secured seats, they were free to gaze about them in wonder. After taking in the green, baize-covered apron stage before the curtain, and the magnificently decorated proscenium arch with the doorways to either side, Honour turned her attention to the audience. The decorations in the auditorium were also largely of green baize, which covered the backless benches on which they sat as well as lining the boxes on the three sides of the theatre. Gilt leather bands also trimmed the boxes, both tiers, and above them, at a vast height, it seemed to Honour, was the gallery. That was already filled, and the occupants were leaning over the rail and shouting remarks to those below them in the pit. The boxes were not yet full, and Ben explained the richer folk sent servants to keep places for them.

  'They will come later, sometimes not until the play has begun,' he told her.

  'Fancy anyone deliberately missing some of it,' she exclaimed. 'I never could!'

  'Mayhap you would if you saw enough, or did not care for the play, but only to be seen here,' he answered, but she shook her head in disbelief.

  'Why do the ladies wear masks?' she asked, watching a couple of ladies who had just appeared in one of the boxes.

  'Oh, 'tis the fashion,' he replied carelessly. 'This is smaller than the Red Bull, and I find it strange to have a roof.'

  Honour glanced up at the huge glass dome above them, and was admiring the great chandeliers when a commotion to the front of them caused her to turn sharply to see what was amiss.

  A girl carrying a large basket filled with fruit was arguing fiercely with one of the men seated a couple of rows in front. At first Honour thought he was trying to haggle over the price of the orange he held in his hand, but she soon realised, for neither of them attempted to keep their voices down, the girl was bargaining with him about the price of carrying a letter to one of the actresses.

  'Sixpence!' she declared scornfully. 'Be that all you rate 'er? Why, 'is lordship give me two shillin' for takin' a note! I'll take 'isen any time!'

  'A shilling damn you, and no more. There's others not so bold who'd be glad of less.'

  'Then find 'em,' she retorted, but did not turn away. He said something in a
low voice, and she leaned over him, thrusting what Honour decided after one shocked look was a most indecently concealed bosom towards him provocatively. He suddenly seized her and pulled her down onto his knees, and she gave a delighted giggle, and lay looking at him, a mischievous smile on her face. He spoke softly to her and she nodded, then, with a shrug, she rose and unconcernedly went her way, calling out she had oranges or lemons or apples for sale.

  The man turned his attention to the stage, where a pair of elaborately dressed young men were standing in assumed negligent attitudes, languidly chatting. After a while they bowed deeply to one another and strolled off to talk to some masked ladies in the boxes, who appeared to greatly enjoy their attentions, to judge by their laughter, and the many raps they administered to the knuckles of the gallants with their fans.

  Another orange girl had appeared, a red-haired girl who seemed to know most of the audience and exchanged quips with them as she sold her fruit. Ben pulled out his last shilling and bought two oranges, passing one to Honour. The girl glanced across at Honour, and then stared with narrowed eyes, her head slightly on one side.

  'One orange ain't much,' she said suddenly. 'Won't your friend buy a couple too?'

  'He doesn't wish for more,' Ben said hastily.

  'Let him speak for himself, or is he too shy?' she retorted, edging her way closer to an embarrassed Honour, who shook her head dumbly.

  'Nell! Where's Nelly?' a loud voice asked, and the girl, after a last look at Honour, turned to smile and answer the man who was calling.

  *

  After that the play soon began. The curtains were pulled aside to reveal the most exciting, in Honour's eyes, vision. The scenes were painted on flat pieces of wood, and during the play were changed to represent many different backgrounds. Honour was engrossed with it all, and not even the noise in the auditorium, which was considerable, could deflect her attention from the stage, where the players, accustomed to having to shout above their audience, declaimed their speeches with immense gusto, and flung back witty retorts when some comment of the audience stirred them into reply.

  At the end of the first act there was some disturbance as the numberers came round to try and collect the money of those who, not having paid at the door, now decided to remain for the rest of the performance. Some left, and their seats were immediately taken by others. One fellow, who had been trying to convince the numberer he had indeed paid, was forcibly ejected, and a lady, seated alone in one of the boxes, had to be rescued from the amorous advances of a gallant who had mistaken her civil replies to his remarks as positive encouragement to ripen the acquaintance. He was taken away by his friends, and the lady was left explaining to all the interested folk about her that she had expected to meet with friends, and it was not her custom to attend the theatre alone, and drunken rascals ought not to be permitted to offend decent women who merely wished to keep themselves to themselves.

  Honour's interest in her complaints disappeared the moment the players came back onto the stage, and again she watched, fascinated, wishing she could be up there with them, especially when the heroine, to escape from a wicked uncle, appeared dressed in elegant breeches and pranced about the stage.

  'To be sure, anyone could tell she was a female,' Honour whispered to Ben. 'I do hope I am better disguised.'

  He reassured her, saying his clothes fitted Honour much less tightly than those of the actress, and she had undoubtedly had them specially made for her.

  'I must say, the play is much more real with women in it,' he commented approvingly. 'Some of the boys who played women's parts looked much less the part than she does a man. It was comic to hear them pitching their voices high, and sometimes the poorest of them forgot, and that was enough to send the audience into fits of laughter.'

  The last act began, and Honour tried to savour every second, aware it would most likely be the last time, as well as the first, that she would ever see a play. Suddenly there was a disturbance a row or so in front, and two men arose to their feet, struggling in the confined space to draw their swords, and hurling furious insults at one another. She recognised one as the man who had been arguing with the orange girl, but could not recall seeing the other before. Rather frightened, she clung to Ben's arm, and he, wondering what best to do, half rose to his feet with an idea of leaving.

  The combatants were soon persuaded it was no place for fighting, by the simple expedient adopted by their neighbours, who seized them and dragged them apart, then held firmly to them, forcing them to be reseated at opposite ends of the bench. A shower of orange peel and apple cores descended from the gallery, and voices vociferously requested silence. The actors had paused, but soon recovered their concentration and went on with the scene, to receive many cheers and shouts of approval as the play came to an end.

  *

  Honour rose as if in a dream to leave, and smiled absently at Ben when he made some comment. The audience was pushing in the rush to get out of the building, Honour and Ben were swept irresistably forward, through the foyer and out of the doors into the alley beside the theatre. There the press was less great as they divided, some to go towards Drury Lane, and others to Bridges Street in the opposite direction. Honour turned to ask Ben which way they should go, and found to her dismay he was not to be seen. In the crush they had been separated.

  Not seriously alarmed Honour tried to retrace her steps into the theatre, thinking that he must have been left behind, for she could not see him in front of her, but the crowd was still too great and she found herself carried forward until the alley opened out into Bridges Street and the crowd dispersed. It was impossible to find her way back to the other end of the alley since many of the audience remained there discussing the play, and she waited impatiently until there should be some room for her to go back.

  As she stood there, watching the people, some getting into carriages, others chatting in small groups, a man riding a magnificent black horse clattered up beside her. The man leaped down, glanced at Honour, and threw the reins to her.

  'Hold him for a few minutes, if you please, lad. Sixpence for you.'

  Startled, Honour clutched the reins, and before she could speak he disappeared, leaving her somewhat apprehensively eyeing the charge she had been given. She had never had occasion to ride a horse, and her father kept none, preferring to hire a carriage when he went on his infrequent journeys. This horse looked enormous to the girl, and he pawed the ground restlessly, and tossed his head so far she feared to have the reins torn from her grasp. Then, taking exception to a flapping cloak, he backed away, dragging Honour after him. Briefly she considered letting him go, but he seemed to quieten suddenly, and as there was still not room for her to pass through the alleyway, she decided that there could be no harm in staying. Besides, she thought in amusement, if she earned the sixpence, she could repay a part of what she owed Ben, and he would surely be grateful, for he had spent the last of his money on her orange.

  Then she espied the two men who had been prevented from fighting inside the theatre, approaching from the alley and arguing hotly.

  'Mistress Marshall has nought to say to you,' one was saying disdainfully. 'Last time I supped with her she remarked how tedious it was becoming, having to refuse your importunities. It would please both the lady and me if you would cease.'

  They paused right beside Honour, and with the horse on her other side she could not move away, and could hear all they said. They appeared to be quarrelling over the favours of one of the actresses and taunting one another on their respective lack of success with her. At last words did not content them, and after a furious exchange of insults they drew their swords and set about each other, scattering bystanders.

  Honour could not move, but the horse, startled by the clash of steel, suddenly reared, pulling her off her feet. The reins were dragged from her hands and she fell to the ground, rolled over and losing consciousness as her head struck something hard.

  *

  Chapter 3

  The t
wo swordsmen, the cause of this incident, were blithely unaware of what had happened until the owner of the horse, who had seen it all as he was returning from his errand, drew out his own sword and thrust it between them, effectively parting them.

  'Out of my way, scum!' he said curtly, and stepped forward to grasp the horse's bridle and with a word quieten it, then bend over Honour's still form. Too startled at the abrupt interruption to continue their quarrel, the others looked on in some amazement, then one of them, recalling the insult of his words as well as the humiliation of having the fight so easily broken up, began to bluster that he would demand satisfaction.

  'You may demand what you will, when I have this lad removed,' the man said calmly, rising to his feet with Honour in his arms. 'Here, Tom,' he hailed a man who was watching with interest, 'take Satan and stable him, then come to Mother Betsy's house.'

  He strode off, turning into a narrow street a few yards away, and halted outside one of the cleaner looking houses. The door was opened promptly at his knock, and a large, pleasant looking woman greeted him with surprise.

  'Why, Mr Dunstone, I hadn't looked to see you yet awhile. What have you here?'

  'A lad who was knocked over and hurt in a brawl. I'll take him to my rooms. Bring water and rags, if you please. I don't know yet where he's hurt, but he breathes still.'

  'To be sure. Why, the poor laddie! He looks so young, too!' she exclaimed with ready sympathy, and bustled away for the things he had requested while he carried Honour up the stairs and into a big room at the front of the first floor, where he laid her down gently on a large bed.

  The bump on her head had pushed Honour's hat still further onto her head, and Mr Dunstone gently eased it off, seeing in the rapidly swelling lump at the side the cause of her swoon. He turned her head slightly to see it better, and saw the ribbon she had used to tie back her hair. His eyes narrowed, and an amused smile lit up his face as he considered her, taking in the perfect features, so pale and yet so delicately lovely, and the slight form that betrayed only to the discerning that she was no boy.