Brother Dusty Feet

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  But Hugh was not left long to look about him, for the moment all the bread-and-cheese was gone, Master Pennifeather said it was time to be changing. ‘Our new brother will learn best by watching, for the first day,’ said Master Pennifeather. ‘Take him up to the gallery, Jonathan, before the townsfolk begin to arrive.’

  So Hugh and Jonathan, and Argos, who had been brought from guarding the periwinkle because they thought it would be good for him to get used to crowds, all went up the steep stairway to the gallery. Along one side of this gallery were the doors of the bed-chambers, and along the other side was the curved balustrade that kept people from falling on their heads into the courtyard.

  Jonathan planted Hugh and Argos against the balustrade where it curved out above the inn door, saying, ‘You can see beautifully from here. Hold on, and don’t move when the folk start arriving, or you’ll get lost in the crowd.’

  And with a nod, he set one hand on the rail and vaulted over into the yard below. He halted an instant to look up at Hugh, with his thin face quirking up towards his ears, and then went swinging across the yard to the little doorway behind the stage, where the others had already disappeared.

  Almost at once people began to arrive to see the play. Prentice lads in flat caps, and farm lads with leggings of plaited straw, and servant maids in striped calico petticoats, farmers and master-craftsmen with their wives and daughters, trooping in through the dark archway, in ones and twos and little merry groups, all happy and excited at the unexpected treat, and many of them in their Sunday clothes, with washed faces and knots of ribbon on their sleeves, so as not to be out-shone by their neighbours. More and more people, laughing and pushing and jostling their way in, packing closer and closer into the courtyard and flowing up the stairs to the gallery, until Hugh and Argos could not have moved if they had wanted to.

  Then Jonathan appeared again, with a long trumpet that flashed golden in the sunshine, and, springing on to the stage, sounded a loud, lovely fanfare that seemed to Hugh to flash golden too. Instantly the laughing and shouting and pushing stopped, and everyone looked at Jonathan, standing alone above them, with his shabby doublet seeming as gay as any jester’s motley. There was a hushed, breathless waiting moment after the last notes of the fanfare had died away, and then Jonathan made a low, swashbuckling bow to the audience, and sprang down from the stage – and the play began!

  There was hardly any scenery; just a couple of stools and a lot of labels. That was how it always was with strolling companies in those days. It is wonderful what you can do with a stool, especially if you put a label on to say what it is meant to be: spread a scrap of crimson damask on it, and it is a King’s throne; tie a green branch to it, and it is a forest tree – if the label says so. Hugh could read, because his father had taught him, and a few of the people in the crowd could read too, and told the ones who couldn’t, what the labels said. But somehow, after a very short while, nobody would have noticed if the labels were not there at all, for the Players were making them see whatever they wanted them to see, and the bare stage became a woodland glade or a King’s hall at a gesture or a word. It is always like that with really good actors.

  To Hugh it seemed like magic. Of course he knew the story of St George perfectly well, but that did not make it any the less exciting, and he hung forward over the carved balustrade open-mouthed, wide-eyed and breathless, as the story was unfolded on the little jewel-bright stage. He saw the King of Egypt, in scarlet robes and a golden crown, discussing with his bishop the dreadful dragon that was living on his borders and having to be fed on fair young maidens every day; and he saw the King’s daughter, exquisitely beautiful in a yellow satin farthingale, led out by a sorrowing populace and bound to a tree hard by the dragon’s lair, because she had drawn the fatal number for that day, out of a hat (Benjamin’s hat with the peacock feather). Then, with a flash and a strong smell of brimstone, the dragon leapt upon the stage and opened its horrid red mouth and lashed its scaly green tail. But just as it was about to seize the shrieking Princess, up on to the stage sprang St George, who waited only to explain to the audience that he had been returning from a crusade when he heard the screams of a maiden in distress, before rushing upon the dragon with his sword gleaming in his hand.

  For one instant there was not a sound in all the inn-yard, and then a tremendous uproar broke out. People shouted for St George—‘St George for Merry England!’ they yelled. ‘St George!’ while a few of the prentices cheered on the dragon because they liked him best; and in the midst and heat of all the turmoil St George and the dragon were locked together in the most terrific struggle; and hanging over the balustrade of the crowded gallery, Hugh yelled and waved his arms, while Argos stuck his head between the uprights and gave little shrill puppy-yelps.

  But at last the fight was finished, and the dragon sank expiring on the stage, while St George stood over him with sword up-raised, and everybody roared louder than ever. Then St George freed the Princess and took her home to her sorrowing father, while the dragon crawled off the stage; and after everyone had made long speeches, the Bishop married them, amid general rejoicing.

  Then the whole Company lined up on the stage to bow politely, including the dragon, who had taken off his paste-board head, so that Hugh saw it was Jonathan.

  So the Company bowed, and the audience cheered; and then it was all over, and St George had come down from the stage and was taking round the hat (still Benjamin’s hat). You see, in those days you couldn’t sell tickets as people came in to see the play – there were too many doors into an inn-yard, for one thing – you had simply to take the hat round afterwards and hope that people would put something into it. Some people did not, of course, but most people did.

  Little by little folk were making their way down from the gallery and out of the yard, through the archway into the Market Square, with or without paying; and Hugh grabbed Argos by the collar and flung himself into the crowd, darting and swerving, diving and pushing and butting, first to the left and then to the right, down the stairway and across the courtyard to join his friends in the little room behind the stage.

  Master Pennifeather was struggling out of the King’s scarlet robes when he arrived, and Benjamin was taking off the Bishop’s mitre, while Jonathan, still half inside the Dragon’s skin, was helping Nicky out of the Princess’s yellow farthingale.

  ‘Well?’ they asked. ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Hugh. ‘Oh yes, I did.’

  ‘Come and take my crown, there’s a good lad,’ said Master Pennifeather.

  They were nearly back in doublet and hose by the time Jasper Nye returned with the hat; and everybody hailed him eagerly. ‘What luck, Jasper?’ except Benjamin, who said, ‘Oh, my poor hat!’

  Jasper gave the hat to Master Pennifeather, who tipped the coins out of it on to the box they had been using for a table, and handed it to Benjamin. The silver and coppers rolled and clattered over the box top, and everybody gathered round to look, Ben Bunsell gently smoothing the long peacock’s feather in his hat, which had got a little battered.

  ‘By the fuss you make every time it’s your hat’s turn t’be sent round, anybody’d think ’twas a good hat,’ complained Jasper, who always seemed too weary to talk properly when off the stage, and he laid down St George’s breastplate and began to put on his doublet.

  But Benjamin only grinned and shook his head, saying, ‘Well, it was a good hat once, a very good hat, and I’m fond of it. There’s no friend like an old friend, I always say.’

  And all the time, Master Pennifeather was counting out the coins into the different piles; so much to settle the inn’s bill next morning, so much against a rainy day or the price of new costumes, and a third pile to be divided amongst the Company.

  ‘This is what we Players call the “sharing table”, Brother Dusty-Feet,’ Jonathan explained, as Master Pennifeather began to divide up the third pile.

  Sometimes there was no third pile, and little enough in the other two, b
ut today there was silver for everybody, even for Hugh! Hugh had not for an instant expected that there would be anything for him, and when the small pile of silver pence and three-farthing bits was put into his hand, he could only stare from it to the Players and back again. ‘Is it – is it really for me?’

  ‘Course it’s for you,’ said Nicky, kindly but scornful.

  ‘You’re very g-good to me,’ said Hugh, turning bright pink. ‘But I’ve not earned it.’

  ‘A pish and a flim-flam!’ said Master Pennifeather, sweeping the money for their bill into a leather pouch. ‘You helped us right nobly with the stage and costumes, and you’re one of the Company now. Besides, you’ve brought us good fortune! We’ve not had such an audience for weeks, and we were down to our last shilling. Now we shall sup most royally.’ He jingled the bag joyously. ‘Ye saints and sinners! How we shall sup! No rehearsing tonight, lads! Clear all this away, and we’ll spend a merry evening.’

  So once again everyone went to work. The stage was taken down and the wicker costume baskets were repacked and dumped in the stable, ready to go into the tilt-cart in the morning; and in a wonderfully short time the Company were trooping in through the house-door of the inn, with money jingling in their ragged pockets and the glorious smell of roasting mutton to meet them on the door-sill.

  Later that evening they were lounging at their ease around the blazing fire of beech logs in the long, black-beamed common room of the inn, with Argos sprawling in their midst, his front to the blaze and his flanks rising and falling contentedly as he slept. Hugh squatted on the rush-strewn floor, with Jonathan’s knees to lean against. He was quite full of mutton and apple-pasty, rather sleepy, and very happy. It was so lovely to have a pair of friendly knees to lean against if he felt like leaning, and friendly faces to look up at in the fire-glow.

  There were a lot of townsfolk in the long room, drinking their cider and making a great deal of cheerful noise, and in between while gaping at the Players, and pointing them out to new-comers. But the players took no notice of them; they were used to being stared at and pointed out to people; besides, it was good for trade. They were talking idly of their plans for the summer, and of Stourbridge Fair, where they would meet old friends at the summer’s end; and Hugh blinked at the fluttering green and saffron flames, and listened happily to all they talked about.

  Presently Master Pennifeather said, ‘You’ll have to write us another play, Jonathan lad, and alter the old ones so as to bring in a part for Hugh.’

  Hugh screwed round to look up at Jonathan. ‘Do you write the plays?’ he asked.

  Jonathan laughed and shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  And Jasper Nye explained: ‘Johnnie writes us a play sometimes, but for the most part we act th’ old Miracle plays – nobody knows who wrote them. An’ he alters ’em where needful, so’s never t’have more’n five people on th’ stage t’once.’

  ‘There is no getting away from the fact, my lords and gentles,’ said Master Pennifeather, ‘that a company of five is a trifle small. We shall make our fortunes now that there are six of us!’

  Everybody laughed because they knew that they would never make their fortunes, and they didn’t care, and Ben Bunsell suggested, ‘Seven, if you count Argos here. Why don’t you put a faithful hound in your next play, Johnnie? – or a ravening wolf? – I swear we could teach him to play either part.’

  Argos opened one eye, because he knew that they were talking about him, and wagged his tail, because he knew that they were talking kindly; and everybody laughed again, because he looked so very unlike a ravening wolf.

  ‘Don’t forget the pot of periwinkle,’ said Nicky, who was sitting on the floor too, with his arms round his updrawn knees. ‘Write a part for the periwinkle, Johnnie!’ and he grinned and poked Hugh in the ribs, to show that it was friendly meant.

  Jonathan Whiteleafe said, ‘I will write a play with a part in it for Hugh, and a part for Argos, and a part for the periwinkle, and it will make our fortunes, and we shall ride about the country in a golden coach, and have a supper like the one we have just eaten, every night, and Ben shall have a new peacock’s feather for his bonnet. And now I think it’s time that Hugh settled in for the night. He’s had a hard day.’

  So Hugh got up, and Argos sighed and got up too, shaking himself and yawning.

  ‘Good night,’ said everyone. ‘Good night, Hugh. Good night, Dusty.’

  And Jonathan got up also, saying that he must go and mend his dragon’s skin, which he had split across the shoulders. So he and Hugh went out together; out from the noise and crowd and laughter of the inn, and across the quiet courtyard to the stables, with Argos padding at their heels, and a horn lantern to guide them, for it was quite dark by now.

  The air smelled cool and fresh, and the stars shone above the black gables of the inn; and inside the stable, when they reached it, the lantern-light fell golden on the straw, and Saffronilla whinnied to them softly from her stall at the far end. They went to her and gave her bits of bread which Jonathan produced for her out of the breast of his doublet, and rubbed her nose and made small soft good-night talk to her. Saffronilla’s muzzle was like velvet, and her eyes were big and dark under the bloom of light that the stable lantern threw over them. She nuzzled first at Jonathan’s hand, then at Hugh’s shoulder, and then dropped her head to talk to Argos.

  They left the two of them to make friends, and went back to their own bit of the stable, where the battered costume baskets were stacked, and golden straw was piled high for bedding; and Hugh stripped off his doublet and his shoes, and burrowed in among the straw, thinking what a lot had happened since he woke up in the ditch that morning. Jonathan hung the stable lantern from a hook in one of the low black rafters, and sat down cross-legged with the dragon’s skin across his knees.

  In a little while Argos came from talking to Saffronilla and cuddled in beside Hugh; and Hugh put his arms round Argos’s neck, and they wriggled and squirmed and burrowed until neither of them knew how it was possible for anyone to be more comfortable than they were. Then they heaved two contented sighs, and lay quiet.

  If Hugh turned his head very slightly, he could see his pot of periwinkle, with its blue flowers looking almost purple in the lantern-light, and a star looking in over the half-door, and Jonathan sitting cross-legged in the golden straw, mending the split in his dragon’s skin.

  It was lovely to lie there, with Argos beside him warm and furry and safe from Aunt Alison, and watch Jonathan stitch – stitch – stitching away.

  Jonathan seemed to understand that when you are feeling particularly wide awake you can’t go to sleep just because someone tells you to; so when he saw Hugh’s wide, bright eyes fixed on him, he said nothing about shutting them, but began instead to talk very quietly in his deep, beautiful voice, stitching all the time. He told Hugh about the Players, and about the roads they travelled and the towns they passed through, and about the queer and funny and exciting things that happened to them, and the folk they met with on their travels. Pedlars and acrobats and wandering ballad-sellers, performing bears and other companies of Strolling Players, and quack doctors who sold the Elixir of Life at fourpence a bottle. Crazy wandering beggars, too, who were called ‘Tom-o’-Bedlams’ and had drinking-horns and badges and signs and pass-words among themselves, so that they were really a kind of Secret Society. All the folk who came and went along the roads of green England, and were called Dusty-Feet – or sometimes, rogues and vagabonds – by the respectable folk who lived in houses.

  After a while he began to tell Hugh about the plays they acted: the True and Noble History of St George one day, and the Martyrdom of St Sebastian the next, some play of Jonathan’s own on the third and a Shepherds’ Play at Christmas; and they all sounded lovely to Hugh.

  ‘Is it nice, making plays?’ he asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘I suppose it’s very difficult?’

  ‘Not my sort of plays, Brother Dusty-Feet; I can mak
e up rhyming jingle standing on my head – quite literally.’

  ‘Would it be harder to make – the other sort?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ve never made the other sort, you see.’ And there was a kind of ache in his voice that made Hugh want to say something comforting.

  So he said, ‘But you’re a very good tumbler anyhow, aren’t you, Jonathan? Master Pennifeather said so.’

  And Jonathan laughed softly and joyously, and said, with the ache quite gone from his voice: ‘I’m the best tumbler in the South Country; and that’s something worth being, after all.’

  He knotted off his thread, and folded up the dragon’s skin and laid it on the top of a costume basket. And Hugh suddenly found he was very sleepy; so he shut his eyes and snuggled closer to Argos, and long before the others arrived he was asleep in the golden straw.

  4

  The Piper