Shakespeare's Scribe (11 page)

“Right in the middle of your bum!” Sam said, and went into a fit of laughter that, though he muffled it with one hand, I was sure could be heard out front. Sal Pavy flushed angrily and, hiking up his skirts, stalked off—a short stalk, as the area behind the curtain was but one pace in depth and perhaps ten from side to side. “Oh, my,” said Sam. “I've offended Her Majesty.”

Halfway through the play, I caught a glimpse of one of Pembroke's Men, the paunchy fellow with the eye patch, standing just inside the door of the hall, watching the proceedings soberly—not like one who has come to enjoy himself but like one who is sizing up the competition. Somehow I suspected he had not bothered to pay his penny.

13

W
e could not depart the following day until the town's tailors had our costumes ready, and so we got only as far as Southwell before night fell. Though it was a far smaller town than Newark, the sharers decided to try a performance there, in the only enclosed space that was large enough—the wool market. Despite the stench, we drew an enthusiastic crowd that must have comprised two-thirds of the local population.

Buoyed by our success, we went on to perform in Mansfield, Sheffield, and Doncaster, where we were equally well received. By the time we reached York, we were ahead enough so that Mr. Heminges could pay the hired men six shillings apiece, and the prentices three—our regular weekly wage. But we had been on the road for nearly a month now, and these were the first wages we had seen. Still, it was certainly better than nothing.

I had hoped the company might send a share of our earnings home to Mr. Pope and Sander, but Mr. Heminges did not feel we could spare any yet. Mr. Burbage, he assured me, would see that they and the boys were provided for. All the same, upon our arrival at the Black Swan in York, I wrote a letter to Sander at once and enclosed a shilling to buy treats for the boys and Tetty.

Because we had changed our route, no letter from London had reached us yet. The sharers had by now a firmer notion of where our travels were likely to take us. Once we left York, we were to turn southwest and make a long loop that would take us through Leeds, Manchester, Chester, Shrewsbury, Coventry, and Mr. Shakespeare's home town of Stratford before we returned to London. I wrote out this itinerary for Sander, hoping he might send a reply in care of one of the towns along our route.

The sharers had expressed concern that, with the slow progress we'd made since leaving Newark, Pembroke's Men or some other company might have preceded us. We were gratified to learn that no
London troupe had played here in years, only a few companies of lesser stature who hailed from the northern shires.

The city fathers examined our papers carefully and, satisfied that we were a renowned and reputable company, engaged us to play the Merchant Adventurers' Hall for an entire week. In addition, we were to receive our remuneration not from the audience but from the city treasury, to the tune of thirty shillings per performance.

At the inn that evening we celebrated our good fortune with generous rounds of ale. Mr. Shakespeare even took a night off from struggling with
Love's Labour's Won
, for which I cannot say I was sorry. Despite the title, I had begun to wonder whether we would indeed win out as a result of all our labors, or whether the play would at some point simply fizzle out, like a firework with a faulty fuse.

Sal Pavy, wearing his cheerful face, condescended to join us in our festivities for a time. Before he retired to his stable I saw him draw Mr. Armin aside and engage him in a conversation that, from their expressions, appeared to be a serious one.

When we had drunk all we could hold—the ale they served us prentices was, of course, watered down, or my head could not have stood much of it—and were making for our beds, Mr. Armin beckoned to me. I stepped into his room. “I want your thoughts on something,” he said.

I smiled amiably, in a mood to grant anyone anything. “Some ailment, no doubt,” I said, and hiccoughed. “I seem to have become the company's unofficial physician—ah, there's a tongue twister you can use, sir, in our elocution lessons. Say it three times rapidly: unofficial physician, un-afishy physician, unofficial position. I am most efficient in my unofficial position as a fisherman's physician.”

Mr. Armin patted my shoulder lightly, but it was enough to unbalance me, and I sat down abruptly. “You've had too much ale,” he said.

“Aye,” I said, “that's me
ale-merit
.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this tomorrow.”

“Nay, nay, I'm all right. What is 't? An upset stomach? A sore throat?”

“I'm not looking for medical advice. It's a theatre matter. Sal Pavy has asked that, when we do
Titus Andronicus
, he be given the part of Lavinia.”

I blinked, taken aback. “But—but that's
me
part.”

“I know. But you've been so busy helping Mr. Shakespeare, I thought you might be happy to have one less responsibility.”

“So you promised it to him?”

“No. I told him I'd discuss it with you.”

“Oh,” I said. Though I tried not to show it, I was hurt by the proposal, for it implied that I could readily be replaced. I did not wish to seem temperamental, or unreasonable, but neither did I care to give up one of my best parts, especially to Sal Pavy. “Does 'a ken the part?”

Mr. Armin nodded. “He's been studying it.”

So that was what he'd been up to in those early-morning solo sessions. I wondered what other parts he'd been committing to memory. Feeling as though I'd been wronged, I said sullenly, “An you think 'a can do it better, then I yield to him.”

“Widge. It's not a question of who does it better, you know that. Sal feels we're not using him enough, that's all.”

“Then let
him
play doctor and take dictation,” I replied heatedly. Then I slumped forward and wearily hung my head. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm tired and I've drunk too much.”

“I know. I should not have brought this up now. Go on to bed. We'll take it up at a more opportune time.”

I rose and walked unsteadily to the door. “Nay,” I said with forced nonchalance, “an 'a wants the part, 'a may ha' 't. I've no claim on 't.”

We were scheduled to play
Titus Andronicus
on Wednesday afternoon; as I now had no need to review my lines, I asked for that morning off, and Mr. Armin granted it. Sam begged to come with me, but I put him off. A journey into one's past must be made alone.

The orphanage was even more dismal than I had remembered it. The squat, square stone building had once been a prison, and, though the bars had been removed from the narrow windows and from the doorways and the interior walls had been whitewashed, there was no getting rid of the air of gloom that pervaded the place.

A clamor of children's voices came from the big room that served as classroom and dining hall, and it sounded so like always that I fancied for a moment I truly had gone back in time—until I saw the figure coming toward me down the hall. At first I did not recognize her, so changed was she. In my memory, she was a vigorous, imposing woman with a voice that any player would have envied. The eight years that had passed since I left the orphanage to apprentice to Dr. Bright had not been kind to her. She was still rotund as always, but no longer robust. Her hair had gone gray/and the spring had gone from her step.

“Mistress MacGregor?” I said uncertainly.

“Aye,” she replied. “What is it?”

“You may not recall me,” I said. “I'm Widge.”

Her worn face brightened. “Not recall you? I should say I can!” To my surprise she put her arms about me and kissed both my cheeks, then stepped back to look me over, still gripping my arms. “You've grown!” she exclaimed, and then laughed. “Of course, 'twould be a wonder if you had not!”

I smiled. This was the Mistress MacGregor I remembered. “Well,” I said, embarrassed, “I've not grown nearly as much as I'd like. I'm a player now, you know.”

“Are you indeed?” she said enthusiastically. “A player? And what might that be?”

“You ken—an actor. In plays. In London.”

She put a hand to her mouth in astonishment. “You're never!”

“Aye. And wi' the Lord Chamberlain's men, too. We're playing here in York this week, an you'd care to come.”

She looked dubious. “Would a person have to dress up fine-like?”

“Oh, nay. Only th' actors.”

“Then I'll do it, if I can get away.” She squeezed my arm tightly. “Losh, I'm so happy to see you and to hear you've made something of yourself. Not that I ever doubted it.”

“Do you ken what's become of th' other boys?”

She shook her head sadly. “The plague claimed many of them. Och, for a time this place was more like a pesthouse than an orphanage. Those who lived through it and left standing up seldom care to come back again.”

I felt a painful pang of guilt. For some reason—or perhaps for none at all—Fortune had seen to it that I escaped the city before the plague struck in 1594.

“Have you been to see your old master … I dinna mind his name.”

“Dr. Bright.”

“Aye, that's him. I always thought it a poor name for him; he did not seem verra bright to me.” She threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Och, bless me! Had his name not come up, I'd have forgotten, sure as sure. I've something for you.”

“You ha'?”

“Aye.” She led me into her office—not by the ear, for a change. “I'd have sent it to you, but you'd gone from Dr. Bright's and he could not, or would not, say where.” With one of the jangling keys at her waist, she opened the top of a battered desk and fished some object from one of the compartments inside.

When she placed it in my hand, I saw that it was an ornate crucifix on a delicate chain. The figure of Christ was carved from ivory and set
into a gold filigreed cross. I glanced up at Mistress MacGregor, bewildered. “What … why …?”

“Bide a bit,” she said, “and I'll tell you.” Obediently I took a seat on a rickety stool, feeling seven again and about to be chastised for my misbehavior. Mistress MacGregor sat at the desk and went on.

“About a year ago, I was summoned to the poorhouse, to the bedside of a dying woman named Polly—not a resident of the poorhouse, you ken, but a housekeeper there.”

I nodded, wondering where this could be leading.

“I kenned the woman but little, so I was surprised that she should ask for me in her last hours. I was even more surprised when she took that crucifix from a table beside the bed and pressed it into my hand. ‘What's this, then?' says I, and she says, so low I could scarcely hear her, she says, ‘I done a bad thing and I want to make amends.' ‘Well,' says I, ‘perhaps I should fetch a priest, then.' ‘Nay,' says she, ‘only you can help,' and she points to that crucifix. ‘I took that off a woman as died in childbirth, years ago. I kenned 'twas wrong to do it, but I liked the look of it, and I told meself she'd have no use for it any longer. I've regretted it ever since,' she says. ‘I couldn't even bring meself to wear it ever, or to tell anyone what I'd done.' ‘Why tell me, then?' says I. ‘Because,' says she, ‘you ken who it rightly belongs to, for the child she bore was given over to you.”'

I waited for Mistress MacGregor to go on. Instead she gazed expectantly at me, as a player will at another whose turn it is to speak. Then the import of what she had said struck me so soundly that I seemed suddenly unable to catch my breath. Finally, I managed to respond. “You mean to say that … that the child was me? But—but how can you be sure? You must have taken in dozens of orphans whose mothers died in the poorhouse.”

“Aye, but—” She tapped the worn record book that lay open on her desk. “I've checked me records for that year—it was the year that Polly was first hired on at the poorhouse—and there were only two such cases. And in only one of them did the mother die afore she could even give the bairn a name.”

The room fell silent save for the ticking of a clock on the mantel and the far-off sound of children's voices. I felt curiously displaced, detached and dreamlike, much the way I felt when I was playing a role upon the stage. With fingers that seemed not to belong to me I turned the crucifix over in my palm. On the reverse side someone had scratched some words, doubtless with the point of a knife. I had to wipe my eyes on my sleeve before I could make them out:. FOR SARAH.

“Was that … was that her name, then? Sarah?”

“Aye. That was your mother.”

“Me mother.” I whispered the words, trying them out upon my tongue. “Me mother. After all this time.” I raised my eyes beseechingly to Mistress MacGregor. “Did this Polly tell you aught about her, then? What she was like? What she looked like, even?”

Mistress MacGregor shook her head regretfully. “When they found your mother on the doorstep, she was near dead already; apparently she never spoke a single word. I had no chance to question Polly any further; not long after she gave me that cross, she drew her last paiching breath—without even being shriven by a priest.” Mistress MacGregor learned toward me, as though to disclose some dire secret. “She was a Catholic.”

“Me mother?” I said.

“Nay, I meant Polly. Though for all I ken your mother was as well. They're the ones as go in for the fancy crosses, mostly.”

“A Catholic,” I said. I knew little about Catholics, save that the Queen did not like them. Our enemy, Spain, was, after all, peopled by Catholics. So far as I knew, I had never met a Catholic. But then an allegiance to the Old Church was not, I gathered, the sort of thing one would confess at the drop of a hat.

“I only say she may have been. I canna say for certain. I did ask the other folk at the poorhouse if they minded your mother, but none had worked there more than a few years. I went through their records for that month and year, too, but they told me nothing, not even her name.”