Shakespeare's Scribe (4 page)

“I'm needed here. With the company gone, there'll be no money coming in. Someone will have to provide for the boys and Tetty, and at Mr. Pope's age, it will be difficult for him to find work.”

“It will hardly be easy for you. What will you do?”

“I don't know. Something.”

“But surely the company will send Mr. Pope's share of the box to him.”

“Perhaps. But the sixth part of nothing is nothing.”

“You think it's possible we'll make no profit at all?”

“I think it's probable. I've heard the sharers talk of what such tours are like. Mr. Phillips was with Derby's Men in 1594. They were stranded in Sheffield and had to sell their costumes to pay their way home.”

“But ours is the most noted company in England,” I protested, “wi' the best plays. Folk will flock to see us. Won't they?”

“I hope so. But I won't risk these boys' welfare on it. Besides, if the plague does strike, as Dr. Gilbert predicts, I'll be needed even more here.”

I swung my legs off the bed and sat with my head in my hands. “A lot of good you'll be, an the plague strikes you.”

“I was hoping you'd know of some preventative.”

“Me? What do I ken about it?”

“You prenticed with a doctor for seven years. What methods did he use?”

“Mostly a method known as Staying Away From Anyone Who's Ill. An ‘a could not avoid treating someone, ‘a tied a cloth soaked in wine over his face.”

Sander laughed. “Is that like washing your face in an ale clout?” Londoners, I had learned, used this phrase to mean getting drunk.

“‘A said it killed the plague seeds. ‘A also advocated chewing angelica root and drinking plague water.”

“Plague water?” Sander said with apparent alarm.

“Nay, it's not like it sounds. You make it by steeping various herbs in wine.”

“Wine again, eh?”

I smiled, despite myself. “Dr. Bright prescribed wine for nearly anything—a sore throat, aching joints, a paper cut—and followed his own advice religiously.” I sighed heavily and held my head again. “I can't see how we'll get by wi'out you, Sander. Who'll play the tall women?”

“They'll hire someone. The children's companies have plenty of capable actors, and they'll all be out of work, too.”

That was true enough—with the theatres closed, players would be easy to come by. It was friends that were in short supply. “Well,” I said glumly, “I suppose there's no changing your mind.”

“No. I'm sorry.”

“Well, that's a comfort to ken that you're sorry,” I said. A feeling of emptiness had settled into me. Though I knew well enough that it was not hunger, I lit a candle and headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Sander asked.

“To the kitchen. Want to come?”

“No, thanks. I'll stay here.”

I scowled. “Don't remind me.”

As I was slicing bread and beef left over from supper, I heard a curious sort of scuffling noise from one corner of the room. Suspecting a rat, I raised the carving knife and the candle and crept across the kitchen. To my
surprise, I discovered a figure considerably larger than a rat huddled in the corner next to the fireplace.

It wore a white nightshirt, and at first I thought it was one of the boys. But then it lifted its head and I saw the dark eyes glistening with tears. I took an involuntary step backward. “Tetty? What are you doing down here so late?”

She did not answer with words, only shook her head sharply and put her hand over her eyes, whether to hide the tears there or to shade them from the sudden light I could not tell. “Goody Willingson will be cross wi' you an you smudge your nightshirt,” I said, though we both knew that our housekeeper's wrath was to be preferred to most people's good humor. “Why don't you go on up to bed, now?”

She made no move and no reply. I stuck the knife in the chopping block and crouched down on a level with her, but still at a distance. “Is there aught amiss?” I asked, though it was plain as Dunstable highway that something was wrong. “Tetty? Tell me.”

When she spoke, her voice was as soft, nearly, as the rustle of the nightshirt she gathered about her bare ankles. “I'm afeared.”

“Afeared? Of what?” No answer. “The dark?” I asked. She shook her head. “What, then?”

She raised her eyes to mine. I nodded to her, to encourage her to say what was on her mind, then almost wished I had not, for she said, so softly I had to strain to hear, “Of the Black Death.”

I wanted to confess to Tetty that I, like her, had seen the ravages of the plague and that she was right to fear it, that I feared it, too, so much that I shunned anyone who had come in contact with it, including her. But I knew that what she wanted, what she needed, was for someone to allay her fears, not confirm them. Had I been Sander or Goody Willingson, I would have folded her in my arms and comforted her. But I was not, and could not. All I could offer was words, and they sounded as unconvincing to my ears as the prating of the Chapel Children. “There's no danger. You're safe here.”

“That's what my ma used to tell me,” she whispered. “But there's nowhere safe.”

“Nay, that's not so. You've naught to fear as long as you don't get too close to someone who has it.”

“But I have done,” she said, her voice faint and hoarse, “and now—” She bit her lip, and tears welled in her eyes again. “And now I've a pain … here.” She put a hand to her throat. “That's how it began for my da.”

My chest grew tight, so that I had trouble catching my breath. I was reluctant to take a breath, anyway, for fear of what was in the air between us. Shakily, I put a hand up before my mouth and cleared my throat. “Perhaps …” I ventured, “perhaps it's not … what you think. Do you have a fever? Is your forehead warm?”

She put a palm to her brow. “A little.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Will you do something else for me?”

“What?”

“Will you raise the hem of your nightshirt a bit, so I can examine your limbs?”

She gave me a puzzled look but did as I asked. I held the candle at arm's length and peered at her legs. The skin was smooth, pale, unblemished. “Well,” I said. “That's a good sign.”

“What is?”

“No red spots. Me old master told me that's one of the early signals of the plague—red marks, like pox or flea bites, on the limbs. Do you notice any soreness or swelling of the kernels just below your ears or in the hollow beneath your arm?”

She pressed her fingers to those places. “No,” she said hopefully.

“You've not been vomiting or sweating—a cold sweat, I mean?”

“No.”

“And you've a good appetite?”

She nodded. “I'm starved,” she said, and unexpectedly giggled.

I stood and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, you've come to the right place, then.” I took up the knife and returned to slicing the roast. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tetty crawl cautiously from her hidey-hole.

“You don't think it's the plague, then?”

“Well, I'm no doctor of physic, but from what you've told me, I'd say you're suffering from that dread disease known as a sore throat.” I set before her two slices of bread with beef packed between them. “It's not too sore to swallow that, is it?” She shook her head. “Good. After we've eaten, I'll make you up some swish water to gargle with.”

She blinked her dark eyes quizzically. “What's
that
?”

“Warm water wi' honeycomb, pepper, and cloves. Mr. Phillips has me use it to sweeten me voice for singing. It has yet to work. But it does soothe a person's pipes.”

Around a prodigious mouthful of bread and beef, Tetty said, “You know a lot about medicine.”

I laughed. “Nay, I only act as though I do.”

“Then you're a good actor.”

“I hope so. I mean to make it me trade.”

She gazed at me appraisingly a moment. “Do you no longer dislike me, then, or is that just more acting?”

“Dislike you? I never disliked you. I only—” I paused. No matter how many times I resolved not to lie, it seemed I always ended up needing to. “I'm not much good at making friends yet, that's all,” I said, which was true enough.

Tetty nodded soberly. “Nor am I. I'm afeared—” She lowered her eyes and her voice. “I'm afeared that if I come to like someone, they'll …”

“They'll die?” I said.

She nodded again. “Like my ma and da.”

“Don't think that way. It was none of your doing. It was the contagion.”

“Then why did it not take me as well?”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don't ken th' answer to that. I doubt that anyone does.”

“Was it the contagion that took your ma and da, then?” she asked.

I hesitated. This was not a subject I liked to speak of. “Nay,” I said simply, “me mother died borning me.” Though I had meant to leave it at that, I found myself going on. “For a passing while, like you I … I held meself somehow responsible for ‘t.”

“But you no longer do?”

“Nay,” I said, though it was not entirely true. There were still times, late at night, when I was tormented by the thought that, had it not been for me, she would certainly be alive yet. Of course, I still would not have known her.

“And your da?” said Tetty.

I sighed. Why was this lass so full of questions that I was so unprepared to answer? Impatient, I said the first thing that came into my head—prompted, no doubt, by the fact that we had performed
Henry VI, Part I
that afternoon. “‘A was a soldier; ‘a was killed in battle, skewered by an enemy lance.”

Tetty gave a slight shudder, whether from the cold or from picturing my supposed father's supposed death, I could not tell. “I'm sorry.”

“Aye, so am I,” I said, and I was, for having deceived her. “You'd best go on up to bed now, before that sore throat turns into something more severe.”

5

T
hat Saturday we gave our farewell performance at the Globe. The yard and the galleries were crammed to overflowing with folk who well knew that it would likely be their last chance to see a play until cold weather came around again and, with it, the end of the plague season.

The days that followed were every bit as hectic as if we had gone on performing. But instead of learning lessons and playing roles, we occupied our hours by packing wooden chests full of properties and costumes and taking them down to the yard, where we loaded them into one of the two carewares, or play wagons, that the sharers had had specially constructed for the tour.

Mr. Burbage, who had learned the skills of a joiner, or carpenter, from his father, had designed the carewares so that the sides could be taken down and laid across the wagon beds to form a makeshift stage. The wagons were equipped with canvas tops to keep the rain off—not off the players, I mean, but off the properties and costumes, which, unlike us, could not be easily replaced.

In addition to the paraphernalia necessary for staging our plays, we would be carrying with us wool-filled ticks and bedding, for, as Mr. Heminges pointed out, we could not always be certain of finding an inn—or, if we did, of having the money to lodge there.

Meanwhile, the sharers were attending to more subtle and less muscular matters, such as purchasing horses and supplies, obtaining our playing license, and auditioning boys to take Sander's place in the company—as if anyone could.

Though I knew I would be wise to make the most of our last days together for some time to come, I spent much of the time stupidly sulking. Sander pretended not to notice my resentful manner and went on being his usual cheerful self.

As we were carrying a heavy trunk filled with stage armor and weapons along the second-floor gallery, I spotted Mr. Armin entering the
yard, accompanied by a youth who, though I had seen him but once before, I recognized immediately by his head of blond curls. I set my end of the trunk on the gallery railing and clapped a hand to my head. “Oh, Law,” I groaned, “they've hired the boy from the Chapel Children.”

Sander glanced over the railing at the boy, who was being introduced around to the company, and then looked back to me. “You need not look so stricken, Widge. Surely it's better to have a capable actor like him than one of those dolts we've had to put up with lately.”

“Oh, aye. Well may you say that, You'll not ha' to compete wi' him for parts. You'll be
here
, playing horsey and wiping noses.”

Sander smiled patiently. “Did I not tell you that you're every bit as good an actor as he is?”

“Aye, but it's not me you ha' to convince; it's the sharers.”

“No,” said Sander. “I think it's you.”

“Let's get this down to the careware,” I muttered, “before me arms fall off and they pack them i' the chest wi' the fake plaster limbs.”

As we wrestled the trunk down the gallery stairs, I kept one eye on the new boy. His manner was agreeable enough. He smiled in a charming way and greeted each member of the company with what seemed sincere pleasure. When he was introduced to Mr. Burbage, he was almost reverential and, from what I could overhear, lavish in praising the man's portrayal of Hamlet, which the boy apparently had seen no less than twelve times. He seemed equally honored to make the acquaintance of Mr. Shakespeare.

As we loaded the chest in the careware, Mr. Armin called, “Widge, Sander! Come and meet our new prentice! You, too, Sam!”

Sam, who was in the bed of the wagon arranging boxes and bundles, jumped down next to me. “Looks like a bit of a lickspittle to me,” he whispered.

“A what?”

“You know—a bootlicker, a flatterer.”

“Whist!” scolded Sander. “Be nice, now! ‘It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.”'