The Playmakers (10 page)

“Either he go, or I go,” said Viktor to
Budsby in the big man’s wagon, his dark eyes flaring with
anger.

Budsby was in a quandary and sought an
explanation from Shakespeare, now almost a son to him.

“I simply feel it would add an element never
seen before in such an act,” explained Shakespeare.

‘Go on,” said Budsby flatly.

“You see, Viktor is perfect.”

“Of course,” Viktor chipped in.

“They expect him to be perfect,” Shakespeare
added.

“Is right,” said Viktor.

“But at the end of the act, he is so good,
they do not realise what danger he has put himself in, and what
skills he needs to avoid that danger.”

“So?” said Viktor curtly.

“Viktor, I watch the result of every act.
Yours is very good, but …”

“Yes?”

“You will admit, Viktor, with respect, the
applause is always polite.”

“Yes.”

“But not over-enthusiastic. And the money
thrown on stage is not as good as most of the others.”

“Y-e-s …”

Budsby nodded.
Good
point,
he thought. It had always puzzled him that one of his
most skilled acts drew such a relatively modest response.

Viktor’s contribution was usually one of the
smaller amounts of money thrown into the pot and divvied up among
the cast at the end of the day - after certain necessary expenses
were taken out, of course.

“Put it this way,” continued Shakespeare. “We
prove to the audience how strong Hercules is by getting people up
to challenge him. No one can lift what he does, and then they
appreciate how good he is.”

“True,” said Budsby.

“And the jugglers!” added Shakespeare. “Every
now and then they accidentally drop a pin or take a fall, and that
proves they are human. But, you, Viktor, no one can comprehend how
good you are. By making a mistake, and recovering, you will show
that!”

“No, no! Viktor is perfect,” said the little
man.

“It will be dramatic, believe me, and improve
an act previously thought beyond improvement.”

There was silence.

Even the big man was mute. He did not know
what which way to turn, for fear of losing either one of his best
acts, or, worse still, the troupe’s obvious heir apparent.

Eventually, Shakespeare broke the
impasse.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait here.”

He left the wagon and a few minutes later
returned with a soft leather bag, dramatically spilling some of its
contents on the table - a sizeable collection of gold and silver
coins.

“See, this is the money I took from my
father’s business the day I left Stratford. I have never had to use
it because Mr Budsby has been so good to me.”

“You have earned your way, my boy,” said
Budsby warmly.

“Thank you, Mr Budsby. But now I will put it
to good use. Viktor, this is what I am proposing. At your next
performance, I want you to try what I have outlined.”

“But …”

“Wait, wait, hear me out. I will wager you
this bag of coins that it will work. If it succeeds, well and good.
If it fails, you can have this money, and … and …”

Budsby started to shake his head.

“I will leave the troupe,” said Shakespeare
flatly.

Budsby moved forward, but Shakespeare waved
him away.

“Is done,” said Viktor, smiling.

The next day, villagers watched impassively
as Viktor The Supreme went through his paces.

But they were starting to lose just a little
interest, when suddenly, his left foot slipped, he dropped his long
balancing stick, and he began to fall.

There were screams of horror as at the last
second, he grasped the wire with his left hand, and hung there,
twenty yards above the ground.

People whimpered, they drew their breath in,
children began to cry. Those that had begun to drift away suddenly
returned. Passers-by sensing the drama, joined them. Concern was
etched on the faces of the swelling crowd, as tiny, seemingly
helpless Viktor hung by one arm and appeared certain to fall to
death or serious injury.

He stayed there for seemingly minutes, and as
the concern spread, he began to play it up. The more he struggled
to get his right arm up, the more they gasped.

Eventually he got both arms back on the wire,
to the partial relief of the crowd, and then slowly but surely
pulled himself up with both hands.

When he finally walked across to safety at
the side without the support of the stick, the applause could be
heard three towns away, and Budsby later counted the biggest haul
he had ever seen for one act.

A smiling Viktor agreed to stay with the
troupe that night, and Shakespeare hid his bag of coins away
again.

Between these triumphs, and Shakespeare
scouting for other quality acts to join them, the business had
blossomed to the point that Budsby decided to branch out.

Rather than stick to his regular, well-worn
trek, he determined they would take on ‘The Grand Tour’ as he
described it, in a circular loop that would eventually take them to
the prize - London.

They journeyed north to Liverpool, where
profits indeed were so good that Budsby honoured his own promise
and had a specially lowered wagon manufactured, providing better
access for his giant frame.

They travelled further north to near the
border with Scotland, where the paler half of the Siamese twins was
able to briefly and happily reunite with her family.

Then they turned east to Newcastle, where
they were feted like kings, before heading south on the final
leg.

They were drawing such huge crowds, seduced
by Shakespeare’s uncanny knack of adding drama to the programme,
that by the time they were closing on the outskirts of Norwich in
the summer of 1587, they were confident of taking London by
storm.

Thus, after spending a splendid night in the
clearing pointed out to them by Samuel Davidson, the seasoned guard
protecting the property of the Earl of Oxford, they awoke with
confidence.

And indeed, through the skill of Soho and the
spruiking of Shakespeare, a huge crowd was yet again conjured up at
a nearby tiny village, and the giant tent was abuzz. Customers were
amazed by the twins, astounded by the fire-eater, and gasped at the
right places when Viktor seemed doomed to fall but made his
dramatic comeback. The highlight was the appearance of Hercules,
who once again underlined his strength when several large but
uncoordinated young locals tried valiantly, but failed to lift the
massive weight.

All that changed when Samuel Davidson himself
suddenly pushed his way through and up on to on the stage, amid a
buzz from the crowd, and declared he was ready to accept Mr
Budsby’s challenge to take on the big man.

Budsby began wondering whether issuing the
challenge the previous evening over a soothing whisky, in order to
get past Davidson and onto a place to rest, had been such a good
idea.

Now stripped of his armoury and viewed in the
cold light of day, Samuel Davidson presented a worrisome sight. He
may have been short, and not all that pretty, but he obviously knew
how to look after himself. His muscles bulged and glistened in the
bright light of the tent.

“I fear,” whispered Budsby to Shakespeare at
the side of the stage, “we may have bitten off more than we can
chew.”

And as if to prove the point, Samuel Davidson
strode forward, grabbed the bar, and lifted Hercules’ weight with
ease!

He held it high above his head to the roars
of the capacity-house crowd. “That’s our Samuel,” they shouted.

Hercules, the Gentle Giant, seemed unfazed.
Winking at his boss, he waved to the other side of the stage.

There was much noise and confusion, and then
Nick Sayers, muscular Viktor, and two of the acrobats, led by Soho
pretending to whip them, staggered on stage, carrying an even
bigger challenge. The crowd roared as they dumped down a bar
carrying a pair of weights almost twice the size of the ones
Hercules and Samuel Davidson had just lifted.

“Good grief,” whispered an astonished
Shakespeare, “where does he keep that?”

“In a trunk marked ‘For Emergency Purposes
Only’.”

Hercules made a great deal of this lift,
flexing his muscles, circling the stage, and beating his chest in
preparation. Eventually he got down to business, and after a long
moment, when he seemed to go into a trance, he lifted the bar up,
straight over his head.

“Thinking. Timing. Confidence,” whispered
Shakespeare to himself as the crowd roared applause.

Now it was Davidson’s turn.

The crowd hushed as he went straight at the
bar, gave it an almighty heave, and got it up to his chin. The
strain on him was enormous, and the veins in his neck stood out
half an inch as he gasped for air and willed himself to push it
above his head. He gave one last shove, but his knees started to
buckle, he staggered, and the mighty weight crashed to the stage
floor.

There was brief moment of silence, and no one
was sure what to do.

Shakespeare suddenly ran on stage, clapping
his hands, and shouting, “Bravo, Mr Davidson. Bravo.”

The crowd picked up on the praise and went
wild, especially when Shakespeare summoned Budsby on stage, and the
grand man waved his silver-topped cane and proclaimed, “Mr
Davidson, that is the greatest challenge to Hercules that all of
England has ever provided.”

As the shouts and applause rolled on,
Shakespeare whispered to Budsby, “Give him some money.”

“Money? Money!” hissed Budsby. “You don’t
give this lot money - you extract it from them! That’s our
job.”

“Just give him some money, Mr Budsby. He
deserves it, and this little village will give you wonderful
lasting memories to take onto Norwich and then London.”

Budsby smiled, and shoving his hand deep into
the pocket of the mighty brown cape, withdrew a gold coin, which he
held high between thumb and forefinger to the crowd.

The mob went wild, and started to clap in
unison, shouting “Gold, gold, gold!” and broke into cheers when
Budsby handed it to the sweating Davidson.

Davidson took it, and with a huge grin
splitting his ugly features, held it up to the light for
inspection, then held it close to one eye as a goldsmith would.
Then he bit it, just as a soldier does to check that his salary is
indeed, pure.

The wonderful mimic brought further roars of
laughter.

“Just leave the comedy to Soho, will you
son?” whispered Budsby, before suddenly grabbing Davidson’s hand
and holding it high.

Hercules took the other hand of his
vanquished but proud opponent and held it aloft, too.

When Shakespeare grabbed Budsby’s free hand
and lifted it up, and Soho stood in front of the four of them and
adopted the classic strong man’s pose and flexed his muscles, the
crowd jumped to its feet.

And when they all bowed, hand in hand, Mr
Mullins’ tent made from four mainsails rocked with thunderous
applause until the curtain came down.

“Will,” said Budsby, “in all my years, I have
never seen anything like it.”

“So you will take me with you, then?”
interjected Samuel Davidson.

Budsby turned to the stocky guard.

“Take you?” said Budsby.

“To London!” said Davidson
enthusiastically.

“Oh-oh,” said Budsby cautiously. “I
appreciate your help on our arrival, Mr Davidson. I accept that
your strength almost but not quite rivals that of Hercules. And I
concede that your comic performance out there with the coin shows a
theatrical bent. But I am afraid we are replete with staff and
performers right now.”

“But …”

“Mr Shakespeare’s recruiting has us bursting
at the seams.”

“I could be of great help,” urged Mr
Davidson.

“I appreciate that Mr Davidson, but I’m
afraid …”

The would-be performer lowered his head.

“Perhaps,” said Budsby, “perhaps, if you were
somehow to find your own way to London, who knows by then, our
circumstances may have changed and we could take you on.”

There was silence.

“Okay, Mr Budsby,” said Davidson finally. “I
understand. Don’t you worry. I’ll find my own way!”

Hercules put his arm around the junior
muscleman and led him away laughing, while Shakespeare and Soho
went off happily to organise the packing up of the tent.

The jolly spirit drained from Budsby when he
peered through a crack in the curtain to see the last remnants of
the crowd, and noticed three men huddled in a corner, chatting. He
felt he had seen them before. Or had he? One of his great strengths
had always been an ability to put a name to a face, but after all
these years on the road, villagers were now beginning to look the
same to him.

Over the next days, as they progressed to
Norwich, Budsby began having nervous nights, hearing noises, seeing
faces in the bushes, and developing a fear the troupe was under
observation.

When they finally set up on the Norwich
common, he noticed a level of tension in the town. People were
either strangely silent or arguing in the street over seemingly
mindless issues.

A stake was permanently at the ready in the
market square to put an end to any miscreant - spy, atheist,
foreigner, or otherwise.

And when the promotional band of Soho, the
drummer-boy and Will set out on its rounds, Budsby became convinced
he was seeing the same trio of faces in the crowd that he had seen
in the little village a few days earlier.

Look,
he said to
himself.
There they were again!

A grubby trio dressed in even grubbier
clothes, the ringleader in a big black battered hat, with a
constant nasty leer on a mouth of blackened teeth. The three of
them seemed to be taking a more than usual interest in the set-up
and promotion of the show, constantly talking in muted voices to
each other.