The Playmakers (13 page)

Budsby tapped the silver-topped cane on the
floor.

“Ah well,” he said, “at least now we know
what our challenge is. Let us get to work. But first, young
lady?”

“Yes,” said Percy’s niece.

“I’m terribly sorry, what is your name?”

“Sarah, sir. Sarah Fletcher.”

“Sarah. Let me just say to you that, on the
long pathway of life, it is always wise to listen to advice, even
when it is presented in a manner that is sometimes difficult to
swallow.”

“Yes, sir?”

“And so, young Sarah,” said Budsby, digging
into his pockets and producing a handful of coins. “Could you
direct me, please, to the nearest gentleman’s outfitter?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Shakespeare barely caught his breath over the
next seven days as he and Budsby embarked on fleshing out their
spur-of-the-minute plan to save Percy Fletcher’s tavern. And in
doing so, save themselves …

First, there was the matter of taking on
board Lord Burghley’s brutal, parting assessment of Budsby’s
clothes.

“If we are to
be
successful, we must
look
successful,”
boomed Budsby’s voice, as he led his faithful little group out into
the street. “And that means all of us!” he added, as they trooped
obediently behind, dodging their way past traders, beggars and
urgers.

Following the directions given by Sarah, who
had stayed behind to bring a befuddled Uncle Percy up to date, the
rag-tag platoon zigzagged its way through the muddy streets and
eventually arrived at the doors of “Ezra & Jeremiah Pollock,
Outfitters To The Gentry”.

Mr Mullins was fearful of the foreboding,
silent aspect of the place, especially when he spotted a
coat-of-arms fixed to one of the big oaken beams. “Look, Mr
Budsby,” whispered Mr Mullins. “Royal patronage. They don’t like us
type in places like this.”

“Huh,” sniffed Budsby, examining the crest
with disdain. “The Duke of Exeter? That old buffer! He and I are
seventh cousins, thrice removed.”

“But, Mr Budsby.”

“He bought the title, Mr Mullins. His mother
was one-eighth Viking and his father smelled of goat. Come along.
We’re better than any self-appointed Royal toady.”

And, tapping his stick, he led the way in, to
be greeted by no less a personage than Mr Ezra Pollock himself -
his brother, Mr Jeremiah Pollock, they were advised, “being away
for the day doing some Royal measurements at Court.”

In normal circumstances, Mr Ezra Pollock, a
wiry little man with huge black eyebrows and a sharp, beak-like
nose that looked like it could shear material as cleanly as any
knife, would delicately ease such a motley mob out of his emporium.
But when Mr Budsby boomed, “We are all in need of outfitting”, he
did a quick count of the heads and a rapid mental calculation of
the likely profit.

And considering that sales had been slow in
the sombre months since Mary Queen of Scots had been sensationally
tried for treason and beheaded, allegedly in a plot with some
Catholic extremist named Anthony Babington to overthrow her cousin
Queen Elizabeth, he figured, “Why not?”

Strongman Samuel Davidson came up a treat in
a new leather jerkin with matching pants, brought up by Mr Pollock,
with a slight sniff, from “the tradesman’s ensemble section.”

Budsby, waving his stick with delight at the
tight-fitting shirt accenting the curves of Davidson’s mighty
biceps, declared it the perfect uniform for his part-time performer
and occasional enforcer. “It has what I would describe as
understated menace.”

Buoyed by his boss’ disdain for royal
puffery, Mr Mullins chose a simple tunic made of wool,
appropriately suited to the rigors of a maintenance man.

“There would be no better-dressed fixer of
broken parts in all of London,” enthused Budsby.

Shakespeare positively exuded confidence when
he strolled out in a magnificent outfit of doublet, breeches, lace
collar, and cape. A jaunty hat featured a startling orange
feather.

“Ah-ha,” said Budsby fondly. “That’s my man.
That’s my man up front. No one will be able to resist his overtures
in an outfit like that.”

The erstwhile twins did not miss out either.
In fact, there were gasps of disbelief when they came back from Mr
Pollock’s associated women’s shop next door. It was run by a kindly
woman from Kent who had rushed around and attempted everything she
could to optimise the charms of such wondrous, untouched
material.

On tour, the twins had always been viewed by
the others just as their act was - as one. But now, here they were,
dressed at the height of fashion in silks gowns that billowed out
around them, the tight-fitting bodices highlighted with velvet.
With their hair piled high and a touch of make-up on delighted
faces peeking out from large satin ruffs, they were revealed for
the first time for what they were - two separate, and beautiful,
young women.

The one, a tall, startlingly attractive
beauty with dark Nubian skin, deep brown eyes, full sensuous lips,
and the finest, highest cheekbones.

The other, an endearing waif, with turned-up
nose, pale skin, a hint of freckles and sparkling blue eyes.

They moved with such grace that it finally
dawned on the men that they had, in fact, been travelling for
months within touching distance of sheer beauty and never realised
it.

The two even declared that from now on people
should address them by their real names - Rasa, for the tall one,
and Emily for the little one - rather than the generally accepted
cry of “twins!”

“Rasa! Emily,” said Budsby, a tear coming to
his eye. “Such beautiful names for such visions of splendour.
Elizabeth herself would welcome you as ladies of the court.”

Mr Pollock agreed. But he was not of the same
opinion when it came to Soho. He jumped backwards in fright when
the gargoyle suddenly appeared at his side, making sign motions
that he wanted to trade in his familiar red and white diamond suit.
Mr Pollock recovered sufficiently to take some distant measurements
- “By eye, Mr Budsby, taking them by eye will be sufficient”- and
then disappeared down the back for some time.

He eventually returned with a magnificent
silk outfit in orange and blue vertical stripes, with puffed
elbows, a similarly coloured hat with tiny bells around the rim,
and a matching pair of shoes pointed and turned up at the toes like
those worn by fairytale goblins. “It’s been lying around down the
back for months,” said Mr Pollock. “A special order for the
daughter of a wealthy trader. She was going to wear it for her
tenth birthday party, as fancy dress. But, alas, she got an illness
that not even the best physicians, summoned quickly and handsomely
paid by her rich father, could diagnose. And she died. I tell you,
Mr Budsby, you have come back into a London festering with some
sort of disease such as I have never seen the like of before, and I
fear for our future.”

There was a moment’s silence, before Mr
Pollock cleared his throat and returned to business, stating, “I’m
afraid I don’t have a ruff to go with it.”

“No need,” said Budsby pointing to the
changing curtain with his stick. And there was Soho emerging,
looking splendid in his new outfit. With his recently acquired pink
handkerchief tied around his neck …

The triumph, however, was the purchase made
by Budsby himself.

Aware that the group’s future hinged greatly
on his image, and determined to become a big player in London, he
went for overkill.

There was a lot of huffing and puffing and
to-ing and fro-ing behind the curtains, and several times Mr
Pollock ran to the back of the shop muttering darkly about
“elephantine shapes”, to return with yet another outfit.

Eventually, out stepped Budsby, the peak of
Elizabethan fashion, resplendent in doublet, jerkin, ruff, sur-coat
and three-quarter cape.

The outfit was in the most splendid of
greens, with red trimmings, beautifully tailored to fit not only
his ample fifty-six inch chest, but also his luxuriant seventy-six
inch waist! The Italian-style hat sat perkily on his head, and his
whiskers were combed to perfection. Only the florid complexion and
the silver-topped stick remained of the Old Budsby.

“Are you impressed?” said the big fellow, as
he twirled around on the surprisingly small, dainty feet.

“It’s Lord Budsby for mine,” said
Shakespeare, clapping his hands.

“Prince Regent of All He Surveys,” said Mr
Mullins.

“Except Norwich …” added Davidson.

“Superb, superb. But, now, may I ask,” came a
voice, “how does My Lord Budsby intend to pay?”

There was silence as the group turned to see
Mr Pollock intently surveying a large piece of paper held in his
thin scrawny hands. The sharp beak of a nose followed his darting
eyes up and down the list of figures. Shakespeare thought he looked
like a starling examining an inventory of twigs he had ordered to
make a nest.

Budsby moved forward, quietly took the
document out of Mr Pollock’s hands, and looked at the bottom
figure.

Something approaching a low whistle could be
faintly heard, followed by the trademark bassoon laugh. “A bargain
at twice the price!” declared Budsby.

“Just paying that figure will be sufficient,”
said Mr Pollock.

“As I explained sir,” replied the big voice,
“I am Rufus J. Budsby, entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant.”

“All very well, Mr Budsby, but alas, we don’t
give credit.”

“Of course not, sir, I would not expect that
you would.”

“We only take cash.”

“Absolutely,’ said Budsby, unscrewing the
silver cap of his Blackwood stick.

“Coin of the realm.”

“Quite correct, Mr Pollock. May I call you
Ezra? It’s hard enough to make a living in these difficult times,”
he added, pulling out the silver phial. “What with the Spanish and
all.”

“Tell me about it, Mr Budsby,” said Mr
Pollock despondently.

“Why, sir,” said Budsby, taking the cork off
the phial, “we ourselves have survived years on the road as
travelling mummers.”

“All the more reason for me to get my money
now,” said Mr Pollock.

“But we are travellers no longer. Here in the
glorious city of London, not just a stone’s throw from this
commodious and quality fashion emporium run by your good self and
kindly brother, we are taking up a generous business offer which
requires us to look at our best, and which will ultimately bring
rich rewards, allowing us to pay our bills all in good time. Ezra,
if I may call you Ezra, can I tempt you with a little whisky
..?”

“Flattery and liquor will get you nowhere, Mr
Budsby,” came the reply. “Only cash will improve my demeanour. If
you can’t pay, I will have to ask you to take the clothes off,
please.”

“But, but …” spluttered Budsby. And for the
first time Shakespeare saw his hero and father figure showing
symptoms of anxiety.

“Off with the clothes, please.”

“These clothes are important to us,” pleaded
Budsby.

“And that is why,” said Shakespeare, suddenly
stepping forward, and throwing a small leather bag on the counter,
“we are paying with this.”

Budsby recognised the pouch immediately. It
was the one thing of value that the muddied and broken William
Shakespeare had on him the day the old trouper stumbled across the
young runaway beside a cold stream outside Stratford.

“William, no,” pleaded Budsby. “That’s yours.
It contains memories as much as money.”

“They are memories I would prefer to erase,”
he said.

“But Will …”

“Mr Budsby. I knew the day I walked out of my
father’s business that there would come a moment when this would be
needed most. And now, this is it. You have been so helpful to me,
sir, and now is my chance to repay you.”

The starling needed no further encouragement.
He snatched the bag with a bony claw, and in seconds had withdrawn
enough to pay the bill. The remaining gold coins - and Budsby
noticed there were more than just a few - went back in the bag, and
it was returned with a smile. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure to
do business with you.”

“We thank you, kind sir,” said Budsby,
touching the rim of his new Italian-style hat with the silver top
of his stick. “Good-day.”

And as they walked out, Budsby whispered,
“William Shakespeare, how much did you take from your father’s
business that day?”

“I don’t know,” Shakespeare said nudging him.
“The bag’s never been fully opened until now. But it looks like I
did all right!”

“Will, my friend, nothing can stop us now,”
said Budsby.

When they finally burst into the inn, Rufus
did a twirl on his dainty feet and said, “What do you think,
Percy?”

“She left me, Rufus,” was all Percy could
say, staring into the middle distance. “She just up and left
me.”