The Playmakers (9 page)

“Halt, who goes there?”

“What do you mean ‘Who goes there?’” bellowed
a thundering voice out of the twilight. “We go here, of
course!”

“And who is we?” replied the voice.

“Good heavens, man, take a look will you?
It’s a troupe. The Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Mummers, the most
famous travelling show in all of England. And I am Rufus J. Budsby,
entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant, himself.”

“Never heard of you. What do you want?”

The big fellow was taken aback. He turned and
whispered to the little gargoyle on his left. “Never heard of us?
What does he mean he’s never heard of us?”

The gargoyle shrugged.

Leaning to the bearded young man on his
right, Budsby added mellowly, “You had better have another look at
that marketing strategy of yours, young Will.”

There was silence.

“Well?” said the first voice impatiently. It
came from a short, squat figure. He was dressed for battle, his
chain-mail vest and shiny helmet glistening in the dimming light. A
giant spear was held in a metal-gloved hand, a long sword hung from
a studded belt, and Shakespeare could see he wore unusual
protective leggings made from strong thick hide. Ox, the
leather-man in him surmised.

Under the helmet, a pudgy face with squinting
eyes, a three-day stubble and a mouth with full lips screwed itself
into speech again, “So what do you want?”

Budsby cleared his throat and stepped forward
a pace on the dusty forest track. “We seek the opportunity to
repose on the outskirts of the village, kind sir.”

“Why?”

Budsby moved forward another three paces and
continued, “As I said, sir, we are a travelling troupe of mummers.
And once we have rested tonight, then tomorrow we propose to set up
our stage and present for the good people nearby such a summer
performance of sights and sounds, the like of which they have never
seen before.”

“Sights like what?”

“Ah, I see sir is an incisive critic of the
performing arts,” Busby added warmly, moving another five paces
closer. “Sights such as the amazing Siamese Twins, one black, one
white. Sights such as the incredible fire-eater, who can project
two yards of flame from his mouth.”

“And?”

“Sights such as Hercules, our mighty strong
man, the strongest in all of Merry England,” continued Budsby
enthusiastically, moving within ten yards of the guard, and peering
at him. “Who I suspect, powerful as he is, might be challenged by a
man of such obvious strength as your good self.”

“Oh, reckons he’s strong does he?” said the
guard, relaxing his hand on the spear just a little.

“He does, sir,” crooned Budsby. “But even
from this distance and in this dimming light I can see that your
experience as a guard has gifted you with a most powerful body,
too, ready to take on all-comers.”

“Well, I do my job.”

“Exactly,” said Budsby, moving rapidly to
within two yards of his quarry. “And that is why the good citizens
of this area, and indeed, people all across this wonderful country
of ours can go about their duties knowing full well that men such
as you are providing protection from our mortal enemies.”

And so saying, he unscrewed the silver top
from his walking stick, extracted the phial, pulled out the cork
and offered it, saying, “Do you fancy a little tipple, good
sir?”

The guard peered down at the silver tube,
looked quietly left and right, and eased the grasp on his spear
further. “Don’t mind if I do, sir,” he said, grabbing the phial
with his free hand. “It’s a nice reward near the end of a long
day.”

And as the man tilted his head back and
swallowed the rough, warming liquid, Budsby slyly turned back to
Soho and Shakespeare standing twenty yards away at the front of the
first wagon, and winked.

“Thank you sir,” said the guard, handing it
back when he had finished. “I appreciate your kindness. It’s just
that around here these days, we can’t take no chances.”

“Oh?” said Budsby distractedly, going to have
a swig himself, he discovered that the guard had finished the lot
off.

“Being over here on the east, we get a lot of
dangerous types smuggled on shore and heading for London.”

“What sort of, er, types?” asked Budsby
carefully.

“French and Spanish, mainly. Enemies of the
state. Spies, messengers, and rumour-mongers.”

“Spies?”

“And atheists.”

“Atheists, too?”

“And Jesuits.”

“Jesuits, hey, well I’ll be damned.”

Budsby kept all these responses as neutral as
possible. He never cared much about all this spy stuff, but it was
dangerous to indicate any feelings one way or another.

“All trying to challenge the authority of the
Earl and of the Queen herself,” continued the guard.

“Ah, yes, the Earl …” said Budsby slowly,
trying to elicit just which Earl the man was talking about.

“The Earl of Oxford. Edward de Vere
himself!”

“Oxford? You’re a long way from Oxford,
aren’t you? Why, Norwich is just up the road.”

“The Earl has properties everywhere, sir.
Don’t forget he is the Lord Chamberlain, second only in rank to Her
Majesty.”

“True, true. But I thought, you know, most of
the estates he inherited when he was twelve, he had since sold
off.”

“Maybe, sir. But a castle in de Vere’s name
is just up the road, and I’m the advance guard.”

“Ah, de Vere, a man of distinction,” added
Budsby carefully.

“Distinction, yes. Letters, too,” said the
guard. Then leaning forward, he added, “But, just between you and
me, as for actually paying poor sods like me on time, well, that’s
another matter.”

“A bit tardy, yes?”

“He means well enough. But you have to haggle
to get your wages.”

“Do you now?”

“With his estate manager. You don’t see much
of the Earl around here. He’s in his thirties now, always living it
up big down south, and if I had half a chance I’d be down there
myself, too.”

Budsby moved closer, and said almost
conspiratorially, “And tell me, what happens to these spies and
atheists?”

“Quite frankly, they don’t worry me, sir. I
just do my job.’

“Right.”

“But I gather, for any that we catch, there’s
no second chance,” he added, stamping the end of his spear on the
ground. “Over in Norwich, they get the axe, the gallows, or the
stake.”

“Hmmmm,” said Budsby, thoughtfully. “Oh well,
we will sleep well tonight knowing we are protected by such earnest
hands as yours. Is there a clearing near here where we can set up
the wagons?”

“I’m here to protect the castle. I’m not
supposed to help itinerants.”

“Er, if only so that our strong man can be
fully rested for his ultimate test with your good self on the
morrow?”

The guard looked over each shoulder again,
and leaned forward. “Well, if you go down this way, half a mile,”
he whispered, pointing over his left shoulder, “there’s a scarred
tree. Turn right there and a little way in, you’ll find a nice
spot.”

“Excellent,” said Budsby, clapping him on the
shoulder. “Excellent. And what is your name, sir?”

“Davidson, sir. Samuel Davidson.”

“Well, Samuel Davidson, when we get to London
and appear at the Court, I will recommend to her Majesty and the
Earl of Oxford himself that you deserve royal commendation as a
reward for your diligence.”

“Are you going to London?” came the eager
reply.

“That is our ultimate aim, yes.”

“I’ve never been to London.”

“Well, I must admit, it’s been a long time
since I have, too, Mister Davidson.”

“Can I come?”

“Mister Davidson, I’m not sure we have a spot
in our troupe. Let us see what tomorrow’s contest of strength
brings.”

There was silence. A new thought came to the
guard’s head. “If I get to join you, how’s a troupe of knockabouts
like yours going to survive in London, anyway?”

“Ah, very perceptive, Mister Davidson. The
assumption is, of course, that we can only survive on the road,
continually moving. But see that man back there,” he added,
pointing to Soho and Shakespeare in the distance.

“What, the little feller in red and
white?”

“No, no, the other gentleman.”

“Yes?”

“That man has revolutionised the life of the
travelling mummer, and I bless the day I came across him washing
his wounds and cleansing his soul at a lonely, icy stream outside
Stratford.”

“Stratford?”

“Shakespeare of Stratford, Samuel Davidson.
Remember that name. He has a fine eye for spotting acts with
potential, a wonderful incisiveness for improving them, and a
bottomless well of ideas for promoting them.”

“Really?” said the guard, peering at the
bearded young man with newfound interest. “He looks a bit of a
skiver to me.”

“Er, yes, perhaps that helps, too,” whispered
Budsby. Then raising his voice so that not only could Will hear,
but most folk living in the nearby village, Budsby bellowed, “Due
to young Shakespeare the Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Travelling
Mummers has discovered and developed acts of unbelievable skill.
And not only that,” he continued in a quieter tone, “another of Mr
Shakespeare’s initiatives is that he got our maintenance man, Mr
Mullins, to buy four mainsails from a ships’ chandlers at
Liverpool.”

“Sails?”

“He got Mr Mullins to stitch them together to
make a large tent, and now, no matter where we are performing, our
patrons are always dry and warm.”

No to mention,
thought Budsby,
they also have to pay an
admission fee. Plus extra if they want one of the handful of seats
up the front.

“So, he knows what the people want,” said the
guard.

“Precisely, Samuel Davidson,” said Budsby,
“Precisely. As you will see tomorrow.”

Soho looked up to see that all this talk had
reduced Shakespeare to a shrinking figure blushing with
embarrassment.

But there was no use denying it.

From the day he had handed back his tools to
Mr Mullins and emerged from the cramped and jangling maintenance
van eighteen months previously, Shakespeare had taken to the
entertainment game like a duck to water. He progressed rapidly
through an apprenticeship of basic skills - packing and unpacking
gear, setting up the stage, and driving huge stakes into the ground
with a mallet to hold up the wire-walker’s rig.

He even took on the task of holding the
banner aloft, behind Soho and the drummer-boy when the troupe
entered town, and turned it into a tour de force.

“It’s a vital job, my boy,” enthused Budsby,
when he appointed him. “Without it, we would not round up
customers. Remember, in entertainment, there is no such thing as a
little part - only little people incapable of making something big
of a part.”

And indeed, if there was a pivotal point in
his career, it was the day in the small town of Huddersfield, when
he noticed that simply spinning the banner drew oohs and aahs from
the entertainment-starved villagers. He began to waggle it more,
turn circles, march backwards with it, all the while, smiling. He
decorated it with coloured pieces of cloth, he festooned it with
bells, and he developed a brilliant technique of throwing the
entire banner and pole in a loop in the air, and then catching
it.

The smiling Shakespeare began spruiking, too,
shouting, “Follow me, ladies and gentlemen, to where the wonders of
the world await you, and you will be astounded by all you see.”

Budsby noted that this theatrical addition to
what had been a fairly straightforward presentation began to make a
small but significant improvement in interest and therefore
takings.

It also inspired Soho to new heights, his
reinvigorated acrobatic leaps and amusing tactics becoming the talk
of central England as the show rolled inexorably on.

Shakespeare also won people over with the
smile and easy repartee.

“How much do you expect me to throw onto the
stage?” said a lady one day.

“Only a copper, ma’am,” replied Shakespeare.
“And half that for children.”

“But what if I’ve got nineteen kids?”

“We’ll put you in the show, instead …”

Budsby would smile at the thought he was
developing the perfect showman - albeit that Shakespeare, after
taking many days to recover from the gigantic hangover he had on
the first day they met, eventually rediscovered his love for
ale.

And every now and then Budsby would have to
go down to the main tavern in whatever village they were working
in, and extricate his young genius and Soho, who would be sitting
on the bar entertaining the crowd with his funny faces in between
tankards.

Of course, while he was down there, Mr Budsby
himself would partake of a couple of drinks, for medicinal
purposes, only … and sometimes when they staggered back to camp it
was difficult to work out who was actually extricating who from the
danger of the demon drink.

However, it was at Bristol, that life really
changed for Shakespeare.

While putting together the structure for the
wirewalker, he casually mentioned to the star performer that at
some point in his act, he should make a deliberate mistake. “Let
one foot slip, and appear as if you are going to fall to the
ground, but grab the wire at the last second and hang on,” said
Shakespeare. “Then slowly battle your way back to safety.”

The wirewalker, Viktor The Supreme, was
shocked at such a suggestion and stormed off to see Budsby and
demand Shakespeare’s instant dismissal.

A diminutive, well-muscled character with a
taut frame, he was believed to be part Russian, from the Ottoman
area, somewhere near the border of Turkey. But even with his
limited English, the sallow-skinned Victor managed to make it clear
that such a proposal was an affront to his skills.