Read Online Shakespeare's Rebel by C.C. Humphreys - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C.C. Humphreys
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little you can do.’
‘We shall see about th-th-that,’ John growled. But angry thoughts were no longer sustaining him against the chill, and blue lips could no longer frame words. His mind froze and his ears nearly didn’t hear the boatman’s call of ‘Whitehall Stair’.
‘Father!’ Ned shook him. ‘Coins. ’Tis thruppence for this distance.’
‘Ah.’ John made a small show of fingering at his leather girdle. ‘I forgot. My p-purse, Ned. Cut in some low . . . low place. Could you . . . ?’
His son stared at him a moment, shook his head, before reaching to his waist to produce the required silver coin. Then he helped his now near frozen father disembark.
Players entered Whitehall Palace the same way as offal traders, cess pit cleaners and scullions – via the stables. Yet in the suddenness of escape, Ned had left behind the token showing him to be one of the company. ‘We have our orders,’ said the corporal in charge of the guard. ‘There are threats against her majesty. Spies. Spaniards. Papists.’ He spat into a pile of hay beside him. ‘So unless you have someone to vouch for you, you are not coming in.’
John opened his mouth, but words could not be mustered amidst the shaking. ‘Wuh . . . wuh . . . wuh . . .’ was the most he could achieve towards the name he wished to speak. Yet fortunately for him, and for Ned, who had begun to bluster, the possessor of the name he sought decided at that very moment to appear.
‘Lawley – pater et filius !’ came a familiar voice.
The semicircle of guards opened, and into their middle stepped a man. ‘Sir!’ cried Ned, sweeping into a bow.
‘Old f-friend!’ managed his father. ‘Well m-m-met.’
‘That, Master Lawley,’ replied William Shakespeare sternly, ‘remains to be seen.’
V
The Bard
‘Is there a problem?’
The playwright addressed the corporal. The officer tipped his pike towards Ned. ‘Boy says he’s one of your company.’
‘He is so. He is late but in the nick. And there is a lad in rehearsal now who will be most relieved to see him, and spare his tongue the mangling it is receiving from Welsh vowels. Will you admit him?’
The guard grunted, raised his pike. Ned darted under it and the pike came down again. Shakespeare held his arm and pointed. ‘Across the yard there. We are in the horse stalls. Be swift.’
With one backward glance, Ned sprinted off. ‘And this one?’ the corporal asked.
The playwright turned back. ‘This? This . . . is a frozen version of an old colleague.’ He hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘And a player too. Admit him, if you please.’
The corporal nodded, swung his pike up again. Reaching, his friend took John by the sleeve, frowning at its wetness. ‘Come, man. There’s a fire close by. Let’s get you before it and out of these.’
In the centre of the stable yard a brazier blazed. The playwright led John to it, left him raising his chapped hands, returned in a moment with a couple of men and an armful of clothes. Between them they had him stripped and redressed in moments, swift changes being one of their practices. ‘This is Augustine’s costume for Don Pedro in Much Ado . He plays it in Bath next week, so pray do not soil it. You can smell by the urine that is has only just been cleaned.’
‘I will endeav . . . endeavour not to,’ John replied, lifting his arms to allow one of the costume men to bend and tie the dark red breeches to the maroon doublet. A pewter mug was shoved into his hands and he burned his tongue on the mulled ale within it. Nevertheless, he managed to quaff some, returning life to his mind if not to all his extremities. There was a box before the brazier, and when he was dressed, his boots emptied out and replaced, he sank upon it. ‘I am g . . . grateful, Will.’
‘While I am surprised. Even you were not wont to swim in February’ – Shakespeare smiled – ‘unless it were in a butt of beer. For I heard you were . . . about it once more,
‘We shall see about th-th-that,’ John growled. But angry thoughts were no longer sustaining him against the chill, and blue lips could no longer frame words. His mind froze and his ears nearly didn’t hear the boatman’s call of ‘Whitehall Stair’.
‘Father!’ Ned shook him. ‘Coins. ’Tis thruppence for this distance.’
‘Ah.’ John made a small show of fingering at his leather girdle. ‘I forgot. My p-purse, Ned. Cut in some low . . . low place. Could you . . . ?’
His son stared at him a moment, shook his head, before reaching to his waist to produce the required silver coin. Then he helped his now near frozen father disembark.
Players entered Whitehall Palace the same way as offal traders, cess pit cleaners and scullions – via the stables. Yet in the suddenness of escape, Ned had left behind the token showing him to be one of the company. ‘We have our orders,’ said the corporal in charge of the guard. ‘There are threats against her majesty. Spies. Spaniards. Papists.’ He spat into a pile of hay beside him. ‘So unless you have someone to vouch for you, you are not coming in.’
John opened his mouth, but words could not be mustered amidst the shaking. ‘Wuh . . . wuh . . . wuh . . .’ was the most he could achieve towards the name he wished to speak. Yet fortunately for him, and for Ned, who had begun to bluster, the possessor of the name he sought decided at that very moment to appear.
‘Lawley – pater et filius !’ came a familiar voice.
The semicircle of guards opened, and into their middle stepped a man. ‘Sir!’ cried Ned, sweeping into a bow.
‘Old f-friend!’ managed his father. ‘Well m-m-met.’
‘That, Master Lawley,’ replied William Shakespeare sternly, ‘remains to be seen.’
V
The Bard
‘Is there a problem?’
The playwright addressed the corporal. The officer tipped his pike towards Ned. ‘Boy says he’s one of your company.’
‘He is so. He is late but in the nick. And there is a lad in rehearsal now who will be most relieved to see him, and spare his tongue the mangling it is receiving from Welsh vowels. Will you admit him?’
The guard grunted, raised his pike. Ned darted under it and the pike came down again. Shakespeare held his arm and pointed. ‘Across the yard there. We are in the horse stalls. Be swift.’
With one backward glance, Ned sprinted off. ‘And this one?’ the corporal asked.
The playwright turned back. ‘This? This . . . is a frozen version of an old colleague.’ He hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘And a player too. Admit him, if you please.’
The corporal nodded, swung his pike up again. Reaching, his friend took John by the sleeve, frowning at its wetness. ‘Come, man. There’s a fire close by. Let’s get you before it and out of these.’
In the centre of the stable yard a brazier blazed. The playwright led John to it, left him raising his chapped hands, returned in a moment with a couple of men and an armful of clothes. Between them they had him stripped and redressed in moments, swift changes being one of their practices. ‘This is Augustine’s costume for Don Pedro in Much Ado . He plays it in Bath next week, so pray do not soil it. You can smell by the urine that is has only just been cleaned.’
‘I will endeav . . . endeavour not to,’ John replied, lifting his arms to allow one of the costume men to bend and tie the dark red breeches to the maroon doublet. A pewter mug was shoved into his hands and he burned his tongue on the mulled ale within it. Nevertheless, he managed to quaff some, returning life to his mind if not to all his extremities. There was a box before the brazier, and when he was dressed, his boots emptied out and replaced, he sank upon it. ‘I am g . . . grateful, Will.’
‘While I am surprised. Even you were not wont to swim in February’ – Shakespeare smiled – ‘unless it were in a butt of beer. For I heard you were . . . about it once more,
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