Read Online Shakespeare's Rebel by C.C. Humphreys - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C.C. Humphreys
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John lad, eh?’
From Burbage, no doubt, John thought. It was a harsh world within which a man could not get drunk and keep the fact unknown to friends. ‘There’s a story to it all, William,’ he mumbled.
‘As ever with you. And stories are my delight, as you know. But swiftly now, for I fear I will soon be summoned. Begin with the end – with Ned here despite a curt note of unknown hand saying he would not play. And with your concluding swim, of course.’
John swallowed hot ale, nodded and began, studying his friend, who settled beside him on the box, even as he spoke. It had been only six months since last they’d met . . . yet something had altered with the playwright. But what? Not the eyes, still contrastingly gentle and sharp, beneath the arch of the brow; nor the auburn hair, teased forward even under the soft cap he wore – vain in that, his hair having begun a retreat that threatened to turn rout all too soon. Though John was the elder by some seven years, his own hair was still thick and as black as the coming night, a fact Will often commented on with envy. Was the change in the mouth then, the full lips within the beard?
Will’s mouth, John thought, even as he began to speak of Tess and Despair. It was what he had first noticed – God’s mercy, thirteen years before in Stratford-upon-Avon. Unframed by whiskers then, the lad had marched up to the tavern table where John and the two other remaining players in the Admiral’s Men sat disconsolate – for one of their fellows had killed another over a woman, the dead one’s wife. Now they were two short, one in a grave, t’other in gaol. Two short was two too few to give The Tragedy of Medea upon the inn yard stage – especially when the dead actor was Medea. Then that mouth had formed those words: ‘ I play,’ and John had looked on William Shakespeare for the first time.
No, thought John, concluding his story with swordplay and swimming and his study with a nod. The change is not physical, nor in the several parts. It is in the whole. For despite the soft smile, the amused questions, his friend looked sadder than John had ever seen him. When he got the chance, he would find out why.
‘Well,’ said Shakespeare, ‘’tis a tale to rank with some of your worthiest japes. Alas, I believe I must wait to question you further on’t’ – he gestured to a boy John had not noticed approach – ‘for I am summoned to rehearsal, am I not?’
The boy bobbed. ‘Yes, master.’
Will rose and John did too, buckling on his sword belt. ‘What do you play?’
‘The first part of Henry Four .’
‘I knew that. But you within it?’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘I am doubling Westmorland and Bardolph. Old men’s roles. ’Tis what my fellow players consider me suited for.’ He tugged at his diminished forelock, laughed, as he followed the boy.
John fell into step. ‘And who arranges the fights?’
‘You do. That is, Burbage and Sly, as Hal and Hotspur, believe they mostly remember your moves.’
‘Mostly?’ He shuddered. ‘So do I get paid for them again?’
Will smiled. ‘You know you do not. As I do not get paid for the words. Fight arrangers and playwrights, John. We are fee’d, not waged.’
‘But you are a sharer in the company. It is different.’ They had halted by the half-opened door of the stable. Lines were being bellowed within. ‘I could look at them once, if you liked. Gratis, of course.’
‘You know I would like it. Would like you to do more than set the fights. But there are those within who do not.’
‘Those? You mean one. Kemp.’ John spat the word.
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘You punched him.’
‘Which he deserved.’
‘He often does. I’d punch him myself when he mangles my lines – were the oaf not twice my size and handy with his fists.’ Will grinned. ‘But on stage? During a performance?’
‘I had a speech,’ John grumbled, ‘an important one. He was above me on the platform, pretending that an
From Burbage, no doubt, John thought. It was a harsh world within which a man could not get drunk and keep the fact unknown to friends. ‘There’s a story to it all, William,’ he mumbled.
‘As ever with you. And stories are my delight, as you know. But swiftly now, for I fear I will soon be summoned. Begin with the end – with Ned here despite a curt note of unknown hand saying he would not play. And with your concluding swim, of course.’
John swallowed hot ale, nodded and began, studying his friend, who settled beside him on the box, even as he spoke. It had been only six months since last they’d met . . . yet something had altered with the playwright. But what? Not the eyes, still contrastingly gentle and sharp, beneath the arch of the brow; nor the auburn hair, teased forward even under the soft cap he wore – vain in that, his hair having begun a retreat that threatened to turn rout all too soon. Though John was the elder by some seven years, his own hair was still thick and as black as the coming night, a fact Will often commented on with envy. Was the change in the mouth then, the full lips within the beard?
Will’s mouth, John thought, even as he began to speak of Tess and Despair. It was what he had first noticed – God’s mercy, thirteen years before in Stratford-upon-Avon. Unframed by whiskers then, the lad had marched up to the tavern table where John and the two other remaining players in the Admiral’s Men sat disconsolate – for one of their fellows had killed another over a woman, the dead one’s wife. Now they were two short, one in a grave, t’other in gaol. Two short was two too few to give The Tragedy of Medea upon the inn yard stage – especially when the dead actor was Medea. Then that mouth had formed those words: ‘ I play,’ and John had looked on William Shakespeare for the first time.
No, thought John, concluding his story with swordplay and swimming and his study with a nod. The change is not physical, nor in the several parts. It is in the whole. For despite the soft smile, the amused questions, his friend looked sadder than John had ever seen him. When he got the chance, he would find out why.
‘Well,’ said Shakespeare, ‘’tis a tale to rank with some of your worthiest japes. Alas, I believe I must wait to question you further on’t’ – he gestured to a boy John had not noticed approach – ‘for I am summoned to rehearsal, am I not?’
The boy bobbed. ‘Yes, master.’
Will rose and John did too, buckling on his sword belt. ‘What do you play?’
‘The first part of Henry Four .’
‘I knew that. But you within it?’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘I am doubling Westmorland and Bardolph. Old men’s roles. ’Tis what my fellow players consider me suited for.’ He tugged at his diminished forelock, laughed, as he followed the boy.
John fell into step. ‘And who arranges the fights?’
‘You do. That is, Burbage and Sly, as Hal and Hotspur, believe they mostly remember your moves.’
‘Mostly?’ He shuddered. ‘So do I get paid for them again?’
Will smiled. ‘You know you do not. As I do not get paid for the words. Fight arrangers and playwrights, John. We are fee’d, not waged.’
‘But you are a sharer in the company. It is different.’ They had halted by the half-opened door of the stable. Lines were being bellowed within. ‘I could look at them once, if you liked. Gratis, of course.’
‘You know I would like it. Would like you to do more than set the fights. But there are those within who do not.’
‘Those? You mean one. Kemp.’ John spat the word.
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘You punched him.’
‘Which he deserved.’
‘He often does. I’d punch him myself when he mangles my lines – were the oaf not twice my size and handy with his fists.’ Will grinned. ‘But on stage? During a performance?’
‘I had a speech,’ John grumbled, ‘an important one. He was above me on the platform, pretending that an
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