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Authors: Gary Blackwood
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my footing and very nearly sent us stumbling into the path of a costermonger’s cart. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Never mind. I want to know what you meant when you said you wouldn’t ken.”
“It means I wouldn’t
know
.”
“I ken that. But why would you not know?”
“Because.” I would have left it at that, but the way her bright blue eyes were fixed upon me somehow made me wish to tell her everything that was in my mind and in my heart, all in one great rush. “Because me mother died borning me, and me father … well, I’m not exactly certain who me father was.”
She bit her lip. “I see. You’re an orphan, then?”
“Aye,” I admitted mournfully, half expecting her to pull away, as though I’d confessed to being the bearer of some dread disease.
To my surprise, she drew even closer and patted my arm. “But that’s not such a bad thing, is it? I mean, if you don’t know who your parents are, then they might be anyone, mightn’t they? Who knows, perhaps you’re the illegitimate son of some great lord with piles and piles of money.”
“Would that were so,” I said fervently. “Then I might hope to—” My voice broke then, and perhaps it was just as well, for I had been about to say something I had no business saying, oreven thinking: that if I were rich and of noble birth, and not a poor prentice with no prospects beyond my next role, then there would be some chance, however small, that I might win her affections.
“What?” she urged. “What would you hope for?”
“Nothing,” I said. But the knowing smile on her face led me to suspect that she had guessed my thoughts.
She tossed her yellow curls. “Well, in any case, I believe it doesn’t matter whether a man is born high or low, not in this day and age. If you work hard and use your wits, you can make of yourself what you will. Look at my father, or Mr. Jonson. They’re the sons of tradesmen, both of them, and yet they’ve earned both renown and respect.”
“I didn’t ken that anyone had much respect for theatre folk—even for playwrights.”
“Of course they do. My father’s name and work are well regarded all over England.”
“It sounds as though you’re very proud of him.”
“I am. I may not always show it, I grant you. Even though he’s a genius and all that, he can be a bit of a dolt sometimes. My mother says that it’s not just him, it’s men in general.” She shook my arm playfully. “Tell me, Widge, are you a dolt sometimes?”
“Aye. More often than not, I expect,” I said glumly.
Suddenly aware of how dismal her image of me must be, I rummaged through myself, as Sam had rummaged through the costume trunk, searching for some admirable quality or uncommon skill that I might bring to her attention. My acting? No, she had seen a sample of that this afternoon, and I did not care to remind her. In my desperation I resorted to a deplorable habit I had foolishly thought I was rid of: I lied. “I am writing a play, though.”
10
A lie is like an arrow: once you’ve let it fly, there’s no calling it back; the damage is done. And telling a single lie is like loosing a single arrow at an angry bear: one is seldom enough; it must be followed by another, and another.
“You’re not!” she said.
“You doubt me?” I managed to sound indignant.
“No, of course not. What’s this play of yours called, then?”
I pulled a title out of the air, a phrase I had once heard. “It’s called
The Mad Men of Gotham
.” There was a certain perverse satisfaction in finding that my talent for fabling had not grown rusty from disuse.
“And what is it about?”
I had asked Mr. Shakespeare the very same thing that morning, and, like a good player, I recalled the line he had given me in reply. “An excellent question. Would that I had as good an answer for you.”
“Oh.” She smiled slyly. “I see what you’re doing.”
I swallowed hard, fearing my lie was so transparent that she had seen through it,
“Never mind. I want to know what you meant when you said you wouldn’t ken.”
“It means I wouldn’t
know
.”
“I ken that. But why would you not know?”
“Because.” I would have left it at that, but the way her bright blue eyes were fixed upon me somehow made me wish to tell her everything that was in my mind and in my heart, all in one great rush. “Because me mother died borning me, and me father … well, I’m not exactly certain who me father was.”
She bit her lip. “I see. You’re an orphan, then?”
“Aye,” I admitted mournfully, half expecting her to pull away, as though I’d confessed to being the bearer of some dread disease.
To my surprise, she drew even closer and patted my arm. “But that’s not such a bad thing, is it? I mean, if you don’t know who your parents are, then they might be anyone, mightn’t they? Who knows, perhaps you’re the illegitimate son of some great lord with piles and piles of money.”
“Would that were so,” I said fervently. “Then I might hope to—” My voice broke then, and perhaps it was just as well, for I had been about to say something I had no business saying, oreven thinking: that if I were rich and of noble birth, and not a poor prentice with no prospects beyond my next role, then there would be some chance, however small, that I might win her affections.
“What?” she urged. “What would you hope for?”
“Nothing,” I said. But the knowing smile on her face led me to suspect that she had guessed my thoughts.
She tossed her yellow curls. “Well, in any case, I believe it doesn’t matter whether a man is born high or low, not in this day and age. If you work hard and use your wits, you can make of yourself what you will. Look at my father, or Mr. Jonson. They’re the sons of tradesmen, both of them, and yet they’ve earned both renown and respect.”
“I didn’t ken that anyone had much respect for theatre folk—even for playwrights.”
“Of course they do. My father’s name and work are well regarded all over England.”
“It sounds as though you’re very proud of him.”
“I am. I may not always show it, I grant you. Even though he’s a genius and all that, he can be a bit of a dolt sometimes. My mother says that it’s not just him, it’s men in general.” She shook my arm playfully. “Tell me, Widge, are you a dolt sometimes?”
“Aye. More often than not, I expect,” I said glumly.
Suddenly aware of how dismal her image of me must be, I rummaged through myself, as Sam had rummaged through the costume trunk, searching for some admirable quality or uncommon skill that I might bring to her attention. My acting? No, she had seen a sample of that this afternoon, and I did not care to remind her. In my desperation I resorted to a deplorable habit I had foolishly thought I was rid of: I lied. “I am writing a play, though.”
10
A lie is like an arrow: once you’ve let it fly, there’s no calling it back; the damage is done. And telling a single lie is like loosing a single arrow at an angry bear: one is seldom enough; it must be followed by another, and another.
“You’re not!” she said.
“You doubt me?” I managed to sound indignant.
“No, of course not. What’s this play of yours called, then?”
I pulled a title out of the air, a phrase I had once heard. “It’s called
The Mad Men of Gotham
.” There was a certain perverse satisfaction in finding that my talent for fabling had not grown rusty from disuse.
“And what is it about?”
I had asked Mr. Shakespeare the very same thing that morning, and, like a good player, I recalled the line he had given me in reply. “An excellent question. Would that I had as good an answer for you.”
“Oh.” She smiled slyly. “I see what you’re doing.”
I swallowed hard, fearing my lie was so transparent that she had seen through it,
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