Shakespeare's Scribe by Gary Blackwood

asleep still, barefoot and clad only in our nightshirts.
    We had brought the carewares into the inn yard and pulled them alongside the stable, assuming they would be safe there. We were wrong. The fronts of both wagon boxes were ablaze, and the flames were climbing the sides, threatening to set the canvas tops alight. In their flickering light, I spotted Sal Pavy shuffling across the inn yard, straining at the weight of a leather water bucket whose contents spilled onto the cobbles and onto the hem of his nightshirt.
    Stunned, I stood clutching the railing of the gallery for a moment. “Gog’s blood!” I heard Jack cry as he rushed past me. “Pembroke’s Men are trying to burn us out!” Then Will Sly yanked at my nightshirt, settingme in motion. As I scrambled down the stairs, a splinter jammed into one bare foot, but I ran on.
    Sal Pavy tossed what little remained of his bucket of water ineffectually at the burning wagon. Mr. Armin took the bucket from him and handed it to Jack. “Fill it at the horse trough! The rest of you, take hold of the wagon tongues! We’ve got to get them away from the stable! Widge! See if you can pull those canvas tops off!”
    While the men hauled at one careware, trying to get it rolling, I clambered aboard the other and, clinging to the high wooden side, began fumbling with the loops of rope that held the canvas in place. “All together—heave!” shouted Mr. Armin, and their wagon lurched into mine, nearly dislodging me. My bare foot struck someone on the pate. I glanced down to see that it was Mr. Shakespeare, straining with his good arm at the spokes of one of the wheels.
    I pulled the last of the ropes free, flung the canvas aside, out of the reach of the flames, and sprang for the other careware. I was too late. The canvas top on it was already burning. I believe we would have lost our battle with the flames had we not at that moment received reinforcements in the form of the innkeeper and his ostler. With their help, our men got the careware moving and pushed it across the cobbles to the horse trough.
    While Jack and Sam and I doused the fire with bucket after bucket of water—Sal Pavy seemed to have disappeared—the rest of the men returned for the other careware. Within minutes, both fires were out. The players dragged our costume and property trunks from the wagon beds. Even in the pale light from the innkeeper’s lantern, I could see that the wood was badly charred and, of course, soaked with water.
    We carried the trunks into the stable and inspected their contents. The armor and weapons and other properties were mostly undamaged, but the top layer of clothing was scorched, and all of it was wet. We spread the garments on the hay in the loft to dry and, leaving Jack and Will Sly to guard them, retired to our beds, grateful that our bedding, at least, had not been in the wagons.
    We found Ned Shakespeare still in the room and still sound asleep. “The devil take him!” muttered Sam. “He’s slept through the whole thing!”
    â€œMr. Shakespeare will be furious. Perhaps we’d best not tell him. ‘A may not have noticed.” But as I said this, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye and turned to see Mr. Shakespeare standing in the doorway. He clearly saw his brother’s sleeping form, but he said nothing, only shook his head as though he had expected nothing more, and turned away.
    After we washed up, I got Sam to draw the splinter—or at least most of it—from my foot. “How do you suppose the fire began?” he asked me.
    â€œMr. Armin said it looked as though someone had dropped burning bundles of straw into the front of the wagon beds.”
    â€œWho would do such a thing, and why?”
    â€œSomeone who dislikes players, I’d say. A fanatical Puritan, perhaps.”
    â€œOr maybe Jack was right. Maybe it was Pembroke’s Men, trying to get rid of the