Shakespeare's Scribe by Gary Blackwood Page B

wrote out this itinerary for Sander, hoping he might send a reply in care of one of the towns along our route.
    The sharers had expressed concern that, with the slow progress we’d made since leaving Newark, Pembroke’s Men or some other company might have preceded us. We were gratified to learn that noLondon troupe had played here in years, only a few companies of lesser stature who hailed from the northern shires.
    The city fathers examined our papers carefully and, satisfied that we were a renowned and reputable company, engaged us to play the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall for an entire week. In addition, we were to receive our remuneration not from the audience but from the city treasury, to the tune of thirty shillings per performance.
    At the inn that evening we celebrated our good fortune with generous rounds of ale. Mr. Shakespeare even took a night off from struggling with
Love’s Labour’s Won
, for which I cannot say I was sorry. Despite the title, I had begun to wonder whether we would indeed win out as a result of all our labors, or whether the play would at some point simply fizzle out, like a firework with a faulty fuse.
    Sal Pavy, wearing his cheerful face, condescended to join us in our festivities for a time. Before he retired to his stable I saw him draw Mr. Armin aside and engage him in a conversation that, from their expressions, appeared to be a serious one.
    When we had drunk all we could hold—the ale they served us prentices was, of course, watered down, or my head could not have stood much of it—and were making for our beds, Mr. Armin beckoned to me. I stepped into his room. “I want your thoughts on something,” he said.
    I smiled amiably, in a mood to grant anyone anything. “Some ailment, no doubt,” I said, and hiccoughed. “I seem to have become the company’s unofficial physician—ah, there’s a tongue twister you can use, sir, in our elocution lessons. Say it three times rapidly: unofficial physician, un-afishy physician, unofficial position. I am most efficient in my unofficial position as a fisherman’s physician.”
    Mr. Armin patted my shoulder lightly, but it was enough to unbalance me, and I sat down abruptly. “You’ve had too much ale,” he said.
    â€œAye,” I said, “that’s me
ale-merit
.”
    â€œPerhaps we should discuss this tomorrow.”
    â€œNay, nay, I’m all right. What is ’t? An upset stomach? A sore throat?”
    â€œI’m not looking for medical advice. It’s a theatre matter. Sal Pavy has asked that, when we do
Titus Andronicus
, he be given the part of Lavinia.”
    I blinked, taken aback. “But—but that’s
me
part.”
    â€œI know. But you’ve been so busy helping Mr. Shakespeare, I thought you might be happy to have one less responsibility.”
    â€œSo you promised it to him?”
    â€œNo. I told him I’d discuss it with you.”
    â€œOh,” I said. Though I tried not to show it, I was hurt by the proposal, for it implied that I could readily be replaced. I did not wish to seem temperamental, or unreasonable, but neither did I care to give up one of my best parts, especially to Sal Pavy. “Does ’a ken the part?”
    Mr. Armin nodded. “He’s been studying it.”
    So that was what he’d been up to in those early-morning solo sessions. I wondered what other parts he’d been committing to memory. Feeling as though I’d been wronged, I said sullenly, “An you think ’a can do it better, then I yield to him.”
    â€œWidge. It’s not a question of who does it better, you know that. Sal feels we’re not using him enough, that’s all.”
    â€œThen let
him
play doctor and take dictation,” I replied heatedly. Then I slumped forward and wearily hung my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m tired and I’ve drunk too