them.
“Overslept, did you?” said Sam, casting an envious eye at the bread and beef.
I broke it in two and handed half to him. “Nay, as a matter of fact I’ve been up for hours.”
“Doing what?” he asked around a monstrous mouthful of food.
I was not about to tell him what I had truly been up to; then I would have two people pestering me for a look at my nonexistent play—and very likely far more than that, for Sam was not known for keeping his tongue in his purse, as they say. So, to avoid compounding the trouble my first lie had gotten me into, I was forced to come up with a totally new one. Was there no end to it? “I was working on improving me charactery.”
“Improving your character? I don’t see that getting up a bit early is all that virtuous.”
“Nay, nay, not me
character;
me
charactery
—you ken, me swift writing.” Well, that was not altogether untrue. Dr. Bright’s system was, to put it kindly, imperfect. There were times when I grew so frustrated with its shortcomings that I swore I would devise my own set of symbols. One day I mighteven get around to it—when I was finished writing my play, perhaps, or at the last Lammas, whichever came first.
At the start of each day, it was the job of us prentices to put the tiring-room and property room in order again, after the two hours of disorder they had suffered the night before. When Sam and I arrived in the property room, Sal Pavy was already hard at work—at least until he saw that it was only us and not one of the sharers who had entered, at which point he reverted to his normal practice of doing as little as possible.
Sam cast him a look of disgust. A moment later, as he was putting a leather breastplate into its proper trunk, Sam suddenly stood stock-still, his eyes squeezed shut as though in concentration, a hand clapped to his forehead. “I’ve just had a vision of the future,” he intoned, in a voice very like Madame La Voisin’s. “I predict … I predict that Master Pavy is about to say—” He switched to a wicked imitation of Sal Pavy’s rather nasal tenor. “‘At Blackfriahs we were not obliged to pick up propahteeahs.’”
It was Sal Pavy’s turn to express disgust. “If I sounded remotely the way your parody of me sounds, I’d quit the stage at once and become a hermit.”
“Promise?” Sam said.
“Stop it, you two,” I said. “We’ve work to do.”
Sam picked up the rope ladder used by Valentine in
Two Gentlemen
and began winding it into a neat bundle. “I mean no offense, Sal, but if you had it so easy at Blackfriars, why didn’t you stay there?”
I had a good idea what the reason was, for I had seen the stripes that decorated Sal Pavy’s back—the result, I did not doubt, of frequent and severe beatings. Sam had seen them,too. But Sal Pavy, for all his talk of Blackfriars, had never talked of this. “You may tell us,” I said. “We’re all friends here.”
Sal Pavy glanced warily at me, then at Sam. “He’ll only make another jest of it.”
“Not I,” Sam vowed, and drew a cross over his heart.
“Don’t do that!” Sal Pavy’s tone was unexpectedly harsh. “It puts me in mind of
them
.”
“Who do you mean by
them?
“ I asked.
“Mr. Giles and Mr. Evans.”
I recognized the names. “They’re the wights i’ charge o’ the Chapel Children?”
Sal Pavy nodded. He looked about furtively, as if fearing that one of them might have infiltrated our theatre. Then he said, in a voice so low that I could scarcely hear him, “They’re also Papists.”
14
“ P apists?” Sam said incredulously. “Running the queen’s own company?”
“You sound as though you don’t believe me!”
“I believe you, Sal, I believe you. It just seems a bit … risky, doesn’t it?”
“Well, obviously they don’t go about telling everyone. But we Children all knew. It would have been impossible for us not to. Every week we had to make a confession to one of them.”
“A confession?” I
“Overslept, did you?” said Sam, casting an envious eye at the bread and beef.
I broke it in two and handed half to him. “Nay, as a matter of fact I’ve been up for hours.”
“Doing what?” he asked around a monstrous mouthful of food.
I was not about to tell him what I had truly been up to; then I would have two people pestering me for a look at my nonexistent play—and very likely far more than that, for Sam was not known for keeping his tongue in his purse, as they say. So, to avoid compounding the trouble my first lie had gotten me into, I was forced to come up with a totally new one. Was there no end to it? “I was working on improving me charactery.”
“Improving your character? I don’t see that getting up a bit early is all that virtuous.”
“Nay, nay, not me
character;
me
charactery
—you ken, me swift writing.” Well, that was not altogether untrue. Dr. Bright’s system was, to put it kindly, imperfect. There were times when I grew so frustrated with its shortcomings that I swore I would devise my own set of symbols. One day I mighteven get around to it—when I was finished writing my play, perhaps, or at the last Lammas, whichever came first.
At the start of each day, it was the job of us prentices to put the tiring-room and property room in order again, after the two hours of disorder they had suffered the night before. When Sam and I arrived in the property room, Sal Pavy was already hard at work—at least until he saw that it was only us and not one of the sharers who had entered, at which point he reverted to his normal practice of doing as little as possible.
Sam cast him a look of disgust. A moment later, as he was putting a leather breastplate into its proper trunk, Sam suddenly stood stock-still, his eyes squeezed shut as though in concentration, a hand clapped to his forehead. “I’ve just had a vision of the future,” he intoned, in a voice very like Madame La Voisin’s. “I predict … I predict that Master Pavy is about to say—” He switched to a wicked imitation of Sal Pavy’s rather nasal tenor. “‘At Blackfriahs we were not obliged to pick up propahteeahs.’”
It was Sal Pavy’s turn to express disgust. “If I sounded remotely the way your parody of me sounds, I’d quit the stage at once and become a hermit.”
“Promise?” Sam said.
“Stop it, you two,” I said. “We’ve work to do.”
Sam picked up the rope ladder used by Valentine in
Two Gentlemen
and began winding it into a neat bundle. “I mean no offense, Sal, but if you had it so easy at Blackfriars, why didn’t you stay there?”
I had a good idea what the reason was, for I had seen the stripes that decorated Sal Pavy’s back—the result, I did not doubt, of frequent and severe beatings. Sam had seen them,too. But Sal Pavy, for all his talk of Blackfriars, had never talked of this. “You may tell us,” I said. “We’re all friends here.”
Sal Pavy glanced warily at me, then at Sam. “He’ll only make another jest of it.”
“Not I,” Sam vowed, and drew a cross over his heart.
“Don’t do that!” Sal Pavy’s tone was unexpectedly harsh. “It puts me in mind of
them
.”
“Who do you mean by
them?
“ I asked.
“Mr. Giles and Mr. Evans.”
I recognized the names. “They’re the wights i’ charge o’ the Chapel Children?”
Sal Pavy nodded. He looked about furtively, as if fearing that one of them might have infiltrated our theatre. Then he said, in a voice so low that I could scarcely hear him, “They’re also Papists.”
14
“ P apists?” Sam said incredulously. “Running the queen’s own company?”
“You sound as though you don’t believe me!”
“I believe you, Sal, I believe you. It just seems a bit … risky, doesn’t it?”
“Well, obviously they don’t go about telling everyone. But we Children all knew. It would have been impossible for us not to. Every week we had to make a confession to one of them.”
“A confession?” I
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