brewery.”
“That’s because I rinsed myself with ale, at Ben Jonson’s suggestion.”
“Well, you have it from an expert, then,” said Will Sly. “No one knows more about ale and its uses than Ben.”
“Are you a c-cardplayer, sir?” asked Mr. Heminges. “We n-normally engage in a r-rousing round of whist after d-dinner.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be delighted to join you.”
Mr. Garrett proved an entertaining dinner companion. Though he seemed to know little enough about the theatre, he had something intelligent, and often witty, to say about nearly every other topic on which we touched.
I watched him closely and listened to him carefully, looking for some clue to his identity and why he chose—or was compelled—to conceal it. He spoke with a slight lisp, but not the precious sort so often affected by fops. His seemed, rather, to be the result of some injury to his upper lip, where a thin scar was still visible beneath his newly bleached mustache. When he turned toward me, I could see traces of other old wounds on his neck and on his forehead. Whatever else his past life might have been, it had certainly been dangerous.
I was, I noticed, not the only one in the company who was taking Mr. Garrett’s measure. Ned Shakespeare was regarding him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, as though still trying to recall where he had seen the man before. Ordinarily Sam paid far more attention to the food and drink than to theconversation, but when Mr. Garrett began to speak of all the countries he’d traveled to and all the strange things he had seen, Sam hung on his every word, as though he hungered far more for adventure than for the mackerel and the parsnip fritters on his plate.
Mr. Garrett could also hold his own when the talk turned to such popular pursuits as hunting, falconry, and gardening. And, although he had been in London but two days, he was already knowledgeable on the subject of most concern to us all—the state of the queen’s health.
“This morning,” he said, “I spoke with … with someone in a position to know. He tells me that Her Majesty grows weaker with each day that passes. She often seems confused and forgetful, and will seldom speak except to complain that her limbs are cold. Yet she adamantly refuses to take any of the medicines prescribed by her physicians, apparently because she fears being poisoned.”
The sharers glanced solemnly at one another. “What I fear, gentlemen,” said Mr. Armin, “is that we players will not have Her Majesty’s protection much longer.” He turned to Mr. Garrett. “Do you know whether or not she has given any indication of who she wants to succeed her?”
“According to the man I spoke with, she has not. Everyone expects, of course, that her choice will be the Scottish king.”
“Lord help us,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
“Is that bad?” I asked. I knew nearly nothing about King James, except that he was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, who once tried to claim the English throne and had her costard chopped off for it.
“Well,” Mr. Shakespeare said, “let me put it this way: How many Scottish theatres have you heard of?”
I thought for a moment. “None.”
“And how many famous Scottish playwrights are there?”
“None?”
He nodded grimly. “How well do suppose we players are likely to fare, then, under James’s rule?”
“I understand, though,” said Mr. Garrett, “that his queen, Anne of Denmark, often presents elaborate masques at court, and even performs in them.”
“Oh, good,” said Mr. Armin. “We’ll all become courtiers, then, and prance about before a lot of fake scenery, pretending to be gods and goddesses, and spouting doggerel.”
“P-perhaps it won’t be as b-bad as you imagine,” put in Mr. Heminges, always the optimist.
“And perhaps it will be a good deal worse,” said Ned Shakespeare. “After all, His Royal Scottishness was raised by Puritans, and most, if not all, of his advisers are
“That’s because I rinsed myself with ale, at Ben Jonson’s suggestion.”
“Well, you have it from an expert, then,” said Will Sly. “No one knows more about ale and its uses than Ben.”
“Are you a c-cardplayer, sir?” asked Mr. Heminges. “We n-normally engage in a r-rousing round of whist after d-dinner.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be delighted to join you.”
Mr. Garrett proved an entertaining dinner companion. Though he seemed to know little enough about the theatre, he had something intelligent, and often witty, to say about nearly every other topic on which we touched.
I watched him closely and listened to him carefully, looking for some clue to his identity and why he chose—or was compelled—to conceal it. He spoke with a slight lisp, but not the precious sort so often affected by fops. His seemed, rather, to be the result of some injury to his upper lip, where a thin scar was still visible beneath his newly bleached mustache. When he turned toward me, I could see traces of other old wounds on his neck and on his forehead. Whatever else his past life might have been, it had certainly been dangerous.
I was, I noticed, not the only one in the company who was taking Mr. Garrett’s measure. Ned Shakespeare was regarding him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, as though still trying to recall where he had seen the man before. Ordinarily Sam paid far more attention to the food and drink than to theconversation, but when Mr. Garrett began to speak of all the countries he’d traveled to and all the strange things he had seen, Sam hung on his every word, as though he hungered far more for adventure than for the mackerel and the parsnip fritters on his plate.
Mr. Garrett could also hold his own when the talk turned to such popular pursuits as hunting, falconry, and gardening. And, although he had been in London but two days, he was already knowledgeable on the subject of most concern to us all—the state of the queen’s health.
“This morning,” he said, “I spoke with … with someone in a position to know. He tells me that Her Majesty grows weaker with each day that passes. She often seems confused and forgetful, and will seldom speak except to complain that her limbs are cold. Yet she adamantly refuses to take any of the medicines prescribed by her physicians, apparently because she fears being poisoned.”
The sharers glanced solemnly at one another. “What I fear, gentlemen,” said Mr. Armin, “is that we players will not have Her Majesty’s protection much longer.” He turned to Mr. Garrett. “Do you know whether or not she has given any indication of who she wants to succeed her?”
“According to the man I spoke with, she has not. Everyone expects, of course, that her choice will be the Scottish king.”
“Lord help us,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
“Is that bad?” I asked. I knew nearly nothing about King James, except that he was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, who once tried to claim the English throne and had her costard chopped off for it.
“Well,” Mr. Shakespeare said, “let me put it this way: How many Scottish theatres have you heard of?”
I thought for a moment. “None.”
“And how many famous Scottish playwrights are there?”
“None?”
He nodded grimly. “How well do suppose we players are likely to fare, then, under James’s rule?”
“I understand, though,” said Mr. Garrett, “that his queen, Anne of Denmark, often presents elaborate masques at court, and even performs in them.”
“Oh, good,” said Mr. Armin. “We’ll all become courtiers, then, and prance about before a lot of fake scenery, pretending to be gods and goddesses, and spouting doggerel.”
“P-perhaps it won’t be as b-bad as you imagine,” put in Mr. Heminges, always the optimist.
“And perhaps it will be a good deal worse,” said Ned Shakespeare. “After all, His Royal Scottishness was raised by Puritans, and most, if not all, of his advisers are
Similar Books
