The Playmakers Page 7

  “Maybe, sir. But a castle in de Vere’s name is just up the road, and I’m the advance guard.”

  “Ah, de Vere, a man of distinction,” added Budsby carefully.

  “Distinction, yes. Letters, too,” said the guard. Then leaning forward, he added, “But, just between you and me, as for actually paying poor sods like me on time, well, that’s another matter.”

  “A bit tardy, yes?”

  “He means well enough. But you have to haggle to get your wages.”

  “Do you now?”

  “With his estate manager. You don’t see much of the Earl around here. He’s in his thirties now, always living it up big down south, and if I had half a chance I’d be down there myself, too.”

  Budsby moved closer, and said almost conspiratorially, “And tell me, what happens to these spies and atheists?”

  “Quite frankly, they don’t worry me, sir. I just do my job.’

  “Right.”

  “But I gather, for any that we catch, there’s no second chance,” he added, stamping the end of his spear on the ground. “Over in Norwich, they get the axe, the gallows, or the stake.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Budsby, thoughtfully. “Oh well, we will sleep well tonight knowing we are protected by such earnest hands as yours. Is there a clearing near here where we can set up the wagons?”

  “I’m here to protect the castle. I’m not supposed to help itinerants.”

  “Er, if only so that our strong man can be fully rested for his ultimate test with your good self on the morrow?”

  The guard looked over each shoulder again, and leaned forward. “Well, if you go down this way, half a mile,” he whispered, pointing over his left shoulder, “there’s a scarred tree. Turn right there and a little way in, you’ll find a nice spot.”

  “Excellent,” said Budsby, clapping him on the shoulder. “Excellent. And what is your name, sir?”

  “Davidson, sir. Samuel Davidson.”

  “Well, Samuel Davidson, when we get to London and appear at the Court, I will recommend to her Majesty and the Earl of Oxford himself that you deserve royal commendation as a reward for your diligence.”

  “Are you going to London?” came the eager reply.

  “That is our ultimate aim, yes.”

  “I’ve never been to London.”

  “Well, I must admit, it’s been a long time since I have, too, Mister Davidson.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Mister Davidson, I’m not sure we have a spot in our troupe. Let us see what tomorrow’s contest of strength brings.”

  There was silence. A new thought came to the guard’s head. “If I get to join you, how’s a troupe of knockabouts like yours going to survive in London, anyway?”

  “Ah, very perceptive, Mister Davidson. The assumption is, of course, that we can only survive on the road, continually moving. But see that man back there,” he added, pointing to Soho and Shakespeare in the distance.

  “What, the little feller in red and white?”

  “No, no, the other gentleman.”

  “Yes?”

  “That man has revolutionised the life of the travelling mummer, and I bless the day I came across him washing his wounds and cleansing his soul at a lonely, icy stream outside Stratford.”

  “Stratford?”

  “Shakespeare of Stratford, Samuel Davidson. Remember that name. He has a fine eye for spotting acts with potential, a wonderful incisiveness for improving them, and a bottomless well of ideas for promoting them.”

  “Really?” said the guard, peering at the bearded young man with newfound interest. “He looks a bit of a skiver to me.”

  “Er, yes, perhaps that helps, too,” whispered Budsby. Then raising his voice so that not only could Will hear, but most folk living in the nearby village, Budsby bellowed, “Due to young Shakespeare the Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Travelling Mummers has discovered and developed acts of unbelievable skill. And not only that,” he continued in a quieter tone, “another of Mr Shakespeare’s initiatives is that he got our maintenance man, Mr Mullins, to buy four mainsails from a ships’ chandlers at Liverpool.”

  “Sails?”

  “He got Mr Mullins to stitch them together to make a large tent, and now, no matter where we are performing, our patrons are always dry and warm.”

  No to mention, thought Budsby, they also have to pay an admission fee. Plus extra if they want one of the handful of seats up the front.

  “So, he knows what the people want,” said the guard.

  “Precisely, Samuel Davidson,” said Budsby, “Precisely. As you will see tomorrow.”

  Soho looked up to see that all this talk had reduced Shakespeare to a shrinking figure blushing with embarrassment.

  But there was no use denying it.

  From the day he had handed back his tools to Mr Mullins and emerged from the cramped and jangling maintenance van eighteen months previously, Shakespeare had taken to the entertainment game like a duck to water. He progressed rapidly through an apprenticeship of basic skills - packing and unpacking gear, setting up the stage, and driving huge stakes into the ground with a mallet to hold up the wire-walker’s rig.

  He even took on the task of holding the banner aloft, behind Soho and the drummer-boy when the troupe entered town, and turned it into a tour de force.

  “It’s a vital job, my boy,” enthused Budsby, when he appointed him. “Without it, we would not round up customers. Remember, in entertainment, there is no such thing as a little part - only little people incapable of making something big of a part.”

  And indeed, if there was a pivotal point in his career, it was the day in the small town of Huddersfield, when he noticed that simply spinning the banner drew oohs and aahs from the entertainment-starved villagers. He began to waggle it more, turn circles, march backwards with it, all the while, smiling. He decorated it with coloured pieces of cloth, he festooned it with bells, and he developed a brilliant technique of throwing the entire banner and pole in a loop in the air, and then catching it.

  The smiling Shakespeare began spruiking, too, shouting, “Follow me, ladies and gentlemen, to where the wonders of the world await you, and you will be astounded by all you see.”

  Budsby noted that this theatrical addition to what had been a fairly straightforward presentation began to make a small but significant improvement in interest and therefore takings.

  It also inspired Soho to new heights, his reinvigorated acrobatic leaps and amusing tactics becoming the talk of central England as the show rolled inexorably on.

  Shakespeare also won people over with the smile and easy repartee.

  “How much do you expect me to throw onto the stage?” said a lady one day.

  “Only a copper, ma’am,” replied Shakespeare. “And half that for children.”

  “But what if I’ve got nineteen kids?”

  “We’ll put you in the show, instead …”

  Budsby would smile at the thought he was developing the perfect showman - albeit that Shakespeare, after taking many days to recover from the gigantic hangover he had on the first day they met, eventually rediscovered his love for ale.

  And every now and then Budsby would have to go down to the main tavern in whatever village they were working in, and extricate his young genius and Soho, who would be sitting on the bar entertaining the crowd with his funny faces in between tankards.

  Of course, while he was down there, Mr Budsby himself would partake of a couple of drinks, for medicinal purposes, only … and sometimes when they staggered back to camp it was difficult to work out who was actually extricating who from the danger of the demon drink.

  However, it was at Bristol, that life really changed for Shakespeare.

  While putting together the structure for the wirewalker, he casually mentioned to the star performer that at some point in his act, he should make a deliberate mistake. “Let one foot slip, and appear as if you are going to fall to the ground, but grab the wire at the last second and hang on,” said S
hakespeare. “Then slowly battle your way back to safety.”

  The wirewalker, Viktor The Supreme, was shocked at such a suggestion and stormed off to see Budsby and demand Shakespeare’s instant dismissal.

  A diminutive, well-muscled character with a taut frame, he was believed to be part Russian, from the Ottoman area, somewhere near the border of Turkey. But even with his limited English, the sallow-skinned Victor managed to make it clear that such a proposal was an affront to his skills.

  “Either he go, or I go,” said Viktor to Budsby in the big man’s wagon, his dark eyes flaring with anger.

  Budsby was in a quandary and sought an explanation from Shakespeare, now almost a son to him.

  “I simply feel it would add an element never seen before in such an act,” explained Shakespeare.

  ‘Go on,” said Budsby flatly.

  “You see, Viktor is perfect.”

  “Of course,” Viktor chipped in.

  “They expect him to be perfect,” Shakespeare added.

  “Is right,” said Viktor.

  “But at the end of the act, he is so good, they do not realise what danger he has put himself in, and what skills he needs to avoid that danger.”

  “So?” said Viktor curtly.

  “Viktor, I watch the result of every act. Yours is very good, but …”

  “Yes?”

  “You will admit, Viktor, with respect, the applause is always polite.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not over-enthusiastic. And the money thrown on stage is not as good as most of the others.”

  “Y-e-s …”

  Budsby nodded. Good point, he thought. It had always puzzled him that one of his most skilled acts drew such a relatively modest response.

  Viktor’s contribution was usually one of the smaller amounts of money thrown into the pot and divvied up among the cast at the end of the day - after certain necessary expenses were taken out, of course.

  “Put it this way,” continued Shakespeare. “We prove to the audience how strong Hercules is by getting people up to challenge him. No one can lift what he does, and then they appreciate how good he is.”

  “True,” said Budsby.

  “And the jugglers!” added Shakespeare. “Every now and then they accidentally drop a pin or take a fall, and that proves they are human. But, you, Viktor, no one can comprehend how good you are. By making a mistake, and recovering, you will show that!”

  “No, no! Viktor is perfect,” said the little man.

  “It will be dramatic, believe me, and improve an act previously thought beyond improvement.”

  There was silence.

  Even the big man was mute. He did not know what which way to turn, for fear of losing either one of his best acts, or, worse still, the troupe’s obvious heir apparent.

  Eventually, Shakespeare broke the impasse.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait here.”

  He left the wagon and a few minutes later returned with a soft leather bag, dramatically spilling some of its contents on the table - a sizeable collection of gold and silver coins.

  “See, this is the money I took from my father’s business the day I left Stratford. I have never had to use it because Mr Budsby has been so good to me.”

  “You have earned your way, my boy,” said Budsby warmly.

  “Thank you, Mr Budsby. But now I will put it to good use. Viktor, this is what I am proposing. At your next performance, I want you to try what I have outlined.”

  “But …”

  “Wait, wait, hear me out. I will wager you this bag of coins that it will work. If it succeeds, well and good. If it fails, you can have this money, and … and …”

  Budsby started to shake his head.

  “I will leave the troupe,” said Shakespeare flatly.

  Budsby moved forward, but Shakespeare waved him away.

  “Is done,” said Viktor, smiling.

  The next day, villagers watched impassively as Viktor The Supreme went through his paces.

  But they were starting to lose just a little interest, when suddenly, his left foot slipped, he dropped his long balancing stick, and he began to fall.

  There were screams of horror as at the last second, he grasped the wire with his left hand, and hung there, twenty yards above the ground.

  People whimpered, they drew their breath in, children began to cry. Those that had begun to drift away suddenly returned. Passers-by sensing the drama, joined them. Concern was etched on the faces of the swelling crowd, as tiny, seemingly helpless Viktor hung by one arm and appeared certain to fall to death or serious injury.

  He stayed there for seemingly minutes, and as the concern spread, he began to play it up. The more he struggled to get his right arm up, the more they gasped.

  Eventually he got both arms back on the wire, to the partial relief of the crowd, and then slowly but surely pulled himself up with both hands.

  When he finally walked across to safety at the side without the support of the stick, the applause could be heard three towns away, and Budsby later counted the biggest haul he had ever seen for one act.

  A smiling Viktor agreed to stay with the troupe that night, and Shakespeare hid his bag of coins away again.

  Between these triumphs, and Shakespeare scouting for other quality acts to join them, the business had blossomed to the point that Budsby decided to branch out.

  Rather than stick to his regular, well-worn trek, he determined they would take on ‘The Grand Tour’ as he described it, in a circular loop that would eventually take them to the prize - London.

  They journeyed north to Liverpool, where profits indeed were so good that Budsby honoured his own promise and had a specially lowered wagon manufactured, providing better access for his giant frame.

  They travelled further north to near the border with Scotland, where the paler half of the Siamese twins was able to briefly and happily reunite with her family.

  Then they turned east to Newcastle, where they were feted like kings, before heading south on the final leg.

  They were drawing such huge crowds, seduced by Shakespeare’s uncanny knack of adding drama to the programme, that by the time they were closing on the outskirts of Norwich in the summer of 1587, they were confident of taking London by storm.

  Thus, after spending a splendid night in the clearing pointed out to them by Samuel Davidson, the seasoned guard protecting the property of the Earl of Oxford, they awoke with confidence.

  And indeed, through the skill of Soho and the spruiking of Shakespeare, a huge crowd was yet again conjured up at a nearby tiny village, and the giant tent was abuzz. Customers were amazed by the twins, astounded by the fire-eater, and gasped at the right places when Viktor seemed doomed to fall but made his dramatic comeback. The highlight was the appearance of Hercules, who once again underlined his strength when several large but uncoordinated young locals tried valiantly, but failed to lift the massive weight.

  All that changed when Samuel Davidson himself suddenly pushed his way through and up on to on the stage, amid a buzz from the crowd, and declared he was ready to accept Mr Budsby’s challenge to take on the big man.

  Budsby began wondering whether issuing the challenge the previous evening over a soothing whisky, in order to get past Davidson and onto a place to rest, had been such a good idea.

  Now stripped of his armoury and viewed in the cold light of day, Samuel Davidson presented a worrisome sight. He may have been short, and not all that pretty, but he obviously knew how to look after himself. His muscles bulged and glistened in the bright light of the tent.

  “I fear,” whispered Budsby to Shakespeare at the side of the stage, “we may have bitten off more than we can chew.”

  And as if to prove the point, Samuel Davidson strode forward, grabbed the bar, and lifted Hercules’ weight with ease!

  He held it high above his head to the roars of the capacity-house crowd. “That’s our Samuel,” they shouted.

  Hercules, the Gentle Giant, seemed
unfazed. Winking at his boss, he waved to the other side of the stage.

  There was much noise and confusion, and then Nick Sayers, muscular Viktor, and two of the acrobats, led by Soho pretending to whip them, staggered on stage, carrying an even bigger challenge. The crowd roared as they dumped down a bar carrying a pair of weights almost twice the size of the ones Hercules and Samuel Davidson had just lifted.

  “Good grief,” whispered an astonished Shakespeare, “where does he keep that?”

  “In a trunk marked ‘For Emergency Purposes Only’.”

  Hercules made a great deal of this lift, flexing his muscles, circling the stage, and beating his chest in preparation. Eventually he got down to business, and after a long moment, when he seemed to go into a trance, he lifted the bar up, straight over his head.

  “Thinking. Timing. Confidence,” whispered Shakespeare to himself as the crowd roared applause.

  Now it was Davidson’s turn.

  The crowd hushed as he went straight at the bar, gave it an almighty heave, and got it up to his chin. The strain on him was enormous, and the veins in his neck stood out half an inch as he gasped for air and willed himself to push it above his head. He gave one last shove, but his knees started to buckle, he staggered, and the mighty weight crashed to the stage floor.

  There was brief moment of silence, and no one was sure what to do.

  Shakespeare suddenly ran on stage, clapping his hands, and shouting, “Bravo, Mr Davidson. Bravo.”

  The crowd picked up on the praise and went wild, especially when Shakespeare summoned Budsby on stage, and the grand man waved his silver-topped cane and proclaimed, “Mr Davidson, that is the greatest challenge to Hercules that all of England has ever provided.”

  As the shouts and applause rolled on, Shakespeare whispered to Budsby, “Give him some money.”

  “Money? Money!” hissed Budsby. “You don’t give this lot money - you extract it from them! That’s our job.”

  “Just give him some money, Mr Budsby. He deserves it, and this little village will give you wonderful lasting memories to take onto Norwich and then London.”

  Budsby smiled, and shoving his hand deep into the pocket of the mighty brown cape, withdrew a gold coin, which he held high between thumb and forefinger to the crowd.