The Playmakers Read online

  The mob went wild, and started to clap in unison, shouting “Gold, gold, gold!” and broke into cheers when Budsby handed it to the sweating Davidson.

  Davidson took it, and with a huge grin splitting his ugly features, held it up to the light for inspection, then held it close to one eye as a goldsmith would. Then he bit it, just as a soldier does to check that his salary is indeed, pure.

  The wonderful mimic brought further roars of laughter.

  “Just leave the comedy to Soho, will you son?” whispered Budsby, before suddenly grabbing Davidson’s hand and holding it high.

  Hercules took the other hand of his vanquished but proud opponent and held it aloft, too.

  When Shakespeare grabbed Budsby’s free hand and lifted it up, and Soho stood in front of the four of them and adopted the classic strong man’s pose and flexed his muscles, the crowd jumped to its feet.

  And when they all bowed, hand in hand, Mr Mullins’ tent made from four mainsails rocked with thunderous applause until the curtain came down.

  “Will,” said Budsby, “in all my years, I have never seen anything like it.”

  “So you will take me with you, then?” interjected Samuel Davidson.

  Budsby turned to the stocky guard.

  “Take you?” said Budsby.

  “To London!” said Davidson enthusiastically.

  “Oh-oh,” said Budsby cautiously. “I appreciate your help on our arrival, Mr Davidson. I accept that your strength almost but not quite rivals that of Hercules. And I concede that your comic performance out there with the coin shows a theatrical bent. But I am afraid we are replete with staff and performers right now.”

  “But …”

  “Mr Shakespeare’s recruiting has us bursting at the seams.”

  “I could be of great help,” urged Mr Davidson.

  “I appreciate that Mr Davidson, but I’m afraid …”

  The would-be performer lowered his head.

  “Perhaps,” said Budsby, “perhaps, if you were somehow to find your own way to London, who knows by then, our circumstances may have changed and we could take you on.”

  There was silence.

  “Okay, Mr Budsby,” said Davidson finally. “I understand. Don’t you worry. I’ll find my own way!”

  Hercules put his arm around the junior muscleman and led him away laughing, while Shakespeare and Soho went off happily to organise the packing up of the tent.

  The jolly spirit drained from Budsby when he peered through a crack in the curtain to see the last remnants of the crowd, and noticed three men huddled in a corner, chatting. He felt he had seen them before. Or had he? One of his great strengths had always been an ability to put a name to a face, but after all these years on the road, villagers were now beginning to look the same to him.

  Over the next days, as they progressed to Norwich, Budsby began having nervous nights, hearing noises, seeing faces in the bushes, and developing a fear the troupe was under observation.

  When they finally set up on the Norwich common, he noticed a level of tension in the town. People were either strangely silent or arguing in the street over seemingly mindless issues.

  A stake was permanently at the ready in the market square to put an end to any miscreant - spy, atheist, foreigner, or otherwise.

  And when the promotional band of Soho, the drummer-boy and Will set out on its rounds, Budsby became convinced he was seeing the same trio of faces in the crowd that he had seen in the little village a few days earlier.

  Look, he said to himself. There they were again!

  A grubby trio dressed in even grubbier clothes, the ringleader in a big black battered hat, with a constant nasty leer on a mouth of blackened teeth. The three of them seemed to be taking a more than usual interest in the set-up and promotion of the show, constantly talking in muted voices to each other.

  And by the time the curtain went up, Budsby had confided in Will that he would be relieved once they got out of Norwich and were back on the road.

  It being a sizeable town, they did four days’ solid business there, the good folk perhaps seeking some alleviation from the hectic atmosphere that pervaded. But on the fifth morning, Budsby surprised all by being the first awake, and with the aid of Soho he rapidly got the troupe together, and at nine o’clock the wagons turned onto the road to London.

  “Let us not include this place on our itinerary ever again,” he said to Soho as they flicked the reins of the horses.

  Even this did not make him feel secure. The troupe was not its usual chatty self, and there was a tension in the still air as they slowly plodded along the rough road through the forest.

  It perhaps did not surprise him then, when nine miles out of town, they turned a corner to find a tree freshly felled across the road.

  He was perhaps even less surprised when, as soon as the wagons were forced to a halt, three men materialised out of the forest. Those same three faces he had been glimpsing during the nervous stay in and around the testy town of Norwich.

  It almost seemed routine that they were armed with swords, and that they demanded that he, “Hand over any atheists on board”, and that they would kill him if he didn’t do so. It almost seemed predictable that his troupe was frozen with fear, and that when Budsby got down from the wagon, the lead bully-boy, the one with the bad teeth and constant leer, held a sword to his throat, and shouted, “We know what you travellers are like - liars, thieves and atheists!”

  From one of the rear wagons, there came a mighty shout, and Max - Big Max, Hercules the Gentle Giant loved by all - jumped down and began running toward the three men, ready to come to the rescue.

  This had had happened before, the sight of the shouting muscle-man putting to flight even larger gangs of would-be robbers, usually starving, poorly-armed villagers. But what happened next shocked even travel-weary, worldly-wise Budsby.

  A fourth and then a fifth gang member suddenly emerged from the forest behind the running Hercules, and chased him, one striking him a savage blow in the back with his sword.

  Hercules suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned on his assailants. It could now be seen that his back was a mass of torn flesh and spurting blood. He reached out and grabbed one and hurled him headfirst into the wheel of a van, splitting the skull open, and killing him instantly. But before he could do anything else, his other foe plunged the sword deep into the muscled stomach.

  “No!” shouted Budsby, as the assailant pulled the bloodied sword out, and Hercules fell to his knees.

  The big man grabbed at the gushing wound with both hands, tipped his head high to heaven, groaned and fell backwards in the dust dead.

  If that was a gruesome enough change to events, then the next scenario was a total shock.

  The fifth gang member - the killer - came rushing up to within ten yards of Budsby and Soho, shouting, “We know you harbour atheists, and they’ll get the same! By the grace of God, hand over …”

  His voice was suddenly stilled in mid-sentence. He stopped in his tracks. He let out a sort of gargle. Blood began to spew from his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forward, dead at their feet.

  A long spear sticking out of the man’s back glistened in the morning sun.

  Budsby stared disbelieving at the spear, and then down the line of wagons to see its source. A figure was hurtling towards them. A recognisable figure. It was short, squat, and wearing a chain-mail vest, shiny helmet, and unusual protective leggings made from thick, oxen leather. This time the metal-gloved hand was swinging the long sword. And just as on the first day they met Samuel Davidson, he was ready to carry out his duty.

  He charged down the length of the wagons, jumping the dead bodies of Hercules and the fourth gang member, screaming at the top of his voice.

  Soho pulled the spear out of the back of the dead killer, and suddenly the bullyboy with the sword at Budsby’s throat figured he’d had enough. He started to run while the other two held their swords high, ready to engage in battle
.

  And if Samuel Davidson had proved on stage that he was a man of strength, then that day, he showed he was man of agility, too. He made them look fools as, with nimble steps and timely tumbles, he avoided their wild, panicky swipes.

  But two against one is not the best of odds, and just when they were mounting a combined attack, Soho regained the initiative by cleverly sticking the spear out and tripping one.

  A savage, crunching blow from Davidson’s sword saw this man’s arm severed, and he rolled on the ground screaming. The second could not avoid a lunge to the stomach, and crumpled to his knees.

  Budsby and Soho looked on in horrific awe as their saviour finished the two off with ruthless blows to the neck.

  The only sound was the runaway bullyboy crashing through the forest as he fled in fright, and the wails of the twins as they jumped from their wagon and threw themselves on the dead body of their beloved Hercules.

  After they had buried the Gentle Giant in the forest, it was a long, slow, sad trip to London, punctuated only by Samuel Davidson’s explanation of his presence.

  He had wanted to join them so much, and become the deputy of his newfound friend Hercules, that he had thrown in his job with de Vere, walked to Norwich, sneaked in under Soho’s guard the night before, and hidden himself in the back of the ramshackle maintenance van.

  “Well, you did tell me to make my own way to London …” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks.

  And when they finally did get to the city of their dreams, one of the first jobs for Shakespeare was to scour the East End and find the widow of the mighty Hercules.

  In a tiny little room in Whitechapel, he handed over to her and his two daughters the big man’s share of the profits from the Grand Tour, generously boosted by donations from the troupe.

  And with tears in his eyes, a large, embossed leather belt …

  CHAPTER SIX

  William Shakespeare had never seen a prostitute before. Well, not a London prostitute anyway. And certainly not one that was approximately the age of his mother.

  Back in Stratford he had heard of local girls who had what was called “a bad reputation”, and who earned a few pence with local lads by giving them a bit of a treat in an alleyway up against the wall. And in the bigger places such as Liverpool he had witnessed desperate young women, sometimes with a brace of starving children huddling in the cold outside, anxiously plying their trade among drunken sailors in rough taverns.

  Now, here was the real thing. A battle-weary veteran, rouged, lipsticked and wigged up, brazenly lifting the low-cut red dress to entice him into the doorway with a vein-encrusted leg and a well-rehearsed spiel.

  In broad daylight.

  On a main road, too!

  “Not that Commercial Street, Spitalfields, is the most salubrious of addresses,” Shakespeare said to Soho, as they passed by the opportunity of “a quick one, sir, only six pence - nine-pence if you want to include your little mate there. No, wait. Let me have another look. Oh, dear, a shilling at least with a head like that …”

  But the rough-and-tumble London suburb, home of dissenters, zealots, and others who did not comply with daily city life, was all the Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Mummers found it could afford when it finally escaped the clutches of angry Norwich and reached Nirvana.

  Deflated by the death of their strongman, their expected triumphant march into the biggest city of all soon degenerated into a tragedy of epic proportions.

  It had been many years since Budsby had left the capital with two wagons, a handful of acts, a booming voice, and hope in his heart. Having made a relative success of it in the countryside, he was shocked on his return to find how filthy and disease-ridden his former home town was, how expensive things were, and how uncompromisingly difficult and diffident the people had become.

  He soon found that his verbal skills, so good at encouraging villagers and farmers to hurl their precious coppers on stage, had far less impact on the hardened denizens of the street-wise city.

  They giggled at his old-fashioned hat, they sniggered at his all-encompassing cape, they guffawed at his wind-blown whiskers. Worse still, they laughed at his acts. But, alas, not when they were supposed to …

  Cynical, bored and having been exposed to all manner of entertainment, they merely burst into laughter when Viktor The Supreme made his scripted, professional error and dangled by one hand from the wire. Instead of willing him back to safety, they urged him to fall and kill himself.

  On the opening afternoon, on a little patch of highly valued green, the sight gags were treated with disdain, the acrobats with a yawn, the fire-eater with a shrug of the shoulders.

  And the Siamese twins?

  “We got a pair down our way wot’s more unbelievable than that,” came a voice with a distinct Southwark snarl.

  “And I would believe it,” whispered Budsby to Shakespeare.

  To his credit, Samuel Davidson put on a fine display as the replacement of the lamented Hercules. In fact, too good a show. Among the challengers that failed was a sizeable, menacing, but uncoordinated monster who, it turned out, was the principal bully for the low-life who ran the major prostitution ring in east London.

  The big fellow was laughed off stage, angrily lashing out at his giggling tormentors with bunched fists as he scurried red-faced back into the crowd. But he turned up after the show, accompanied by a diminutive, oily-skinned man with weasel eyes.

  In malevolent tones, the little man advised Budsby and Shakespeare that if his boy or, in fact, anyone else who was associated with his business was similarly humiliated in public again, then the four-sailed tent of Mr Mullins would, sadly and mysteriously, go up in flames.

  “Mr Budsby, you are in business, too,” he said, his dark weasel eyes darting from side to side. “You understand. I have an image to maintain,” he added gravely, before slinking off into the dark.

  Viktor The Supreme stormed off, “to join real circus in Italy,” the acrobats and jugglers dispersed in search of regular jobs, and the twins figured that while they would hang around, it was time to try a new act.

  When the troupe woke up the next morning, they discovered to their horror that all sixteen horses had been stolen overnight - rumour later having it that the much-travelled flesh provided the base ingredient for a flourishing new pie business in Romford.

  And so, on this day in late September 1587, after passing up the offer of the Commercial Street prostitute, Shakespeare and Soho hurried on to a tavern hidden away in the back alleys of nearby Smithfield. Their mission was to meet with Mr Budsby and the others remaining in the rapidly unravelling troupe, and attempt to answer the question “Now what?”

  “Now what, indeed?” said Budsby, placing his tankard carefully on the table and gloomily staring into its contents. “We are steadily working our way through our reserves of cash, under threat from Spitalfields’ criminal element, our performances are despised, and our horses are being served on dishes throughout Greater London as we speak.”

  “Pie, anyone?” said the only serving wench in the room, approaching with a tray of food.

  “Not for me,” said Budsby gloomily. “Alas, my poor horse, he served me well.”

  Shakespeare smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ahh, Mr Budsby, even in the darkest of moments, it is pleasure to be part of, and in your company.”

  “Here, here,” said Samuel Davidson, lifting his tankard.

  “To Mr Budsby,” chorused the ‘twins’ who were no longer twins. Soho opened his mouth and emitted no sound, and they all raised their tankards, drank heartily, and slammed them down.

  There was silence.

  In fact there was a long lingering silence, and Budsby began to look around the room.

  It was pleasant enough. Indeed, quite pleasant. Clean, bright and comfortable. Recently rejuvenated, obviously.

  The ale was good, and the service from the one single wench quick and friendly. Indeed, he had never been offered food like that before. But wher
e were all the customers?

  Shakespeare began to look around, too. The same thing puzzled him. He had been in many a tavern over the years, none of them anywhere near this for style and cleanliness, yet they were always jammed to the rafters with noisy, jostling customers. This was almost eerie.

  “Quiet in here, isn’t it?” said Mr Mullins ultimately.

  “What did you say?” said Budsby.

  “I said there is not much going on here, is there?”

  “Exactly!” said Budsby.

  “Precisely,” said Shakespeare, quite excitedly, nodding to a long, narrow, vacant space against the back wall.

  Budsby turned around, looked at the space, and turned back. They both began to smile.

  Mr Mullins, who had earlier declared he would stay on with Mr Budsby no matter what “because you are the finest employer I have ever had, sir,” looked from one to the other.

  “What?” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Yes,” said Samuel Davidson. “What?”

  “What’s this all about?” chimed in the former twins.

  Budsby leaned over to his young heir apparent, and whispered, “Will, are you thinking what I am thinking?”

  “I believe I am, Mr Budsby, I believe I am.”

  It took time, and few more ales, but the loquacious Budsby’s skills won out, and ultimately he pumped the pretty, naive serving girl for the story behind the lack of clientele, “in such a fine establishment as this.”

  “Oooh, such a tragedy it is, sir,” said she in a rush. “It is my uncle who is the landlord, well, he is the landlord now, but in fact he was simply going to be the silent partner. He put all his life savings into this, having worked all those years running the books in the miller’s, to go in partnership with his best friend who knows all about inns, having had the Fox and Hounds over in the west for years. But after they had done this all up, his friend, well, he’s not really his friend now, is he? His friend, who was going to run it, well, the only running he did was that he ran off with poor uncle’s life savings - and with his wife of twenty-seven years! It turns out that they had been, you know, er, ah ...” She stopped and blushed.