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“He is going to upset that boat if he does not watch out,” said Speed.
The little boat was rocking violently and the boatman started shouting at his frantic passenger, who spun around angrily to shout back at the boatman and, in the process, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the river.
“Man overboard!” Will Kemp cried in his ringing stage voice, from his seat beside Speed in the wagon.
They all burst out laughing heartily, but Smythe’s laughter died abruptly in his throat when he saw the stricken expression on his roommate’s face. Shakespeare alone was not laughing. He was watching it all with a look of chagrin and, for a moment, Smythe could not account for it. He gazed at the poet with puzzled concern, and then a moment later, comprehension dawned.
Had he not known Will Shakespeare as he did, Smythe would not have understood, but all at once he realized that his friend was viewing the disaster down below-and especially their laughter at it-as a harbinger of things to come. Shakespeare had no confidence in the play that he had written. He had not wanted it performed. Indeed, he had kept insisting that it was not finished, but his concerns had been dismissed as nothing more than the natural hesitancy of a poet before the first performance of his work. If there were any problems, the Queen’s Men were confident that they could be fixed during rehearsal. After all, they had seen Shakespeare rewrite plays already in their repertoire at a lightning pace, often making extensive changes overnight, or even inbetween performances, and those changes were always for the better. It occurred to Smythe that Burbage and the others all took this ability for granted. The only one who apparently did not was Shakespeare.
It had become evident now that the barge was drifting due to the parting of one of its tow ropes. As they watched it skewing sideways, Smythe understood that Shakespeare was envisioning a similar disaster on the stag
e and seeing himself in the role of the unfortunate fellow with the horn. The man was being assisted back into the boat as they watched. Somehow, he had managed to retain a grip on his horn, but now, in a fury, he tossed it violently overboard.
“I would not concern myself overmuch with competition from that sort of spectacle, if I were you,” Burbage said to Shakespeare, leaning over in his saddle slightly and reaching across to clap him on the shoulder. “If they manage to pull it off without sinking themselves like Drake sank the Armada, why then at best, it shall be merely a parade of boats and two silly looking barges, one bearing a bride dressed like an Egyptian queen and the other conveying the wedding party. By the time they reach the river gate down there and disembark, all watching will have wearied of the sight. And if they repeat this sorry show, why, they shall merely amuse the audience and prime them for our own merrymaking. Odd’s blood, if the Queen’s Men cannot easily surpass a little water pageant, then we should all start looking for something else to do.”
They were met by the steward of the estate, a gaunt, balding and smugly self-important man who introduced himself as Humphrey. Like many of the wealthy middle class, in imitation of the aristocracy, Godfrey Middleton divided his time between residence at his country estate and a home that he maintained in the city. Even though it was less than a day’s ride to London, with his business concerns keeping him in the city much of the time, it was necessary for Middleton to have a capable steward in charge of his country house. It was a large responsibility, and Humphrey’s manner indicated he was quite aware of that and thought everyone else should be, as well. He was neither rude in his greeting of them nor was he dismissive, but he nevertheless gave the impression that he was a very busy man with many more important things to do, which was doubtless true, thought Smythe, at least under the current circumstances, considering all the preparations that he had to oversee for the wedding and the fair.
Without wasting any time, Humphrey rattled off their instructions. They were to proceed directly to the stables, where their horses and equipment would be put up by the grooms, and then immediately set about their preparations for the staging of their play, which was to take place on the morrow, in the late afternoon, following the wedding. It meant that they would not have much time, if any, to rehearse. If they were quick in setting up, then there might be an opportunity to get in one quick rehearsal in the evening. In the morning, they would all be busy greeting the wedding party as they arrived.
“Costumes shall be provided for you,” Humphrey stated curtly, with a slightly preoccupied look, as if ticking off a mental list. “You shall be receiving them this evening while you are setting up your stage and can then divide them amongst yourselves, accordingly.”
“What sort of costumes?” Burbage asked, with a slight frown. “I was not aware that we would be donning any costumes other than our own. Surely, there cannot be any time for fittings?”
“Fittings shall not be necessary,” Humphrey replied. “The costumes are merely simple white robes that drape over the body. You shall be Roman senators, welcoming our distinguished guests as they arrive and helping them disembark, then escorting them up to the house, where my staff shall take over their charge.”
“Ah, of course,” said Kemp. “As everyone knows, the august members of the Roman Senate always took the part of porters at the docks whenever important guests arrived to visit Caesar.”
Humphrey arched a disdainful eyebrow at Kemp’s sarcasm and then more than matched it with his own. “If you prefer, we could make you a Nubian slave, strip you to your waist, darken your skin with coal dust, and have you walk behind the guests, carrying an ostrich feather fan.”
“Methinks I would just as soon serve in the Senate,” Kemp replied, with a sour grimace, as the others chuckled.
“The schedule of events does not leave us much time to rehearse,” said Burbage.
The steward’s expressive eyebrow elevated once again. “Well? You are the Queen’s Men, are you not, the self-proclaimed masters of tragedy and comedy? I was informed you were the best players in the land.”
“Aye, we are proud, indeed, to have that reputation,” Burbage replied, puffing himself up. “Nevertheless-”
“Well then,” Humphrey interrupted, “Master Middleton has paid for the best, and so he expects the best, and nothing less. Tis in your own interest, therefore, to live up to your stellar reputation. Look to it.”
“That had almost the aspect of a threat,” Shakespeare said to Smythe as they left Humphrey and proceeded toward the stables. “Do you suppose they might set the dogs on us if our performance is found wanting?”
“I doubt that Master Middleton would waste his sports upon the likes of us,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “I think it more likely he would dispatch a phalanx of footmen armed with cudgels to urge us on our way.”
“Well you may jest,” said Shakespeare, “but these moneyed sorts would do just that sort of thing and not think twice of it. I do not trust that Humphrey fellow. He has a lean and hungry look. I much prefer a well-fed man. Corpulence has a tendency to make one indolent and indolent men are much less likely to be moved to violent action.”
“Like our late King Henry, you mean?” said Burbage. “Now there was a sweet, pacific soul for you. Anne Boleyn found him rather corporal in his corpulence, as I recall.”
“Aye, imagine what his humor might have been if he were thin,” said Smythe, grinning.
“ ‘Twould have been much worse, I have no doubt of it,” Shakespeare replied. “Had he been a leaner and more spirited man, like Richard Lionheart, then instead of merely breaking with the Church of Rome, he might have launched his own crusade against it.”
“Now you know, there might be a good idea for a play in that,” said Smythe.
“God’s wounds!” said Burbage. “We do not have enough trouble with the Master of the Revels? Do us all a kindness, Will. Should you by any chance decide to pen a play about an English king, then try to choose one whose immediate descendants do not at present sit upon the throne, else we might all end up with our heads on London Bridge.”
“Sound counsel, Dick,” Shakespeare said. “I shall endeavor to keep it in mind.”
“And you, Smythe,” Burbage added, “leave the playwriting to Shakespeare and stick to what you do best.”
