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Darnley spat on the street, then turned and walked away.
“I fear that you have made an enemy on my account,” said Dickens.
“ ‘Twasn’t on your account,” said Smythe. “I never liked him from the start. Not him nor his sneering shadow.”
“Well, you are a stout enough fellow, to be sure,” said Dickens, “but just the same… watch your back. Jack Darnley is not one to forget a slight, and you embarrassed him in front of all his boys. He shall do much more than merely look to even up the score. He shall want your guts for garters.”
“He shall have to come and try to take them, then,” said Smythe.
“Try he shall, you may count on it,” Dickens replied. He handed Smythe’s knife back to him. “My thanks. It served me well, as it turns out. Let us hope it serves you equally. Keep it close by.”
“I always do,” said Smythe.
“And if you do not scorn my counsel, I would consider strapping on a rapier,” Dickens added. “The Steady Boys were never great believers in fair fighting. Under Jack’s leadership, I should think they are much less so now.”
Smythe sighed. “You are not the first to give me that good counsel, Ben. And for the life of me, I cannot say why ‘tis so difficult to follow. I simply cannot seem to get into the habit of wearing a sword everywhere I go. I am likely to trip over it, although I must admit, there have been a few times when the habit of carrying a rapier would have served me well.”
“Then I do earnestly beseech you to cultivate it,” Dickens said.
5
THE REHEARSAL BURBAGE HAD CALLED for that afternoon mustered somewhat less than half the normal full complement of the Queen’s Men. A number of their hired men who had been fortunate enough to find other employment in these trying times had already left the company, while others were still out looking for work and it was anybody’s guess as to whether or not they would return when the theatre reopened. That they would reopen was not really in question; plague seasons had seen the closing of the city’s playhouses before and would doubtless do so again. They always reopened once again when the worst of it was over. This time, however, Smythe knew, as they all did, that the question was not whether or not they would reopen, but whether or not they would be capable of mounting a production that anyone would wish to see.
They had lost nearly half the members of their company, including Alleyn. In retrospect, Smythe realized that Alleyn must have seen the writing on the wall. The time was right for him to leave not only because the opportunity was ripe, but because the company was going stale. Their beloved comedian, Dick Tarleton, was dead and Will Kemp, who had long dreamed of the chance to take his place as lead clown for the company, had fallen prey to the worst condition that could befall a comic actor… he had missed his timing.
Kemp was past it, although he would be the last one to admit it. He had never bothered much about memorizing lines, trusting instead to his ability to improvise or else caper his way out of an awkward situation with a pratfall. Now, he simply could not memorize his lines, even if he wanted. He absolutely refused to admit it, insisting that memorizing lines was not the way he worked, but the truth, as everyone could plainly see, was that his memory was going and with it, his once brilliant ability at improvisation, a talent that required quickness of thought, which was a skill that Kemp no longer had at his command. Quite aside from that, even if he could still play the Kemp of old, the audiences had outgrown him.
Gone were the days when audiences howled with laughter at simple physical highjinks on the stage, at jigs and pratfalls, clever comments broadly spoken to the crowd with broad leers and expansive gestures, song and dance routines interspersed with juggling and a cartwheel thrown in here and there. The fashion now was for much more realistic fare, involving strong characters and a cohesive story. The juggling, the tumbling, the clowning and the morris dancing could now be found on any street corner and in every marketplace. The fashions of the stage were moving on, but Will Kemp was not moving with them.
As for the other players, John Fleming was getting on in years, and while Bobby Speed was still as clever a performer as he ever was, more and more he seemed to need the fuel of drink to pull it off, and if there was one thing that all performers knew, it was that playing in one’s cups rarely produced one’s best performances and was, at best, a rather dicey proposition. Discussing it with Speed, however, seemed completely hopeless. He would either laugh it off as of no consequence, or else promise to do better next time. The trouble was, there always was a next time, and a time after that, and after that, and after that. And each time, the influence of drink became more telling.
Will was of more value to the company as a poet than an actor. He knew full well his shortcomings in that regard, and although he was reasonably competent as a player, he knew he lacked the gifts to be inspiring, and an inspired actor was the one thing that the Queen’s Men desperately needed. Dick Burbage, though young, had good potential, but he was still no Edward Alleyn, and while all of his performances were good, none was truly memorable, as Alleyn’s were. As for the rest, himself included, Smythe knew that they were merely an agglomeration of young men with little talent or experience, not one among them capable of dazzling an audience and leaving them breathless to come back for more.
To make matters even worse, the Burbage Theatre was dilapidated and much in need of repair. The thatch was old; the galleries were creaking and there were more than a few cracked and splintered boards among the seats up in the boxes. The stage was in a state of disrepair and needed rotten boards replaced and hangings mended. Even the penants drooped with all the list-lessness of an old beggar woman’s breasts. The Burbage Theatre was a tired and weary old maiden, and merely slapping on some paint would not cover up all of the wrinkles and the blemishes of age.
Nevertheless, it was still their the
atre, and to all of them who remained, it was much more their home than where they ate and slept. And as their decimated company gathered for rehearsal, despite all of their ill fortune and dim prospects, there was nevertheless a strong sense of cameraderie and joi de vivre. This was where they truly came alive, a sentiment that Shakespeare had expressed to Smythe quite often.
“Aye, this is where it matters, Tuck,” he had said again, moments after he came up to greet them. As he stood beside them just inside the entrance, he looked out with them over the yard, up at the stage, then back round to the galleries. “This is where their laughing faces fill our hearts with joy or where their catcalls plunge us all into despair. This is where the smell of unwashed bodies and fresh rushes mingles with the smells of greasepaint and the vendors’ offerings to create a heady perfume that intoxicates each player’s soul. This is where we stage our plays and play the dramas of our lives, where shadow becomes substance and substance masquerades as shadow. This…” he held out his hands, palms up, as if presenting some great work, “… this is our world. And you, prodigal Ben Dickens, are welcome to it once again.”
Dickens grinned. “It feels somewhat strange to be back again after all this time,” he said. “And yet, despite that, it also feels most welcome and familiar. It has been only a few years, and yet so much seems to have happened in that time. Can it have been so long since last I trod the boards in women’s clothing, declaiming in my high and squeaky, boyish voice the lines that I had worked so hard to drill into my memory, dreaming of the day when I could at last cast off my girlish gowns and walk out like a young knight in doubtlet, cape and hose, and carrying a sword?”
“That day has come,” said Shakespeare.
“Aye,” said Smythe, with a chuckle, “and a good thing, too, for you would make a most unnatural woman now with that deep voice, those broad shoulders, and that beard.”
“Well, we could shave off the beard,” said Shakespeare, as if contemplating the idea. “The face would look comely enough with a bit of paint upon it, but there would be no hiding that breadth of arm or depth of chest. S’trewth, Tuck, he is a strapping youth, indeed, almost as big as you.”
“We could always cast him as a horse,” said Smythe.
“Soft now, keep your voice down, else Kemp may hear and wish to ride him,” Shakespeare replied, with a wink.
“Ben!” Fleming called out, as he spied him from the stage. He threw his arms out as if to hug him from up there. “Welcome! Welcome! Well met and welcome once again! Look, everyone, look! Ben has come! Ben Dickens has come back to join us!”
They all gathered round to greet him, Speed and Fleming, Burbage, Flemings, Pope and Phillips, Kemp and Bryan… all a motley looking crew, but still a happy lot, despite their tribulations. And as he saw them all together, Smythe thought of Liam Bailey’s admonitions against wasting his time amongst the players and realized that for all his good intentions, Liam Bailey simply did not understand. How could he?
They were a family, much more of a family than he had ever known. Symington Smythe had never truly been a father to him in anything save name, for all that they had shared that name. That patronymic bond was one of the reasons he now preferred to be called Tuck. That grasping woman that his father married, whom Tuck did not even care to think of as his stepmother, had never wanted to be bothered with having a child underfoot, so to appease her and free his father of a burdensome responsibility at the same time, he had been packed off to his uncle’s. And much as he would always love his uncle, Thomas Smythe was a quiet man by nature and by disposition, reserved and not given to boistrous demonstrations of his thoughts and feelings. Uncle Thomas gave him what he could, and did as well by him as he knew how, but Tuck had always felt that there was something missing. Now he knew that he had found it.
