“I thought you had previously arranged a position with the company when they had come through your Stratford whilst on tour,” said Smythe.
Shakespeare grunted. “Well, I thought so, too. It seems, however, I was misled as to precisely what sort of position it was. ‘Tis my own damned fault for listening to that pompous blowhard, Kemp.”
“He was the one you made arrangements with? I thought you said he was an ass?”
“And I stand heartily by my first assessment, as you can see it proven out. But at the time, I thought he was in earnest. ‘Oh, aye,’ he says, ‘you would be welcome to come with us when we leave Stratford to go out upon the road again. Or else, come and join us when you get to London! Always a place for likely lads in the Queen’s Men! Always room for talent!’ Talent, my damned buttocks!”
“Well, he did not specify what sort of talent, did he?”
“How much talent does it take to be a hotwalker?”
“It takes some. If you do not feel at ease and in control of the animal, ‘twill shy, and then it may spook others, and then instead of walking mounts to cool them off, you’ve got them galloping wildly all over the place. You may not have secured the sort of position that you wanted, Will, but you did manage to get a job and you do have a way with horses.”
They put up the animals and went back out again as several other ostlers met them coming in, each of them leading sadd
led mounts back to the stable. A few others hotwalked patrons’ horses around in a circle at the edge of Finsbury field, where the theatre patrons who came to Shoreditch on horseback dismounted and turned their steeds over to the ostlers, either to put them up with some fresh hay in the stables or tie them up in the paddock during the performance, or else walk them around to cool them off if they were lathered from a run or a long trot.
Many of the patrons came by way of the Thames, ferried by the watermen in their small boats, but some of the wealthier ones came by coach or carriage. With those patrons, it was usually their coachmen who took charge of the equipage, either seeing to everything themselves or else directing an ostler or two in the unhitching and walking of the horses, if they needed it, or else watering and sometimes brushing and combing them, depending on what their masters had ordered. There were small fees for these services, of course, and an enterprising ostler who managed to attend a number of wealthy patrons could do reasonably well for himself if the company was putting on a popular play, but it was still a long way from being on the stage. And the Queen’s Men seemed to have experienced better days. Dick Tarleton, their biggest draw, was ailing and the attendance was down from what they’d been accustomed to.
Nevertheless, thought Smythe, they had little to complain about, despite Shakespeare’s disappointment. Within a day of coming to London, they had found employment, which was more than a lot of people could say, and a place to live, which in itself was something of an accomplishment.
Many people were arriving in London every day from the surrounding countryside, all in search of livelihoods they could not find in the towns and villages from whence they came. In many cases, those with little money had to share rooms with as many as six, eight, ten, or a dozen others, often leaving scarcely enough space for anything except a cramped place to sleep upon the floor. It made for a crowded and often pungent environment. He and Shakespeare had been much more fortunate.
They had found a room at The Toad and Badger, on the second floor over the tavern. It was small and sparsely furnished, a far cry even from the modest room Smythe had when he had apprenticed with his uncle, but it was a room they could afford, and did not have to share with others, thanks in part to Shakespeare’s having set aside a little money to make the trip to London. It was also fortunate for them that their chance meeting with Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe had resulted in a good word put in for them by Mr. Burbage, who had spoken with the landlord and arranged for some consideration with the payments of the rent.
Smythe was under no illusion that Richard Burbage had done so purely out of the goodness of his heart. He was a pleasant enough young fellow, but he was also looking out for his own interests. The theatre that his father had built was dependent upon people attending its productions, and it certainly paid to remain in the good graces of one of the wealthiest men in London, who was known as a patron of the arts. And although Marlowe wrote for a rival company, the Admiral’s Men, Burbage had every reason to maintain cordial relations with him, as well.
According to Shakespeare, Marlowe was the most promising young poet of the day and, with Tamburlane, he had served notice upon the players’ world that a change was in the air. The production had shocked and thrilled audiences with its lyrical bombast and lurid violence, reminiscent of the Greek classics, and in contrast, the broad jests and prancing jigs and ribald songs performed by other companies seemed suddenly dated and low class. At least, this was the opinion Shakespeare held. Smythe had actually enjoyed the ribald jests, the funny jigs, and the bawdy songs, and wasn’t at all sure that something serious and weighty would be preferable. After all, despite Marlowe’s education, university men did not constitute the bulk of the audience and the Theatre was not the Inns of Court, where productions were often staged in Latin by amateur barristers who would one day argue the law before the bench. Nevertheless, Shakespeare seemed convinced that Marlowe’s work, as notorious as the man himself, heralded a new sort of drama, one that would cater more to the talents of serious actors such as Edward Alleyn and less to lowbrow jesters like Will Kemp. The days of the prancing clown, Shakespeare had insisted, were over. Of course, it was also possible that Shakespeare was exaggerating, just as he had exaggerated the nature of their relationship with Marlowe and Sir William, which was why Dick
Burbage had helped them with securing lodgings and given them both jobs.
“You know, one would think that friends of Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe would deserve rather better than to be given jobs as ostlers,” Shakespeare said, irritably.
“Well, for one thing, Will, we are not, in fact, friends of Sir William’s and Mr. Marlowe’s. We can only claim, at best, the briefest acquaintance with them. Quite aside from that, Mr. Burbage did not have to give us jobs at all, you know. And perhaps, under present circumstances, these were the only openings he had available. I am certain that, given an opportunity to demonstrate what we can do, we shall be able to advance ourselves in due course.”
Shakespeare sighed. “I suppose you’re right. There is a strongly practical streak about you, Tuck, which will doubtless serve you well. But I fear that I am not as patient as you are. I know what I am capable of doing, and I know where I wish to be, and on top of all that, I still have a family to support. And I am not going to be able to provide for them on an ostler’s pay.”
“I shall help you, Will. After all, you have helped me, from the moment we first met, and I would not now have the lodgings that we share if you did not advance the lion’s share of the rent. I shall not forget that.”
“You are a good soul, Tuck. And I, for my part, shall remember that, as well. Aha, look there…” He pointed toward the road that led across the field. “A coach and four approaches. Let’s run and get that one, it positively drips with money. The owner must be a wealthy merchant or a nobleman. Pray for the nobleman, for merchants give miserly gratuities.”
“ ‘Tis a nobleman, I think, or a proper gentleman, at least,” said Smythe, as the coach drew nearer. “Methinks I see an escutcheon emblazoned on the door.”
“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “But soft… I have seen those arms before, I think.”
“As I have seen that team!” said Smythe. “ ‘Tis that same high-handed rogue who almost ran us down the other day! Well, I shall have a thing or two to say to him!”
“No, Tuck, wait!” Shakespeare reached out to grab his arm, but he was too late. Smythe was already running toward the coach. “Oh, God’s bollocks! He’s going to get himself killed.” He started running after Smythe.
The driver found nothing at all unusual in the sight of two ostlers running toward his coach as he pulled up to the Theatre, so he reined the team in to a walk as he pulled up in front of the entrance. As the coach came rolling to a stop, Smythe ran up to it, with Shakespeare pursuing in a vain attempt to catch him. He reached out and yanked the door open.
“Damn it, sir! I’ll have you know…”
Fully prepared to unload a torrent of enraged invective on the occupant, Smythe was suddenly brought up short. To his surprise, it was not the man he thought.
It was not even a man.
He stared, struck speechless, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.