Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  THE MASTER-PLAYER

  He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body ina tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over oneshoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His longhose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather,with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seenbefore. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it,fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curlycock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkinat the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curledcrisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the endsof his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on eitherside of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in asheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless,high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.

  Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.

  The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. "What! Hownow?" he cried sharply. "Dost like or like me not?"

  "Why, sir," stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say--"why,sir,--" and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.

  "Come, come," snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, "I am a swashing,ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratforddolts to giggle at What! These legs, that have put on the very gentlemanin proud Verona's streets, laid in Stratford's common stocks, like asilly apprentice's slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste oldBless-his-heart here first!" and with that he clapped his hand upon thehilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders."Dost take me, boy?"

  "Why, sir," hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild wordsand imperious way, "ye surely are the master-player."

  "There!" cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one inthe hedge. "Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch!Say, boy," he laughed, and turned to Nick, "thou art no fool. Why, boy,I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. Amurrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?--a black murrain on the town!"And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting hiswhite teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew backafraid of him.

  "'WHAT! HOW NOW?' CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. 'DOST LIKEOR LIKE ME NOT?'"]

  "But nay," hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, "a town likethat is its own murrain--let it sicken on itself!"

  He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite asmuch to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked abouthim as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,--arollicking, merry laugh,--and threw off his furious manner as one doesan old coat. "Well, boy," said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly atNick, "thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players.And I thank thee for it in Will Shakspere's name; for he is the sweetestfellow of us all."

  His voice was simple, frank, and free--so different from the mad tone inwhich he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breathwith surprise.

  "Nay, lad, look not so dashed," said the master-player, merrily; "thatwas only old Jem Burbage's mighty tragic style; and I--I am only GastonCarew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad;what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face."

  Nick flushed. "Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir."

  "Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,--young Nick,--Ihope Old Nick will never catch thee--upon my word I do, and on theremnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player's part like a man, andthou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou artgoing to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble witto follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join myfellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at thebest inn in all Coventry--the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up mydowncast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore ofStratford town--and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for ourown sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me."

  "Indeed, sir," said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl ofexcitement at this wonderful adventure, "indeed I will, and that rightgladly, sir." And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along,cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.

  The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. "Why, Nick," said he,laying his hand caressingly upon the boy's shoulder, "I am no such greatto-do as all that--upon my word, I'm not! A man of some few parts,perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all.Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thycap; we are but two good faring-fellows here."

  So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventhheaven of delight.

  About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left.Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below tothe crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and brieryhollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.

  Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch theirbreath and to look back.

  Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like apicture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled withspring. Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills. Southwardthe fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which layOxford and Northamptonshire. The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downsscrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were thewooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild oxand the boar. And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like asilver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comesdown, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills.

  "Why," exclaimed the master-player--"why, upon my word, it is a fairtown--as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish 'twere sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why," said he,turning wrathfully upon Nick, "that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, downthere, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond,and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond! Me! Why, I havemore good licenses than he has wits. And as to Master Bailiff Stubbes, Ihave permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake astick at in a month of Sundays!" He shook his fist wrathfully at thedistant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and theother down. "But, hark 'e, boy, I'll have my vengeance on them all--ay,that will I, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour--or else myname's not Gaston Carew!"

  "Is it true, sir," asked Nick, hesitatingly, "that they despitefullyhandled you?"

  "With their tongues, ay," said Carew, bitterly; "but not otherwise." Heclapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly."They dared not come to blows--they knew my kind! Yet John Shakspere isno bad sort--he knoweth what is what. But Master Bailiff Stubbes, Iween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. I'll thistle him!He called Will Shakspere rogue. Hast ever looked through a red glass?"

  "Nay," said Nick.

  "Well, it turns the whole world red. And so it is with Master Stubbes.He looks through a pair of rogue's eyes and sees the whole world rogue.Why, boy," cried the master-player, vehemently, "he thought to buy mytongue! Marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck!What! Buy my silence? Nay, he'll see a deadly flash of silence when Icome to my Lord the Admiral again!"