Free The Darling Strumpet by Gillian Bagwell Page A

stretched luxuriously, scratched his arse, and demanded of the fair-haired young actor who followed him, “ ‘Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?’ ”
    “ ‘What a devil hast thou to do with the time of day?’ ” the youth cried. “ ‘Unless the blessed sun himself was a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of day!’ ”
    Nell thought she had never seen anything so funny as the picture of virtuous outrage on Wat’s face.
    “Look at him,” she chortled to Rose and Harry. “Like a great round baby caught with stolen sweetmeats.”
    Her heart skipped a beat when Charles Hart strode onto the stage in the next scene, his dark eyes full of snapping fire, and she feared for his safety when he raged at the king, his deep voice seeming to shake the walls as he cried, “ ‘My liege, I did deny no prisoners!’ ”
    When Harry Percy, in the person of Charles Hart, made ready to depart for the war and took tender leave of his wife, played by a young man, as true-to-the-life a woman as any that Nell had ever seen, she felt her own soul ache for his going.
    When the rehearsal was done, Nell sat still for a few moments, not wanting to let go of what she had experienced. She felt drained and yet exhilarated, and as if she was changed in some way. In the course of the three hours she had felt herself consumed with the passions of the king, the prince, of Harry Percy and his wife, of fat Sir John Falstaff and all the rest, had felt as though she herself had lived through all their griefs, their rages, and their joys. She did not want to leave the charmed atmosphere of the playhouse. She lingered to watch as the actors gathered on the benches below, and was overjoyed when Wat Clun waved at her. Dragging Rose after her, she bounded down to where he stood and beamed up at him.
    “Well, sweeting, and what did you think of your first play?” he asked.
    “It was a wonder! You were so funny!”
    Clun grinned.
    “Come to see Beggars’ Bush tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be our last show at the Bull.”
    “Truly?” Nell cried. “Can we, Rose?”
    “Aye,” Rose nodded. “We’ll not miss such a kind offer.”
     
     
     
    ON THE WAY HOME, NELL CAPERED BESIDE ROSE, HOPPING ON ONE leg in circles around her sister and then coming alongside.
    “I thought the prince was wondrous,” she mused. “Why should his father be displeased with him?”
    “Why, for his mad freaks and rogueries with ruffians and low company such as Falstaff and the others. Bowsing, stealing, wenching.”
    “But once the old king was dead could not Hal do as he pleased?”
    “I suppose he could.”
    “And why was Harry Percy so angry?”
    “Lord, I don’t know. I couldn’t follow it all, in truth.”
    “And why—”
    “’Fore God, Nell, you wear me out!” Rose cried in exasperation. “Save your questions for Harry or the actors.”
    Nell did not understand how Rose could not share her burning curiosity to know everything about the play, the players, and the theater. She held her tongue, but her mind seethed with questions. Though she didn’t have to work that night, she haunted the taproom, hoping that the actors might come in, and when Harry Killigrew strode in followed by two of the younger actors, she raced over to them.
    “How can you remember all those words? What play did you play this afternoon? Where do the plays come from?”
    Harry laughed. “You’d best sit down if you’ve got so many questions.” Nell plopped herself on a bench facing the fair-haired young actor who had played Prince Hal.
    “How many plays are there?” she demanded.
    “What, how many plays in the world?” he laughed. “That I cannot tell, but I can tell you what we’ve played over the past weeks, and what we’ll give again. The Traitor , Wit Without Money , The Silent Woman , Othello, Bartholomew Fair —”
    “Where do they come from?” Nell interrupted. “And how can there be