Free The Playmakers by Graeme Johnstone

is what I have in mind for
you. I thought we might take you away from the confines of the
maintenance wagon, bring you out front of house, and begin your
education in the world of entertainment.”
    “But …”
    “Will,” said Budsby kindly. “You have cut,
sewed, repaired and re-fitted every piece of leather in the entire
troupe. Twice! The bridles on the horses match those of the Queen’s
Guard. And you have learned how to make pots, repair pans, and fix
wagon wheels.”
    “It’s just that,” said Shakespeare, waving at
a collection of pieces of leather hanging on hooks, “I’ve got to
finish Max’s belt, and a couple of other jobs.”
    “Enough!” said Budsby, flourishing the stick,
and turning around. “I have that problem solved. Soho!”
    The little man jumped at his name, turned and
walked to the back of the wagon. He looked outside and waved.
    There was more movement of the wagon as
Shakespeare could feel another person climbing on board. But this
time the rocking was not of earthquake proportions, and the reason
soon became apparent.
    The visitor appeared at the doorway, a figure
Shakespeare had never seen before. He was a short, wiry character,
his skin well weathered by the sun and wind. Under a thick
greatcoat, he wore a blue and white striped top, and in his hands
he carried some sort of cap, which he nervously turned over and
over again.
    “Mr New Shakespeare,” boomed Budsby grandly,
“allow me to introduce to you - originally from Colchester, late of
Norway, and fresh from jumping ship at Deptford - Mr Mullins.”

 
    CHAPTER FIVE

    “Halt, who goes there?”
    “What do you mean ‘Who goes there?’” bellowed
a thundering voice out of the twilight. “We go here, of
course!”
    “And who is we?” replied the voice.
    “Good heavens, man, take a look will you?
It’s a troupe. The Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Mummers, the most
famous travelling show in all of England. And I am Rufus J. Budsby,
entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant, himself.”
    “Never heard of you. What do you want?”
    The big fellow was taken aback. He turned and
whispered to the little gargoyle on his left. “Never heard of us?
What does he mean he’s never heard of us?”
    The gargoyle shrugged.
    Leaning to the bearded young man on his
right, Budsby added mellowly, “You had better have another look at
that marketing strategy of yours, young Will.”
    There was silence.
    “Well?” said the first voice impatiently. It
came from a short, squat figure. He was dressed for battle, his
chain-mail vest and shiny helmet glistening in the dimming light. A
giant spear was held in a metal-gloved hand, a long sword hung from
a studded belt, and Shakespeare could see he wore unusual
protective leggings made from strong thick hide. Ox, the
leather-man in him surmised.
    Under the helmet, a pudgy face with squinting
eyes, a three-day stubble and a mouth with full lips screwed itself
into speech again, “So what do you want?”
    Budsby cleared his throat and stepped forward
a pace on the dusty forest track. “We seek the opportunity to
repose on the outskirts of the village, kind sir.”
    “Why?”
    Budsby moved forward another three paces and
continued, “As I said, sir, we are a travelling troupe of mummers.
And once we have rested tonight, then tomorrow we propose to set up
our stage and present for the good people nearby such a summer
performance of sights and sounds, the like of which they have never
seen before.”
    “Sights like what?”
    “Ah, I see sir is an incisive critic of the
performing arts,” Busby added warmly, moving another five paces
closer. “Sights such as the amazing Siamese Twins, one black, one
white. Sights such as the incredible fire-eater, who can project
two yards of flame from his mouth.”
    “And?”
    “Sights such as Hercules, our mighty strong
man, the strongest in all of Merry England,” continued Budsby
enthusiastically, moving within ten yards of the guard, and peering
at him.