Free The Playmakers by Graeme Johnstone Page B

sleep well tonight knowing we are protected by such earnest
hands as yours. Is there a clearing near here where we can set up
the wagons?”
    “I’m here to protect the castle. I’m not
supposed to help itinerants.”
    “Er, if only so that our strong man can be
fully rested for his ultimate test with your good self on the
morrow?”
    The guard looked over each shoulder again,
and leaned forward. “Well, if you go down this way, half a mile,”
he whispered, pointing over his left shoulder, “there’s a scarred
tree. Turn right there and a little way in, you’ll find a nice
spot.”
    “Excellent,” said Budsby, clapping him on the
shoulder. “Excellent. And what is your name, sir?”
    “Davidson, sir. Samuel Davidson.”
    “Well, Samuel Davidson, when we get to London
and appear at the Court, I will recommend to her Majesty and the
Earl of Oxford himself that you deserve royal commendation as a
reward for your diligence.”
    “Are you going to London?” came the eager
reply.
    “That is our ultimate aim, yes.”
    “I’ve never been to London.”
    “Well, I must admit, it’s been a long time
since I have, too, Mister Davidson.”
    “Can I come?”
    “Mister Davidson, I’m not sure we have a spot
in our troupe. Let us see what tomorrow’s contest of strength
brings.”
    There was silence. A new thought came to the
guard’s head. “If I get to join you, how’s a troupe of knockabouts
like yours going to survive in London, anyway?”
    “Ah, very perceptive, Mister Davidson. The
assumption is, of course, that we can only survive on the road,
continually moving. But see that man back there,” he added,
pointing to Soho and Shakespeare in the distance.
    “What, the little feller in red and
white?”
    “No, no, the other gentleman.”
    “Yes?”
    “That man has revolutionised the life of the
travelling mummer, and I bless the day I came across him washing
his wounds and cleansing his soul at a lonely, icy stream outside
Stratford.”
    “Stratford?”
    “Shakespeare of Stratford, Samuel Davidson.
Remember that name. He has a fine eye for spotting acts with
potential, a wonderful incisiveness for improving them, and a
bottomless well of ideas for promoting them.”
    “Really?” said the guard, peering at the
bearded young man with newfound interest. “He looks a bit of a
skiver to me.”
    “Er, yes, perhaps that helps, too,” whispered
Budsby. Then raising his voice so that not only could Will hear,
but most folk living in the nearby village, Budsby bellowed, “Due
to young Shakespeare the Rufus J. Budsby Troupe of Travelling
Mummers has discovered and developed acts of unbelievable skill.
And not only that,” he continued in a quieter tone, “another of Mr
Shakespeare’s initiatives is that he got our maintenance man, Mr
Mullins, to buy four mainsails from a ships’ chandlers at
Liverpool.”
    “Sails?”
    “He got Mr Mullins to stitch them together to
make a large tent, and now, no matter where we are performing, our
patrons are always dry and warm.”
    No to mention, thought Budsby, they also have to pay an
admission fee. Plus extra if they want one of the handful of seats
up the front.
    “So, he knows what the people want,” said the
guard.
    “Precisely, Samuel Davidson,” said Budsby,
“Precisely. As you will see tomorrow.”
    Soho looked up to see that all this talk had
reduced Shakespeare to a shrinking figure blushing with
embarrassment.
    But there was no use denying it.
    From the day he had handed back his tools to
Mr Mullins and emerged from the cramped and jangling maintenance
van eighteen months previously, Shakespeare had taken to the
entertainment game like a duck to water. He progressed rapidly
through an apprenticeship of basic skills - packing and unpacking
gear, setting up the stage, and driving huge stakes into the ground
with a mallet to hold up the wire-walker’s rig.
    He even took on the task of holding the
banner aloft, behind Soho and the drummer-boy when the