Free Shakespeare's Scribe by Gary Blackwood

and gazed at it for a long while. Then, even though I was even more exhausted than usual, thanks to the nerve-racking business of binding the broken arm, I shuffled past the room where the prentices and hired men were sleeping and on down the stairs. I borrowed pen and paper from the innkeeper’s wife and managed to put down nearly a page to my friend about the company’s fortunes before Morpheus made my nodding head droop onto the paper. Not wishing Sander to fret, I did not write how sorely I missed him.

9
    B y the time we set out from Hungerford the next morning, Mr. Shakespeare was strong enough to ride, though he had to have a bit of help in mounting. The effects of the alcohol he had consumed the night before seemed to bother him as much as the arm did. Though he pronounced my plaster bandage satisfactory, I was not satisfied, for I could see how hard his swollen flesh pressed against it, and I knew it must be painful. He dismissed my concern. “The swelling will go down in a day or two,” he said.
    But that evening, when Mr. Shakespeare summoned me to his room at the King’s Head in Wantage, I found the arm as swollen as ever. Mr. Shakespeare was clearly suffering; he had a glass of brandy at hand to ease the pain. “Perhaps I did something wrong,” I said anxiously. “Perhaps I should cut the bandage off again.”
    â€œNo,” Mr. Shakespeare insisted. “But there is something you might do for me.”
    â€œName it,” I said, assuming he meant for me to fetch him more brandy or the like.
    â€œHave you ever taken dictation?”
    â€œDictation? You mean, writing down the spoken word?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œWell … aye. Dr. Bright often asked me …” I paused. Now that I had a clearer sense of right and wrong, it embarrassed me to admit my past transgressions. “‘A was a clergyman as well as a doctor, you ken, and ‘a had me visit neighboring churches and copy down the sermons of other rectors.”
    Mr. Shakespeare seemed more amused than disapproving. “Steal them, in other words?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAnd then Simon Bass had you steal my play.” He shook his head. “You’ve had ill luck in masters.”
    â€œUntil now,” I said.
    â€œWell put. What I’m asking is not dishonest, but it may be difficult. I have promised the Queen I would write a new comedy for her, to be performed upon our return to London. Her Majesty finds that such fare as
Hamlet
and
Caesar
puts her in a melancholy humor. She prefers something more … lightweight.” The pained expression Mr. Shakespeare now wore was, I fancied, due to more than just the swollen arm.
    â€œSo,” he went on, “it is my duty as a loyal subject to concoct something her appetite finds more digestible—a trifle, as it were, and not the more substantial fare I am inclined to prepare.” He gestured impatiently at his plaster-bound right arm with his left one. “And, since I cannot possibly put pen to paper for myself, I must have someone do it for me, or else fail in my duty to my Queen. If you think you’re up to the task, I am prepared to give you an extra shilling a week … presuming I have it to give—which, in view of our singular lack of success so far, may be in doubt. So, what do you say? Will you do it?”
    The offer came so unexpectedly that I found my tongue temporarily tied. “I … I …”
    â€œGood,” said Mr. Shakespeare, apparently mistaking an “I” for an “aye.” He picked up a leather-bound portfolio and opened it upon the small folding desk he had brought along. The portfolio was cleverly and compactly designed, with a pocket for writing paper, one for blotting paper, a pouch that held goose quill pens and a pen knife, even a strap that secured a bottle of ink. “You sit at the desk,” he said. “I’ll take the bed.”
    Feeling