WHEN Shakespeare returned to the fugitives, they had finished their meal. They were still sitting on the bench by the tavern door.
“Mr. Heriot,” said the player, “I have been thinking very deeply upon your pass. First let me say that I have a great desire to help you—and your friend—to help you as far as lies in my capacity.”
Gervase thanked him simply.
“But in order to do that,” said the player, “I have to ask you to yield yourselves entirely into my care. I would have you do in all things as I desire. It is not that I can promise your deliverance. It may be that your pass is beyond my aid or beyond the aid of any man. But if it is possible for help to be given, that will I do my utmost to render—that is, if you are prepared to trust me to the full.”
Gervase knew that it was his life he was giving into the care of this man, but not for an instant did he hesitate.
“I trust you to the full,” he said. “And may God requite you for all that you may do.”
“Alas, it may be but little. But no failure on my part can make your case more unhappy than it is now. And one matter at least is imperative. You must find a better disguise than your present one. Happily, there is the means at hand. Perhaps you and your friend will come with me to the players’ tiring-room, which is across the inn yard?”
Gervase and Anne rose from the bench in order to accompany the actor.
As they did so, however, their attention was for a moment diverted. A man, attended by two servants and whose style was that of a gentleman, rode up to the inn door. He dismounted within three yards of where the fugitives stood, and as he was about to enter the tavern, he turned his bold eyes upon them.
It was hardly more than a glance in passing, and not more than he would have bestowed on any other pair of picturesque vagabonds, but brief as it was, there yet seemed in it a kind of subconscious recognition. The glance was withdrawn instantly to alight on Shakespeare, on whom it dwelt long enough for the recognition openly to declare itself. In this case it was followed by a shrug of insolent contempt. The newcomer then entered the inn.
In the meantime, Gervase had grown as pale as if he had seen a ghost. But it was not until he was half-way across the inn courtyard that he revealed the cause of his emotion.
“Did you, by any chance, recognize that fellow?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” said Shakespeare. “He is a man well known about the Court, a certain Sir Robert Grisewood.”
“Yes, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Gervase. “And it was he, at the instance of my Uncle Simon, who swore away my life.”
The player stopped abruptly in the middle of the inn yard, an exclamation upon his lips.
“That’s undoubtedly the man,” said Gervase, “by all that’s unlucky. Or may be it is not unlucky, since Providence works in ways so dark and strange.”
“Wherein I fully agree,” said the player. “And it may be that even in this Providence is working for us in a mysterious way. But I hope this man did not know you.”
“I think he did not,” said Gervase. “His eye would have dwelt longer if he had. But you he certainly recognized; moreover, he did not seem to approve you.”
Shakespeare smiled.
“He is one of a hundred bullies who ruffle it about the Court. When they are not cringing before their betters, they are generally browbeating those whom they are pleased to consider their inferiors.”
“He is a very dangerous man,” said Gervase, “And if I cross his path, my life will not be worth an hour’s purchase.”
“Well, the tiring-room is not far away,” said the player. “And there, I think, we can find you a disguise that will tax the wit of Sir Robert to penetrate.”
The inn was a large, rectangular building, provided with galleries which overlooked the spacious courtyard. It was in this that the Lord Chamberlain’s servants had arranged to give the first of their performances that afternoon. The room to which the actor now led Anne and Gervase opened on to one of these galleries, at the extreme end of the yard.
Here were all sorts of stage properties. Not only was there a number of costumes, but also there were wigs, powder and cosmetics and other trappings of the theater. Much searching among this apparel was necessary before clothes could be found which Shakespeare deemed suitable for Gervase and Anne. Many of these costumes were very rich; and at last an elegant suit of boy’s clothes was found for Anne. She went into a room adjoining to put it on. And, in the meantime, Gervase was provided with a much more elaborate disguise.
First, he was put into a suit of plain black velvet, modest in appearance, but excellent in quality, very similar to the player’s own. Then his eyes were carefully darkened and lines painted under them to add to his years. A pair of fine moustachios was fixed to his upper lip and a short beard to his chin. Finally, he was accommodated with a hat with a plume, a ruff for the neck, and at his own request, a very serviceable sword, which he buckled to his waist with a feeling of keen satisfaction.
The transformation Gervase had undergone was so complete, that when Anne returned wearing her own excellent suit, which fitted her admirably except that it was a little loose in the shoulders, she did not know him.
“Allow me to present Signor Bandinello,” said the player. “A famous music master from Italy.”
Anne, in the surprise of the moment, so far forgot her own disguise as to curtsy. Whereupon, greatly to her discomfiture, Gervase and the player fairly shouted with laughter.
Anne’s clothes really became her very well indeed. They could hardly have fitted her slender form better had they been made for her. She, too, was given a ruff for her neck, a hat with a plume and a dagger to wear at her waist. Thus accomplished, she made a particularly handsome and modish boy.
Gervase’s disguise, which had added at least thirty years to his age, was so complete, that the player had no fear that he would be recognized. Accordingly, he led him boldly into the inn and duly presented him to Burbage, Kemp and one or two other members of the company as a celebrated musician who had consented to take charge of the music at Richmond on Tuesday week. Anne was introduced as his son. And it was suggested that Arrigo, a name bestowed upon her by the playwright on the spur of the moment, should understudy Parflete for the character of Rosalind. Indeed, the author of the new comedy seemed to be clearly of opinion that the young Signor Arrigo had been designed expressly by nature to play that delicate and exacting rôle.
Burbage guessed at once who Signor Bandinello and Arrigo his son really were. But he was far too loyal, even if he had not been too astute, to share his knowledge with the other members of the company. These, to be sure, were a little surprised at such an unexpected addition to their number. Yet not for a moment did they suspect the truth.
Thus, for the time being, a very remarkable change was wrought in the fortunes of Gervase and Anne. No longer need they seek a roof or a meal. No longer need they go footsore and hungry. Providence once more had taken them into its care. It was true that, in some ways, they had added threefold to their dangers. They had given their lives into the keeping of a man of whom they knew little or nothing. But having burnt their boats, they had the courage wholeheartedly to embrace this new way of life.
They entered into the doings of these new friends with spirit and amenity. And Shakespeare sustained the deception with great tact and wit. Moreover, Gervase and Anne were ever ready to second him in all his inventions and contrivances. Indeed, Gervase, who was familiar with Italy, was able to counterfeit a slight accent, which heightened the illusion of his broken English; while Anne, although not a little shy, bore herself with a modest grace, that made the young Signor Arrigo extremely popular with all the members of the Company.
It chanced, besides, that when these two Italians had made their appearance but a few hours among the Lord Chamberlain’s servants, an incident occurred which added greatly to their prestige.
It had been arranged that the chief members of the Company, who were lodged at the Crown Tavern, which was reckoned much the best in Oxford, should dine together at noon in the large parlor. This would allow plenty of time against the performance of “The Merchant of Venice,” which was to be given in the inn courtyard at two o’clock that afternoon.
The players had sat down to their meal. Shakespeare, at the head of the long table in the center of the room, was carving a sirloin with the dexterity of one who had been a butcher’s apprentice in his youth. Burbage, at the foot of the table, was dealing with a couple of roast fowls with an air of manly conviction. Anne had already been given a wing, and William Kemp, that famous comedian, was cutting a piece of ham to accompany it, with a flourish of wit as well as of knife, when the door of the dining-parlor was flung open suddenly. A man entered rudely and roughly with a clank of sword and spur. He had not even the grace to remove his hat.
One glance he cast round the room, saw no place was set for him, and then called loudly for the landlord.
“The place is full of these stinking play-actors!” he cried out. “The best inn in Oxford is now the worst. These mimes have taken all the best rooms, they infest the place like vermin. They are sticking up a filthy stage upon filthy trestles in the middle of the courtyard, so that a man hasn’t even room to water his horse, and now, by God’s blood, they crowd their betters out of the dining-parlor!”
The man was Sir Robert Grisewood, whom Shakespeare and Gervase had seen already. He was an insolent bully, of a type common in that day; a man of brutal and dangerous character, who lived by his wits and his sword, with just enough surface manners when it suited him to pass muster with those with whom he wished to consort, but whose chief pleasure was to ruffle it through the world and take the wall of those less well placed than himself.
This morning, however, Sir Robert was a little out of his reckoning. The man with the mild face who was carving the sirloin paused to look at him. And if ever a high scorn was expressed in the human countenance, it was here to be seen.
“Yes, I mean you as well as the rest, you paper-faced potboy,” said Grisewood, having failed to stare him down. “Go back to your filthy playhouse in the stews, and don’t come among your betters until they send for you, unless you want to get your nose pulled.”
The coarse bully had drunk a cup of wine too much already that morning. He was bitterly angry, besides, that his favorite chamber overlooking the garden was in the occupation of this mean fellow, who lived by the public favor instead of by cheating at cards. With a string of oaths, he advanced upon Shakespeare and shook a fist in his face.
In an instant, several of the players had risen to their feet. But foremost was Burbage. He laid down his knife, and then, white with anger, he came over very deliberately to where the man stood and touched him on the shoulder.
“Have a care, my friend,” he said. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. And lay but a finger on that man, and you go into the horse-trough.”
“But you go to perdition first, you calf-livered merry-andrew.”
Grisewood had swung round with a face of fury. He drew his sword. But in almost the same moment Heriot, who had risen with the rest, had drawn his.
Grisewood had not meant to make use of his weapon. Yet in the next instant, and quite without expecting it, he was having to use it for dear life.
Gervase at once struck up the weapon with his own and then engaged it. Grisewood was a man of formidable reputation. More than one good life had paid the toll of his exceptional skill. His adversary was aware of this. But he also was an accomplished swordsman. Moreover, an intense and furious hatred had armed him suddenly. This was the man who had sworn away his life.