THE ADMIRAL’S COMPANY
The ancient city of Coventry stands upon a little hill, with old St.
Michael’s steeple and the spire of Holy Trinity church rising above it
against the sky; and as the master-player and the boy came climbing
upward from the south, walls, towers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were
turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun.
To Nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town—a ruddy glory and a
wonder bright; for here the Grey Friars of the great monastery had
played their holy mysteries and miracle-plays for over a hundred years;
here the trade-guilds had held their pageants when the friars’ day was
done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires.
People were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive,
and in the distance Nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush
of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. Here and there
were little knots of country folk making holiday: a father and mother
with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new
finery, and gay with bits of ribbon—merry groups that were ever
changing. Gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. The suburb fields were
filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for archery. The very
air seemed eager with the eve of holiday.
But what to Nick was breathless wonder was to Carew only a twice-told
tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that
made Nick’s head spin round, and came quickly to the Blue Boar Inn.
The court was crowded to the gates with horses, travelers, and
serving-men; and here and there and everywhere rushed the busy
innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off,
and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in
spatters on his fat legs as he flew.
“They’re here,” said Carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is
Gregory Goole, my groom, and Stephen Magelt, the tire-man. In with thee,
Nicholas.”
He put Nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him
into the room.
It was a large, low chamber with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather
jacks and pewter tankards. Around the walls stood rough tables, at which
a medley of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and
talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook’s knave sped
wildly about.
At a great table in the midst of the riot sat the Lord High Admiral’s
players—a score or more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs
and bands, embroidered shirts, Italian doublets slashed and laced,
Venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a
poniard or a rapier at his hip. Nick felt very much like a little brown
sparrow in a flock of gaudy Indian birds.
The board was loaded down with meat and drink, and some of the players
were eating with forks, a new trick from the London court, which Nick
had never seen before. But all the diners looked up when Carew’s face
was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout.
He waved his hand for silence.
“Thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle friends,” said he, with a
mocking air; “I have returned.”
“Yes; we see that ye have, Gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again.
“Ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me
to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see I have left the
spoiler spoiled.”
Lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain
that the burgesses of Stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand
upon Nick’s shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace,
and said: “Be known, be known, all! Gentlemen, my Lord Admiral’s
Players, Master Nicholas Skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom
of England!”
Nick’s cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared
curiously, first at him, and then at Carew standing up behind him, and
several grinned mockingly and winked in a knowing way. He stole a look
at Carew; but the master-player’s face was frank and quite unmoved, so
that Nick felt reassured.
“Why, sirs,” said Carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one
another covertly, “it is no jest. He hath a sweeter voice than Cyril
Davy’s, the best woman’s-voice in all London town. Upon my word, it is
the sweetest voice a body ever heard—outside of heaven and the holy
angels!” He lowered his tone and bowed his head a little. “I’ll stake
mine honour on it!”
“Hast any, Gaston?” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room
roared.
But Carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the
noise: “Now, hark ’e; what I say is so. It is, upon my word, and on the
remnant of mine honour! And to-morrow ye shall see, for Master Skylark
is to sing and play with us.”
When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat
with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew.
Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed,
until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he
bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all
bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he
refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he
would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his
poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more
wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of
him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave
himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which
to pick up airs.
When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew
interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot
sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He
shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.”
At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture
demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said
Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that
he can. Do ye take me?”
So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them
over their tankards, singing uproariously.
The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a
place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and
took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street.
Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to
stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much
flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea
and said no more about it.
When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both
undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did
at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light
dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could
hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and
while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer
way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston
Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled
into bed, and was soon fast asleep.
* * * * *
As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies
in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and
strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but
toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until
the town was loud with May.