Shakespeare's Scribe by Gary Blackwood

something, will not let go no matter what. At least twice a day over the next week or so, he came up with some bit of “evidence” that supposedly added weight to his Sally Pavy theory. Most were pure foolishness, ranging from the fact that Sal Pavy scrubbed his teeth with salt rather than just a rag dipped in wine like everyone else, to the way he often sat with his legs crossed.
    Though I scoffed at Sam’s fancies to his face, I could not help regarding Sal Pavy in a new light, weighing his words and actions as an actor does those of his character, looking for the meaning that lies behind them. There was no denying that his manner was rather effeminate at times, but that was hardly surprising, considering he was given daily lessons in how to accurately impersonate a girl. I myself had grown so used to wearing a dress that occasionally I found myself reaching down to lift a hem that wasn’t there. Besides, passing oneself off as another gender upon the stage was quite a different matter from keeping the pretense up all day, every day.
    On the other hand, Sal Pavy had proven himself a master of deception. Whenever one of the sharers was about, he was the very picture of a willing, eager worker. But when we prentices were alone with any sort of task, from washing the muddy carewares to grooming the horses to airing out the mattresses, he always contrived to avoid actually contributing anything.
    â€œAt Blackfriars,” he said, “we were taught how to act, not how to clean things.”
    â€œYes,” said Sam, with a meaningful glance at the sword Sal Pavy was supposed to be polishing. “I can see that. You know, Widge, when we return I believe we’d be wise to apply for a position at Blackfriars. It sounds as though it bears a striking resemblance to the land of Cockaigne.” Cockaigne was, I had learned, a familiar fancy among Londoners—a mythical land of idleness and luxury.
    I made no reply. Though I knew well enough that he was jesting, I found nothing amusing or appealing in the notion of leaving the Chamberlain’s Men.
    To Sal Pavy’s credit, when it came to studying for his roles, he applied himself more assiduously than any of us. I thought myself an early riser, yet often I emerged from our room at some inn soon after sunrise to find Sal Pavy pacing about the courtyard, reciting his lines under his breath and practicing over and over the appropriate gestures to go with them.
    He also worked harder than most at keeping himself and his attire clean and tidy. He bathed whenever the opportunity presented itself—in private, of course—paying from his own purse the two or three pence innkeepers customarily charged for such services. Naturally, Sam pointed to these habits as further indicators of a female nature.
    We were working our way northward, now, traveling as quickly as we might and stopping at the smallest and shabbiest inns to conserve our dwindling funds. Lodging of any sort grew increasingly scarce and one night, finding ourselves between towns when darkness fell, we stopped alongside the road and spread our mattresses out upon canvas sheets beneath the carewares.
    Though I welcomed the chance to sleep in the open air, some of the other players griped about it, most notably Ned Shakespeare. I had noticed that he was not chary with his complaints at any time. The meals we ate were never to his taste; he grumbled over the fact that, though he was the famous playwright’s brother, he must make the journey on foot; when the sun shone, he railed against the heat; when it rained, as it did almost daily, he cursed the damp.
    It was a pity we were not farmers. Had we been, we could have put to use all the earth we turned up with the wheels of our carewares. And had we been growing crops, we might have welcomed the rain that made the roads into a morass of mud. Our definition of a good day became a day when the carewares bogged down no more than half a dozen