Davy and the Players


"Rain again," moaned Dick Burbage as the company prepared to leave the Crown the next morning and move on to Richmond for an afternoon performance.

I climbed on to the lead cart and pulled my cloak tight around myself, for the drizzle was increasing.

Shouts of "Good bye!" and "Come again!" and "God be with you!" mixed with the squeaks and rattles and jangles of the carts and the horses' harnesses as the company departed.

When the cart I was on reached the arched gateway, I looked back and saw Gilly standing in the stable doorway. His lip was badly swollen. When he spied me, he picked up a rock and raised his arm to throw it. But Master Hoskins bellowed, "Gilly! Throw that and I'll throw you into the horse trough!" Gilly dropped the rock and slunk away into the stable.

As the carts trundled along the Richmond Road, the men-especially those on foot-cursed their bad luck at having to travel on such a foul day.

Simon Lillard was the driver of the cart on which I rode. He was the stern-faced player who'd enacted the dastardly villain in the company's performances at the Bell and the Crown. But now Lillard didn't speak a word. I felt uncomfortable riding beside this silent man with piercing black eyes and a weathered face that seemed chiseled in some dark stone. I thought he'd surely say something before long, but the only sound that came from him was a grunt when the horse got out of the center of the road.

After we'd traveled a few miles-splashing through mudholes and fording a rushing stream-the plodding and clanking sounds of the train were suddenly interrupted by threatening shouts from
ahead.

"Hold!"

"Hold-if you value your lives!"

I caught my breath and stared at three highwaymen who'd ridden out of the woods in front of
us.

"Hold!" cried the pock-marked leader of the trio as he moved close to the lead cart.

Lillard pulled up on the reins and the cart halted. Gradually, the entire troupe became aware of what was happening and came to a faltering stop.

"Your money bags," the first robber cried. "Quick!"

Burbage eased his horse forward and said cautiously, "We are but players. We have little money."

The highwaymen laughed hoarsely. "Little money," snarled the second robber. "We have
truer report." The third robber, a small, powerfully built fellow, seemed to know exactly who carried the company's money. He rode toward Heminges and stopped in front of him. Their eyes met, but neither made a move.

Burbage called to Heminges, "Best to give the blackguard what he wants. Let's have no bloodshed."

The first robber sliced his sword through the air and laughed loudly. "Aye. No bloodshed!"

The smirking fellow facing Heminges extended his filthy hands, and Heminges placed his saddlebags into them.

I heard the players curse as the fellow rode back to the head of the train.

"We thank you, gentlemen," said the first robber. He laughed hideously, showing that several teeth were missing.

Suddenly, a piercing shout-like that of the leader of an invading army-came from behind the highwaymen. Everyone on the road froze in place. We were wide-eyed and open mouthed-when all at once Hal rode out of the woods on Tom Pope's horse, Alexander.

I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched what followed. Brandishing a great pistol, Hal rode up to the robbers. First, he slapped the rump of the leader's horse, causing it to rear high in the air and unseat its rider. Then, just as quickly, he snatched the money bags from the astonished robber holding them. After that, he waved the gun in the air and shouted, "Justice shall reign!" and rode off into the woods from where he'd come.

The highwaymen were dumbfounded. But in a moment, the leader realized that his horse was gone, and in a panic, he ran off down the road calling, "Xerxes! Wait for me, Xerxes!"

The two remaining robbers also had trouble pulling their wits together. Presently, though, one
of them yelled, "After him!" and galloped off after Hal. The other fellow couldn't decide which
him to pursue, but in a moment he spurred his mount and charged off after his horseless
companion.

The players were almost as confused as the robbers were. At first, they laughed at the outwitted highwaymen, but they soon turned to the pressing matter of moving on to Richmond and their performance there.

Burbage called, "Let's be off. We've delayed long enough."

I was concerned. "But what of Hal?"

Heminges rode over to me. "He'll find us. Those three knaves' heads are so muddled they don't know where they are, let alone anyone else. Hal's likely not far off, hiding in some clump of bracken, and out of sight."

"He'd better be---" Kempe complained, as the horses and carts started moving again, "for he's got our money."

"And he's riding my Alexander," Pope said as he climbed on a passing cart. He laughed. "But he's a good rider, isn't he?"

We hadn't gone far when the drizzling rain became a downpour. So, as the sign of the Red Lion appeared at a crossroads, Burbage called out, "We'll stop here a while. Rain's too heavy. Maybe there'll be a let-up before long."

Inside the Red Lion, the master players pulled off their wet cloaks and stood close to the fire.

I shivered as I sat down on a joint stool and pulled off my boots.

Across the room, Kempe and Scanlon complained about the robbers. "Hang the knaves!" Kempe said. And Scanlon shouted, "Cut off the blackguards' ears!" But I was too wet and cold to care what they did with them.

"A cup of warm sack," said a voice from above my head. The nearness of the sound surprised me, and I straightened up quickly. Standing over me was a big man with a balding pate, and a short sandy beard. It was Will Shakespeare, and he had a cup of steaming sack in his outstretched hand.