“Have you ever heard of trade unions?” Dirk asked Gar.
“Heard of them, yes,” Gar answered. “These guys haven’t.”
Coll wondered what a union was. He had only heard the priest use the term, and then only when he spoke of marriage—“holy union.” Could Dirk and Gar mean these players were bonded in a sort of marriage? And if they were, could it be holy by any stretch of the imagination?
The players were hanging a second curtain in front of the first now. When they were done, one of them pulled on a rope, and the curtains parted. Coll stared in surprise, and Dicea clapped her hands in delight. “How clever!”
The player with the rope pulled it a second time; the curtains closed, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Our stage is set. How is the tiring house?”
“Done and ready,” Victor called from below. Dicea frowned. “What is a tiring house?”
“The place where the players change costumes,” Androv told them. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh, yes!” Dicea exclaimed, and Androv led them behind the carts. Victor was just finishing fitting a run of steps into the front of one of the carts; the one on the other side was already in place, and Alma stood at the top, hanging curtains on a set of pegs that stuck out from the top of a timber. Victor stepped aside, and Elaine climbed up to take the far side of the curtain and begin to hang it.
“The players will climb up and down the steps to make their entrances and exits,” Androv told them, “and pass through slits in the curtains at the bottom.” He led them inside, and they found themselves in a space about twelve feet by eight. Against each wall, a crossbar hung from the uprights with pegs along its length. Elspeth and Drue were hanging up costumes.
Dicea looked about her wide-eyed, but Mama clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Anyone in a room above can look down and see the women as they disrobe!”
“They wouldn’t see much,” Drue told her with a laugh. “We never wear less than our shifts during a performance. We only change robes on the outside.”
Victor laughed, too, as he set aside his spade and reached up to catch a long, five-inch-thick pole Constantine was handing down to him. He set its base into the hole he had been digging. “We’ll hang a roof from this, good woman, and make a proper pavilion of the whole thing. Don’t worry—not even a bird will be able to see in from above.”
“It would spoil the illusion if they saw us changing,” Androv explained.
“What lovely dresses!” Eyes shining, Dicea reached out to touch a velvet gown.
“Ah, please don’t, lass.” Androv reached out to intercept her hand. “That belongs to Catharine herself, not to the company.”
Catharine looked up at the sound of her name. She was middle-aged, like Mama. “Are your hands clean, lass?” Dicea glanced at her hands, then nodded. “They are, Mistress.”
“Then go ahead and touch it. It is lovely cloth, isn’t it? That was given me by a duchess’s maid, for her mistress had just cast it away, and the maid could not wear such rich stuffs, of course.”
“But actresses can?” Dicea asked, eyes wide. “Yes, but only when we’re playing a part.”
“Then I must be an actress!” Dicea exclaimed.
The players laughed, and she looked around wide-eyed and reddening—but Androv only nodded gravely. “I’ve heard of worse reasons for wanting to tread the boards of a stage. But there’s a great deal of hard work in it, lass—and a great deal of learning to do, if you really want it”
“I do!” Dicea cried. “And I’ve a lifetime of hard work before me no matter what I do!”
“But you may not have the gift of mimicry,” Androv cautioned her.
“And you may tire of fending off the attentions of noblemen and their gentry,” Duse told her with a dark glance at Magda, who glared back. “Some of them take actresses for strumpets, you know.”
Dicea shrugged angrily. “The lords and knights will take us for their strumpets no matter what we do.”
“Dicea!” Mama gasped.
“Why not say it, Mama?” Dicea said scornfully. “It’s only by Coll’s fighting for me that I escaped, the one time that I was too late feigning dowdiness and dullness.”
Ciare turned, staring. “You can make yourself appear to be so unattractive that the knights pass you by?”
“Doesn’t every serf girl learn the trick of it?” Dicea asked.
“No—most only try.” Claire turned to Androv. “Perhaps she does have the gift, after all.”
Dicea stared, then smiled in delight. She whirled to Gar. “And what part will you play, sir knight?”
“What part, indeed?” Duse gave him a sleepy, inviting look.
Gar smiled, amused. “Defender of Innocence.”
They all laughed, but Androv only smiled, nodding shrewdly. “That might do, young sir, that just might do. Not of innocence, perhaps, but a defender? Oh, yes, you might do that quite well—if you were willing.”
Gar turned to him, still smiling. “Just what did you have in mind, Master Androv?”
9
The performance began early in the afternoon. The landlord, Eotin, had sent his stableboys to the market to spread the word, and the audience started filing in as the sun neared the zenith. Androv’s youngest players—boys, really—stood at the gates to collect pennies from everyone who entered. One or two men tried to push past the boys without paying, but each time, Gar stepped out in front of the man, rumbling, “I think you forgot to pay the boy, goodman.”
“Wha …? Oh, yes! So I have!” And the gate-crasher turned back to pay his score, grumbling under his breath. Androv stood by, nodding in admiration. “Well done, my friend, very well done indeed. Usually one of us stands by to back up the boys, but you’re far more effective.” Gar shrugged. “Sometimes ugliness has its advantages.”
“You, ugly?” Androv glanced up at him keenly. “Some of our young women think otherwise. I’d take it as a favor if you ignored their charms, friend Gar.”
“To do otherwise would surely be no act of friendship.” Gar smiled. “I assure you that, unlike the law, I am a respecter of persons.”
When the innyard was full, Androv slipped around behind the back of the crowd with the boys and Gar, to the tiring house.
There, turmoil met them. “Master Androv!” Elspeth cried, “Jonathan is ill! ”
“Ill indeed.” Mama stepped up, nodding. “His forehead is hot, and he’s racked with stomach pains. Something bad in his food, I doubt not.”
“Will he be all right?” Androv asked in alarm.
“I think so, but we’ll have to keep watch over him. And it will be at least three days before he’s well, perhaps a whole week.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” The chief player relaxed, then suddenly stiffened again. “Who will play the knight?”
“Why, Axel can,” Elspeth said.
“The armor won’t fit him! It won’t fit anyone but Jonathan!” Master Androv tugged his beard in frustration. “Let me think! What can we do?”