CHAPTER VII
"WELL SUNG, MASTER SKYLARK!"
It was past high noon, and they had long since left Warwick castle farbehind. "Nicholas," said the master-player, in the middle of a stream ofamazing stories of life in London town, "there is Blacklow knoll." Hepointed to a little hill off to the left.
Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had PiersGaveston's head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden.
"Ah!" said Carew, "times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldsthave a man's head off for calling thee a name--or I would have yonMaster Bailiff Stubbes's head off short behind the ears--and Sir ThomasLucy's too!" he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teethand clenching his hand upon his poniard. "But, Nicholas, hastanything to eat?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
Master Carew pulled from his pouch some barley-cakes and half a smallBanbury cheese, yellow as gold and with a keen, sharp savour. "'Tisenough for both of us," said he, as they came to a shady little woodwith a clear, mossy-bottomed spring running down into a green meadowwith a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. "Come along, Nicholas;we'll eat it under the trees."
He had a small flask of wine, but Nick drank no wine, and went down tothe spring instead. There was a wild bird singing in a bush there, andas he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. Nick took thesound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitatingthe bird's trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as ifit took him for some great new bird without wings. Cocking its shy headand watching him shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat, almost persuadedthat it was only size which made them different, until Nick clapped hiscap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went.
It was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had oftenheard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of styleand hardly to be understood, and between the staves a warbling, wordlessrefrain which he had learned out on the hills and in thefields, picked up from a bird's glad-throated morning-song.
He had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking anyparticular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear youngvoice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet songof a thrush singing in deep woods.
Gaston Carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against anoak, placidly munching the last of the cheese, when Nick began to sing.He started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly outof a sound sleep, and, turning his head, listened eagerly.
Nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill,and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird's song runningthrough it. Carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. "Mysoul! my soul!" he exclaimed in an excited undertone. "It is not--nay,it cannot be--why, 'tis--it is the boy! Upon my heart, he hath a skylarkprisoned in his throat! _Well sung, well sung, Master Skylark!"_ hecried, clapping his hands in real delight, as Nick came singing up thebank. "Why, lad, I vow I thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, withwings to thy back! Where didst thou learn that wonder-song?"
Nick colored up, quite taken aback. "I do na know, sir," said he;"mother learned me part, and the rest just came, I think, sir."
The master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared atNicholas Attwood as fixedly as Nick had stared at him.
It was a hearty little English lad he saw, about eleven years of age,tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. A gray cloth cap clung to theside of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin ofdark-blue serge, gray home-spun hose, and heelless shoes of russetleather. The white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow,and his arms were lithe and brown. His eyes were frankly clear andblue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to abody's heart.
"Why, lad, lad," cried Carew, breathlessly, "thou hast a very fortune inthy throat!"
Nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player brokeoff suddenly and said no more, though such a strange light came creepinginto his eyes that Nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment,asked uneasily if they would not better be going on.
Without a word the master-player started. Something had come into hishead which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along hewhistled under his breath and laughed softly to himself. Then again hesnapped his fingers and took a dancing step or two across the road, andat last fell to talking aloud to himself, though Nick could not make outa single word he said, for it was in some foreign language.
"Nicholas," he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leadsaway to Kenilworth--"Nicholas, dost know any other songs like that?"
"Not just like that, sir," answered Nick, not knowing what to make ofhis companion's strange new mood; "but I know Master Will Shakspere's'Then nightly sings the staring owl, tu-who, tu-whit, tu-who!' and 'Theousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,' and then, too, Iknow the throstle's song that goes with it."
"Why, to be sure--to be sure thou knowest old Nick Bottom's song, forisn't thy name Nick? Well met, both song and singer--well met, I say!Nay," he said hastily, seeing Nick about to speak; "I do not care tohear thee talk. Sing me all thy songs. I am hungry as a wolf for songs.Why, Nicholas, I must have songs! Come, lift up that honeyed throat ofthine and sing another song. Be not so backward; surely I love thee,Nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me."
He laid his hand on Nick's shoulder in his kindly way, and kept stepwith him like a bosom friend, so that Nick's heart beat high with pride,and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along.
Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness thatalmost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under hisbreath, "Tut, tut, that will not do!" but oftener he laughed without asound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastlypleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself.
And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but forhalf a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick allover with a long and earnest look.
Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly."I'll do it," he said; "I'll do it if I dance on air for it! I'll haveit out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I neverthrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays,and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, NicholasSkylark,--Master Skylark,--why, it is a good name, in sooth, a verygood name! I'll do it--I will, upon my word, and on the remnant ofmine honour!"
"Did ye speak to me, sir?" asked Nick, timidly.
"Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon."
"Why, sir, the moon has not come yet," said Nick, staring into thewestern sky.
"To be sure," replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. "Well, thesilvery jade has missed the first act."
"Oh," cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, "what willye play for the Mayor's play, sir?"
"I don't know," replied Carew, carelessly; "it will all be done before Icome. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catchthe pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow."
Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quickand bitter was the disappointment. "Why," he cried, with a tremble inhis tired voice, "I thought the free play would be on the morrow--andnow I have not a farthing to go in!"
"Tut, tut, thou silly lad!" laughed Carew, frankly; "am I thy friend fornaught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see theplay? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I'll do for theein the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then,say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind."
And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected linesin a high, reciting tone.
"Why, sir," cried Nick, bewildered, "it is a part!"
"To be sure," said Carew, laughing, "it is a part--and a part of a verygood whole, too--a comedy by young Tom Heywo
od, that would make a gravenimage split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part,good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow's play."
"What, Master Carew!" gasped Nick. "I--truly? With the Lord Admiral'splayers?"
"Why, to be sure!" cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping himupon the back. "Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad;thou art just the very fellow for the part--my lady's page should be apretty lad, and, soul o' me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shaltsing Tom Heywood's newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-songlike thine own."
Nick could hardly believe his ears. To act with the Lord Admiral'scompany! To sing with them before all Coventry! It passed the wildestdream that he had ever dreamed. What would the boys in Stratford say?Aha! they would laugh on the other side of their mouths now!
"But will they have me, sir?" he asked doubtfully.
"Have thee?" said Master Carew, haughtily. "If I say go, thou shalt go.I am master here. And I tell thee, Nick, that thou shalt see the play,and be the play, in part, and--well, we shall see what we shall see."
With that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he hadswallowed a water-mill, while Nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along thegrass beside the road, until presently Coventry came in sight.