(Friday, February 25th, 1600)
I would be the first to admit that I'm not a terribly good horse rider, and about a mile after leaving Ingatestone, I finally realized that my horse was favoring her right hind leg. Dismounting, I found that she had thrown a shoe, and while it wouldn't be a big problem on these dirt roads, in the long term it could lead to painful damage to her hoof, and the livery stable would certainly demand compensation from me when I change horses.
That was how I came to detour to Margaretting, the nearest village with a smithy. When I got there, three old men were sitting on logs in the shade of the barn end of the smithy while a "simple" lad busied himself chasing birds from the field beside the smithy. I asked the old fellows if the smith was also a farrier, and they laughed at me:
"No farrier, he. But a smith's no use in a village like this without he knows shoeing."
When the smith steps out of the workshop he calls to the lad chasing the birds and I watch in fascination as the boy gentles the horse almost as if they spoke the same language, while the smith sizes up the hoof that needs shoeing.
This is a fascinating process: first the surface of the hoof is pared with a sharp knife, and some dirt picked from the frog. I continue to watch patiently as the smith presses a hot metal shoe against the hoof making clouds of foul-smelling smoke, but my horse stands as calmly and patiently with her minder as if she were in her home stable. It takes a couple of returns to the ringing anvil inside the workshop to adjust the fit of the shoe and finally the smith twists off the protruding ends of the nails, rasping them flush to the wall of the hoof. The whole process has taken a little over an hour, not including time spent waiting.
When I get to the Saracen's Head at Chelmsford, it's late, it's cold, and I'm tired. But for once, I have a chance to talk to Will Kemp himself.
I ask Will Kemp what kind of jokes he uses, when he's not clowning. Of course, as he points out, most of the jokes he speaks on stage are written for him by the playwright, but
"I asked a painter of likenesses once 'how is it that your paintings are so fair, yet your children are so ugly?' 'Master Kemp' quoth he, 'I paint by day, but beget by night!'",
"John Nokes was driving his cart not far from here, and about noon, stopped to rest awhile. While he slept, thieves took his team, so that when he woke he exclaimed 'either I have lost my horses, or I have found a cart!'",
"What is't that a noble gentleman values so, that he wraps it in a silk kerchief, and keeps about him, yet a common beggar tosses away?"
When I admit to being stymied, he informs me "it is but the snot of their noses!"
Something about the way he tells it has me chuckling, and before I can regain my composure, he asks me if I would lend him my kerchief?
I pass it to him (it is clean, by the way) and he proceeds to stuff it into one nostril, then to my surprise (and mild disgust) draws it out of the other.
Before I can ask him to return it, he inserts it into the other nostril, sneezes a great sneeze, crosses his eyes, and proceeds to draw my kerchief from his right ear!
When Tom Slye his taberer joins us with a round of drinks, Will's eye catches a couple of wooden buckets standing in a corner, where the potboy left them after cleaning. Feigning drunk, he staggers across and trips on an imaginary uneven flagstone, landing with each foot in a bucket. Then quickwitted Tom (who presumably has had plenty of experience of Will's humor) strikes up yet another morris, and Will clumps the buckets to the tune of Bean Setting, a scene which puts me in mind of Gene Kelly's impeccable choreography in the 1949 musical, On The Town.
References
Humor in Kemp's Day To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it
here and [submit].
By the time we reach the outskirts of St.Edmundsbury the lowering sky has started to snow lightly: tiny tingling flakes that catch in my eyelashes and hair. And my fingers are numbly grasping the reins, scarcely feeling inside my gloves. And the crowds here are busier than anywhere we have visited so far. I learn later, that Sir John Popham, the Lord Chief Justice of the realm was entering the town at the same time, by another route and as the crowds cleared a path for the honorable gentleman, most of them made haste to gawp as Will Kemp danced and frolicked his way into the town, being forced to pause seven times before he could reach the Angel Inn opposite the abandoned abbey.
