Chapter Text
At his seat in the box at the top of the Globe, the Doctor could see everything.
From the crowd of groundlings in the yard below, pressed up against the stage and piling out the exits, to the royal box directly opposite him – unoccupied as always - the full expanse of the Globe was laid out for his viewing. The best part was, of course, his complete aerial view of the stage allowing him to witness the show that was this afternoon’s performance of The Taming of the Shrew .
Ever since Shakespeare had begun writing, the Doctor had been reading his work. He had a deep admiration for the complex characters and stories, and enjoyed contemplating the issues the Bard brought up. When the works began to be performed, the Doctor had been overjoyed and made it his business to go and see every play. The company, The King’s Men, always produced fantastic stagecraft in the form of colourful sets and heartfelt performances. The highlight of the shows, however, were the actors themselves.
On this occasion the actor playing the female lead, Katherina, was no exception to this. He was short and feisty, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, and gave the shrew a life and desperation that the Doctor had never seen conveyed before. Clothed in a dress of dark purple, his formal attire contrasted vastly to his long, dishevelled hair - a wig of course - that was knotted and sticking up in odd places, demonstrating the difference between Katherina’s high social standing and her ghastly personality. Dressed thusly, the actor made a very convincing and attractive woman. If he saw him on the street the Doctor might have mistaken them for one, but onstage even the female characters were played by males.
Petruchio’s actor, the male lead, on the other hand… well, the Doctor thought he was surprisingly substandard. He had heard others rave about this production and the strength of the leading actors, Oswin Oswald and Danny Pink, yet here was a Petruchio with very little energy or intent whenever he delivered his lines. He was currently stumbling through a monologue that the Doctor wished he would deliver faster, knowing from his studies of the script that Katherina was to come on stage once he had completed it. She would liven things up.
“But here she comes, and now, Petruchio, speak.”
Katherina finally came onto stage after that line and the audience’s attention was drawn back to the performance. The murmured conversations in the pit halted and the rest of the audience sat up straighter, their eyes bright with anticipation. Petruchio continued, addressing the other actor.
“Good morrow, Kate, for that’s your name I…” But Petruchio did not finish his sentence, as he slumped forwards off his chair and fell to the ground. When he failed to rise, the audience resumed their murmurings, unsure if this was part of the play or not. After a glance at Katherina’s face, the actor’s eyes wide in shock, the Doctor knew better.
This was neither part of the play, nor was it something added for comedic or dramatic effect.
The Doctor rushed to the back of his box and out down the stairs, his mouth becoming dry as the possibilities of what had happened to the actor ran through his mind. He was heading for the backstage entrance, from which he knew he could enter the stage. It would certainly be faster than pushing through the groundlings in the pit.
Though ‘the Doctor’ was his title, it was one that surfaced through his academic study and he did not have any specific medical background. That being said, it was likely that he would be much more qualified to help the poor man than any of the menial labourers and craftsmen amassed at the foot of the stage, their murmured worries now turned into fearful shouts.
Finally, the Doctor made it onto stage, and rushed towards the actor - Danny - on the floor. He was no longer motionless; he was sitting up, his whole body in spasm with wrenching coughs producing blood from his gaping mouth. The Doctor ran behind him to avoid contact with the blood and grabbed his shoulder to angle him downwards while pounding his back in an attempt to clear his airway.
Danny collapsed back to the ground once more and the Doctor knew his attempts were to no avail. He pressed his fingers to the actor’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. If he were still alive, perhaps the Doctor would be able to rush him off to one of the healers he knew, but he had still not yet found a pulse and his hope was lessening with every passing moment.
“Can you save him?” A voice next to him asked, somehow managing to be heard over the raging commotion of the crowd. The voice surprised him for it was quiet and delicate, compared to the loud, commanding tone the actor had taken up when playing Katherina. The Doctor slowly removed his hand from the now rigid actor’s neck.
“I’m sorry… he’s gone.”
The actor, Oswin, bit his lower lip. He took in a deep breath, his expression hardened.
At that moment, William Shakespeare himself decided to grace the stage with his presence, his long brown cloak swooping across the ground in his wake. He raised his hands in the air, calling for silence.
“Ladies and gents! I am terribly sorry for this mishap! The performance cannot continue this afternoon, but please feel free to come back for the performance five days anon - no extra costs will be charged!”
Some people were silent, shocked at the event they had just witnessed. Others were shouting, demanding to know what had happened. A select few were raging at the injustice of the cancellation, but in lieu of everything, the Doctor found himself unable to care enough about their complaints to pay them any heed. Hopefully, members of The King’s Men would shuffle them out of the theatre before they could harass them any further. The last thing they needed at this moment was to be dealing with angry members of the public.
Oswin turned to William in anger.
“A man has just died, William, you call this a mere ‘mishap? ’”
“I very much understand the severity of the situation, but the audience doesn’t need to know that. This is theatre, Oswin, and the show never stops. We never stop being players.”
Oswin sobered but the anger never left his eyes. William gestured for them to follow him offstage, away from the evidence of the horrific scene that had just played out.
“Thank you for trying to help, Doctor,” William said when they reached a room backstage. “Danny was a good lad, but had been feeling poorly for days now. The blood sprites must have finally caught up with him.”
The Doctor bowed his head. Oswin fisted the edge of his dress in his hands, eyes like fire, expressing his anger at the situation and how William was failing to properly acknowledge it. William turned to Oswin.
“Oswin, this is the Doctor. Don’t ask me why he’s called that, it’s some academic nonsense. We’ve been friends for eons. Doctor – Oswin.”
The pair eyed each other briefly in greeting.
“The Doctor’s a great fan of all my work; he studies it intensely for some reason! Not sure why anyone would want to do that when you can come and see the plays at any time, but there you go,” William said as he chuckled at himself. The Doctor was less amused. Oswin had been silently fuming throughout William’s exposition and now looked ready to erupt. The Doctor quickly spoke up before he could.
“Not that I don’t appreciate this, Will, but shouldn’t we be discussing more serious matters?”
Oswin looked to him approvingly, yet his body was still tense. William inhaled sharply.
“Egad! You’re right, ‘tis but a smaller business in comparison to the momentous problem we are facing!”
The Doctor relaxed slightly. William was finally showing some sense, albeit in a nonsensical way.
“Who will fill the role of Petruchio?” He continued, “you are absolutely right Doctor. This is a disaster!” He gasped dramatically. “How will we be able to continue the production! No one knows the lines, let alone the staging, the actor relationships…”
William began pacing back and forth, mumbling under his breath, off in a world of his own.
The Doctor could not believe he was taking a fatal matter this trivially, and, by the look of Oswin’s dagger eyes, he felt the same way.
“I think he was actually referring to Danny’s death, Will,” Oswin stated, his tone accusatory. William continued his pacing, clicking his fingers together as if it would help him come up with an idea, seemingly not hearing.
“Could Jack play him? Oh no, he has to tend his pub during performance hours,” William mused, shaking his head.
Oswin turned to the Doctor, his tone biting. “We had better find him a solution to the Petruchio problem or we’ll be here all day.”
The Doctor nodded. He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by William.
“What about Matthew? He would be perfect for the role! I’ll contact him at once -”
“Matthew’s moved back to Stratford, Will,” the Doctor interjected, hands gesturing in the air in exasperation. William’s face fell, and he began running his fingers through his hair.
The Doctor was finally able to turn back to his conversation with Oswin, “You know the actors of London better than I. Can you not think of anyone who could -”
“Doctor!” William announced, cutting him off with a flourish of his hands, “You could play Petruchio!” He sounded as if he had plucked gold from the cobblestones. The Doctor inhaled sharply.
“What! I’m not an actor, I’m just a scholar,” He protested, eyes popping out of his face as his brows ascending towards his hairline, his mouth opened in shock.
“Hum, but those can go hand in hand my friend. You’ve studied the play, and I’m willing to bet you know the lines. Why shouldn’t you play Petruchio?”
For so many reasons, Will, the Doctor thought.
“Surely there are those… better suited to the role than I,” he said instead.
The Doctor still could not believe that they were discussing this. Danny’s body was lying outside on the stage. They should be doing something about that, not debating with Will as to his suitability for an acting role!
“Better suited? This is acting; if you do not ‘suit’ the role then you pretend you do, and off you go! Oswin, what are your thoughts?”
Oswin groaned in frustration, but went on to answer, knowing that this was the only way to shut the man up.
“We don’t have many options, but don’t you think he’s a little…” he lowered his voice, “upper class?”
Shakespeare scoffed, and the Doctor’s eyebrows and mouth lifted into an amused smirk - the fact that Oswin had chosen to bring up that particular argument brought him a great deal of mirth. He had brought up a fair point though. Actors were usually from the middle class. The aristocracy did not work and the groundlings hadn’t the time nor skills to work as actors.
“Hah! I think you’ll find that won’t be an issue. The Doctor is much more, ah, lenient when it comes to social hierarchy than others of his status,” William countered with a smile.
“That being so, you know my views of this play, Will. It’s enjoyable viewing, but Petruchio in particular… it just wouldn’t sit right if I were to play him.”
William let out a lengthy sigh. This had been a point of debate between the two of them ever since he had written the damn play.
“Doctor, I am simply displaying society as I see it! Put your strange moral views and personality aside and you are the perfect man for the job. Please. You would be far superior to any other I could hire.”
The Doctor quickly considered his options, well aware of the fact that they really should be doing something other than discussing new actors. It would be below his social standard to accept the proposal, yet social norms had never dictated his behaviour in the past and certainly wouldn’t now. William had been a good friend to him, and he was right; apart from the moral strain, the job wouldn’t have any negative effects on him.
He glanced towards Oswin to see if he could read his opinion on the matter, but to no avail. He was fiddling with his wig, looking to be lost in a world of his own.
In the end the Doctor came to his decision, partly just to put a hold on Will’s tongue.
“Fine, I’ll finish off the rest of these performances - but that’s it!” he conceded.
“Excellent! We’ll start rehearsing tomorrow, bright and early. The next performance is in five days so we had better get cracking since we’ve only got a short amount of time to teach you the staging and create some chemistry between you and Oswin.” The Doctor’s eyes met Oswin’s, both of them sceptical. “Well if you’ll excuse me, I have a body to dispose of.” And with that, the great Shakespeare rushed from the room with his usual dramatic flare, back onto the stage to Danny’s body.
The Doctor and Oswin were left alone, shocked at his careless words.
“Judging by the fact that you’re not exasperated by the way he’s behaving after all this, I’d guess you’ve known him a while,” Oswin said, his tone resigned.
“Indeed I have. He’s a strange man, absent minded but a certified genius,” he replied, and this was an apt description considering the Bard’s recent actions. A thin smile graced Oswin’s face, but his eyes were now clouded and withdrawn.
“I know what you mean. Working with him, it’s like being swept up in a whirlwind. He’s constantly yelling directions at you and it’s all you can do just to keep up. When he would take our rehearsals, Danny and I…” he trailed off, forced once more to remember the blood and saliva that caused Danny’s death.
“I look forward to it experiencing that,” the Doctor said softly, acknowledging the weight of death that lingered in the air now that WIlliam had left.
Oswin nodded, looking down to his feet. He attempted to change the topic to something more palatable.
“What you said before, about your views of this play and Petruchio. What did you mean ‘it wouldn’t sit right for you to play him?’”
The Doctor wrung his hands together and sighed in exasperation.
“William and I have some disagreements as to the motives of certain characters. He’s the writer of course, but a fictitious text can be interpreted in any way regardless of the author’s contention.” The Doctor straightened and licked his lips, his jaw set.
Oswin nodded slowly, his eyes glazed in contemplation. The Doctor wondered if, playing Katherina, he was aware of the issues to which he was referring. Or perhaps he was simply considering the day’s disastrous events.
“That makes sense,” he replied eventually, “It was good to meet you but I’ll be going now. Someone should go visit Danny’s family…” He trailed off, and the Doctor could tell that Danny’s death was affecting him more than he had been showing. It was clearer now in the way he held himself - shoulders sagging slightly and head down - and in his lethargic speech, than it had been previously when his anger and then William’s flamboyance had overshadowed the grief.
“Adieu, Doctor,” Oswin finally said before exiting the room.
“Adieu, Oswin.”
Later that evening, after many a discussion with William about how he should go about playing Petruchio, the Doctor found himself wandering through the back streets of London on his way home.
It was quite late at night - Will had a liking to frequent the pub and on this case had dragged him along - and the Doctor had thought he would take a more scenic route home. He enjoyed walking without purpose, taking the time to order his thoughts that were very jumbled after the day of emotional undulation. He was passing down a street that he couldn’t remember entering before, when he heard a soft voice.
“That’s right Courtney, keep going,” said the voice.
This was followed by another, younger voice speaking in reply. The Doctor moved closer to the building the voices were coming from - a small, decrepit house, with the wooden roof in varying states of decay and the window frames sagging. The original voice continued and the Doctor felt a niggling sensation at the back of his mind; this voice was familiar to him.
He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying except for a few choice words, and yet the Doctor was sure he recognised the first voice. He approached the window and peeked inside. Neither his view of the back of a short woman that the light of the moon was falling upon, nor the silhouettes of many smaller people, probably children, surrounding her succeeded to satisfy his curiosity. Perhaps the woman was looking after the children, yet the Doctor didn’t know anyone who partook in such activities - especially not in a rundown house like this one.
Unable to work out who the woman was, the Doctor was about to turn to continue on his way. He should be getting home to bed to ensure he was ready for rehearsals with Oswin, he thought.
The Doctor stopped mid-turn. Oswin. The voice reminded him of Oswin’s.
But how could that be? The Doctor turned back towards the window and surveyed the scene once again. The adult was wearing a plain frock - lower-class but most certainly feminine. When he listened closely her voice carried the same intonation as Oswin’s but it was higher in pitch. Perhaps she was a sister? A cousin? Or perhaps the Doctor was imagining the whole thing. After all, it was rather late at night.
The Doctor turned away for the second time, and shaking his head in bewilderment at the antics of his imagination he continued walking down the street.
If he had heard the abrupt, feminine gasp that emerged from inside the house as the occupiers ran to the window to observe his departure, the Doctor showed no sign.