Shakespeare's Scribe (20 page)

He left us a substantial sum, of course, but it has dwindled rapidly, for we have been obliged to pay a physician to tend Mr. Pope, who has fallen ill. The doctor calls it a stroke, and is bleeding him regularly. Goody Willingson and I are doing the best we can with the boys and Tetty, but I do not know how much longer our food and our funds will hold out. I know that the company may well be in reduced circumstances, too, but if there is any way you can send us even a pound or two, it would be a great relief.

Your obt. svt.,

Alexander Cooke

When I had finished reading, my fellow players stood in shocked silence a moment. Then Mr. Armin said, “What date did he put on the letter?”

“Twenty-four July.”

“And this is the third of August. They must be in desperate straits by now.”

“The quickest w-way would be for one of us to t-take the money to them,” said Mr. Heminges.

“I'll do it,” I said at once. “Except for Sam, I'm the smallest and lightest.”

Mr. Armin placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for the offer. We really should have a more experienced rider, though—and a more experienced swordsman, I suspect, for there may be bandits along the way.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Heminges. Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Phillips nodded.

“I'll depart immediately after the play, then,” said Mr. Armin.

I stared at him incredulously. “
After
the play? Why not now?”

“Two hours cannot make much difference.”

So distressed was I that I forgot all my resolve never to put my place with the company in peril by complaining or quarreling. “How do you ken that?” I said. “They may be starving even as we speak! Suppose they've run out of money to pay the physician?”

“We're players,” said Mr. Armin. “We have a performance to give.”

“Is a performance worth more than a life, then?” I cried.

“We're merely to act, when we should be taking action?”

“That's enough, W-Widge,” said Mr. Heminges.

I turned to him. “If none of you will go, then send me father.” Mr. Heminges shook his head. “Why not?” I demanded.

He seemed about to reply, and then Jamie Redshaw came around the curtain and set the gatherer's box down with a thump. “The audience is growing restless,” he announced. He looked around at our solemn and strained expressions. “Is something wrong?”

“We'll explain later,” said Mr. Heminges.

“Oh. Very well.” Wincing, Jamie Redshaw hefted the box. “I'll take this back to the inn, then, and add it to the treasury trunk.”

“G-good. Widge, g-go and get your play book, and we'll begin.”

Though there was far more I wished to say about the matter, I feared I had said too much already. I clamped my mouth tight shut and, like a good prentice, did as I was told. I took my place in the wings as prompter until my time came to go on the stage. But tears of frustration
stung my eyes so that, when Ned Shakespeare needed to be told his lines, I could not make out the words upon the page.

Though the actors said their speeches with unprecedented speed, the play seemed interminable. The moment Mr. Armin delivered his last line, he strode from the stage, tossed off his costume, and donned his street garb. I should have assisted him, I suppose, but I was too angry with him still.

As I was changing from my costume, it occurred to me that, if I could send a note of some sort with him, it might help cheer Sander and the others. Without even pausing to put away my wig and costume, I dashed from the theatre and down the street. I ran directly to the stable at the inn, supposing I would find Mr. Armin saddling one of the horses.

I supposed wrong. As I emerged into the yard, I saw that the door to our common sleeping room stood open, so I scrambled up the gallery stairs. When I burst through the doorway, I came upon a scene so unexpected that, despite my breathless condition, I gave a startled gasp.

Mr. Armin knelt on the floor next to the limp, sprawled form of Jack, who was clearly unconscious—or dead. My immediate thought was that his illness, which I had taken to be minor, had been worse than I suspected. And then I caught sight of the treasury trunk, which sat close at hand. Its hasp was twisted, its lid nearly torn from its hinges, and there was not a single coin within. Next to it sat the gatherer's box, every bit as empty.

24

G
og's wounds!” I gasped. “What's happened?”

It was a foolish thing to say, for it was perfectly clear what had happened. Someone had assaulted Jack and made off with all our money. Mr. Armin did not bother to state the obvious, but said, “He's alive; I can feel a pulse in his neck. Help me lift him onto his bed.”

As I hurried to take hold of Jack's legs, I got my first good look at his head as well. It lay in a pool of blood. When we had him laid out upon the mattress, I said, “I'll fetch some water and some bandages:”

“Can you manage alone?” asked Mr. Armin. “If I'm quick, I may yet be able to catch the thief.”

“Aye,” I said, “go on. The others will be along shortly anyway.” I ran down to the main room of the inn to fetch a ewer of water. As I was returning, Mr. Armin emerged from his room with a sword strapped to his side.

I was almost glad to have the duty of tending to Jack, for I did not care to think too much about the implications of what had happened. For one thing, if all the contents of the trunk were gone, that meant my mother's crucifix was gone as well. Even more troubling was the realization that, if the gatherer's box was here, then Jamie Redshaw must necessarily have been here, too.

I pushed these thoughts aside and forced myself to concentrate on Jack's wounds. He had been struck on the side of the skull with some blunt object—just one blow, as best I could determine. If it had been two inches lower, it would have hit his temple and most likely been the death of him. As it was, the effects were bad enough. The blow had torn loose a patch of his scalp, and the blood was welling steadily from the wound. If I was any judge of head injuries—which, in truth, I was not—the skull was surely fractured as well.

The first order of business was to stanch the bleeding. Gingerly, but rapidly, I clipped away the matted hair with a scissors from our
medicine chest, plastered the flap of skin back in place, laid a pad of cloth on it, and bound the wound up tightly.

Before I had quite finished, Will Sly and Sam came trampling up the stairs, laughing over some incident from the afternoon's performance. They broke off abruptly when they saw the state of the room. “The devil take me!” said Will. “We've been robbed!” His eyes fell on Jack's unconscious form. “Is he dead?”

I shook my head. “Not yet, but near to ‘t, I'm afeared. ‘A's leaked enough blood to fill a piggin.”

“Have you any notion who did it?” asked Sam.

I did not wish to be the one to mention my father's name in connection with the crime. Nor, it seemed, did the others. Without a word, Will bent and examined the bare trunk and the gatherer's box. Then he stood and glanced at the doors to the room, both of which stood open. “The doors were this way when you arrived?”

“Nay. I unbarred the inside door to go downstairs. But the door to the gallery was wide open.”

Will picked up the wooden bar, which was intact. “This door hasn't been forced. That means Jack must have unbarred it from in here. And that means—” He hesitated.

“It means,” said Mr. Armin, who at that moment appeared in the doorway, “that whoever came to the door must have been someone well known to Jack.”

I swallowed hard and said, “You—you saw no sign of the thief?”

“No,” he replied quietly. His eyes met mine, and I saw something like pain in them, or pity. “But,” he went on, his voice softer still, “I did find this, just outside the entrance to the inn yard.” His right hand, which had been concealed by the doorframe, came forward, and in it was a wooden walking stick. The lion's head on the handle was barely visible, caked as it was with half-dried blood and tufts of human hair.

I shrank back from the sight, not wanting to look at it, yet unable to take my eyes away. “Nay!” I cried. “It can't ha' been him, I'm certain of it!”

“I wish I could believe that,” said Mr. Armin. “But look at the evidence.”

“You look at it! You want it to be him! You've always disliked and distrusted him, from the day ‘a joined the company!” I whirled and ran down the inside stairs, through the main room of the inn, and out into the street.

I stood there a moment, looking around frantically, for what I was uncertain—for some way out of this situation, perhaps. I wanted to run
away, but there was nowhere for me to go. I wanted to find Jamie Redshaw, to ask him for an explanation, to warn him, but I had no notion where he might be. If he truly had played some role in the robbery—though I did not wish to consider that possibility, I must—then he would surely have fled or gone into hiding.

I began walking away from the inn with no destination in mind, only the desire to distance myself from Mr. Armin and from Jack's still form, from the empty money boxes and the bloody walking stick. I spotted the other sharers coming toward me, on their way back from the theatre. Abruptly I turned onto a side street. I could not bear to be the one to tell them all that had happened. Better to let Mr. Armin do it, I thought bitterly; he would get more satisfaction out of it.

As I turned another corner, I all but collided with Ned Shakespeare, who was emerging from an apothecary shop with a pouch of smoking tobacco. “You're in a hurry,” he said. “Who's after you?”

“Ha' you seen me father?” I demanded.

“Not since before the performance. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if you found him at the sign of the Three Tuns.” He gestured down the street. As I strode off in that direction, he called, “What's he done, robbed the box again?” I ignored him and broke into a run.

Ned was right. Jamie Redshaw sat at a table in the Three Tuns, intent on a game of primero. As I slid onto the bench beside him, he gave me a glance that did little to make me feel he was happy to see me. “Checking up on me, are you?”

“Nay,” I said breathlessly. “I need to talk wi' you.”

“Later, then.” He laid two cards face down and was dealt two more.

I felt tears spring to my eyes and fought them back. “It's always later, isn't it?” I cried, my voice sounding choked and shaky. “This can't wait!”

He gave me a longer look now, his eyebrows raised. Then he turned back to his companions and laid his hand of cards on the table. “Prime, gentlemen. I'll collect my money in a moment.” He took me aside. “What is it?”

Now that I had his attention, I was uncertain what to say. “The—the money,” I managed. “It's gone. They think—they think you took it.”

I had hoped for a reaction from him that would demonstrate his innocence—surprise, confusion, perhaps indignation at being falsely accused again. Instead, he scowled and muttered, “Damn! Are they on their way here?”

I shook my head slowly, but it was less a response to his question than it was an attempt to clear the muddled thoughts in my mind, or perhaps to deny them. “I—I don't ken,” I stammered. “I believe they think you've fled.”

“And so I should, I suppose.” He returned to the table and began to gather up his winnings.

I stood where I was a moment, dazed and dumb, and then tagged after him like a desperate beggar hoping against hope to be given some small bit of charity yet. “I can't believe—” I started to say. Then I broke off as the front door of the tavern was flung open and two men strode into the room. From his leather jerkin, I took one of them for a constable. The other was Mr. Armin.

Avoiding my gaze, he pointed an accusing finger directly at Jamie Redshaw. “That's the man.”

The constable drew his sword and stepped forward. “You may as well come along peaceful, sir,” he said, “and make it easy on yourself.”

Jamie Redshaw hesitated, jiggling his coin-filled purse in his hand as if debating whether to turn and run or stay and fight. I watched him anxiously, uncertain which course I would have him choose. He chose neither. Instead, he shrugged and said, “This is poor timing, you know. I was winning for a change.” Then he moved forward to meet the constable, who lowered the point of his rapier and smiled a little, obviously relieved that his prisoner did not mean to resist.

I felt a rush of relief as well, but with it came a sharp pang of disappointment that he would give himself up so meekly. Even if he was guilty, he might salvage some honor by putting up a fight or at least attempting to escape. But, I reminded myself, without his stick he had nothing with which to fight.

That situation changed abruptly. As the constable ushered his prisoner toward the door, Jamie Redshaw crowded him a bit. The officer knocked his knee against one of the benches. Before he could regain his balance, Jamie Redshaw swung his heavy purse upward in a swift arc. It caught the constable on the chin and sent him reeling backward. In an instant, Jamie Redshaw had seized the man's sword by its guard and brought the handle down across one knee, breaking its owner's grip.

Mr. Armin unsheathed his sword and came to the constable's aid, but a moment too late. Jamie Redshaw had turned to face him with the stolen rapier held at broad ward. “I've disarmed you before, and I'll do it again,” warned Jamie Redshaw. “Let me pass.”

Mr. Armin's reply consisted of a single word: “No.” Then he closed in and their two rapiers clashed. Jamie Redshaw had no more to
say, either; clearly, all of his concentration was taken up with turning aside Mr. Armin's blade as it darted in all directions, threatening first an edgeblow to the legs, then a
stoccata
to the stomach, a downright blow to the pate, an
imbrocata
to the chest.