The Shakespeare Stealer (10 page)

I
considered walking on past the property room and out the rear door. What kept me from it was the thought of Falconer. If I had to answer to someone, I preferred that it be the person least likely to cut my throat.

I halted before the property room door, like a condemned man at the foot of the gallows. Mr. Heminges sat within at a table, writing figures in a ledger. He looked up and beckoned to me. “C-come in, Widge. I'm just d-doing accounts. My least favorite d-duty, but a n-necessary one.” He sprinkled sand on the fresh ink, blew it off, and closed the ledger. “N-now. I understand you were in a b-bit of t-trouble last night.”

My stomach knotted up. “Aye. But it wasn't me own fault—”

“I know that. T-Thomas gave me a full account.”

“Thomas?”

“Mr. Pope.”

“Oh.” How could Mr. Pope have known about my attempted theft? Had he been the one who locked me in the room?

“This is a serious p-problem, but not an unusual one.”

“It's not?”

“N-no. In f-fact several of our prentices have done the same.”

“Truly? What did you do to them?”

“D-do to them?” Now it was Mr. Heminges's turn to sound bewildered.

“Were they not punished?”

Mr. Heminges laughed. “For running off from their m-masters? If we t-took on only those b-boys whose masters have agreed to hand them over, we'd b-be rather short on p-prentices. M-most would as soon hand them over to the d-Devil.”

It came to me then, almost too late, that we were talking of two entirely different matters. I was concerned with what I'd actually done, and he with the lie I'd concocted to cover it. I hastened to scramble out of the hole I'd dug for myself. I shook my head glumly. “Me master seemed bent on having me back.”

“This is England, not China. A man has the right to choose his own p-path. If you truly wish to stay on here, and p-prove yourself able, we will stand with you. If your m-master comes for you, we will offer him the usual f-fee to b-buy off your obligation, and he may take or l-leave it. But we'll see that he leaves
you
, in any c-case. Does that suit you?”

I nodded, so taken aback by this offer of kindness where I had looked for wrath that I could scarcely speak. “Aye. It does indeed.”

“Good. G-go back to your lessons, then.” I turned to go. “Oh, by the by. They tell me you m-managed to deliver your three lines without f-fainting yesterday. We'll have to try you with four or f-five next time, eh?”

“I don't ken, sir. I'm not sure I could bear it.”

He laughed, taking this for a jest, and I let him. “One more th-thing, Widge. I've f-fancied all morning that I smelled something r-rotten, as Mr. Shakespeare says, but my n-nose isn't what it was. Do you smell anything?”

I did indeed, but it took me a moment to recall what it was—the helmet I had used as a chamber pot. I felt my face go red. “A dead rat, most like,” I said, and quickly turned away.

For the second time that day, I had been made to feel that I was among people who cared about me and my welfare. My guilt at the thought of betraying him and the rest of the company came back, stronger than ever.

They would stand with me, Mr. Heminges had said. But he said it without knowing the true source of my troubles. If anyone came after me, it would not be Dr. Bright nor my current master, Simon Bass, who might be willing to listen to reason. It would be the formidable and unreasonable Falconer.

I did not wish to endanger anyone in the company, yet my only means of keeping Falconer at bay was to stick close to Mr. Pope's or to the theatre, where Falconer seemed reluctant to set foot. For the next week I saw no sign of that dread hooded figure, but this time I did not fool myself into thinking that he had gone away. I kept a vigilant watch, sometimes rising in the small hours of the night to gaze out at the moonlit lanes and hedgerows.

“Widge,” Sander said one day on our way to the Globe. “We're friends, aren't we?”

“Aye,” I said, and felt I spoke the truth.

“Then will you tell me please why you always glance about so nervously? You look like a dickey bird in a yard full of cats, as Mr. Pope would say.”

“It's naught. I'm not used to the city yet, that's all.” There was some truth in that, too. But it was also true that I no longer found the landscape of church spires and grimy tenements so strange. London speech no longer felt so foreign on my ear or on my tongue, and I'd learned to ignore the clamor of its streets.

“You know, five minutes' walk in that direction”—he pointed south—“brings you into the country. And tomorrow is our idle day.”

The prospect of an afternoon in the fields and woods was tempting—until I thought of Falconer. “I don't suppose you'd care to come along.”

“I don't mind. I've nothing against the country.”

To my relief, Julian agreed to join us. The larger the company, the safer I would be. I stopped short of inviting Nick, though. Not that he would have gone anyway. It was obvious that he no longer considered himself a prentice. He avoided our company, preferring to spend his time with his drinking companions, mostly hired men from the less reputable theatre companies. When forced to rub elbows with us boys, he put on superior airs.

That morning, during fencing instruction, Mr. Armin and Mr. Phillips were wanted downstairs, and Nick interpreted this to mean that he was in charge. “All right now, line up here and let's see what sort of scrimers you are.”

“Take a walk in the Thames,” Julian told him and turned away.

Nick stepped in front of him. “I said we'll see what you've learned. Would you prefer to demonstrate against the wall, or against me?”

Julian considered a moment. “Well, I'd say the wall has more wits.”

“It's too bad you're not as quick with your sword as with your tongue. I think you've all been playing at girls too long. That's what you look like, with your mincing steps and your polite little cuts and thrusts. And you—” He gave Julian's stick a blow with his own. “You're the worst of the lot. You'd best stick to dancing.”

Julian's face, always pale, had gone white, and his eyes narrowed. “I'll dance on your grave, you sot,” he said, and came on guard.

Nick smiled nastily, as though this was what he had been waiting for. He brought his stick to high ward, seeming to invite a thrust from Julian. When it came, he stepped aside and struck Julian on the collarbone. Julian staggered, his face drawn with pain.

Nick stood calmly waiting for the next move. Julian feigned another
stocatta
, then performed one of the
passatas
we had practiced so interminably. His stick caught Nick beneath the breastbone. He let out a grunt of surprise and pain.

His mood changed suddenly. He set upon Julian like a Tom 'a Bedlam, striking edgeblows, downright blows, blows which had no name. “You'll hurt him!” I shouted and flung my stick at Nick's legs. It served only to anger him more. “Do something!” I told Sander.

Sander stepped forward with his stick raised. “Nick! Stop now!” He might as well have told the wall to stop standing there.

Being small, I had never been one to solve a problem by a physical attack. I preferred to talk my way out of things or to perform Cobbe's Traverse, that is to run. But Nick would not listen to reason, and running would only leave Julian to his fate. He had rescued me, and now he needed my help. My fencing skills were no match for Nick's, so I fell back on the method of defense that every child of the orphanage learns—catch-as-catch-can wrestling.

I at least had the advantage of surprise. I threw myself at Nick's legs, and all his weight collapsed on me. The first principle of wrestling is to hang on to your opponent come what may, so I clung to Nick's breeches like a leech, though he kicked madly and pummeled my back with his fists.

I felt his struggles suddenly grow more desperate and lifted my face to see why. Julian had his stick pressed against Nick's throat-bole. The more fiercely Nick struggled and clawed, the more pressure Julian applied, yet Nick refused to yield.

“That will do!” a voice rang out. “Let him up!”

Julian cautiously removed the stick, and I disentangled myself. Mr. Armin stood scowling at us, but under the mask of disapproval I detected a hint of amusement. I wondered how long he had stood observing before he interfered.

He offered a hand to Nick, who ignored it and got unsteadily to his feet, rubbing his windpipe and glaring at us like some trapped and wounded beast.

“If you're quite done trying to kill one another,” Mr. Armin said, “we'll continue with our lessons. Not you, Nick,” he added as Nick retrieved his singlestick. “They'll be wanting you downstairs, to rehearse
Love's Labour's
.”

“What part?” Nick growled, his voice sounding choked and weak.

“Dumaine.”

Nick stared at him. “A man's part?”

“Do you imagine you can pass for a girl with that voice? It sounds as though Julian squeezed the last drop of sweetness from it.”

Certainly there was no sweetness in the glance Nick threw us as he left the room.

“If Nick is to take on men's roles,” Mr. Armin said, “that will change things for you boys as well. Sander, you and Julian will begin studying Nick's old roles. Widge, you'll be given some of Sander's duties, and his smaller parts. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, sir.” I tried to sound confident.

He raised his eyebrows. “What happened to ‘aye'?”

“I'm trying to civilize me speech
—my
speech.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “A pity, though. Soon you'll sound the same as all the rest of us.”

As we returned to our lessons, Julian said, “That was a brave thing you did.”

I shrugged. “You were no coward yourself. I was afeard you'd thropple him.”

“It'd be no more than he deserves.”

“That's so, saying we fight like girls. I daresay 'a's never had a girl do such as that to him.”

Julian gave me a curious look and seemed about to say something, but Mr. Armin interrupted. “We're not doing voice lessons, you two! Lay on!”

Our country outing next day was more in the nature of a rehearsal at first. Sander and Julian brought along the sides they needed in order to learn Nick's old roles. The brief bits I inherited were not worth the bother of a separate side. I merely jotted them down as Sander recited them.

Without thinking, I wrote them in Dr. Bright's charactery. Julian peered over my shoulder. “What sort of writing is
that
? I thought Mr. Shakespeare's hand was hard to read.”

“Ah…it's just…something of me own invention.” I tried to tuck the paper into my wallet, but Sander plucked it from my grasp.

“Let me see.” He turned the paper this way and that, frowning. “Can you actually read this?”

“When it's right side up.” I tried to retrieve the paper, but he kept it from me—an easy task, considering our relative heights.

“No, no. Wait a bit. This is amazing, you know. You can write out anything in this fashion?”

“Well, no,” I lied. “It's rather slow going, in truth.”

“Slow?” Julian said. “You wrote out those lines as quickly as Sander said them. A trick like that could be really useful. Why, you could copy down the plays of the Lord Admiral's men, word for word!”

“
Steal
them?” I said.

Julian shrugged. “They do it to us.”

“That's because our plays are better than theirs,” Sander said. “Not much point in our copying their weak stuff, is there?”

“I suppose not. All the same, there should be some use for that writing of yours, Widge. You should show it to Mr. Heminges.”

“What?” I said, disguising my real dismay with mock dismay. “And saddle meself wi' yet another duty?”

Sander laughed. “He's right. We'll keep mum about it. Right, Julian?”

“I'm not one to give away others' secrets,” Julian said.

The day was too fine to spend it all on lines. Goodwife Willingson had packed a cold meal for us, and we chose an inviting spot in the shade of an ancient oak. When I had had my fill, I stretched out and watched the clouds, as I had so often done in the meadows about Berwick.

“Look at him,” Sander said. “He's in his element. We'll have to truss him up and carry him back to the city like a captured deer.”

I turned my head to make some lazy reply, but it was stopped in my throat by the sight of a dark-clothed figure coming down the road. My face must have reflected my alarm, for Julian said, “What's wrong, Widge?”

“Someone's coming,” I breathed.