The Shakespeare Stealer (7 page)

D
espite my exhaustion, I lay awake a long time that night, wondering how I could possibly survive another week of lessons until such time as
Hamlet
came around again. And how would I manage to transcribe it unobserved? I tried hard to think of some alternative.

Perhaps I could copy out the players' individual parts from their “sides.” The problem with that was that they had all learned their parts and seldom used the sides. What about the book used to prompt the players, then? But I had seen how diligently Sander guarded it, never letting it out of his hands, let alone his sight. At last my battered brain succumbed to sleep.

The following day, Sunday, the theatre was closed. I was grateful for the day off, and for the chance to sleep late. In truth, I slept only an hour or so past matins; then several of Mr. Pope's orphans invaded our room, begging for stories and horseback rides.

At first I refused. Bad enough to be called Horse by Nick; now I was expected to behave as one. But when the boys pleaded with me, tugging eagerly at my sleeve, it brought to my mind a picture of myself at that age, tugging at Mistress MacGregor's skirts as she handed out the contents of some charity basket. Grudgingly I let myself be pulled down onto all fours, straddled, and spurred by bare feet into a sluggish gait.

Sander, burdened with a pair of riders, glanced at me and grinned broadly. I shook my head in exasperation. “Make horsie noises!” my rider commanded gleefully.

“Nay!” I protested.

The boy burst out in giggles. “That's not how horsies say it!”

After church, Sander said, “We have the whole day and the whole city at our disposal. Where shall we go?”

“You decide.”

“Well, there's a zoo in the Tower, with lions and tigers and a porpentine, even a camel. But all they do is sleep. We could go to Paul's instead.”

“Who is Paul?”

“
Saint
Paul's. It's a cathedral. I'll pay for the crossing.”

Though a cathedral did not sound like the height of excitement to me, I had no better suggestion. It was another cobweb day, and by the time we crossed the Thames we looked as though we had swum it. Sander's spirits were not dampened in the least. His long legs carried him so swiftly up the hill that I had to fairly trot to keep up. At last we came to the huge cathedral which had attracted my awe the night of my arrival.

“St. Paul's,” Sander said. “The center of things.”

So now I stood in the center of the center of the universe. I stared about, openmouthed, like the greenest plow-boy. The chaotic courtyard of the cathedral was packed with people and vendors' booths. Voices hung in the air as densely as the misty rain. I felt the urge to hold my breath as we plunged into the sea of bodies.

“Keep a firm hold on your wallet,” Sander called over the clamor.

I laughed mirthlessly. “I've naught left to steal,” I said.

“You want to go up in the tower? I'll pay.”

“What's there?”

“A good view of the city. And a few bats.” The view from the top of Paul's was, indeed, a good one. Sander pointed out the roofs of the queen's London residence far off to the west, and the Tower prison to the east. Between the two lay more buildings than a man could count. The streets were as crooked and wayward as country streams, dissecting the city not into square blocks but into convoluted shapes of all sizes.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” said Sander.

“It's like a maze. How in heaven's name do you find your way about?”

Sander laughed. “It's easy, when you've grown up in it.”

“And you like it?”

“Of course. Don't you?”

“Perhaps I'm just not used to it yet.”

“You'll come to like it.” He put a hand on my shoulder. I was not used to being touched in a comradely way either, and I flinched. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget that the height makes people nervous.”

“Aye,” I said. “Let's go back down.”

The courtyard was no place for a person who was shy of being touched. I lost sight of Sander temporarily but caught up with him again at a bookseller's stall. “Here,” he said. “Have a look at this.”

Displayed prominently were a number of plays and poems written by “Wm. Shaksper.” “Is that our Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Of course.”

Eagerly I searched for a copy of
The Tragedy of Hamlet
, then realized that of course if it were bound and printed like these Simon Bass would never have gone to the trouble to send me and Falconer here; he would simply have bought one.

They say that if you mention the devil's name, he is likely to appear. As I turned away from the bookstall, I found that, by thinking his name, I had somehow conjured up Falconer, and to my dismay, he was headed directly for us.

I could not have said whether or not he saw me. As always, his hood sheltered his face. He was pushing his way impatiently through the crowd, but then he always did that. Perhaps it was not too late to avoid him. I plunged into the shifting maze of people. Sander shouted after me, “Widge! Where are you going?”

I did not bother to reply; I only pressed on, burrowing through the tangle of arms and legs like a hare through briars. At last I found daylight at the edge of the courtyard and turned to look back.

Falconer was a tall man, and I could see the tip of his hood bobbing through the crowd. “Gog's blood!” I murmured. He was onto me for certain, and he'd want the script, and perhaps my blood as well. No excuses, he'd said. There was nothing for me to do but run, and no way to run but through the cathedral graveyard.

Though I did not care for the company of dead folk, it was easier to make my way through them. I slipped as quietly as I could between headstones and crypts. The earth was soft from the rain and, in places, from being recently turned up. It gave way slightly under my feet, making me fear that if I did not move quickly, I would sink down into the realm of the dead.

Shuddering, I broke into a trot, never pausing until I reached solid ground. When I peered back through the drizzle, I thought I spied a dark figure weaving among the tombstones. I began to run again, with no goal but to get away. I trotted down one unknown street, then another, sending up sprays of water with each step.

Finally I sank exhausted onto a doorstep. If I hadn't lost Falconer by now, I never would. Unfortunately, I had lost myself as well. I had no idea in which direction Southwark lay. South, of course, but with the sun so well concealed, who could say where that was?

It stood to reason, though, that if I followed the water in the gutters and kept a downhill course, I would eventually run into the Thames as well. How I would get to the far side was another matter. I would have to cross that bridge, or lack of one, when I came to it.

As it turned out, my reasoning was seriously flawed. After only a few minutes' walk, I came to the massive wall that encircled the city. Even I knew that the wall did not run between St. Paul's and the Thames. But by now I was so disoriented that I kept on that street, which was at least broad and well traveled.

Finally I found the good sense to ask an old farmer to point me in the right direction. “Turn left at the next chance,” he said, “and follow your nose 'til you wets your toes.” I thanked him and hurried on.

The thoroughfare onto which I turned seemed innocuous enough at first, but after a time I noticed that each block was a bit more dismal-looking than the last. Before long the street began to seem less like the path to the river than like a descent into hell.

The prosperous merchants and busy tradesmen had disappeared, and in their place were coarse women and menacing men, bands of noisy, grimy children and scores of beggars.

Lining both sides of the street were ramshackle booths and huts constructed of any material that would keep out the weather—hides, sticks, mud. My impulse was to turn and retrace my steps, but I told myself that I could not possibly be far from the river now, so I kept on, dodging piles of muck.

I did not see the two youths until they were directly before me, blocking my path. My immediate impression was that they were large—large of body, with large grinning mouths and large daggers at their belts. Separately, each would have been daunting; together they were terrifying. I stepped back. They stepped forward. I stepped aside. They followed.

“Wh-what do you want?”

“What have you got?” one of them said.

“Naught but the clothes on me back.”

He fingered the hilt of his dagger. “We'll have that, then.”

I
took a few more backward steps, preparing to run. “You won't get far,” the boy said. “There's not a man or woman in sight that won't help catch you. We're all one big family here, you see. And we don't like strangers.”

“I was—I was just passing through.”

“Well, then you've got to pay a passing-through fee.” He drew his dagger. “Now, what will it be? Your clothing? Or your ears?”

“Neither,” said a voice behind them. The large boys turned, and I took immediate advantage of the distraction. For the second time that day I was on the run, and this time I was far from fresh. Hands reached out to stay me, but I was a confirmed Master of Dodging, and left them with a handful of air.

I expected at any moment to hear the boys thundering after me. Instead I heard my name being called. “Widge! Wait, Widge!”

I raced on, nearly blind with panic and fatigue. How had they learned my name?

“Widge!” the voice called again, high and clear. “Wait! It's me!”

I slowed and half-turned. The two bully boys were nowhere in sight. Instead a slighter and far more welcome figure was chasing after me. “Julian?” I gasped. I stumbled over some obstacle and fell to my knees, struggling for breath. Julian reached me and held out a hand. I pushed it away. “I can manage.”

“Yes, well, you wouldn't have managed if I hadn't happened to show up just then, would you? Come.” He guided me to a booth with grain sacks piled against it. “Mind if we rest here a bit, Hugh?” he asked the man within the booth.

“Anyfing you axe, m'dear,” the man said.

“You seem to be kenned here,” I observed when my breath had caught up with me.

“Known, you mean? I should hope so. It's where I was born and raised. Alsatia, we call it.”

“You grew up
here
?” I looked at our squalid surroundings, then at Julian, whose appearance and manner spoke of better things.

He shrugged. “There's worse places.”

“None that I've seen.”

“Watch what you say, or you may never leave—not standing up at any rate.”

I glanced about nervously and got to my feet. “I'll leave now, then, I wis.” I pointed down the street. “The river's that way?”

“I may as well go with you. It's only an hour or so until curfew anyway.”

“But you said you lived here.”

“No longer. Not since I began my prenticeship three years ago. I live with Mr. Phillips and his wife, now.”

“And your parents…they don't mind?”

Julian gave a humorless laugh, but said nothing.

I looked back over my shoulder. “How is it you escaped those two back there so easily?”

“They wouldn't dare touch a hair of my head. I've got friends here that would cut their ears off, and they know it.”

I rubbed at my own ears instinctively. “They came near to cutting mine off. I should thank you.”

“Yes,” he said. “You should.”

“Well,” I said. “Thanks, then.”

“You're welcome.”

I truly was thankful, but at the same time I resented the fact that he'd had to rescue me. Ever since I'd come to London, I'd been getting into situations from which someone else had had to extract me. I was weary of feeling foolish and helpless and useless. I had failed even to make fruitful use of the one skill I did possess—the art of charactery.

When we descended the rain-slick stairs to the water, Julian asked, “Do you have passage money?”

“Nay,” I said, feeling helpless yet again.

He handed a wherryman two pennies and four farthings. As we pushed out into the river, he said, “You can repay me when you get your wages.”

“You mean—I'm to be paid?”

“When you get through your trial period. It's only three shillings a week, but it's better than nothing. Although, come to that, I suppose I'd do it for nothing.”

“You would? Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, with a puzzlement equal to my own. “If you don't know, you won't make much of a prentice, much less a player.”

“I won't in any case.”

“Not with that attitude. The only ones who succeed are the ones who want it so badly that nothing will keep them from it.”

That was hard for me to imagine. I had never bothered to want anything that badly, for I knew it was no use. In the past few days, I'd gotten glimpses of a world very different from the one I was used to, a world I might have wished to be a part of but knew I never could. What was the good in longing for something you could not have? Life was full enough of disappointments, without making more.

Once on the south bank, Julian said, “You can find your way to Mr. Pope's from here?”

“I'm not wholly helpless,” I said indignantly.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

At Mr. Pope's house, everyone was seated at supper. Mr. Pope lifted his shaggy eyebrows in surprise as I entered. “Well. I supposed we had seen the last of you.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn't be the first prentice who's run off. Sander said you'd found your first day not quite to your liking.”

“That may be. But I'm not one to quit.”

He nodded and smiled slightly. “Good, good. Perhaps you'd best change before you come to the table. You look like a drowned cat.”

As I climbed the stairs to our room, Sander came up behind me. “Why did you run off like that? Is something wrong?”

“Nay,” I said. “It's naught.”

“You can tell me, Widge. I can keep a secret.”

For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to open up to him. But how could I? If I did, I would be burning both my bridges. I could never finish my mission for Simon Bass, but neither could I go on being a prentice, once they had learned the truth about me. I shook my head. “It's naught.”

He sighed. “I can't be your friend if you won't talk to me.”

“I never asked you to be my friend. I never asked for anything.” The moment I spoke the words, I regretted them, but I could hardly take them back. Besides, they carried a certain truth. I didn't want him, or any of the players, to be my friend, for I would only have to betray them. And yet some part of me wondered how it would be to have a friend, and to be one.

Blinking, Sander backed away, down the stairs. “Very well,” he said in a hurt voice. “I was only trying to help.”

I spent as much time as I reasonably could drying off and donning my old clothing, which had been washed without my knowing. When I came downstairs, everyone had left the dining room except Mistress Willingson, who cheerfully set before me a plate of food she had kept warm on the back of the stove.

My day of rest had proved far from restful, nor did I get much rest that night. Each time I fell asleep, I dreamed of a hooded figure pursuing me, and woke in a sweat. As we started for the Globe in the morning, I was heartened to see that, for a change, the sky was clear. But my small delight vanished when we arrived to find that our morning's task was to whitewash the roof thatch.

“Gog's bread!” I grumbled as we climbed the ladder. “Why does the thatch ha' to be made
white
?”

Sander laughed. “It's to keep it from catching fire again.”

“Would that it had burned to the ground,” I muttered.

Sander pulled up the bucket of whitewash. “What's that?”

“I said, would that we could do this from the ground.”

I stuck my long-handled brush in the bucket and made a few grudging passes at the thatch, then paused and looked out over the plain of red-tiled roofs below me. “Why did they not make this one of tile?”

“Too much of an expense.”

“Aye, and it won't cost them a thing if we breaks our necks.” As I made another careless swipe at the rough reeds, I spotted on the road below a cloaked figure that I momentarily took to be Falconer. So startled was I that I lost my hold on the brush. It skittered across the thatch and plummeted to the yard three storeys below. “Oh, Holy Mother.”

“What's wrong now?”

“I've lost me brush.” I stared gloomily after it. Half the yard was eclipsed from my view. Into the half I could see stepped a man with a large white splotch on one shoulder of his dark brown doublet.

“Who is that up there?” the man called.

“It's Widge!” I replied, in a voice as high and unsteady as my perch.

“Who?”

“Widge! The new boy!”

“Well, we don't need the yard whitewashed, Widge, nor the players.”

“Aye, sir.” I turned to Sander, who was holding a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. “It's not funny! It struck someone.”

“Who was it? Not Mr. Burbage, I hope?”

“I don't ken. A wight wi' long, dark hair and a pointy beard.”

Sander bit his lip and raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Oh, gis. Will 'a ha' me dismissed, do you wis?”

“Not very like. He's a bit prickly at times, but not mean-spirited. Best go fetch your brush.”

Before I climbed down, I took another look toward the road. Falconer—if indeed it had been he—was not in sight.

We whitewashed no more than the fourth part of the roof before the church bells rang terce, the hour for our lessons to begin. There were fencing exercises, made slightly more tolerable by the fact that Nick was gone—no one seemed to know where or why. After fencing, one of the hired men, a former apothecary's apprentice named Richard, instructed us in the art of painting our faces. As I sat before the looking glass brushing cochineal on my cheeks, a gypsyish-looking man with a high forehead and a mane of curly black hair came up behind me.

“A likely looking lot of lissome ladies, eh, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Very fetching.” Mr. Shakespeare glanced down at me. “Have a care, now. You don't want that brush to escape you.” I flushed with embarrassment. “There, you see, you've reddened your whole face.”

“I'm sorry about the whitewash,” I murmured.

“It will wash,” he said. “A pity it did not fall a bit to the left. You'd have saved me the trouble of whiting my face for today's performance.” His words puzzled me until I recalled his role as the ghost. So
Hamlet
was scheduled for this very afternoon, and here was I with no table-book in which to set it down. “That was meant to be a jest,” Mr. Shakespeare said.

“Sorry.”

He shook his head. “Thank heaven my audience is not made up of such sobersides. Sander, see that this lad is given instructions in laughing.”

Sander grinned. “Yes, sir.”

When Mr. Shakespeare had gone, Richard looked us over critically. “Very good, Julian. Sander, too much black about the eyes. You look as though you're consumptive. Widge, a little less whitewash next time, and smooth it out under your chin. Clean up now; it's nearly dinner time.” As we wiped our faces, he said, “It's sunny today, so wear a hat outside, else we'll be having to put a pound of white on, to hide the freckles. Remember, it's easier to tan a hide than to hide a tan.”

Sander elbowed me in the ribs. “Laugh,” he said.

As it happened, Sander would have done well to leave his face made up. When the time came for the performance, Nick failed to appear. Mr. Heminges came back and took the book from Sander's hands. “G-go and g-et yourself up in Nick's costume. D-do you know his lines?”

“I've a nodding acquaintance with them,” Sander said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

“Have the p-property master give you his side, and read from it if you m-must.”

“Yes, sir.” Sander hurried off.

Mr. Heminges looked after him, rubbing his forehead as though it pained him. Then he glanced over at me and, to my astonishment, thrust the book into my hands. “Widge, you'll hold the b-book. If anyone seems l-lost for a line, f-feed them a few words. Not a whole m-mouthful, mind you, just a t-taste, to start their chawbones m-moving. Can you do that?”

I closed my gaping mouth and said “Aye,” and he strode off to deal with some other crisis. For a moment all I could do was stare at the book in disbelief. All the fretting and scheming I'd done over how I would copy the play, and suddenly here it was, handed over to me in one piece, without the slightest effort on my part. All I had to do was tuck it under my arm and turn and walk out of the theatre.