The Shakespeare Stealer (8 page)

E
veryone else in the company was occupied with some task. No one would notice. And yet, what if they
did
notice? My intentions would be obvious, and all chance of completing my mission would be lost. I turned toward the door, hesitated, turned back, started for the door again—and encountered Sander sweeping from the tiring-room, dressed as Hamlet's mother.

“How do I look?” he asked anxiously, pushing at his voluminous wig.

Far from calm myself, I gave him a cursory look up and down. “Well enough, I wis. Wait. Your sleeve's coming off.”

“Pin it on, would you?”

“Yes, very well,” I said irritably. The task required both hands, and I glanced about, wondering what to do with the play book. “Here.” I handed it to Sander.

“Make haste,” he begged. “I'm due on the stage.”

“I'm trying!” I snapped, fumbling with the pins. “Why don't they just sew these on?”

“You can change the dress about this way, put different sleeves on. Have you got it?”

“Almost.”

There was a flourish of trumpets above the stage. “It'll have to do. There's my cue.” He started for the stage entrance.

“The book!” I whispered urgently.

He shoved it into my hands and dashed for the doorway, tripped himself up in his hem, recovered, hoisted the skirts in a very unladylike fashion, and burst through the curtain onto the stage.

“Ah, Gertrude,” the king said. “So glad you could join us.” The audience guffawed at this spontaneous addition to the script. The king then launched into a speech that promised to be lengthy. Time to go, I thought.

Suddenly the king broke off, his arm upraised, as though frozen in place. I froze, too, aware that something was amiss, but not quite sure what. A few snickers arose from the audience. The king cast a perturbed glance in my direction, and I realized he had forgotten his line.

I yanked the book open. Before I could locate the proper passage, Laertes closed the breach: “Sorry to interrupt, my lord, but I beg your leave and favor to return to France.”

I looked about anxiously, certain that someone would swoop down to snatch the book from my incompetent hands. But everyone was too busy to notice. If I had had the sense that God gave sheep, I would have made my escape at that moment. But the king had another attack of forgetfulness. This time I had the book open to the place. “Take thy fair hour!” I called out, too loudly, drawing another snicker from the audience. The king snatched up the cue and ran with it. Behind his back, Sander made a gesture of approval at me. I couldn't help smiling.

Ah, well, I thought; I can just as easily stay and help out here, and still slip away before the finish of the play.

When the scene was over, Sander came to where I stood. “How did I do?”

“Whist!” I said. “You'll make me lose me place!”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” he teased. “Come now, truly. How was I?”

“You were magnificent,” I said dryly. “You fairly lit up the stage.”

He delivered a most unqueenly swat to my arm. “You dolt!”

“Ouch! Will you go faddle wi' your pins or something, and let me do me job?”

“All right, then. It's plain I'll get no useful criticism from you.”

“You don't want criticism. You want praise.”

“Suppose I do. It would scarcely kill you.” His voice had lost some of its jesting tone.

“What do you care what I think?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Oh.” I thought of how my words had stung him the day before. “Aye.” I dropped my gaze to the script, as though it might provide my next line, but it was of no help.

Just then, the rear door of the playhouse flew open, and Nick burst in, disheveled and panting. “Am I late?” he gasped.

“By about half an act,” Sander said.

Nick glared at him. “What are you doing in my costume?”

“Playing your part, actually.”

“Well, take it off!” When Sander made no move to comply, Nick tugged at the bodice. “Did you hear me, Cooke? Get out of my costume!”

“Soft!” I said. “You'll be heard out there!”

“Go eat hay, Horse.” He turned back to Sander. “Do I have to shake you out of it?”

“You're in no shape to go on,” Sander said, calmly. “You've got a bit of a beard, for one thing. And, from the smell of your breath, I'd say a bit of beer as well.”

“I'll beard you,” Nick growled. He yanked at the bodice, pulling loose the hooks at the side. Sander stumbled backward and tripped on the hem. His head struck the edge of the stage doorway with an audible thump.

I had been doing foolish things with great frequency the past few days—and most of my life, for that matter—and I now did another. I swung the heavy bound book into the small of Nick's back. He let out a grunt of pain and turned on me, like a baited bear turning on the hounds. He lashed out at me, and the blow would have caught me full in the face had I not been so adept at ducking. Instead, it glanced off the top of my pate.

Before he could swing again, he was seized from behind by Jack, the cannoneer. “What's going on here?” Jack demanded in a loud whisper.

Nick shook loose from him. “He's trying to steal my part.”

Jack scowled at me. “You, eh? I knew you was up to no good.”

Sander got to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. “It's me he's accusing, Jack. Nick, if you're not here, somebody has to go on for you, you know that.”

Mr. Armin hurried up. “What are you boys doing? Your clamor carried all the way to the tiring-room. Nick, where have you been?”

“I overslept,” Nick said sullenly.

“Until nones?” He looked the boy over distastefully. “Go home. You're obviously not fit to perform. We'll discuss your fine later.”

“I've nothing to pay a fine with. I lost it all at dice.”

“We'll take it out of your future wages, then—if there are any. Go on, now.” Mr. Armin waved a hand at us. “Back to work, boys. You're doing well, Sander. You too, Widge.”

Though it was small enough praise, it took me off guard. I was as unaccustomed to praise as I was to having a friend, or being one. The pleasant feeling it gave me was unaccustomed, too, and gave me a small hint of what the players must experience when the audience applauded their efforts.

For the first time, Jack noticed that I was holding the play book. He snatched it from my hands. “What are
you
doing with that?”

“Mr. Heminges gave it to me.”

“Well, I'm taking it back. I don't trust you.”

“But you can't—!” I started to protest. Sander pulled me away.

“Let it be. No point in making another commotion.”

“But that was me job!”

“Don't worry, you'll have it back soon enough.” With a grin, he whispered, “Jack can scarcely read his own name.”

I made no reply. There was no way I could tell him how important that book was to me, or why. As I headed for the tiring-room, I cursed myself for having hesitated and lost my best chance to hand the book of the play over to Falconer. I would have to keep him waiting yet a while, and he was not the sort who would relish it. Nor, I thought, was he the sort, when I finally did deliver, to praise me for a job well done.

I
n the tiring-room, Mr. Heminges was putting more white in his beard for his part as Polonius, and Mr. Shakespeare, dressed all in armor, was touching up his ghostly white makeup. Mr. Heminges gave me a startled look. “Wh-where is the b-book?”

“Jack insisted on taking it over,” Sander answered for me.

“Lord h-help us.”

“Still,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “it's better than I feared. In view of his habit of dropping things, I expected that Widge had let it fall into Hell.”

“Hell?” I echoed.

“Our word for the cellar beneath the stage.” Sander leaned close to me. “Don't listen to him. He's just heckling you.”

“I ken that.”

Mr. Heminges sighed. “I'm due on the stage. We'll settle this later.” He dusted the excess powder from his beard and started for the door, pausing long enough to say to Mr. Shakespeare, “You wouldn't care to t-trade duties for a t-time, would you, Will? I'll write the p-plays, and you run the c-company?”

Mr. Shakespeare considered a moment. “I suppose that's no more absurd than letting Jack hold the book.” He turned his gaze back to the looking glass. The man who played Laertes came into the room and struck up a conversation with Sander. I let my thoughts wander, and my eyes with them.

Because of his helmet, I could not see Mr. Shakespeare's face directly, only his reflection in the glass. He had finished repairing his ghostly pallor and now sat staring at his reflection, not as if assessing his appearance, but as though the looking glass were a scrying glass and, like the gypsies he resembled, he was seeing into another time or place. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he was preparing his next play in his mind, even as he prepared himself physically for this one.

Before I could look away, his gaze caught mine in the glass. He frowned. “Do you have nothing better to do than lounge about in the tiring-room?”

“Well, I was to hold the book, sir.”

“Then you should have held it more firmly.” He rose and strode from the room, his armor clanking.

“What was that about?” said Sander.

“I hardly ken. Was 'a truly cross wi' me, do you wis?”

“You can't tell sometimes, with him.”

“That's so,” said the man who played Laertes. “He's a hard one to know. They say that, in his younger days, he was a good companion—and he still can be on occasion. But much of the time he's withdrawn and pensive. If having a touch of genius also means having so strong a dose of melancholy, I'll settle for merely being extremely talented.”

“And extremely conceited,” Sander said. “By the by, you two haven't met, have you? Widge, this is Chris Beeston. Not so long ago he was a lowly prentice like us.”

Beeston held out a hand, which I took hesitantly. “Widge, eh? You're the one who made me do a little jig to cover for Henry when he dropped his lines? How is it you're not out there now, holding the book?”

“It's not me fault!” I said. “Why does everyone fret so about the book?”

“Because,” Beeston said, “they have a way of ending up in the wrong hands if we're not careful.”

“What do you mean?” I said, though I knew well enough.

“He means sometimes they get stolen,” Sander said.

“Oh?” I did not care for the direction this conversation was taking. “Who would want to steal a play?”

“Other theatre companies.” Beeston leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I've heard it said that's why Will Kempe left the company. They say he made off with the book of
As You Like It
, and sold it to a touring company in Leicester.”

“Leicester?” I said, my voice sounding strained.

Beeston nodded. “The man who runs the Leicester company was with the Chamberlain's Men for a time, back when I was still doing girls' parts—a fellow named Simon Bass.” I had feared this was coming, and had my face ready so that it did not betray me—or so I hoped. “He gave me my first fencing lessons.” Beeston held out his right hand. “I've still got a scar there, where he struck me. I never knew him well, but there was always something about him that didn't go down right. I never quite trusted him. One thing I will admit, he knew more about makeup than anyone else in the company. His Shylock in
Merchant of Venice
is one of the most astounding transformations I've ever seen. But then, perhaps it wasn't all acting.” His voice became even softer. “They say his name is really Simon Bashevi, and he's a Jew himself.”

“A jewel?” I echoed. The others burst out laughing. “What?”

“A
Jew
,” Beeston said. “Don't you know what a Jew is?”

“Of course. I heard you wrong, that's all.” In truth, the concept was hazy in my mind. I knew that Falconer had killed a man for calling him one. To mask my ignorance, I repeated what Falconer had said. “There are no Jews in England. Only former Jews.”

“Well, that's so,” Beeston said. “After what Lopez did.”

Though I had no notion who Lopez was, I nodded knowingly. It was not until a month or two later that I learned how Dr. Lopez had tried to poison the queen and been executed, and how all other Jews had been forced to renounce their religion or be banished.

Sander jumped up from the bench then, as suddenly as if stuck by one of his dress pins. “The cock crow!”

“The what?”

“The cock crow! Come!” I followed him from the tiring-room. “I missed the first one while I was dressing, and Jack is sure to forget this one.” Jack stood by the stage entrance, peering at the book as though he'd lost his place long ago.

He gave us a sullen glance. “I don't need no help.”

“I wasn't offering any,” Sander told him. “I've come to do the cock crow.”

“I can do it well enough,” Jack said. “Where is it?” He ran a finger down the page. “Cock crows. There. Off with you, now.”

“I've practiced it,” Sander insisted. “I'll do it.”

“I know how to crow!” Jack said.

On the stage, Mr. Shakespeare gave the cue in his hollow ghost's voice: “Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me.” Both Jack and Sander opened their mouths. One let out a sound reminiscent of a squalling baby; the other sounded uncannily like a stuck pig. Either by itself would have been startling; together they were positively unnerving.

I shook a finger in the ear that had borne the brunt of the noise. “Do you truly wis that's how a cock sounds?”

“I suppose you can do it better,” Sander said.

“I'm a country wight, remember? I ken what a cock sounds like, and that's not it.”

Jack scowled at me. “As it so happens,” he said, “this was a
Danish
cock.”

Sander and I looked at one another, then broke into fits of laughter. We had to stagger back to the tiring-room holding our hands over our mouths and close the door, lest we infect the audience. It had been a long while since I'd laughed so freely, if indeed I ever had.

By all accounts, Jack did not furnish a single word to assist the poor players, who were forced to invent or to omit whole passages. He was not permitted to hold the book again. Neither, unfortunately, was I—not because I was not trusted, but because our book keeper recovered and resumed his duties. So I had no further chance to carry off the script.

I could not honestly say that I regretted it. The longer I stayed with the company, and the longer I was away from Falconer, the less incentive I felt to complete my mission. I had not forgotten the reward promised me, but that, too, prompted me less and less. All I had was Bass's word in the matter, and judging from what Chris Beeston had said, his word was not worth much. One thing I did know from hard experience: a master's promise to a prentice is likely to be redeemed only at the last Lammas, as they say—which is to say never.

When a week went by, and Falconer had made no attempt to contact me, I convinced myself that he had lost patience and returned to Leicester, to report to Simon Bass. Still, I stuck close to the theatre and, in my free hours, to Mr. Pope's. Though Falconer was impatient, I had the feeling he was used to getting what he wanted, one way or another.

I applied myself to my daily tasks and lessons at the theatre and, to my surprise, began to actually enjoy them. Dr. Bright had trained me as a man might train a dumb beast, through repetition, reinforced by beatings. Here the method was different. We were given credit for some intelligence. We were expected to learn each technique quickly and to practice what we had learned on our own until it became second nature.

At the end of that week, I was, to my astonishment, given a small part to play, that of the Messenger in
The Spanish Tragedy
. “I have a letter to your lordship,” I was to say, and “From Pedringano that's imprisoned,” and then “Aye, my good lord.” That was the extent of my role. I swear by Saint Pintle that I practiced those lines a thousand times at the very least. I believe I may have repeated them in my sleep.

Sander bore with me and the infinite variations I employed in saying my lines, and my inability to say the name Pedringano properly, until he could bear it no longer. One morning as I stood before the looking glass in our room saying, “Perigando. Predinago. Pedigango,” he reached the limits of his tolerance.

“Widge! For all the loves on Earth! What will you do when they give you an entire speech?”

I stared at him in dismay. “Oh, gis! Do you think they will?”

Sander began to laugh. “What did you just say?”

“I said, will they give me a whole speech?”

“No, you didn't. You said, ‘Do you
think
they will?' Not do you
wis
, but do you
think
.” He slapped me on the back, and for a change, I did not flinch. “My boy, I believe you're turning into a Londoner.”

“Gog's bread,” I muttered, not knowing whether to be pleased or alarmed. “I hope not.”

The play was to be put before an audience on Wednesday. Tuesday night I scarcely slept. Toward daybreak, as I sat up, reading in the half-light one of the ballad-sheets on the walls, Sander woke and peered drowsily at me. “What are you doing?”

“Fretting, mostly.”

He clucked his tongue. “It's only three lines, Widge.”

“All the more cause to fret. An I say them wrong, I'll ha' no chance to redeem meself.”

Sander sighed. “Do you want me to play the lines for you?”

“You've a part of your own.”

“I can play more than one. It's done all the time.”

“Nay. Nay, I'm not one to quit. I'll do it—somehow.”

He yawned and lay back down. After a moment, I said, “It gets easier, doesn't it? Playing a part?”

Sander did not reply. He had fallen asleep.

Eventually I succumbed to sleep myself and woke with the sun on my face. I shook my head to dispel the dream that had filled it. In the dream, I made my maiden entrance upon the stage, and the audience at once broke into gales of applause and laughter. Pleased at having created such a sensation without opening my mouth, I smiled and bowed deeply—to discover that I stood before them
in puris naturalibus
, that is to say naked as a worm.

“Oh, Sander, what a dream!” I said. But Sander was not in bed, nor in the room. Then it came to me that if the sun was up, I should be too, long since. I scrambled into my clothing and hurried downstairs. Goodwife Willingson was feeding the smaller children. “Good morning, Widge!” the boys chorused.

I gulped a bowl of porridge, burning my mouth in my haste, and excused myself. “God buy, Widge!” the boys called after me. I paused long enough to wave to them. Their enthusiasm made me smile as I closed the door and set out for the theatre.

A hundred yards or so from the house I became aware of another set of footsteps behind me, even swifter than my brisk pace—some fellow player late for morning rehearsal, I guessed.

As I turned to see, a hand seized the neck of my tunic. I was dragged to the side of the road, hoisted like a sack of grain over a low hedge, and flung on my back in the grass.