The True Prince (13 page)

A pair of roving minstrels had set up near Ludgate, accompanied by a wild-looking girl selling ballads. She dressed like an Egyptian, in a striped skirt and bright scarves, with dark coils of hair springing loose from a band about her head. “News!” she sang to passersby, beating a hand drum. “Hear our song of the gentleman bandit, the latter-day Robin Hood!”

One of the minstrels struck up the ballad, with a tune and words I had never heard:

Our master had paused to buy strawberries from a vendor, allowing us to hear the ballad out. The tune was lively and the tale comical, especially when the gentleman bandit held his victim at the end of a pistol barrel:

Ballads often tell of true events, but I suspected this one was highly decorated, if not run up out of whole cloth. By the end of the tale I was watching the gypsy girl, now busily selling copies of “The New Robin Hood” for a halfpenny apiece. Though not exactly clean, she was pretty in a foreign way that took time to appreciate. She smiled at me, just as Robin broke into my straying thoughts. “Suppose the Lord Chamberlain has somewhat against us? Suppose his son was on a spying mission today?”

I sighed and put an arm around him as we followed our master. “It may do you good to recognize that the world is bigger than the stage.”

He looked at me in surprise, as though this thought had never entered his mind.

Banished Honors

nly a few weeks remained until the plague season of midsummer, when London theaters would be closed for fear of spreading disease. The Company hoped to perform
Henry IV
at least three more times—but on Monday, the arrival of a herald from Whitehall cast that plan in doubt. He carried an official complaint signed by Henry Brooke, the son of the Lord Chamberlain. John Heminges assembled the Company on the stage to hear it read aloud. Though the document was perfumed with rose water and flowery phrases, its meaning stank.

Brooke regretted the occasion of this message, but the honor of his family lay at stake. He would have it known that Sir John Oldcastle was his revered ancestor, a brave and worthy gentleman of famous memory. The character presented in the Company's latest play was such a foul
slander that Brooke was forced to protest. He reminded us, as though we needed reminding, that his father, Lord Cobham, was the Queen's Lord Chamberlain and would be deeply saddened to make the acquaintance of the scurrilous blot masquerading as Oldcastle on our stage.

So much for my assumption that Oldcastle could wreak no vengeance on us from the grave. I had forgotten one thing from Reverend Foxe's reference to him: his title was Lord Cobham. As Master Heminges read, the threat in the message darkened until it hung over us like a storm cloud. “Who
is
this Oldcastle fellow, then?” Edmund Shakespeare asked his brother. “I thought you made him up.”

“You should read more, Ned,” Master Will replied. “I don't make people up, I only … enhance them.” He went on to explain the character and history of the real Oldcastle, who sounded nothing like the Sir John we had come to know.

“If this is slander,” fumed Master Burbage, “it can't be laid to you alone. You submitted the play to the Revels Office, as always, and it was approved. If the Lord Chamberlain had wanted to raise an objection, he could have raised it then. Besides, wasn't there a rogue Oldcastle in that old play
Famous Victories
?”

“I took the character from many sources,” replied Shakespeare, “plucked from many gardens to make one odiferous bouquet.” I had to smile at that, guessing that the fragrant Captain Penny had made one of those blossoms.

Thomas Pope, who had been unusually thoughtful, spoke up now. “There's bad feeling at court. You know how they war against each other, Essex's crowd and Burghley's. And the Queen plays both sides. Essex is still smarting that she gave the Chamberlain's post to old William Brooke, instead of to our patron. The young Brooke is Burghley's son-in-law, you see, so Essex takes it as a personal slight—the Queen's rewarding his enemy. That's what the skirmish we saw on our stage was all about—an Essex man using our Oldcastle as ammunition against the Brookes.”

“And he scored a direct hit,” laughed Will Sly, “—against us!”

“What does Brooke expect of us?” one of the younger men burst out. “Write Fat Jack out of the play? Or make him over into this spotless Protestant saint?”

“Let them try. I'll cut their sniveling complaints right out of their throats.” Will Kempe, ever the clown, drew his dagger and struck a mock-heroic pose. No one laughed.

“If we were to tamper with Oldcastle,” Master Condell said thoughtfully, “all of London would swarm the stage and hang us from the ceiling struts.”

I glanced up and pictured the Company thus decorating the rafters. It may seem strange that no one reproached the play's author, who knew all about Oldcastle's famous memory and had slandered him anyhow. Perhaps he was registering his own disapproval of the Queen's choice for Lord Chamberlain. At any
rate, once they had accepted a play, the Company regarded it as their common property. That meant it was also their common responsibility, and when Master Will spoke again, his words carried no more weight than Richard Burbage's. “There may be no need for tampering with Oldcastle. I'll send a letter to the esteemed Henry Brooke and tell him we receive his correction and will gravely consider all avenues of recourse.”

“Like this one.” Will Kempe bent over as if in a humble bow, then put his hands on his hips and made a very rude noise. That finally won him a laugh, and the Company broke up for rehearsal in a slightly better humor.

In the midst of packing our goods between theaters and offending important men at court, ordinary plans went forward, such as putting together the summer tour. Our lease on the Curtain ran to the middle of June, after which our only source of revenue would be a small company touring the provinces. Six or seven players and two apprentices would make up the roster. Masters Heminges and Shakespeare would not be going this year, the former because he hoped to make Giles Allen see reason over the summer, and the latter because he was under great pressure to write the second part of
Henry IV
. Even the dogs in the street were baying for it, he claimed, and this was very nearly true. But he also snatched at the opportunity to escape to his house in Stratford, where his wife and two daughters lived.

Of the apprentices, Kit would make one. The other we expected to be Robin, but he received a welcome surprise when his flighty mother remembered to ask for his company at her country home in Kent. Davy was too young, and as for me, I had received permission to return to my hometown in Lincolnshire. Over a year had passed since I had seen my sister Susanna, and her letters to me had taken a carping tone. I will admit to wanting to see her, carping or no, and longed to fill my lungs again with country air instead of the thick, moldy soup that hung over London throughout July and August. That left Gregory, who could make no good excuses, even though he let me know that the thought of spending eight weeks in Kit's company turned his stomach.

Thus our troubled season limped toward its end. The landlord met all the Company's legal charges with charges of his own, until the case grew so tangled that it was laid aside for the fall term. The Welsh Boy continued to hang on me, an ever- increasing weight as the days passed. If I stood still too long, he would come and brush against me like a cat; if I was sitting, I would sooner or later feel his elbow in my side or his shoulder tucked against my arm. And Kit simmered on in skirts. Some spark was missing, though—the power and conviction that had made his duchesses and queens linger in memory. I asked Gregory if he had noticed and received a snort in reply. “If his edge is a little blunt, it's because he's been wearing it away each night.”

Kit's haggard face on certain mornings seemed to bear this out. Apparently Richard Cowley was not keeping a close watch over him, but the others soon would, if he began slurring lines or stumbling over his feet. One morning during rehearsal he became tangled in his own skirt and almost fell. “Are you drunk?” John Heminges demanded sharply. Showing up drunk for rehearsal was a serious offense, costing the offender an eightpence fine.

“No, sir,” Kit replied, with enough conviction to stave off the fine. But then he added, “Not
yet
, sir,” with enough sarcasm to make Master Heminges bristle. By all appearances, he had lost his appetite for success on the stage. But something could still move him, as we discovered on the day of our last performance.

The play chosen to end our summer season in triumph was
Henry IV
. Shakespeare had smoothed the ruffled feathers of the Brooke family by a simple device: Instead of changing the fat knight's character, he changed his name. Henceforth, the rascal would be known as Sir John Falstaff.

The morning of the performance promised fair; we knew our parts and knew our play, and no gentlemen had announced plans to attend. A well-filled house would fatten up the treasury and send the touring players off with money for the road, while the rest of us could look forward to some breathing space. With less than an hour left until performance, Robin and Gregory jested with each other, I found a quiet place
to go over Lady Percy's lines, and Kit (suited up in breeches and hose again) paced off the tiring room and picked at his dry lips. He was wound tight, but seemed no tighter than usual— that is, until a messenger appeared.

Visitors in the tiring rooms were discouraged—a score of players changing costumes and searching madly for a misplaced crown or sword do not take kindly to outsiders standing in their way. But the man in blue servants' livery simply crossed the stage and walked through one of the doors before anyone could stop him. Once in, he went directly to Kit and delivered a message—and a gift.

“From one who wishes you well,” said he, “and prays that certain high expectations will not be disappointed.”

He made a bow, offering a black velvet pouch in his open hand. Tributes from admirers, especially ladies, were fairly common: mostly scarves or flowers or scented notes. Kit received the greatest number of tokens, but this looked like more than a token. The presentation and wrapping suggested a piece of jewelry, or a sum of money. Kit inclined his head in reply and took it with a quick, almost furtive motion. His face turned so pale that his lips, in the dusty light of the tiring room, looked gray.