The True Prince (15 page)

o that's that,” I told Starling as she cut parsley in the garden just before dinner. A soft, summery breeze carried the shouts of the Condell children, who were playing Hoodman Blind over by the gate. My head had finally cleared, though Kit had left a knot on the left side to remember him by.

“I'm wondering just what those ‘expectations' were,” she mused.

“For his performance, I suppose—what else?”

She did not answer directly. “If I had known about the message to Kit beforehand, I could have kept a close watch on the patrons in the gallery. It would have been a welcome distraction from Mistress Critic, who was talking down Master Shakespeare as always. She puts me in mind of Ben Jonson.”

Master Jonson was Shakespeare's closest rival, who
claimed to love him like a brother but criticized him no end.

“What else could the expectations be?” I asked again.

“I think this goes beyond the stage. Here's a lad who's known for meeting every mark set for him. He could hold an audience spellbound from the age of eleven. He's been commended by the Queen more than once. Granted that playing the man may set him back a little, but it shouldn't drive him mad. Mark my words: something else is gnawing at him.”

This was not especially helpful. I swatted irritably at a cloud of gnats. “He could have waited until
after
the tour to go mad.”

She straightened her back, her apron full of parsley. “The tour will be good for you. It will shape you into a well-rounded player.”

“Just now I don't wish to be any kind of player at all.”

“But you are, whatever your wishes.”

“Stop smirking. And stop managing my life.”

“I am doing neither. Do I have to tell you what should be plain?” I didn't answer, but she told me anyway. “You are the next Kit Glover.”

At this, some line of restraint gave way. “I am no one but myself!” My voice came out louder and higher than I intended— almost a screech—and we stared at each other, equally startled. Then I ran off to join the others in their game of Hoodman Blind, vigorously dodging Ned Condell as I dashed in among them.

What advantage in being the next Kit Glover, if eventually it caused me to snap in the same fearful manner as he had done that day?

“TAG!” Ned Condell yelled in my ear. “I've got Richard.”

“You must learn to pay attention,” Alice teased as she tied the blindfold around my eyes. “The rest of us won't be so easy to catch.”

She meant this as a jest, but I took it to heart. If the events of the last two months had proved anything, it was that I should be paying attention.

For most of the next day I was engaged by the Company, helping to haul costumes and properties from the Curtain to storage apartments in Eastcheap. Gregory let me know how delighted he was by the change in the tour roster, and Robin kept to himself; I gathered that his efforts to reason with Kit the day before had ended badly. The other players all seemed to have their minds on crates, boxes, and carts and how many of them it took to move a theater company.

This constant shuffling of properties was beginning to wear on everyone. Tempers ran high in the heat and dust, with cries of “That was my toe you trampled on!” and “Watch where you set that box!” ringing out frequently. Trying to lighten the mood as we hauled a crate up the stairs, Master Will remarked, “What think you, Richard? If we fail to win our theater back, should we set up as Lord Hunsdon's Movers?”

I made an effort to smile. “Perhaps, sir. We could have moved the Theater itself by this time.”

“Hah!” His expression shifted. “That's a notion—”

At that moment the tiring master bounded up the stairs at twice his normal speed, squeezing past us. “Master Burbage, a word with you. I was sorting costumes for the tour, and 'tis my sad duty to report that the black satin doublet with the copper lace is missing.”

Richard Burbage shoved a wardrobe crate against the wall (“Ow!” came from behind it, and directly Ned Shakespeare emerged limping). “What's this?” he growled, wiping sweat from his brow. “Have our costumes taken a notion to move themselves?”

“Nothing else seems amiss and we can thank the Lord the item in question is of little value, except for its being black. Black dyes are expensive, you know. I had best search these boxes.”

Wearily, Burbage waved a hand. “Have at 'em.” To Master Heminges he added, “John, I pray thee—I beg thee—please bring Giles Allen around, else I shall go mad, like—”

He broke off his own comparison, but in the ringing silence everyone heard what he had meant to say: “Mad, like Kit Glover.” What else could have explained the headlong fall of the prince of boy players? Kit was a fresh wound in everyone's memory, and his name was banned by unspoken consent until that wound healed.

Once the moving was done, only a few hours remained for me to sort out my things and roll them up in a bag supplied by Mistress Condell, then write a letter to Susanna telling her not to look for me this summer. It would add another black stroke to her opinion of players, but I had never managed to change her opinion on anything; no point in trying now. Starling had made herself scarce all day, and I wondered if her feelings were still hurt over my outburst in the garden. But that was not the reason. When the household gathered very early the following morning to see us off, she caught hold of my hand and drew me aside. Master Condell was bidding farewell to his wife and children, and no one appeared to mark us.

A little breathlessly, she said, “I have a thing here for you.”

She had made a shirt. “You need more clothes on a tour, because it's harder to keep everything clean. It's not much,” she hurried on, before I could speak. “I had that piece of linen lying about. If you no longer need it on your return, I'll cut it down for myself.”

That piece of linen had probably not been “lying about” for long, and while not of finest quality, it was good enough to have cost her something. Not to mention the sewing time, which must have kept her up well past midnight. “Thank you.” I was honestly touched.

She nodded, and we stood awkwardly, both afflicted for the moment with wordlessness. “I will miss you,” I said, realizing
how true it was. She and I had not been apart for as long as a day since we'd met.

“And I you.” Suddenly she took hold of my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and darted away, like the bird she was named for. I just stood there, blinking, until Master Condell called, “The day's a-wearing, Richard! We must be off.”

For all my dread of it, the tour was not so bad. At the very least, I breathed my fill of country air.

Our daily pattern seldom varied: after rousing early from a dusty straw mattress in a fly-specked inn, one of the players would saddle up and ride to the next town. There he would spread word of our approach by reciting a few speeches in the streets and sometimes getting into a public wrangle with local Puritans—both equally good for our fame. Meanwhile the rest of us loaded our two carts and set out in the same direction: Burbage, Condell, Sly, Cowley, Phillips, Kempe, Ned Shakespeare, Gregory, and me, all acquiring a uniform coat of road dust on the way. Master Burbage's dog loped along beside us, a hound named Crab—who would have his own role to play.

By the time of our arrival, the town would be in high expectation and some public space would be cleared for us. Usually this was the inn yard, an area enclosed on two or three sides, with the upper level of the inn forming a gallery for the town gentry. There among the horse dung and heaps of hay, we set up a rude platform for a stage, washed ourselves at the pump,
took a long drink of the local ale, and laced each other into costume. The play began as close to three o'clock as we could manage.

Sometimes a local squire who knew our reputation would welcome us to his estate and put us up in comfort; twice a village refused to have any truck with wicked players, and we were forced to make camp along the highway. If the distance between towns was greater than ten miles, we might spend two days in travel. But generally it was road, inn yard, inn; road, inn yard, inn, as the days boiled down to a common stew.

We were not the only players on the road—many of the beggars and madmen we met were masters of the craft. They produced their own sores and wounds with a mixture of unslaked lime and iron dust, with soap to make it stick—a revelation to me, but the men of the Company were well acquainted with such tricks. All agreed that the number of vagabonds was greater than it used to be, as so many soldiers were left unemployed after the Netherlands war. Few beggars got anything from us, except the fellow who threw himself in our path, twitching horribly and foaming at the mouth until Richard Burbage tossed him a couple of pennies. “A tribute from one player to another,” he explained to me later. “A man who labors so at his profession—even to eating soap— deserves his reward.”

I thought about that for days afterward, wondering if we
players, in the end, were little more than madmen who performed tricks on a stage for a few pennies. I felt like a candidate for madness myself. When we started our journey, I was familiar with only one of the plays on our schedule—
Romeo and Juliet
—but I had never played the parts assigned to me. The other two plays I had never seen or heard of: a comedy called
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
, and a romance,
The Maid of Troy
. Our first performances felt like rehearsals to me, with the added chaos of costume changes, cramming my lines in between scenes, brushing away curious villagers who wanted a peek into our tiring room, and trying to ignore the occasional chicken who flew up to the stage and pecked our toes.

Gregory let his sarcasm overflow on our audiences: “rustics” and “cud-chewers” who counted themselves lucky to see one play every five years. In part, he meant to reassure me: “What matter that you missed your entrance (or confused two speeches, or fainted too early in the scene)? These bumpkins would never know the difference anyway.”

But I had grown up among “these bumpkins” and knew them better than Gregory did. They may not have been keen judges of acting a part, as Londoners were, but they understood living and recognized a bad imitation when they saw it. I learned this very early, the second time I played Juliet's mother. Upon discovering my daughter's body, apparently dead, I wailed, “Accurst, unhappy, wretched, fateful day!” while beating on my breast in the approved style. During the
brief silence that followed (while I tried to recall my next line), a sober-faced farmer nearby muttered, “Nay, lad—if tha heart was really broke, ta would not punish it so.” Some of his neighbors laughed, but he himself never cracked a smile. He knew how a broken heart felt. For myself, I thought of him long afterward whenever tempted to indulge in empty gestures.

So Starling was right again: the tour was good for me as a player. The demands of performing in new circumstances improved my skill in thribbling, while the luxury of playing the same parts over and over allowed me opportunity to delve into their character. Gregory and I sometimes even sat up late, arguing about Romeo's amazing speed at falling in love or Julia's easy forgiveness of Proteus. To my surprise, Gregory had worried over many of the same questions I had. Our talk concerned the characters themselves, not how to play them, but both of us gained conviction in performing as a result of it.

Within three weeks I had found my feet and was feeling easier. Mistress Condell told me once that players could bring a larger view of the world to people stuck in their own lives. When the inn-yard crowds wept over the fate of the young lovers or cheered with the warriors of Troy, my occupation began to seem less like madness.

Or at least it did, until we got to Lincolnshire.

That was my home parish, and as we approached, my anticipation was touched with dread. Lincoln town, where we
meant to perform, lay about twenty miles from my native village. That made it unlikely I would see any familiar face from Alford, but if so, I did not look forward to explaining myself. Some of my old acquaintances might regard me as a fortunate son indeed: a boy who had spent his early years shoveling horse dung in Squire Hawthorne's barn, now gadding about with famous players who performed yearly for the Queen. But many in Alford viewed players as little better than fallen women.

Such were my thoughts approaching Lincoln town, but once we arrived, there was no time to think. We had hit a market day, so the players anticipated a large audience and a full purse. Richard Burbage judged the mood of the town and decided to perform
Two Gentlemen of Verona
, the lightest and most nonsensical of our three plays. It was one of Master Will's early comedies, I was told—a story of young lovers falling in love and mixing themselves up and ending with different partners. I thought that Lincoln, a sober-minded town generally, might better appreciate
The Maid of Troy
, but no one asked me. When a sizable crowd had gathered under a westward-tilting sun, the play began.

Though far from a disaster, it was not one of our better performances. This was the play in which Crab earned his keep, for there is a part in it written for a dog. Crab's only skill as a player was to scratch himself and gaze over the crowd with damp, soulful eyes. He had also been taught to raise his hind
leg at a tug of his leash, and then lower it at a shout; if the player managing him knew how to time this, the crowd roared with laughter. In fact, Crab got more laughs than any of us, until the last scene.