The True Prince (19 page)

Penny opened his mouth to protest, but the lad rushed on. “Yea, I said it, and I stand by it—if you would challenge me, I'll be in my rooms tomorrow between the hours of—”

“Put it up!” his companion hissed at him. “Haven't we been fools enough for one night?”

“What's your grief, Master Coble?” The captain's voice softened. “Have you wagered all your allowance for this term and fear your father's wrath? Here's fourpence back to see you through—”

“I'll none of your charity!” The young man knocked over a bench, and his round red face looked fit to burst. “It's my honor at stake. I'll not suffer—”

“
Un
stake it, then.” Penny's voice took an edge, and for the moment he became a man one would not want to meet on a
battlefield or a dueling green. Then his good humor returned as he signaled for his cup to be filled again. “Have another cup of sack, and let's hear no more talk of honor. What's it good for?” Raising his voice, he asked the room at large, “Will it satisfy a starving belly?”

“No!” came the answer, from a handful of no-accounts nearby.

“Will it fill an empty pocket?”

“No!” more of the onlookers chimed in.

“Will it keep a shrewish wife from your throat?”

“No!”
By now the entire room had joined the chorus.

“Will it hold back the landlord from your door?”

“NO!”

“And—” Penny lifted his cup to Master Coble. “Will it keep a young firebrand from burning a hole in his breeches?”

“NO!!!”

“So you see, 'tis good for nothing useful, so I'll have none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon—and so ends my catechism.” He drained his cup on the last words, inviting all to join him, which they did with great applause and laughter. It was, of course, the ending of Sir John's speech. Penny was borrowing from the very character he stood as model for.

Master Coble, though not cheered, was cowed enough to back away from his challenge. His struggle to produce a witty reply twisted his mouth. “Go fry in your own grease.”

“Aaaaaaah! Ooooooooh!” sang the tavern crowd, in mock
dismay. Knowing when he was beaten, the young man picked up his fine hat. His companion, Master Knopwood, counted what was left in his purse and gloomily settled his account with the singer, who appeared to be the hostess as well. Kit stood as they made their farewells and left with them.

The alehouse crowd broke up to their separate pursuits, including another game of Hazard at the center table. I turned to Bartlemy and asked, “Who is this man Penny?”

“A soldier, just as he claims.”

“But he speaks so well—how came he by his education?”

“He was raised in a good house—a foster son, I think. But he fell out with his guardian and ran away long ago. Served in the Netherlands, then found himself turned loose on the country like so many others.”

I could not help noticing that Penny was about the size of Richard Burbage and that he would look very much the gentleman in a black and gold doublet. “Do you think he's the new Robin Hood?”

“I think nothing before there is proof.”

“Didn't his victims mark his nose? Or his missing fingers?”

“They marked gloves, and a mask. Every gentleman wears gloves, and many travelers wear masks.”

I persisted. “But you have proof before your eyes that he's a coney catcher. Could you not arrest him for that and get a confession from him about the rest?”

He twirled the pewter mug between his long hands, as
though turning over in his mind how much to say. “A confession drawn off the rack would not satisfy me.” He took a gulp of the ale. “Besides, we must cast a wider net.”

“What do you mean?”

He did not answer. All this time, even while speaking to me, his eyes roved about the room so restlessly I almost believed they could turn over cushions and dart around corners. Now that the shock had lessened, I had to admit he had made good on his promise, proving to me that my fellow player was indeed a companion of thieves—an accomplice, even. A coney catcher himself, pulling in likely victims for a dice cheat. Kit could have served as the model for a sermon: “Behold the player's swift decline! From gowns to gambling to guzzling in alehouses and gulling young fools!” A chill touched my heart in that hot, stuffy room; Kit had irritated me, infuriated me, made me feel like a brainless lump of dough, but now he frightened me. If he had stolen costumes from the Company to dress “Robin Hood,” he might be deep enough in intrigue to get himself hanged.

“Is it possible,” I ventured, “that this scene is not as bad as it looks? That Kit lost his money as honestly as the other two and is even now slinking home with empty pockets?”

My companion pursed his lips, but didn't bother to reply. Next moment there came a stir at the door and Kit himself made his entrance.

There is no better way to put it: where before he had
clothed himself in insignificance, now he was every inch the player, gesturing to the third gallery—and, once again, making me feel like a brainless lump of dough as Bartlemy spared me a taunting glance.

“What ho, wanderer?” roared Penny in greeting. “Did you leave them in peace?”

“I did—and with a piece for myself.” Kit reached into his doublet and pulled out a red plume, last seen on Master Coble's stylish hat. This he tucked into his own cap, to the applause and laughter of the tavern crowd. The hostess (who was not bad-looking, I noticed) wrapped her arms around him, and Penny clapped him on the back.

“Seen enough?” Bartlemy asked me.

“You shame me, boy.” Penny wagged his good hand at Kit, pointing two fingers in a peculiar way that looked familiar. Then I recalled that it belonged to John Heminges, and Penny was now imitating Heminges's “lecture tone”: “You're squandering your gifts on petty theft—have a care, or you'll find yourself on the road to virtue!”

“What's this?” Kit unwound himself from the hostess, after giving her the kiss she demanded. “Are you my father?”

“Perhaps—depends on where your mother was, seventeen years ago.”

Amid whistles and guffaws, Kit set a stool upon the table and enthroned himself on it. “I warn you, good people!” His voice rang with such command the entire room fell into
churchlike stillness. I had always envied how he could do that. “There is a devil haunts us in the likeness of an old fat man; a ton of man is our companion….” He spoke in broad, mea sured tones, with wide gestures—another imitation of Master Heminges, but much better than the captain's. I drew in a quick breath, for this was an echo of the Boar's Head Tavern scene. Kit was quoting directly from the part where Hal pretends to be his own father, condemning the man the prince had chosen for a friend: “Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning but in craft? Wherein crafty but in villainy?” As he piled on the accusations, Penny cringed like a guilty prisoner, to the delight of the audience. Suddenly, Kit rose from the stool and knelt at the end of the table, clasping his hands around the man's neck so their foreheads almost touched. “Wherein worthy, but in nothing?”

“Ah, lad.” Penny seized Kit's arms and pulled him off the table, to loud applause. Once the two of them were steady on their feet, he threw an arm around Kit's shoulder and ruffled his hair. “To know all my faults and love me anyway. It's the sign of a great heart. We'll see the world, you and I—” Abruptly, he leaned forward and pounded the table. “But first, let's have a song!”

What struck me then was the expression on Kit's face. I could not recall seeing such unmixed happiness there before, not even after his great stage triumphs. It engrossed me so
that I almost forgot Bartlemy, until he stood up. “I must go,” he said shortly. When I rose also, he hissed, “No! You stay behind.”

I made a grab for his sleeve. “You can't leave me here!”

I heard his sharp sigh as he pulled his arm free. “Then keep close.” He was already slipping shadowlike around the wall. “And not a word—not a word, you hear?”

We went out through the main door, then darted across the dark street. Like my companion I flattened myself against a wall. From his utter silence I guessed he was listening, sifting the sounds: a church bell in the city tolling a death; a man and woman quarreling; an uneven step, like a man with a bad limp. After a moment Bartlemy rounded the corner and crept down an alley, with me close behind and just as silent—one learns to move all kinds of ways on a stage. At the next street we paused to listen again. Then Bartlemy took off at a sprint, his long legs covering ground with frightful speed.

The next moment there came a collision and a muffled cry. I ran to join him, thinking he might need help. Hardly— though I could not at first sort the shapes, it was clear Bartlemy had the upper hand. A moment's struggle put his victim in a pool of grayish light that fell from a window, and I could make out the sparse white hairs on his head.

“Have pity!” squeaked a thin voice. “I'm an old man, with scarcely a farthing to my name.”

“I'm not after your purse, reverend sir.” In spite of the
words, Bartlemy's voice sounded the opposite of respectful. “Where did you get the ring on your right hand?”

“What—say—you?”

“This ring.” Bartlemy's knee was in the man's back as he held both arms secured. “The one I'm twisting off your finger.”

“You'll have the finger and all! Believe me—'twas my father's, given for good service in— Argggggh!”

The pathetic moan went through me like a spear. “Stop it!”

Hearing my voice, the old man turned his head in my direction. “Young master! Pity this poor gray head, in God's name—”

Bartlemy silenced him with a twist of the arm. “Stay out of this,” he spat at me. The old man groaned, and in the dim light I saw his poor gray head loll in the mud.

Hardly thinking, I sprang forward and grabbed Bartlemy's arm. “No more—loose your grip! Can't you see—” He raised a hand to push me away, and in that instant his victim twisted free, rolled to his feet, and dashed off with the agility of a much younger man.

Next I knew, a sharp rock cracked against my shin and made me jump. “Milk-faced prig!” hissed my companion. “Lily-hearted lass!” He went on in this vein, tossing in some very insulting French phrases.

“I-I'm sorry. He seemed so—”

“
Felons
and
actors
share some of the same gifts. I would have had him, if not for your bone-headed—” More French, as he whipped the cap off his head and stamped on it.

I decided not to try his temper any further. And I'd had enough of his company, as well. Entrusting my safety to God, and my direction to instinct, I ran back toward the river as all the church bells of the city burst forth in a ragged chorus of midnight.

MORE ROGUERY

e has some rough edges,” Starling conceded the next morning, when I told her of our adventure.

“Rough
edges
?” I was helping her spread new rushes on the floor, and their sweet dusty scent made me sneeze. “He could saw oak. And I can't fathom how he got you to even look at him, much less talk to him.” She merely smiled. “That is your cue to speak.”

“Oh, is it? Well, he was right simple and straightforward. On Tuesday three weeks past, before I left for the market, he arrived with a piece of raw meat and lured the dog out of the gate. While Roland was attending to the meat, Bartlemy tied a ribbon round his neck, and a message to the ribbon. When I came out, he sprang Roland after me. Of course the ribbon caught my eye first. The message read: ‘A friend wishes to walk you to Bishopsgate Market.