The True Prince (23 page)

Penny's voice sounded good-humored, in spite of the insulting words, but Tom's struck my back like a fist. “You! Boy!”

He could only mean me. I turned my head so that not much of my face showed. “Sir?”

“A farthing to fetch our arrows from yon field. Be quick.” In the spark of time I had to decide, it seemed better to take the job than run away and risk being pursued. I swung my legs over the wall and came forward, my eyes cast down.

“The ones with the raven fletch, like this.” Penny showed me one of his arrows, and I was not surprised that the black feathers on it matched the ones on the broken arrow in Davy's pouch. As I trotted down the field, the words I had heard buzzed in my brain. Kit had to be the one they compared to a cannon. “Air and fire mixed” summed him up neatly—or at least, it summed up the old Kit. Tom seemed to regard him with suspicion—perhaps even distrust. But what did Penny mean by “keeping Tewkesbury in our sights”? Tewkesbury, I recalled, while plucking raven-fletched arrows from their target, was a place—somewhere west of London, known for—

A recollection twanged in my head. Tewkesbury was famous for mustard. Might it also be the name of a hot-headed young gentleman, mockingly ordered back to his mustard pot after he leapt upon the stage of the Swan and called out a
challenge to Henry Brooke? And someone else had called him by that scornful nickname—

I pulled in my breath sharply and glanced back at the pair calmly testing their bowstrings. Now I knew where I had heard Tom's voice: on the street outside Buckingham Tavern, where he had dueled with a haughty young man over the honor of the Earl of Essex. I did not remember his having a beard, but beards could be shaved. “The privilege was mine, Lord Mustard….” “Tewkesbury in our sights …” Had I discovered, purely by chance, the name of Robin Hood's next victim?

Captain Penny was putting another string on his bow when I returned. “Many thanks, boy. Hand them to the corporal there”—with a nod toward his companion.

I did so, and the corporal looked at me closely for the first time. “Wait.” He took my chin, tilting up my face to get a clear view of it.

My heart leapt wildly. To my knowledge he had seen me only once, when he brought the Welsh Boy to the Theater last spring. He would have had no particular reason to notice me then, and on the stage I was usually so painted that even steady play-goers seldom knew me off it. “What is thy name, sirrah?” His voice felt as hard as his hand.

“R-R-Richard, sir.” The stammer was no sham, as I forced myself to look at him, searching for any sign of recognition in his eyes. They were black, as unflinching as marble, and told me nothing.

The captain twanged his bowstring. “Simple,” he remarked—meaning me. “Let him go; I must win my shilling back before dark.”

Tom let me go, but I found it hard to breathe while making my way back toward the city. His hard eyes seemed to bore into my back, and his cold voice wrapped me in an eerie chill. Not until I reached Southwark did I begin to feel safe—proof of my disordered brain, for the south bank of the river, with its brothels and dice dens, is no place for safety. By now it was late in the day and everyone seemed to be hurrying off to some forbidden occupation. I hurried too, making for the Bridge. To get there faster, I cut across some narrow lanes, where the overhanging storeys of crowded buildings blocked most of the light, even at midday. By now the setting sun had abandoned them to premature night.

The more I thought of Corporal Tom, the more gaps he filled—why, he might have been the “corpse” who turned over Sir Biscuit's boat in the third robbery. He looked strong enough to perform such a feat—

At that moment, a weight like a sack of rocks caught me from behind, spun me halfway around, and knocked me to the ground.

YELLOW SLEEVES

dirty hand clapped over my mouth, as small as a child's. A voice piped in my ear, “Don't speak a word, for both our lives.”

I could have sobbed in relief and rage, for the voice belonged to the Welsh Boy—and so did the sharp little knees straddling my back. “Let me up!” I hissed. “Did they send you to follow me?”

“None sent me,” he replied calmly. “I came on my own, after sighting you in yon field. What be you after?”

“Lift your elbow and I'll tell you.” Once he did, I sat up slowly, feeling every dent the cobbles had made in my body. One hand had slid though a mass of slime. While wiping it off on the wall behind me, I tried to frame an answer. “I'm after … I wanted to know if Kit is still a friend of Captain Penny's.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“We're not on good terms—thanks to you, in part. I
know you're the one who harried him out of the Company.”

“Aye.”

His voice, as placid as a pond, made my temper rise. “Why? Was it because your ‘uncle' didn't trust him and wanted you in his place?” When the boy didn't answer, I pressed on. “But you weren't so trustworthy either. You couldn't keep your little hands from nipping, and so—”

“Stop
talking.
” The words came out in a whine, followed by, “My talk is worth a power of yours, anyway.”

Something in his voice put me on guard. “What do you mean?”

“You will want to keep me from telling who you are.”

“And why?”

“Because,” he said patiently, “you don't want them to know.”

“Why?”

“They don't like spies.”

Very slowly, I inched back against the wall. “Davy. Wasn't I always your friend?”

“Aye …”

“Then let me go quietly. I shall steal away and keep this a secret between you and me and all will be well.”

“Except that I'll not have what I'm wanting.”

“And what's that?”

A bitter, aggrieved tone crept into his voice. “I want my pin back—the silver one, with the man in the moon.”

I spoke before thinking: “But it's not yours!” He remained
silent, and I heard the feebleness of that protest, when spoken to a thief. “Anyway … what makes you think I have it?”

“You have it,” he said in a tone useless to deny.

“Look you, I have two shillings saved. That's probably more than the thing is worth. I'll give them to you this very night.”

“Nay. It's the man in the moon, or naught.” He spoke with the blind stubbornness of a little boy—which of course he was, in spite of his skill as a cutpurse and sneak.

“But you can't even wear it! Money is much better use to you. Think what you can buy—gingerbread, meat pies, shoes—”

“That, or I'll tell.”

“And what will your telling bring about?”

“Dark Tom—my uncle—he's cold of heart.”

“He's not really your uncle, is he?” The boy did not answer.

I felt the silence in him: the superstitious dread of speaking overmuch of what he feared most. “How long have you known him?” Still no answer. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could barely make out an ugly bruise under one eye and guessed that Tom had made him pay for losing his place in the Company. “Davy. If you want to get away from him, I could help you. There are places where you'd never be found. Mistress Condell has relatives in the country—”

“No more talk! Get me the man in the moon.”

“Well …” It felt like a betrayal of Kit, but I could see no
way around it, short of smothering the boy. “All right.”

“Stick out your hand,” he commanded.

Honor among thieves, I thought sourly, and extended my hand. But instead of shaking it, he performed a very swift motion with his fingers, thrust a mass of string over my hand and released it. The unseen pattern disappeared, leaving a length of string around my wrist.

“There,” he said. “You're bound. If you don't do what I say, one of your eyes will fall out.”

I worked the string loose and threw it at him. “Don't come over me with your charms and spells.”

He jumped up on his feet. “Heed what I say.”

“Never fear. Where will I find you?”

“I'll find
you.
” He dashed away down the alley and disappeared like a puff of smoke.

“Stop fretting!” Starling almost shouted at me. “You needn't be so high-minded when your life is at stake. I wouldn't underestimate this Tom fellow.”

“I'm not. But the brooch belongs to Kit.”

“Then why have you not given it back to him?” I could think of no answer to this sensible question, so she supplied one. “Here's why—because prudence told you it might serve some purpose later on, and behold, it has: buying Davy's silence.”

“Prudence doesn't speak to me so plain,” I said miserably.

It was true what she said: if I had given the trinket back to Kit, Davy would still have expected me to steal it for him. How much easier to simply hand it over to the boy with Kit none the wiser—except for my conscience.

Fortunately, Starling abandoned that subject for another. She agreed with me that Tewkesbury might be the next intended victim of Robin Hood; the more we talked, the more likely it seemed. “But one thing doesn't fit,” I said. “They spoke as though Kit has a certain connection with him that's important to their schemes. Yet they know Tewkesbury already—at least Tom does. I can't see how Kit figures in.”

She made an impatient shrug. “What's more to the point, if we know who is like to be the prey of Robin Hood, is it not our duty to warn him? Or warn somebody?”

The “somebody” could only be Bartlemy, which was the first reason I objected. The second reason was my reluctance to do anything that would directly harm Kit. If he was bound for a fall, I did not want to be the one to give him a push, especially for the likes of “Lord Mustard.” “A man so hot and haughty could probably benefit from a meeting with Robin Hood.”

“What are you saying? That we leave the hot and haughty to their fate? The law must protect all men, whatever their disposition.”

“Look who's being high-minded now,” I muttered. But on this matter, right was clearly on her side. The upshot was that
together we composed an anonymous note suggesting it would be wise for agents of the Lord Chamberlain to watch young Philip Tewkesbury in the event that he might be robbed. Starling promised to see it delivered in a way that concealed our involvement, and I promised to carry the silver brooch with me, against the time when Davy would demand it. I was not happy about any of this, but there seemed to be no choice.

All these burdens combined made me not worth much the next day. Gregory scored two hits on me in fencing practice, and Master Will found his patience tried when he took me aside for a speech lesson. They had given me the role of Rumor in Part Two, along with one scene as Lady Percy—not a heavy burden, except for the author's particular notions of how Rumor should sound. “I want a special quality of voice: airy and disembodied, like a flute. Begin at the first: ‘Open your ears! For which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?'”

My flutelike voice failed to please him. “That's more like a banshee, shrieking through the night. Rumor sounds pleasant to the ear—the words go down like honey, though they oft turn bitter as gall. Pray you, try again.”

I tried again, and again, until my voice was coming out of my nose and it was almost time for rehearsal. “Well,” he sighed. “We will practice more anon.”