The True Prince (8 page)

nce I spread my wing, the Welsh Boy slipped under it; almost every time we were in sight of each other, I would soon find him at my side. His constant presence felt like a splinter—just enough irritation to notice, yet not enough to act upon. Part of the irritation was that he had never learned to keep himself clean. Master Pope's housekeeper gave him one good washing that killed the lice, but his neck was always dirty, and he had to be reminded to clean his fingernails. No amount of scrubbing could purge his smell—not a bad smell, but an old one, like moss under a rock, that worked its way up through the tang of his sweat when he stood still long enough.

That very stillness unnerved me: the unblinking watchfulness, as though he was committing all my words and actions to memory. Sometimes, he was. His reading
lessons with Dame Willingson seemed to be progressing slowly, and he used me as a line tutor in the meantime. At least by day's end I could leave him behind and sleep at night—unless Robin was in a mood to unburden his worries on me. Between Kit and Giles Allen he found much to worry about. My own worries increased when the Company scheduled a performance of
Richard III
.

This is one of Shakespeare's most beloved plays: the story of the hunchbacked Richard of York, who schemed his way to the throne, leaving a trail of corpses behind him. The corpses included his wife and brother and two young nephews—mere boys, whom he imprisoned in the Tower and then murdered. The crown rested very uneasily on his head; none too soon he lost it, and his life, in the battle of Bosworth.

King Richard III was one of Master Burbage's great roles. On any given day, it was not uncommon to hear an apprentice cry out in the street, “A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” Burbage had made this line from the final scene almost a password in the city. Londoners shivered in delight every time he clumped on the stage with his dragging hunchback walk.

All the other members of the Company were brushing up their accustomed parts, but one week before the performance Master Heminges announced a change among the apprentices: I was to play Queen Elizabeth, Richard's sister-in-law. Elizabeth, upon my reading of her lines, struck me as a woman who talked too much, but it was one of the most
important parts ever handed to me. To be entrusted with her marked a step forward in my progress.

Then Robin, looking as if he had swallowed a lemon, informed me that Kit had played Elizabeth's part since it was created. I considered declining the honor. I had taken one of Kit's parts before and he was not gracious about it; in his present state I feared an assassination attempt. But the Company assigned another role to him: Margaret, the former queen (together with Elizabeth and Richard's wife, Anne, there were more queens in this story than on a chessboard). Margaret had been exiled to France but unexpectedly returns, spewing bitterness and curses. Having no choice, Kit accepted this part—with a vengeance.

Even though Saturday afternoon was drizzly and gray, play-goers packed the Curtain, eager to see the hunchbacked villain meet his well-earned doom. Since I was given only a week to learn them, my lines had been pared back, but even so, by performance time they felt only a little firmer in my head than a custard.

My first scene began well, however. Most of the Company was on the stage as England's royal family, and I was holding my own—until Margaret glided onto the stage in a black gown and hood. I felt a chill run through the building. The heavy gray sky overhead required torches to be set, and a moody light trembled over the scene. Kit knew how to place himself to make the light his ally—when he threw back the hood, his
white face leapt out so fiercely that our audience gasped.

Margaret's office is to pronounce doom on all the supporters of Richard who heed not her warning: “Have not to do with him, beware of him; sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him….” Kit's glittering eyes burned through the lines, and it seemed to me he was not speaking of the hunchback. Davy stood close by me as Elizabeth's son, the young Duke of York. While Margaret berated the assembly for past wrongs, Kit glared upon the Welsh Boy:

“God, I pray Him—
That none of you may live his natural age
But by some unlooked accident cut off!”

The boy trembled and shrank next to me, obviously not acting. I put an arm around his shoulder, and I was not acting either.

Kit knew better than to break out of character, but twice during Margaret's tirade he fixed Davy with such dagger-sharp glances that I could feel their edge myself. Shortly before leaving the stage, he turned his venom on the company in general:

“Uncharitably with me have you dealt
And shamefully my hopes by you are
butchered.
”

The audience murmured when he left the stage, as though released from his grip, and a voice from among the groundlings called out, “Well done, Kit!” It was a most effective performance; Will Sly could have spoken for all when he said, in character, “My hair doth stand on end to hear her
curses.” But soon I had cause to wonder if Kit, in his general anathema, had slapped a particular curse on me.

From that time on I dropped lines and missed cues like a rank beginner, enough for some of the players to look at me curiously and Master Condell to murmur, “Are you well, lad?” As my performance declined, my anger grew. Of course Kit could not be blamed for all my failures, but when he tripped the Welsh Boy behind the stage, I felt myself coming to a boil. Davy was running to be on time for his entrance, and directly after passing Kit, he slammed the floor so hard it could be heard from the stage. Since no one saw the crime, Davy took the blame for clumsiness. When he could find me alone, he revealed what had really happened, sniffling, “What hurt did I ever do to him?”

That I could not answer. But soon I was having my own troubles with Kit, in a conversation between Elizabeth, Margaret, and King Richard's mother, played by Gregory. The three ladies are supposed to vent their wrath upon Richard, the “vile bunch-backed toad,” but I found myself stumbling over lines worse than ever. My awkwardness threw Gregory off his stride as well. Kit's long speeches were perfect and spoken with such conviction that the crowd hung on every word. As Margaret he saved the scene, but it was Kit, the tortured boy player, who leaned forward suddenly and hissed at me, “
Thou didst usurp my place
, and dost thou not usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?”

What do you mean,
usurp your place
? If he had not been leaving the stage, I might have so forgotten myself as to ask it out loud. With a stab of panic I realized he had dropped several lines. I was supposed to stop him but could not recall the words. In desperation I simply called, “Stop!”

“‘Stay awhile,'” Gregory whispered, prodding my foot with his own.

“Stay awhile,” I repeated weakly. “And …” (“‘Teach me how to curse—'” Gregory prompted.)

Fortunately, there was not much to the scene after that— or to my part. Davy went on once more as the ghost of the young prince, but appeared to be so haunted himself, he could barely speak. The boy's miserable face, ashen under the ghostly powder applied to it, pushed me at last to confront his tormenter in the upstairs tiring room.

At least, I tried to confront him. The attempt was not successful at first, for I could hardly get the words out. In moments of deep stress or high feeling my voice fails—a strange impediment for a player, I've been told, but there it is. “What—” I began, and felt my throat closing up. “What—”

Kit stared at me, feigning interest. “What's this? It has two legs, two arms, and a mouth—it looks like some sort of human but gulps like a bunch-backed toad.”

I clenched both fists. “Wh-what's this game you're p-playing?”

“Game? What game?”

“This t-t-tormenting of …” I found myself struggling for breath. “Gregory—my points—would you?”

Gregory stepped behind me and began unlacing the back of my gown. Robin, biting his lip, was already performing the same service for Kit, so we looked like two over-decorated barges unlimbering for combat. Gregory handed me a damp towel to wipe the paint and powder off my face, all the while with dark glances at the opposition as though to signal whose side he was on. Robin inclined more to peacemaking. “What are you talking about, Richard? Nobody is being tormented.”

I took hold of myself, slowing my speech to a crawl. “I … know … it was you … who p-planted that needle last week. And what did you use … to cause the itch? P-p-powdered nettle?”

“What … do … you … mean?” Even though he mocked me, Kit's complexion had flushed to a deep shade that his brisk rubbing with a towel could not account for.

“You m-must tell me that—”

“I
must
?”

“Whatever your reasons … you've achieved your goal. The boy is—petrified.”

“The boy,” he repeated, tossing the towel to one side, “is too small for you to hide behind. If you gave a bad performance, take it like a man.” I opened my mouth, but could say nothing, probably because he was so close to being right. “What I've achieved,” he went on, pulling off his shift, “is
getting a r-r-rise out of you. This is lofty enough, considering what a milksop you normally—”

I threw my corset at his head: not a trifling weapon, with its metal grommets and whalebone stays. It unleashed the tiger in him. He picked up Elizabeth's crown and hurled it at me like a discus, so the clover points caught me in the neck. Robin pinned his arms, but Gregory would not restrain me. Lacking any other weapon, I hurled myself and knocked both Kit and Robin to the floor. Recovering, Kit pounced on me, rolling us so near the loft opening that I might have fallen through it if the other boys had not screamed a warning. He punched me, and I punched him. We had each drawn blood before Richard Burbage stuck his head through the opening, bellowing to shame any bull.

I could not make out what he said at first, but it was round enough to make Kit release me and stand up, looking sullen. Burbage's words came clearer.

“—and depend on it, you'll pay for every farthing of damage to these clothes. Kit, come down at once. Richard, shed those ridiculous petticoats and follow presently.”

They all went down, leaving me to look around. I could see what touched off Master Burbage: the tiring room resembled an ambush in the Queen's Wardrobe, with velvets and silks splayed out like battle-sprung horses and beads littering the floor like musket balls. Upon my life, I could not remember doing such damage in so short a time. They'll have our heads
for this, I thought gloomily, while untying the petticoat strings. Still, it was almost worth it to coax a little blood from Kit's haughty nose. For his part, he'd cut my lip. I ran my tongue around the place already swelling, then hastily tucked in my shirt, picked up my shoes and doublet, and descended the steep stairway, expecting a heavy fine to be laid on me.

The lower room was empty. Tiring master, stage boys, apprentices, players, and hired men had all gathered on a stage that still flickered with dreadful torchlight under the lowering clouds. Richard Burbage was drawing a large circle on the planks with a piece of limestone as John Heminges hovered at his elbow, protesting, “But we must rehearse.”

“This will not take long.” Master Burbage closed the circle, straightened his back, and tucked the limestone into a pocket on his sleeve.

“But what if they do real damage, and we're out two players?”

“Real damage can be prevented.”

“And bruises, and cuts, and black eyes? Won't our gentle ladies look fetching with black eyes?”

“That's what paint is for. Kit, Richard; stand here, please you.”

Master Heminges threw up his hands and backed away, shaking his head. As Kit and I approached, I felt goose bumps rise on my arms, having by now gained a notion of where this wind blew. The murmurs around us fell silent as Master Burbage motioned us to stop.

“Now,” said he, “the two of you have never managed to get along since you met. Whatever the bone of contention between you, I propose that you have it out this hour, for once and for all. That is how honest men settle things—”

“It's how
barbarians
settle things!” Master Heminges called from the back of the stage.

“Peace, John,” Will Sly spoke up. “For my part, I like it well. Straightforward and simple.”

“And,” continued Burbage, “as it is bound to happen anyway, we might as well see that it happens where the least possible damage may be done.”

Except to my own sweet person! thought I, desperately looking about for an advocate. But of the boys, only Robin appeared the least bit alarmed. I noticed Gregory shaking hands with one of the stage keepers and guessed that he had just made a wager. Of the men, Master Heminges had raised the only objection, and though one or two may have been impatient to get on with rehearsal, few would dare to take issue with Richard Burbage. The only two who might—Masters Kempe and Shakespeare— stood in grave discussion, with occasional glances to Kit and me. They seemed to be comparing our advantages, perhaps in view of a wager of their own. Even the serving girls and penny takers, who had just finished sweeping up, crowded among the men for choice places. I sent a look of distress to Starling, who merely raised her shoulders in a tiny shrug, then smacked her fist against her palm.