Cue for Treason

by Trease Geoffrey

  But there were others to think of – my father and brother and all our neighbours who had met together that night to throw down the wall. So long as any evidence of mine could bring trouble on them, I must keep away.

  It had seemed easy enough, the afternoon that I left. A strong, healthy boy, nearly a man, going off with money in his pocket – surely he could make his own way in the world for a year or two? How little we knew, in Lonsdale, of the big world that was hidden from us by our friendly fells!

  ‘They've decided,’ said a voice at my elbow. I turned. It was Kit Kirkstone.

  ‘What?’ I asked dully.

  He came and leant on the bridge parapet beside me, and imitated me, spitting into the river. He could act, but he couldn't spit. It was a poor performance.

  ‘We're winding up,’ he said. ‘They'll sell the wagons tomorrow, and share out. Desmond's taking two of the horses as his full share, and he and Mrs D. are off to London in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘I'm going with them,’ he went on. ‘He says I can ride pillion behind him. He says he thinks he can get me a place along with them in Shakespeare's company. He says I've got such talent it would be a crime to leave me behind –’

  ‘He says a lot,’ I interrupted bitterly, all my old jealousy flaring up again. I had grown almost to like Kit the last week or two, feeling that we were companions in misfortune.

  ‘You are jealous of me, aren't you?’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Jealous of you?’ I jeered.

  ‘It's not your fault you can't play heroines as well as I can,’ he said, as cool as you please, as if there was no doubt of it – which to be quite honest there wasn't, but I wouldn't admit it at the time. ‘I think you act wonderfully well,’ he added graciously. ‘Anyhow, I've told Mr Desmond I'll go with him on one condition – that he takes you too. I can ride behind Mrs Desmond if you'd sooner.’

  What devil of pride made me flush with fury and tell him I didn't want his charity?

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a pity you're so conceited, Peter – I rather like you otherwise – but you're –’

  I didn't let him finish. I'd never laid hands on him since that first morning we met, but now my self-control went. I landed out.

  We swayed backwards and forwards on Abingdon Bridge in the twilight. I tried to box, to keep him at a distance, but it was mostly a helter-skelter, scrambling affair, regardless of rules. How foul he fought! My cheeks were streaming from his nails, and I think he bit me too – it was all too mixed up to be certain.

  At last I managed to break away sufficiently to plant one other good blow – a breath-taking punch to the chest, which doubled him up like a jack-knife.

  I looked down on him, moaning and twisting in the road, and wished I hadn't hit quite so hard. ‘Perhaps that'll teach you,’ I growled.

  He didn't answer. I knelt down, rather scared now, and lifted his head from the ground.

  Too late, I realized what I had done. I had solved the mystery of Kit Kirkstone.

  8. The Man from Stratford

  I NEEDN'T have been quite so alarmed. Kit was only winded, and no more hurt than any boy would have been. Kneeling there on the damp cobbles, I stammered how sorry I was, how I'd never realized –

  ‘You weren't meant to,’ Kit muttered as the breath came back. ‘Well, you know now. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes, do. I'm at your mercy. You'e only to tell Mr Desmond, and that's the finish of my career on the stage. It'll leave the field nice and clear for you, won't it?’

  ‘You must think me pretty mean,’ I protested.

  I dabbed my bleeding cheek. All my temper had gone. I was feeling bad about it all. I'd hit a girl with all my force – but then it had never once occurred to me that Kit was a girl disguised, and not the boy she had always pretended to be. Afterwards, thinking back and remembering a dozen little things, I couldn't imagine why I'd never thought of it before, especially as the idea was always cropping up in the plays we acted. But I hadn't, and none of the others had ever suspected it either.

  ‘It's not a question of meanness,’ she said calmly. ‘Who ever heard of a girl acting in the theatre? Perhaps I'm mean, coming along to take work away from boys. What do you think?’

  I didn't answer for a few moments. She was right on one point – if the others found out she was a girl, it would be the finish of her acting. She would be pushed away behind the scenes with Mrs Desmond, with nothing more important to do than stitching and darning costumes. There would have been a fearful scandal if any of our audiences had realized that we had brought a young girl on to the public stage.

  ‘It seems silly,’ I said at last.

  ‘Daft,’ she agreed cheerfully.

  ‘Why shouldn't women act women's parts?’

  ‘Just what I say! It's a stupid, old-fashioned idea, not letting them. Men are scared that women would act them off the boards if they were given the chance!’

  I couldn't allow that, and challenged it.

  ‘Well, look at the old Queen!’ she insisted triumphantly. ‘There isn't an actor in the theatre can touch her.’

  That rather shocked me. Up in Cumberland, Elizabeth seemed to me like a distant, unapproachable, and almost immortal goddess. It was only after a winter in London that I began to see her as the Londoners did – a flesh-and-blood, high-spirited old lady, with a sharp tongue and a gusty laugh. It's true she could have acted all the men out of the theatre. She could be dignified, tragic, pathetic, furious, witty, and (when she chose) almost comical. She could put on her mood like a mask to suit her company, be it an ambassador or a mayor, a countess or a chambermaid. But all this I was still to learn.

  ‘I shan't tell anyone,’ I said.

  ‘You won't? Thanks, Peter. Ever so much.’

  We had picked ourselves up now and were leaning on the parapet again. It was quite dark, but I didn't want to go back to the inn till I'd solved the mystery.

  ‘What's your real name?’ I asked.

  ‘Kit. Only it's short for Katherine, not Christopher.’

  ‘Won't you tell me your other name? I bet it isn't Kirkstone.’

  She shook her head, but said nothing.

  ‘You know, of course, mine's really Peter Brownrigg.’

  ‘No. I thought it was Brown.’

  ‘Honest?’ I exclaimed. I remembered that letter… ‘You mean to say you don't know all about me?’

  ‘No, and I don't want to.’ She added hurriedly: ‘I don't mean to be rude, Peter. Only it's better for people to keep their own secrets.’

  Still, there was one thing I had to know. ‘You wrote to Sir Philip Morton,’ I said accusingly. ‘Why?’

  ‘I know him. The letter was about… about my own affairs. Nothing to do with you. Why should it be?’

  If she was going to keep her own secrets, so would I. I was sure, anyhow, that she was speaking the truth. It was fantastic that even Sir Philip should let a girl of thirteen travel the country for months with a crew of actors, if he knew where she was. And, if he did not know, she could hardly have betrayed me.

  ‘I'll tell you something,’ she said impulsively. ‘It's only fair. But promise not to ask me more than I tell you.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I've run away from home, for – for my own very good reasons. You remember that night you all stopped on the road between Penrith and Kendal, and lit a fire? That was the first time I saw you. I was hiding in the bracken. I'd run from home that evening, as soon as it was dark. When you moved on the next morning, I followed you. I saw my guardian stop you and search the wagons –’

  ‘Your guardian?’ I echoed.

  ‘Yes. I have no father or mother. Or five sisters,’ she added, with a laugh. ‘I had to invent them, to account for the way I knew how to curtsey and all that.’

  I grinned. I knew I should never be jealous of Kit again. No wonder her acting had been so successful!

  I could tell she
wasn't going to say any more just then. It was late now, and one by one the lighted windows which overhung the river were disappearing. So we went back to the inn, had a word with Mr and Mrs Desmond (who looked curiously at our marked faces, but said nothing), and crawled into the wagon where the other boys were already asleep.

  It was sad the next morning, saying good-bye to all the members of the company, even though we all promised each other that it was only for a few days and we should all be meeting in London before long. You couldn't get away from it – as a company we had ceased to exist. We weren't Mr Desmond's Famous Troop of London Players any longer, but a miscellaneous crowd of individuals, mostly rather shabby and down-at-heel.

  Still, being young and very excited by the thought of seeing London even sooner than I expected, I didn't take it as seriously as some of the older men. I was in high spirits when I swung myself up behind Desmond and went clopping over the bridge along the Henley road.

  It was a fine morning, for the rain had given over at last, and the whole world looked as though it had been washed and then polished by the sun. We rode through Dorchester, I remember, a place with a fine abbey church, and saw the high line of the Chilterns, red-gold with beech-woods, stretched between the green meadows and the egg-pale sky. We stopped at Henley for some ale, and I had a fancy that the Desmonds were looking at me in a queer way. Once, too, Kit gave me a most malignant scowl.

  ‘Idiot!’ she whispered hoarsely, seizing her chance when they were out of earshot.

  ‘What's up?’

  ‘Your fine manners!’ she said, with infinite scorn. ‘You've been speaking to me all the morning as though I were one of the Queen's waiting-women! You were going to help me on to the horse, only I dodged you. The Desmonds think you're cracked.’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘You've got to forget I'm a girl. Treat me as you did before – no politeness, no favours. Be rude to me, bully me, do what you like, but for Heaven's sake don't give the game away. You ought to know by now that I can rough it as well as any of you.’

  She could, too. I'd never heard her complain of anything. She could walk with the best of us, and there used to be plenty of walking, for, though people called us ‘strolling players’, we often covered fifteen or twenty miles between towns, with only an occasional ride on the wagon. Later, I was to hear something of her childhood, how she'd run wild for years, swimming and riding and climbing like a boy, so that it was easy for her to pretend to be one.

  I mended my manners after Henley – or rather I changed them for the worse – and we slanged each other in the old way as we bumped along behind our friends. We couldn't see much of the country through which we passed, for both Mr and Mrs Desmond were broad in the back, and they blotted out all view of the road ahead.

  We all felt happy that beautiful autumn afternoon. I was relieved because the shadow of Sir Philip Morton had been lifted from me, and, whatever troubles awaited us in London, I had confidence in the burly actor in front of me. He was in a cheerful mood himself, bellowing one song after another as the miles slowly unrolled beneath our horses' hooves. None of us thought that anything could possibly happen to us on that peaceful London road.

  We came after a time to a river. There was a narrow bridge across it and a great congestion of traffic, for two long strings of pack-horses had met, travelling in opposite directions, and the merchants were cursing each other over the right-of-way. More travellers were piling up, snowball-like, at both bridgeheads – farm-carts and horsemen and a wonderful new carriage, belonging to some titled lady in a hurry to reach the Court. We stood for a few moments in the long line, till Desmond said impatiently:

  ‘This is going to take all day; we might as well have gone by river-barge!’

  A woman standing at her cottage door asked, Why didn't we try the old ford, down there? She pointed, and Desmond thanked her, and led us down a flagged path which ended in the river, just below the bridge.

  ‘Is this the Thames?’ called Mrs Desmond, rather more nervously than usual. Her husband laughed at her, for it was quite a narrow river (I forget even its name), a mere tributary. But it was running fast from the autumn rains, and I think, if I had seen it myself, instead of having my eyes fixed on the woollen cloak in front of me, I too might have had my doubts.

  ‘It's not deep,’ he called to her reassuringly. ‘I've been this way before, now I remember. I'll go first.’

  And in we went, with a good deal of snorting and splashing from the horse, and in a moment the muddy water was swirling round my ankles. I heard Desmond grunt surprisedly, and then, without ever quite knowing how it happened I was in head over heels.

  I came up, spitting and spluttering, and found that the flooded river had already carried me out of my depth. The horse was floundering to safety in the shallows. Mrs Desmond was screaming on the bank. The bridge was lined with people hugely enjoying the accident.

  But of Desmond, at first, I could see no sign. Then he suddenly bobbed to the surface a few feet away, and I saw that his eyes were closed. The current was sweeping him away like a log. I realized the horse must have kicked him when he first fell in.

  I made straight for him, and clutched his hair as his face dipped under the water again. I wasn't frightened for myself but I doubted my strength to keep him up for long. The fools on the bridge still hadn't realized that anything was seriously the matter.

  Then Kit arrived. She swam like an otter, and I saw at once that I needn't fear for her any more than for myself. I was thankful to see her, I can tell you: I'd never have managed it by myself. As it was, it took all our combined strength to steer him to the bank and get him out. We dropped beside him exhausted.

  ‘He's all right,’ I panted.

  ‘Good!’ All that worried Kit then was the changing of her clothes, for people came running now from the cottages, offering help and dry things, and much as she wanted to strip off her soaked, clinging hose, she didn't want to do it in the middle of an admiring crowd. However, she'd got used to awkward moments like that, and now that I was her ally it was easier. I held everyone's attention with the story of how it happened, told already for the fourth time, while she sneaked away behind a haystack.

  Desmond soon came round, but it proved that his leg was broken from the kick. We helped to make him comfortable in the nearest inn, and consoled Mrs Desmond as best we could, and then retired to a quiet corner to discuss the situation.

  ‘He'll be here for weeks,’ I said.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Kit asked. She said ‘we’, for I don't think it occurred to either of us that there was now very little to keep us together. We had lost the company, now we were losing the Desmonds, and for that very reason we both stuck closer than ever.

  We decided to go on to London and try our luck alone.

  Mrs Desmond agreed it was the best thing. She and her husband would have to stay where they were till his leg was mended; they would sell first one horse, then the other, if necessary, to pay for their board and lodging. Meantime, she would write a letter for us to take to Mr Burbage at the Globe Theatre, recommending our services to him. With this, and a couple of shillings which she insisted on sparing us from her thin purse, we took the road again the next morning.

  It took us two days to reach London, though we got a ride or two on wagons. Kit knew London and said it was hard to sleep there without paying, so we gave up the idea of arriving on the second evening and slept under a hayrick instead, close to a village called Kensington. Then, waking in the crisp October dawn, we trudged up the Strand and saw, framed in the open gateway of Temple Bar, the great church of St. Paul rising on its hill in the midst of the city.

  Kit wasn't worried by the maze of narrow streets or the jostling thousands of people, and for the first time in our journey I let her take the lead.

  ‘It's quite simple, really,’ she said; ‘we've only to keep straight on till we get to London Bridge, and then the theatre is just the other side.’

  All the theatres w
ere outside the City boundaries, so that the Lord Mayor could not forbid the performances. It'll give you some idea of how big London is if I say that there was not one theatre but several at this time, and in spite of the bear-gardens, cockpits, and other places of amusement there were always thousands of people to watch the plays.

  Well, cutting a long story short, we arrived at the Globe, a fine new playhouse, only recently built for Burbage's company, who were known then as the Lord Chamberlain's Men. We asked for Mr Burbage, and were sent on to the Curtain Theatre, where the company had just moved for their winter season, since the Globe, though a splendid, up-to-date building, was open to the sky. The Curtain proved to be in Finsbury Fields, which meant a weary walk back across the bridge to the other side of London; but this time we were luckier, for a rehearsal was in progress.

  Burbage came out to us after a few minutes, the letter crumpled in his hand. He was a tall, athletic fellow, with the devil of a temper, which he was showing now.

  ‘What's this? What's this?’ he stormed, almost as if we had kicked Desmond ourselves and broken his leg. ‘Desmond injured? Won't be in London for a month? I wanted that man. I needed him. Tell him he's got to get better. I want him on this stage if he has to walk with two sticks! Tell him that!’

  Kit spoke before I could find my tongue. ‘But we're not going back,’ she pointed out sweetly.

  ‘What?’ He glanced at the letter and snorted. ‘Oh no, I see. Mrs Desmond wondered if I could give you parts…. You saved Desmond's life…. What the devil was the use of that, if you let the fat fool break his leg?’ He crumpled up the letter finally, and ground it under his heel. With it he ground my heart and my hopes.

  ‘What does she take my theatre for – a school?’ he demanded. ‘Boys, boys, boys! Everyone sends me boys. Do they imagine I eat boys for breakfast? They can't possibly think I use 'em any other way. Boys, boys – long boys and short boys, cheeky boys and weepy boys, they're driving me mad as it is. And each fresh one acts worse than the one before.’ He made a gesture of finality, and began to shoo us out of the building.