The True Prince

by J. B. Cheaney

  The rebellion gathers strength and power as allies from Scotland join them, and the king is seriously threatened. He hopes for support from his son, but Prince Hal is playing an elaborate prank on his friend Oldcastle: when the fat knight holds up a band of pilgrims on the way to Canterbury and takes their gold, the prince appears in disguise soon after and robs the robbers. (To his credit, he later returns the money to its rightful owners.)

  Such conduct makes the king despair of his own son, but when the rebellious Percys bring on a war, Prince Hal heeds the call to honor. He manages to gain back some of his father's regard, especially after saving the king's life on the battlefield. In the final clash at Shrewsbury, Hal and Hotspur go sword to sword, and the prince slays the valiant but misguided rebel. Thus the rebellion is put down and King Henry reconciled with his son, though not perfectly.

  And Part Two was still to come.

  The Company fell in love with the play at first reading and immediately after joined in spirited discussion over who would play what. The argument was mostly show, since it was assumed that Shakespeare held certain men in mind as he wrote the parts. The portly Thomas Pope would fill Oldcastle's round doublet to perfection, with Will Kempe and Richard Cowley as his fellow soldiers and reprobates. Will Sly was known for dashing roles such as Hotspur's, Richard Burbage would shine as the mysterious Owen Glendower, and John Heminges could outfit King Henry with the proper careworn gravity. Prince Hal seemed almost an afterthought in the midst of more colorful roles. There is more to him than meets the eye at first: though he appears a shallow ne'er-do-well, he reveals strength and purpose as the story unfolds. The role was assigned to Augustine Phillips, but seemed not to have any particular name on it.

  Concerning the boys' parts, there would be little discussion; the chief players had already determined these, and all that remained was to hand out the sides. The closest to a “Juliet” was Lady Percy, Hotspur's spirited wife—“And that falls to Richard,” announced Master Will, passing down the scroll with my lines written on it. “Robin, you are for Mistress Quickly.”

  This was a comic role, not a romantic one, and I felt Robin's arm stiffen as he drew away from me. A glance at his face showed his hurt, mixed with the bitter knowledge that he had grown too stout for Juliet. I felt for him, but did not look forward to the sulky mood that was sure to follow.

  David Morgan received the role of Owen Glendower's daughter, an announcement that surprised no one. His side consisted only of cues, for the part was all in Welsh. Playing a grown woman would be a stretch for him, but Master Will could not resist making use of his peculiar gifts.

  Gregory was handed a mixed bag of messengers and servants, as usually befalls an apprentice when there are not enough female roles to go around. “As for Kit—” Master Shakespeare paused.

  Kit was sitting across from me, carefully maintaining an inch of space between himself and Gregory. Throughout the evening he had sat in stone-faced silence, even while the rest of the Company roared with laughter at the antics of Oldcastle and the prince. Now he raised his head, and I was struck by a thought that probably struck the rest of the boys as well: there were no more female parts. “You shall play Ned Poins, the prince's companion.” Master Shakespeare passed down the scroll as if it was no great matter, but the Company fell silent for an instant, understanding what this meant. The part was not large, but it could be lively—Poins, I recalled, was the one who proposed the robbery scheme, and he and the prince have a rare old time in the tavern scene that follows. The clear message to Kit was that the Company was willing to help him master this great leap in his career, so long as he stayed out of trouble. I gazed at his face, rewarded by one of the rare moments when it actually revealed him—though what it revealed was a clash of gratitude and resistance. What he said would be a natural response, from most people, but sounded odd coming from him: “Thank you, sir.”

  Shakespeare nodded, and across the table from him Thomas Pope burst out in a loud laugh. “This fellow Oldcastle—God's truth, this time you've outdone yourself, Will.” He had been scanning his lines and now threw his voice into a pious, canting pitch as he read, “‘Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose garment. Company, villainous company hath been the spoil of me.'” He gleefully rubbed his hands together, chortling, “Fat Jack is worth a fortune to us!”

  “To Fat Jack!” cried Richard Cowley, raising his ale tankard. Everyone downed a toast to Oldcastle, who was just the sort of outrageous rogue our audiences loved—yet with a difference that troubled me, even as I drank to him. Plenty of plays included witty servants or fast-talking thieves, but Oldcastle was a gentleman of sorts, and much more than a mere thief. He reminded me of someone, or some thing, but in the smoke and noise of the tavern, with the oil lamps beginning to gutter out and ale buzzing in my head, I could not think clearly.

  The assembly began to shift and sigh. In the middle of a yawn, I caught a view of Kit's face, with an expression of such naked malevolence on it my jaw locked for a moment. The look was not for me but for Davy, who had turned sideways on the bench with his legs dangling over the end and his spine digging into my side. I glanced down at his dark head, bent over a long loop of string between his hands. It appeared to be a game of cat's cradle, but the design was unfamiliar to me. His fingers shuttled with a skill that could only come from long practice. “What's that?” I asked him.

  The fingers froze, like a nest of startled rabbits. Then he twitched his thumbs, and the string pattern disappeared as he pulled his hands apart. “'Tis nothing.”

  Later that night, I sat up in bed with a cry of revelation: “Aha!”

  Robin stirred. “What?”

  “Sir John Oldcastle. There was something about him I couldn't remember, but now I do—he's one of the martyrs in Foxe.” Only the ale had kept me from remembering this earlier; as a boy I had read Reverend Foxe's Book of Martyrs countless times, and the copy given me by Master Condell was among my prized possessions.

  “Fat Jack, a Protestant martyr?” Robin groused. I had been right in predicting his mood. “Not likely. Now shut up and let me sleep.”

  I was sure of it, though. Sir John Oldcastle had suffered under Edward III for denying certain doctrines of the Church of Rome. He made a most noble end, burned for the true faith. Didn't Master Will know that? Or might he have some reason for resurrecting a pious saint as a wine-guzzling libertine? Oh well, thought I, sinking back into the straw mattress; the real Oldcastle died two hundred years ago. He could not come back to haunt us now.

  As with most new plays, the Company allowed about three weeks for the players to learn their parts, but this particular new play set an additional task for them: Master Will wished a better setting for it than the creaky old Curtain. Across the river, in Southwark, a new theater had gone up west of the Rose. It was called the Swan, said to hold upwards of three thousand people. Cuthbert Burbage began negotiations to secure it for the opening performance of Henry IV, and when he interrupted a rehearsal one morning to announce that the Swan was ours for the last week in May, all the men of the Company cheered.

  But most of them were groaning two weeks later, when we had to load our properties and costumes in carts and haul them from Shoreditch to Southwark. The distance was not so great by measure, but it took us all the way through London: over every pothole, past every cart collision, and through every street quarrel that happened to be going on at the time.

  The apprentices were given charge of a large barrow loaded with royal properties: crowns, orbs, some costume pieces, and a very heavy throne, all covered in buckram to conceal the cargo from light fingers. Davy added little muscle, so we kept him on watch for most of the journey, while the rest of us sweated and strained and managed to get our clumsy cart stuck in at least half the holes we tried to avoid. The evening had turned rainy, and we all looked like half-drowned rats by the time we had lumbered through Bishopsgate and entered the city.

  As we approached
Buckingham Tavern, on Gracechurch Street, the door of the establishment burst open and a score of contentious men boiled out of it. We stopped to watch, glad for the diversion. The quarrel surged back and forth like an angry sea until the sense emerged: it seemed to be about the honor of certain people at the Queen's court. As the smaller group slandered the loyalty and fighting ability of the Earl of Essex, a sizable body of defenders spoke vigorously for him, and soon a young man in their midst stepped forward to engage in single combat for their hero. He had some personal insults to revenge as well.

  “Call me a prissy dame?” he shouted at someone in the opposing crowd. “Call me a prancing duck? I'll show you a duck. Have at thee!”

  A hard laugh rang out like steel. “Your blade is no quicker than your tongue, boy. I'll test you on that point as easily as any other.” An older man stepped out of the shadows, his hand on the hilt of a rapier. When their blades flashed in the damp twilight, my blood surged, as though I had stumbled on a body.

  “Make it two points, then!” The “boy's” words sounded fiercer than he looked, with his slim body and refined, almost girlish features. But his fair complexion was flushed with wine and rage. He pulled a velvet cape off his shoulder with one hand and tossed it to the servant hovering nearby, then pulled his dagger. His foe likewise removed his cloak—a plain, sturdy wool one—and looked around for an honest bystander to hold it for him. To my surprise he ignored many eager outstretched hands and tossed the garment to Kit. Then he pulled his own dagger.

  The onlookers cheered, for this would be rare sport. Men slashing at each other with swords, or stabbing with knives, were common enough on the London streets, but only gentlemen and fencing masters preferred the new style of rapier-and- dagger. One of each appeared to be squaring off now in the drizzle and the hissing torchlight; the older fellow was no gentleman, but he clearly knew his business.

  Something else soon became clear, too. Even though the fight seemed in earnest, I noticed the older man was pulling his thrusts. Though both showed some skill, he was easily the better swordsman and could have ended the contest in short order. “They don't mean it,” Gregory murmured in my ear. “Or at least, one of them doesn't.”

  Some among the spectators had glommed onto the same suspicion, for a voice called out, “Stop playing with him, Corporal! Finish him!”

  The young gentleman made the mistake of turning his head, leaving a hole in his defense as wide as Newgate. The so-called corporal slipped through it and caught a button at the point of the rapier, then sliced it off with the dagger, all so quick the boy scarcely had time to turn around.

  “Do you yield?” asked the corporal. His voice was hard, with a curious accent that sounded familiar, though I couldn't place it.

  Up until now, the gentleman had behaved rather like a brat demanding his own way; I half expected him to stamp his well-shod foot and whine that it wasn't fair. Instead he sheathed his rapier, straightened his clothes, and bowed with seemly dignity. “I yield the match. But not the honor of my Lord Essex, whom God grant that I may anon be privileged to defend, with better wit and spirit.”

  This was a pretty way to concede, and the onlookers murmured their approval as his opponent also bowed, low enough to retrieve the severed button and offer it back. “The privilege was mine, Lord Mustard.”

  The young man turned a deeper shade of crimson and drew his rapier again. “I told you never to call me that!”

  “Of course, my lord. Forgive me.” The corporal retrieved his cloak, which Kit had folded into a bundle for him, bowed again toward the gentleman, and backed away toward the Buckingham Tavern, his show of humility as thin as water. Smirking companions followed. At this timely moment the servant arrived, riding one horse and leading another. Flinging his velvet cape over one shoulder, the young gentleman swung into the saddle and jerked on the reins. I knew somewhat of horses, having been a stable boy most of my life, and winced to think how the poor creature's mouth must feel. Heedless of all obstacles, the two turned west, scattering dogs, carts, and people before them.

  “Lord Mustard,” Robin repeated, once they were out of sight. “He must be a member of the Condiment clan.”

  “Near cousin to the Earl of Horseradish,” Gregory suggested.

  Scowling, Kit turned to us as we broke out in giggles. “Will you be helping pull this load? Or would you prefer to ride it instead? One idler on this team is enough.” That last remark was aimed at Davy, who perched on the front of the cart. Kit knocked him off with a back-handed swipe and picked up the tongue. Gregory rolled his eyes at me and stepped behind to push.

  The Company slated three familiar plays before the first performance of Henry IV on Thursday, a wise plan since we needed the time to accustom ourselves to yet another theater. Confusion was certain, but Richard Burbage took it very hard when he couldn't find his favorite black doublet for Tuesday's performance of The Duke of Navarre. Costumes had to be carefully watched; the Company laid out more money to dress their players than they did to pay them. “It's worth thirty pounds, if it's worth a farthing!” Master Burbage repeated as he turned over the tiring rooms of the Swan, with all the stage keepers and apprentices pressed into searching for the doublet. Since no one would admit to moving it, he had no one to blame.

  “But you won't need it until Thursday, sir,” ventured Kit.

  Master Burbage backed out of the wardrobe crate he'd been pawing through. “Do you object if I take a notion to wear it today, Master Glover?”

  Irritation made him sarcastic, and Kit knew better than to reply. An hour's search turned up no black damask doublet with gold braid and piping, and our chief player had to make do with a scarlet one. As far as I could tell, his performance did not suffer, but he was in a foul mood for the rest of the day. The missing costume was only part of it—a fly's weight in the ton of his theater troubles—but his irritation spread to all before the day was done.

  When I told her of the missing costume that evening, Starling said, “I'll wager a shilling I can find it.”

  “If I had a shilling, that would be an easy win. We turned the tiring rooms inside out.”

  “But without me,” she said. “I'll find it.”

  A good thing I didn't bet, for two days hence she did find it. But under circumstances that provided no answers, only raised new questions.

  THE NEW ROBIN HOOD

  nd where did you find it?” Master Burbage demanded, with a look that mixed relief, puzzlement, and irritation.

  Starling made another little curtsey. Just as we were completing our final preparations for Henry IV, she had caught us on one corner of the stage and handed over the missing garment. Her manner was not quite like herself: more hem and haw than common, though Master Burbage's imposing presence could wring hems and haws out of the Lord Mayor of London.

  “In truth, sir,” said she, “I found it—most unlikely I know, but as I had searched everywhere else, it seemed worthy, yet—I found it in the garderobe, sir.”

  He almost dropped the black doublet; then he frowned, brought the rich goods up to his expansive nose, and sniffed. The garderobe was a little room attached to the theater on the south side, for the use of players who must relieve themselves during a performance. Since our old Theater had an outdoor privy, we thought this a wonderful convenience, though no amount of lime could keep all the odors at bay. “I do detect a whiff of the necessary about it,” Richard Burbage said. “Dare I ask where—”

  “It was rolled up and wrapped in sacking,” she explained, “then stuffed under the eaves, where the ceiling braces are.”

  He stared at her long and hard, but decided against asking further questions. Shaking out the garment, he gave it a closer inspection. The doublet, limp and wrinkled, put me in mind of a once-stout king suffering from a wasting sickness. “Seems whole, though worse for wear,” Master Burbage concluded. “There's a tale here, but all's well that ends well, eh? Many thanks, maid.” He fished about in his purse for a penny, which Starling took wi
th another half curtsey. All of us knew that the doublet was not accidentally stuffed in a privy by careless movers, but Master Burbage chose not to comment.

  As soon as he excused himself to dress for the play, I said, “It wasn't there the other day—someone would have found it.”

  “No doubt.”

  “So—what are you thinking?”

  She was a quick thinker; from the moment she found the doublet, her thoughts could have circled the globe at least once. “First of all, why leave it in such a suspicious place?

  There must have been no other choice. Whoever took the garment may have smuggled it in under his own clothes, then slipped into the garderobe to take it off. And then—perhaps he heard footsteps approaching, or feared he could not slip it back to the wardrobe unseen.”

  “Was it someone in the Company, then?”

  “Well, it stands to reason. Any outsiders would be noticed in the tiring rooms. Perhaps a hired man?”

  The Company had hired four extra players for the week, all of whom had worked for them before. My first thoughts ran to the question Who? But what I asked was, “Why?”

  She made a shrug. “Someone may have wanted to do a bit of acting off the stage—impress a lady, or gull a gentleman. Perhaps there's no harm done … except for a rip on the left side of the doublet. A clean slice. It's mended, but not well.”

  “That could have been done on stage. In the course of a battle or murder a knife could slip.” Costumes were damaged that way often enough, even with blunt weapons.

  “But the thread looks new and the tailor didn't know his business, unlike our excellent Master Stewart—” Abruptly, she noticed that the doors of the theater had opened to admit the public. “I must go, and you must dress. We will talk later.” She hurried to the rim of the stage and turned back again. “Esperance!”