The True Prince

by J. B. Cheaney

  Though far from a disaster, it was not one of our better performances. This was the play in which Crab earned his keep, for there is a part in it written for a dog. Crab's only skill as a player was to scratch himself and gaze over the crowd with damp, soulful eyes. He had also been taught to raise his hind leg at a tug of his leash, and then lower it at a shout; if the player managing him knew how to time this, the crowd roared with laughter. In fact, Crab got more laughs than any of us, until the last scene.

  This scene includes an escape through the forest, an assault on a lady, a boy revealed as a girl, an accusation, a reconciliation, and a whole band of outlaws. But as if that were not enough, when the fair maid I played was fighting off an attack from her thwarted lover, the loose boards began to leap beneath my feet. A tremendous din, like the baying of twenty hounds, drowned out my cry of “O heaven!”

  It was, in fact, the baying of one hound: Crab, who had a voice like a bass horn. When he wasn't performing, he slept under the stage, but something had stirred him from slumber and infuriated him besides. He howled like a wolf and bucked like a stallion, beating his broad strong head against the stage. Master Condell, my thwarted lover, stepped back just as the dog made a ferocious lunge that raised the board I was standing on. I cried out again—something stronger than O heaven!—and pitched forward, landing with such a thud that my wig flew off: a fallen woman, indeed.

  The audience loved this. With a few choice words Burbage climbed down to subdue his hound (and would shortly discover that some mischief-making boys had crept under the stage and set loose a jarful of bees). Worse things have happened to me, and I was calmly retrieving my wig when a worse thing did happen: I raised my head to come face to face with a pretty maid who looked familiar, especially her scandalized expression. Then I recognized my sister.

  “I am only grateful our mother isn't alive to see this,” she said.

  “I would never be grateful for that,” I fired back.

  “You know what I mean. You know how she longed for you to become a minister or lawyer. But if she could have seen you today …”

  Susanna is my twin, but she was born older. We sat opposite each other at one end of a long table in the local inn where our Company was staying the night. As it happened, Susanna was staying there too, along with old Beverly, the squire's cook, and young Walter Hawthorne, his son. They had come to Lincoln town to buy and sell, and our paths had crossed according to God's mysterious ways. Master Walter was a big lout in his early twenties who used to kick me around the stable yard for sport. I had dreamed of returning to Alford some day and daring him to kick me now, but I could hardly make such an offer after he had seen me flat on the boards in a skirt. He stood around smirking until Susanna asked him to allow us privacy, and I didn't like the possessive manner he took toward her.

  In appearance Susanna had improved in a year's time. She looked more like our mother, with her broad brow, large dark eyes, smooth auburn hair, and short chin; a quiet beauty that turned threatening when her temper was up. She had hardly begun on the list of things she didn't like about me: “—a wig and a painted face, and spouting all manner of nonsense—”

  “I told you all that in my letters. You needn't come on like you've just had the shock of your life.”

  “Reading about it was bad enough. But a thousand times worse to see it …” and so on.

  The players sat at another table, pretending not to listen as we plowed the same ground several times. Susanna relished argument, doubtless because she was so good at it. My only defense against her logic boiled down to this: I knew where I belonged. Finally she threw up her hands in exasperation. “You're as stubborn as ever. How can you be so sure you've found your place?”

  “I seem to be rather good at it.”

  “Good at it! Don't you reckon King David was ‘rather good' at adultery, too? What good is ‘being good' at anything, if it costs you your honor and your good name?”

  What is honor? was the first reply that popped into my head. Can it set a leg? Or an arm? Hath it no skill in surgery … Judging by Susanna's face, though, this was no time to quote a scurvy character like Sir John. “Look—I came into the theater by God's provision. Doubt it if you must, but I know it's true. I've learned a lot and come to understand things better— about people, about life, about myself—”

  “You've learned about yourself by putting on a dress and playing women? Truly I fear for you, Richard….”

  Soon it was time for bed and we had worn each other out. We parted angry and frustrated and confused (or at least I was confused), but the morning brought some reconciliation. I went to say farewell after we had packed our cart and found her in the common room. Her eyes were red, and her nose too, and I guessed that she'd slept no better than I. “I'm thankful we met,” she began. “You've not convinced me all's well, but I will pray for you daily.”

  “And I for you.” My throat tightened, and my voice sounded as thin as hers.

  “Just keep watch, Richard—remember the devil is like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”

  “I will.” Tears stung my eyes as we embraced. “And you keep your distance from Master Walter. Greedy pigs bear watching, too.”

  “I can manage him.” Her voice turned tart again as she released me. “Do write, or I may come to London to see for myself what you're up to.”

  She came outside with me and exchanged a few courteous words with Master Condell and the other players. We took our leave in procession, Gregory and I bringing up the rear, Susanna waving until we were out of sight.

  “I must confess,” Gregory said. “Last night, when all were abed, I was tempted to climb that rose trellis beside her window and have a little chat with her. You barely introduced us.”

  I refrained from pointing out that when he had had the opportunity to speak to her, his tongue appeared to be tied. “She's no Juliet—she'd have pushed you off the trellis.”

  “The men remarked how much she resembles you.”

  “What? She doesn't resemble me at all.”

  “Tell that to a blind man. Master Condell thought it would make a good play: a twin brother and sister who look alike, and she dresses as a boy, and a lady falls in love with her—”

  “I don't want to talk about it.” Or anything else, for that matter. Gregory got no good conversation out of me for at least two days, for Susanna had put me into a dump—her arguments crawled into my brain and began picking at my confidence: What would my mother think? Is this life worthwhile? Is it honorable? Thoughts of Kit returned, with the dread that such a fate might be in store for me.

  I have noticed this, though: once you're well launched in one direction, it takes more than a few doubts to change your course. When, at the end of July, we reached the farthest limit of our wanderings and turned back toward London, I could feel the pull of the city. All the towns began to look alike, and I gave up trying to remember their names. Every night our anticipation grew; every day we moved a little faster, shortening the distance. Home, home, the cart wheels chanted; home, murmured the brooks and streams.

  My eagerness startled me; for every one thing I liked about the city, there were a dozen I despised. But when we finally caught our first view of London, huddled beside the Thames and breathing its dank, dense breath, my heart beat faster. The flat-topped steeple of St. Paul's stuck up from the maze of houses and streets like a lighted beacon, guiding us in. “Home again!” Master Condell sang out. Others took up the refrain: home to the Mermaid Tavern, the wife and little ones gathered on the hearth, the clattering streets, the never-ceasing chimes from a host of church steeples.

  “Good old stinking London,” Gregory laughed, and I could only nod—not trusting myself, at that moment, to speak.

  RENEWING AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE (TRA-LA)

  e approached by way of Charing Cross and followed the Strand up Fleet Street. The closer we came to Ludgate, the more there was to see, until my eyes ached from seeing. “Look!” Gregory cried over and over
, at the sideshows and puppet motions that had sprung up since we left. “Look: Indian savages from the New World!” “Look—a man-sized snake from Africa!”

  Just inside Ludgate a lively tune caught my ear, and directly I recognized the ballad of “The New Robin Hood”—the same tune, but different words. While the Company paused to clear our carts with the customs agent, Gregory and I wandered over to listen. The song was carried by a singer with a lute, while two tumblers pantomimed the action—not literally, because the story told how Robin Hood surprised a gentleman while the gentleman was passing water in a garden. The victim, one “Lord Stuff,” was forced to surrender the golden chain about his neck as well as his purse. “But you may keep your water,” said Master Hood, before making off with the money, tra-la.

  The smaller of the two tumblers jumped on his partner's back and rode into the audience, waving copies of the ballad to sell. He got some applause, but few buyers.

  “The song is already old,” Gregory sighed. “I wonder what else we've missed?”

  Master Condell sent a boy to alert the household, and by the time we arrived, everyone was on hand to greet us, from the mistress down to Roland the dog. The little boys leapt on me; Alice remarked, “You're browner but no taller”; Jacob the gardener slapped me on the back; Nell slipped a sugared plum into my hand; and Mistress Condell put her arms around me, after putting them first around her husband, of course. All of it made me feel like I had been dragged through a warm bath of affection, coming out drenched but happy.

  Starling came last. I had wondered what her greeting would be after so long a separation, but from the way she drew me aside and touched a finger to her lips, I saw my homecoming was not the first matter on her mind. “Are you too spent for an adventure tonight?”

  I will admit to a touch of disappointment that her welcome was not warmer. “What sort of adventure?”

  “There is someone you must meet, after dark.” Over my certain protest, she raced on: “Tonight would be best, before Robin gets back from Kent. After supper I'll play rough games with the children and wear them out so they'll drop off to sleep presently. As soon as they do, creep out your window and come around to the door of the buttery and knock twice. I'll be with you straight.”

  “But where are we going?”

  “To a respectable eating house near the Royal Exchange. I'll tell you no more than that.”

  “If I'm to be cheated out of sleep after eight weeks on the road and trolled through the streets after curfew, should I not know the reason?”

  “It wouldn't do, sweet chick. Trust me. Oh—and I am right glad to see you back.” While my guard was down, she bounced up and brushed a feather-light kiss directly on my lips. Then she muttered something about work to do, and I saw no more of her for the rest of the afternoon. Devious female!

  She played Thomas, Ned, and Cole so hard that they were too excited to drop off quietly. I had to cool them by degrees with stories from the Bible. She had played me too, winding up my mind so tight that even though my body longed for my own straw mattress, I couldn't have slept on a featherbed. The watchman had just called nine o'clock when I squeezed through the narrow window and crept across the roof to the stone trellis. Roland met me on the ground, his growl stilled when I put out my hand for him to smell. Once he knew me, his tail thumped out an invitation to play, but I shushed him and crept around to the back of the house. The buttery door sprang open upon my second knock, and Starling slipped out, wrapped in a shawl. The buttery was where she slept, on a narrow bed amongst the hams and cheeses, and in the summertime she picked up a trace of its sour smell. Yet there always seemed to be a fresh, apple-sweet breeze about her. I felt it as she brushed by me, whispering, “We must hurry. There's no time to lose.”

  Unescorted females and unoccupied youths are not allowed on the street after dark, unless they can claim pressing business. With a little care taken, though, one can usually avoid the watchmen, and Starling and I covered a quarter of a mile unchallenged. We emerged from dimly lit side streets onto Cheapside, where Londoners bustled about on foot or horse almost as thick as in broad day. Turning east, we proceeded to the three forks. Across from the Royal Exchange, Starling halted under a sign etched with a crowing cock. Warm light stippled her face as she peered through a latticed window. Then she made a nod to herself, threw the shawl back from her head, and beckoned me forward.

  The eating house we entered seemed respectable, as she promised: busy but not rowdy, babbling but not loud, full of merchants from the Royal Exchange who carried on their business over platters of roasted meat or fowl. Starling attracted little notice as she led the way to a table in the back corner. A thick post partly hid the table from view, but as we came nearer, I could make out a hand with spidery fingers lifting a pewter mug and long legs stretched out with one ankle crossed over the other. The hand stopped, as if its owner had heard us. Then it set down the mug with calm deliberation. The legs folded under the table and a joint stool scraped against the rough floor as the fellow stood up. Rounding the post, I saw his hand held out to me. Then my eyes rose to his face.

  Next I knew, I was heading in the opposite direction with the force of a charging bull as Starling clung to my arm: “Richard! Richard—believe me, it's all well. He means you no harm. Think—would I have brought you here otherwise? Richard!”

  I came to myself in the middle of the room, feeling the pressure on my arm and the curious glances sent our way from nearby tables. “Be reasonable,” Starling pleaded. “You have nothing to fear.”

  I could not trust myself to speak, but waited until the leaping tiger in my chest had settled to a discontented purr. Then I squared my shoulders, removed her hand, and marched back to the corner.

  The young man who so rumpled my disposition had seated himself and did not bother to rise again. Instead, he peered up with keen hazel eyes from under a rough thatch of copperbright hair. “Am I so ill-favored that virtuous boys run away in fear?”

  Sure he was no beauty, with his thin face and long pimply chin, but I was in no frame for banter. I kicked out the joint stool opposite him and dropped into it, though meeting his eyes took some effort. “Wh—What do you want?”

  “You can lower your guard,” drawled Bartholomew Finch, in his low, coarse voice. “I only want some questions answered—and they are not about you.”

  This did not reassure me. Master Finch was no older than eighteen, yet he worked for the Queen—indirectly, as the hired man to one John Clement. Their work was the shady kind, conducted in dark corners and whispering dens as they rooted out criminals and traitors. Young Finch had made my acquaintance barely a year before, when he suspected me to be just such a traitor. He had pursued me with the relentlessness of a hound after a hare. And though I was not as guilty as he believed, he had me well near trapped when Kit had unexpectedly provided my alibi and forced the hound to pursue other prey. Seeing this young man again, I could not help but feel cornered.

  “On who—” The words choked off, and I took a deep breath. “On whose authority are you asking questions now? Has not your master been masterless, since old Lord Hunsdon died?”

  “Not at all. John Clement is now engaged by the new Lord Chamberlain. William Brooke, Lord Cobham. Perhaps you know him?”

  “We've not met.” All I knew of William Brooke was his son's complaint against our portrayal of their noble ancestor. “Is … is this about Sir John Oldcastle?”

  “Fat Jack?” he asked quickly. “What has he to do with it?” But Starling, who had pulled up a stool beside me, was shaking her head vigorously.

  “Put the theater aside,” she told me. “There are greater things afoot. Bartlemy is on the scent.” I shot her a venomous glance: Bartlemy, now, was it? She had as little reason to like him as I did, yet somehow he had laid siege to her confidence and won it completely while I was away. “Go on,” she urged him. “Tell Richard what you told me.”

  Just then, a serving man brought a roasted capon on a platter. Bartle
my straightened at once and drew his dagger, then remembered his manners enough to ask, “Have you et?” When we both nodded, he zealously tucked into the bird. During the next half hour, Starling and I watched in growing amazement as he dismembered his dinner and ate it entire, even down to cracking the larger bones and sucking the marrow. In between swallows and wiping his greasy mouth on his sleeve, he told a fascinating tale.

  His master, John Clement, was looking into an incident that took place late in May, in which the Lord Chamberlain's son was robbed. Henry Brooke was on his way to London from his country estate, accompanied only by a manservant. Around sunset, he marked a traveler following him but was not alarmed because his follower appeared to be a gentleman, dressed in a fine black doublet trimmed in gold. Brooke suspected nothing amiss until the “gentleman” closed in, drew a pistol, and pleasantly demanded his money or his life. Brooke recalled his saying, “And since your life is worth more to you than to me, I would liefer have the money.”

  Those words sounded familiar. I was about to ask why, but then they rode into memory on the back of a lively tune: Your money or your life, demanded he/And since your life's no use to me/I'd liefer the coin….

  Bartlemy continued, still chewing: Henry Brooke's servant lunged forward, but the highwayman quickly knocked him in the head with the long barrel of his pistol. He drew a short sword next and parried Brooke's stab into a harmless thrust that wounded his clothes, not his person. An expert twist of the sword disarmed the victim, who was finally persuaded to part with his traveling money. The thief, again in most gentlemanly terms, asked for both the rings on his left hand—and got them, without argument this time. Then they parted company, leaving young Brooke to rouse his serving man and skulk to London, hoping that word of the humiliating encounter would never get about.

  But soon after, the ballad of “The New Robin Hood” began circulating in the London streets—a tale of a gentleman bandit who robbed a foppish young nobleman called “Lord Puff” and shared his bounty with the poor. Henry Brooke had never paid much attention to street ballads, but when one of his friends bought a copy and showed it to him, he recognized the particulars. Within days it was all over court, and Brooke's enemies were making up additional, mocking verses. A furious Lord Chamberlain engaged John Clement to bring the culprits to justice.