The True Prince

by J. B. Cheaney

  He handed the cup to his accuser, who sat up on the table to examine the contents with his companion the law student. While they were thus occupied, Penny scratched his upper arm serenely. “Watch his hand,” Bartlemy murmured, startling me. “His right hand.” I watched, as Kit stretched both arms above his head with a huge yawn, and his left hand came near Penny's right. Something may have passed between them, though it happened too quickly for me to be certain.

  Master Coble looked up from his examination. “You switched them.”

  “I cry you mercy!” Penny held up his mutilated right hand. “Accuse me not of a dexterity that, alas, can hardly be mine. Search my battered body—you'll find no false dice on me.”

  Some of the bystanders protested angrily at this offense to an old soldier. The fellow in the legal gown tried to pull his companion off the table, but the latter seemed to be spoiling for a fight. “I know your kind!” he shouted at the captain. “All you ‘old soldiers' should be locked up to keep you from preying on honest citizens.”

  Penny opened his mouth to protest, but the lad rushed on. “Yea, I said it, and I stand by it—if you would challenge me, I'll be in my rooms tomorrow between the hours of—”

  “Put it up!” his companion hissed at him. “Haven't we been fools enough for one night?”

  “What's your grief, Master Coble?” The captain's voice softened. “Have you wagered all your allowance for this term and fear your father's wrath? Here's fourpence back to see you through—”

  “I'll none of your charity!” The young man knocked over a bench, and his round red face looked fit to burst. “It's my honor at stake. I'll not suffer—”

  “Unstake it, then.” Penny's voice took an edge, and for the moment he became a man one would not want to meet on a battlefield or a dueling green. Then his good humor returned as he signaled for his cup to be filled again. “Have another cup of sack, and let's hear no more talk of honor. What's it good for?” Raising his voice, he asked the room at large, “Will it satisfy a starving belly?”

  “No!” came the answer, from a handful of no-accounts nearby.

  “Will it fill an empty pocket?”

  “No!” more of the onlookers chimed in.

  “Will it keep a shrewish wife from your throat?”

  “No!” By now the entire room had joined the chorus.

  “Will it hold back the landlord from your door?”

  “NO!”

  “And—” Penny lifted his cup to Master Coble. “Will it keep a young firebrand from burning a hole in his breeches?”

  “NO!!!”

  “So you see, 'tis good for nothing useful, so I'll have none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon—and so ends my catechism.” He drained his cup on the last words, inviting all to join him, which they did with great applause and laughter. It was, of course, the ending of Sir John's speech. Penny was borrowing from the very character he stood as model for.

  Master Coble, though not cheered, was cowed enough to back away from his challenge. His struggle to produce a witty reply twisted his mouth. “Go fry in your own grease.”

  “Aaaaaaah! Ooooooooh!” sang the tavern crowd, in mock dismay. Knowing when he was beaten, the young man picked up his fine hat. His companion, Master Knopwood, counted what was left in his purse and gloomily settled his account with the singer, who appeared to be the hostess as well. Kit stood as they made their farewells and left with them.

  The alehouse crowd broke up to their separate pursuits, including another game of Hazard at the center table. I turned to Bartlemy and asked, “Who is this man Penny?”

  “A soldier, just as he claims.”

  “But he speaks so well—how came he by his education?”

  “He was raised in a good house—a foster son, I think. But he fell out with his guardian and ran away long ago. Served in the Netherlands, then found himself turned loose on the country like so many others.”

  I could not help noticing that Penny was about the size of Richard Burbage and that he would look very much the gentleman in a black and gold doublet. “Do you think he's the new Robin Hood?”

  “I think nothing before there is proof.”

  “Didn't his victims mark his nose? Or his missing fingers?”

  “They marked gloves, and a mask. Every gentleman wears gloves, and many travelers wear masks.”

  I persisted. “But you have proof before your eyes that he's a coney catcher. Could you not arrest him for that and get a confession from him about the rest?”

  He twirled the pewter mug between his long hands, as though turning over in his mind how much to say. “A confession drawn off the rack would not satisfy me.” He took a gulp of the ale. “Besides, we must cast a wider net.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He did not answer. All this time, even while speaking to me, his eyes roved about the room so restlessly I almost believed they could turn over cushions and dart around corners. Now that the shock had lessened, I had to admit he had made good on his promise, proving to me that my fellow player was indeed a companion of thieves—an accomplice, even. A coney catcher himself, pulling in likely victims for a dice cheat. Kit could have served as the model for a sermon: “Behold the player's swift decline! From gowns to gambling to guzzling in alehouses and gulling young fools!” A chill touched my heart in that hot, stuffy room; Kit had irritated me, infuriated me, made me feel like a brainless lump of dough, but now he frightened me. If he had stolen costumes from the Company to dress “Robin Hood,” he might be deep enough in intrigue to get himself hanged.

  “Is it possible,” I ventured, “that this scene is not as bad as it looks? That Kit lost his money as honestly as the other two and is even now slinking home with empty pockets?”

  My companion pursed his lips, but didn't bother to reply. Next moment there came a stir at the door and Kit himself made his entrance.

  There is no better way to put it: where before he had clothed himself in insignificance, now he was every inch the player, gesturing to the third gallery—and, once again, making me feel like a brainless lump of dough as Bartlemy spared me a taunting glance.

  “What ho, wanderer?” roared Penny in greeting. “Did you leave them in peace?”

  “I did—and with a piece for myself.” Kit reached into his doublet and pulled out a red plume, last seen on Master Coble's stylish hat. This he tucked into his own cap, to the applause and laughter of the tavern crowd. The hostess (who was not bad-looking, I noticed) wrapped her arms around him, and Penny clapped him on the back.

  “Seen enough?” Bartlemy asked me.

  “You shame me, boy.” Penny wagged his good hand at Kit, pointing two fingers in a peculiar way that looked familiar. Then I recalled that it belonged to John Heminges, and Penny was now imitating Heminges's “lecture tone”: “You're squandering your gifts on petty theft—have a care, or you'll find yourself on the road to virtue!”

  “What's this?” Kit unwound himself from the hostess, after giving her the kiss she demanded. “Are you my father?”

  “Perhaps—depends on where your mother was, seventeen years ago.”

  Amid whistles and guffaws, Kit set a stool upon the table and enthroned himself on it. “I warn you, good people!” His voice rang with such command the entire room fell into churchlike stillness. I had always envied how he could do that. “There is a devil haunts us in the likeness of an old fat man; a ton of man is our companion….” He spoke in broad, mea sured tones, with wide gestures—another imitation of Master Heminges, but much better than the captain's. I drew in a quick breath, for this was an echo of the Boar's Head Tavern scene. Kit was quoting directly from the part where Hal pretends to be his own father, condemning the man the prince had chosen for a friend: “Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning but in craft? Wherein crafty but in villainy?” As he piled on the accusations, Penny cringed like a guilty prisoner, to the delight of the audience. Suddenly, Kit rose from
the stool and knelt at the end of the table, clasping his hands around the man's neck so their foreheads almost touched. “Wherein worthy, but in nothing?”

  “Ah, lad.” Penny seized Kit's arms and pulled him off the table, to loud applause. Once the two of them were steady on their feet, he threw an arm around Kit's shoulder and ruffled his hair. “To know all my faults and love me anyway. It's the sign of a great heart. We'll see the world, you and I—” Abruptly, he leaned forward and pounded the table. “But first, let's have a song!”

  What struck me then was the expression on Kit's face. I could not recall seeing such unmixed happiness there before, not even after his great stage triumphs. It engrossed me so that I almost forgot Bartlemy, until he stood up. “I must go,” he said shortly. When I rose also, he hissed, “No! You stay behind.”

  I made a grab for his sleeve. “You can't leave me here!”

  I heard his sharp sigh as he pulled his arm free. “Then keep close.” He was already slipping shadowlike around the wall. “And not a word—not a word, you hear?”

  We went out through the main door, then darted across the dark street. Like my companion I flattened myself against a wall. From his utter silence I guessed he was listening, sifting the sounds: a church bell in the city tolling a death; a man and woman quarreling; an uneven step, like a man with a bad limp. After a moment Bartlemy rounded the corner and crept down an alley, with me close behind and just as silent—one learns to move all kinds of ways on a stage. At the next street we paused to listen again. Then Bartlemy took off at a sprint, his long legs covering ground with frightful speed.

  The next moment there came a collision and a muffled cry. I ran to join him, thinking he might need help. Hardly— though I could not at first sort the shapes, it was clear Bartlemy had the upper hand. A moment's struggle put his victim in a pool of grayish light that fell from a window, and I could make out the sparse white hairs on his head.

  “Have pity!” squeaked a thin voice. “I'm an old man, with scarcely a farthing to my name.”

  “I'm not after your purse, reverend sir.” In spite of the words, Bartlemy's voice sounded the opposite of respectful. “Where did you get the ring on your right hand?”

  “What—say—you?”

  “This ring.” Bartlemy's knee was in the man's back as he held both arms secured. “The one I'm twisting off your finger.”

  “You'll have the finger and all! Believe me—'twas my father's, given for good service in— Argggggh!”

  The pathetic moan went through me like a spear. “Stop it!”

  Hearing my voice, the old man turned his head in my direction. “Young master! Pity this poor gray head, in God's name—”

  Bartlemy silenced him with a twist of the arm. “Stay out of this,” he spat at me. The old man groaned, and in the dim light I saw his poor gray head loll in the mud.

  Hardly thinking, I sprang forward and grabbed Bartlemy's arm. “No more—loose your grip! Can't you see—” He raised a hand to push me away, and in that instant his victim twisted free, rolled to his feet, and dashed off with the agility of a much younger man.

  Next I knew, a sharp rock cracked against my shin and made me jump. “Milk-faced prig!” hissed my companion. “Lily-hearted lass!” He went on in this vein, tossing in some very insulting French phrases.

  “I-I'm sorry. He seemed so—”

  “Felons and actors share some of the same gifts. I would have had him, if not for your bone-headed—” More French, as he whipped the cap off his head and stamped on it.

  I decided not to try his temper any further. And I'd had enough of his company, as well. Entrusting my safety to God, and my direction to instinct, I ran back toward the river as all the church bells of the city burst forth in a ragged chorus of midnight.

  MORE ROGUERY

  e has some rough edges,” Starling conceded the next morning, when I told her of our adventure.

  “Rough edges?” I was helping her spread new rushes on the floor, and their sweet dusty scent made me sneeze. “He could saw oak. And I can't fathom how he got you to even look at him, much less talk to him.” She merely smiled. “That is your cue to speak.”

  “Oh, is it? Well, he was right simple and straightforward. On Tuesday three weeks past, before I left for the market, he arrived with a piece of raw meat and lured the dog out of the gate. While Roland was attending to the meat, Bartlemy tied a ribbon round his neck, and a message to the ribbon. When I came out, he sprang Roland after me. Of course the ribbon caught my eye first. The message read: ‘A friend wishes to walk you to Bishopsgate Market.

  If you would know who, turn around and let him speak first.' So of course I turned around and there he was, making a most elegant bow. In truth, I was so surprised I could not have spoken my own name.”

  “And you call that simple?” I said. “Simple would be appearing at the gate with a piece of raw meat for you.”

  This was meant as a jest—mostly—but she took it ill, turning her back and speaking in a small, tight voice. “Do you mean to say I'm no better than a dog?”

  “No, of course not. But look you—the last time you saw him, he appeared just the opposite of a friend. Allow me to wonder how he won you over so easily.”

  “How do you know it was easy? You don't know what he said.”

  I held back an impatient sigh. “Right. Forgive me, I assumed too much. What did he say?”

  After a moment she made a swipe at her nose and turned around. “Leave it at this: he convinced me that what's past is past and he means you no harm. He only wants to catch a thief.”

  “Well? Say on.”

  “That button led him first to the Admiral's Men, because of the Robin Hood play they put on last spring. He soon determined that their Robin Hood has nothing to do with the ballads, but some of the players told him about Kit's being dismissed. That was all the gossip this summer: according to rumor, Kit mysteriously lost his powers and tried to kill the Welsh Boy in a fit of madness. Some are even saying he succeeded, since Davy hasn't been seen. Bartlemy tried to find him but turned up Kit instead—in Captain Penny's company.”

  “Has he questioned them?”

  “No; he's only watching now.”

  She and Bartlemy had had quite a little talk, it seemed. “Do you know if he's approached anyone else in the Company?”

  “Only John Heminges, who refused to say much. He was Kit's guardian for five years, you know, and loved him like a son. But by the time you joined the Company, Kit was becoming difficult, and it's gone from bad to worse. Master Heminges feels betrayed, I think; his hurt goes so deep, he can't talk about it.”

  “So Bartlemy, sensitive hound that he is, backed away from Master Heminges and came to gnaw on me.”

  Angrily, she threw down a handful of rushes. “It's all of a piece with his work. It can't be easy, running down lawless men.”

  “Especially when he's not much better than they.”

  “Have some charity, Richard. That ring he saw could have been the other one stolen from Henry Brooke, else Bartlemy would not be so desperate to question the bearer.”

  “The alehouse was dark enough I could scarce see my own hand—am I to believe that he is so eagle-eyed he could glom on a finger from halfway across the room? Here's what I think: he saw an old fellow wearing a ring, and thought it might be Brooke's, and waylaid him on the long chance that it was. And just a few moments before he was preaching against the use of torture. ‘A confession drawn off the rack wouldn't satisfy me,' says he. As if he is the only one in this case who needs to be satisfied.”

  My voice was rising, and she held up a hand in warning. “He may have reasons for acting as he does.”

  “I care not. Whatever his reasons I want nothing more to do with him—that's flat.” So saying, I scattered the last of my rushes.

  “And what of Kit?” she asked.

  “What of him?”

  “He could bring shame on the Company.” Her loyalty to the Company was as fierce as any pl
ayer's, and she had never liked Kit.

  “He left the Company, as you recall.”

  “He hasn't left London, and his name is still linked with ours.”

  I sneezed again; the rushes were irritating me, and I had slept hardly at all. Those two things made me sharper with her than I should have been. “Let Bartlemy bring him to justice, then. He doesn't need the help of a milk-faced prig like me.” Before she could reply, I started for the stairs. “The fall season begins in two days, and after church tomorrow we'll be moving our things out of storage. That leaves me one idle day; pray tell the mistress I'm going to St. Paul's.”

  But this was not to be. I was dressed and on my way out the door when Master Condell called to me. “Richard! Doth my wife put you on some errand? Good—you may do one for me. Here are the receipts from our tour, all summed. Pray deliver them to Master Heminges—you'll find him at the Curtain.”

  There went the morning; with a bow I took the parcel he handed me and set off toward Shoreditch. At least it made a pleasant walk, with the sun climbing the sky, the hot season turning, and a fresh breeze blowing off the river. All this helped me sort my thoughts, which badly needed sorting after my quarrel with Star. The blame for that was mostly mine, and I resolved to buy her a book at St. Paul's by way of apology.

  But deeper down lay my thoughts of Kit, in a hopeless tangle. Memories of him had thronged the night, in particular of our boxing match at the Curtain. Every time I drifted toward sleep, the bloody voice of the crowd jolted me awake, along with the recollection of how we had drilled into each other and seemed for an endless moment to become a single person. And then, half dreaming, I would see him in the upper tiring room, holding out the mirror. My white-powdered face reflected in it, and his emerging behind it, were like two planets crossing in their orbits.

  He had always gone his own way. What could I do to stop him?

  I reached the Curtain in a gloomy state of mind made worse by the sight of our old Theater, locked and barred on the other side of the road. Over the summer a wreath of brambles had grown up around its neglected walls until the building appeared to be caught in a stranglehold, like a castle under enchantment.