The more I thought of Corporal Tom, the more gaps he filled—why, he might have been the “corpse” who turned over Sir Biscuit's boat in the third robbery. He looked strong enough to perform such a feat—
At that moment, a weight like a sack of rocks caught me from behind, spun me halfway around, and knocked me to the ground.
YELLOW SLEEVES
dirty hand clapped over my mouth, as small as a child's. A voice piped in my ear, “Don't speak a word, for both our lives.”
I could have sobbed in relief and rage, for the voice belonged to the Welsh Boy—and so did the sharp little knees straddling my back. “Let me up!” I hissed. “Did they send you to follow me?”
“None sent me,” he replied calmly. “I came on my own, after sighting you in yon field. What be you after?”
“Lift your elbow and I'll tell you.” Once he did, I sat up slowly, feeling every dent the cobbles had made in my body. One hand had slid though a mass of slime. While wiping it off on the wall behind me, I tried to frame an answer. “I'm after … I wanted to know if Kit is still a friend of Captain Penny's.”
“Why don't you ask him?”
“We're not on good terms—thanks to you, in part. I know you're the one who harried him out of the Company.”
“Aye.”
His voice, as placid as a pond, made my temper rise. “Why? Was it because your ‘uncle' didn't trust him and wanted you in his place?” When the boy didn't answer, I pressed on. “But you weren't so trustworthy either. You couldn't keep your little hands from nipping, and so—”
“Stop talking.” The words came out in a whine, followed by, “My talk is worth a power of yours, anyway.”
Something in his voice put me on guard. “What do you mean?”
“You will want to keep me from telling who you are.”
“And why?”
“Because,” he said patiently, “you don't want them to know.”
“Why?”
“They don't like spies.”
Very slowly, I inched back against the wall. “Davy. Wasn't I always your friend?”
“Aye …”
“Then let me go quietly. I shall steal away and keep this a secret between you and me and all will be well.”
“Except that I'll not have what I'm wanting.”
“And what's that?”
A bitter, aggrieved tone crept into his voice. “I want my pin back—the silver one, with the man in the moon.”
I spoke before thinking: “But it's not yours!” He remained silent, and I heard the feebleness of that protest, when spoken to a thief. “Anyway … what makes you think I have it?”
“You have it,” he said in a tone useless to deny.
“Look you, I have two shillings saved. That's probably more than the thing is worth. I'll give them to you this very night.”
“Nay. It's the man in the moon, or naught.” He spoke with the blind stubbornness of a little boy—which of course he was, in spite of his skill as a cutpurse and sneak.
“But you can't even wear it! Money is much better use to you. Think what you can buy—gingerbread, meat pies, shoes—”
“That, or I'll tell.”
“And what will your telling bring about?”
“Dark Tom—my uncle—he's cold of heart.”
“He's not really your uncle, is he?” The boy did not answer.
I felt the silence in him: the superstitious dread of speaking overmuch of what he feared most. “How long have you known him?” Still no answer. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could barely make out an ugly bruise under one eye and guessed that Tom had made him pay for losing his place in the Company. “Davy. If you want to get away from him, I could help you. There are places where you'd never be found. Mistress Condell has relatives in the country—”
“No more talk! Get me the man in the moon.”
“Well …” It felt like a betrayal of Kit, but I could see no way around it, short of smothering the boy. “All right.”
“Stick out your hand,” he commanded.
Honor among thieves, I thought sourly, and extended my hand. But instead of shaking it, he performed a very swift motion with his fingers, thrust a mass of string over my hand and released it. The unseen pattern disappeared, leaving a length of string around my wrist.
“There,” he said. “You're bound. If you don't do what I say, one of your eyes will fall out.”
I worked the string loose and threw it at him. “Don't come over me with your charms and spells.”
He jumped up on his feet. “Heed what I say.”
“Never fear. Where will I find you?”
“I'll find you.” He dashed away down the alley and disappeared like a puff of smoke.
“Stop fretting!” Starling almost shouted at me. “You needn't be so high-minded when your life is at stake. I wouldn't underestimate this Tom fellow.”
“I'm not. But the brooch belongs to Kit.”
“Then why have you not given it back to him?” I could think of no answer to this sensible question, so she supplied one. “Here's why—because prudence told you it might serve some purpose later on, and behold, it has: buying Davy's silence.”
“Prudence doesn't speak to me so plain,” I said miserably.
It was true what she said: if I had given the trinket back to Kit, Davy would still have expected me to steal it for him. How much easier to simply hand it over to the boy with Kit none the wiser—except for my conscience.
Fortunately, Starling abandoned that subject for another. She agreed with me that Tewkesbury might be the next intended victim of Robin Hood; the more we talked, the more likely it seemed. “But one thing doesn't fit,” I said. “They spoke as though Kit has a certain connection with him that's important to their schemes. Yet they know Tewkesbury already—at least Tom does. I can't see how Kit figures in.”
She made an impatient shrug. “What's more to the point, if we know who is like to be the prey of Robin Hood, is it not our duty to warn him? Or warn somebody?”
The “somebody” could only be Bartlemy, which was the first reason I objected. The second reason was my reluctance to do anything that would directly harm Kit. If he was bound for a fall, I did not want to be the one to give him a push, especially for the likes of “Lord Mustard.” “A man so hot and haughty could probably benefit from a meeting with Robin Hood.”
“What are you saying? That we leave the hot and haughty to their fate? The law must protect all men, whatever their disposition.”
“Look who's being high-minded now,” I muttered. But on this matter, right was clearly on her side. The upshot was that together we composed an anonymous note suggesting it would be wise for agents of the Lord Chamberlain to watch young Philip Tewkesbury in the event that he might be robbed. Starling promised to see it delivered in a way that concealed our involvement, and I promised to carry the silver brooch with me, against the time when Davy would demand it. I was not happy about any of this, but there seemed to be no choice.
All these burdens combined made me not worth much the next day. Gregory scored two hits on me in fencing practice, and Master Will found his patience tried when he took me aside for a speech lesson. They had given me the role of Rumor in Part Two, along with one scene as Lady Percy—not a heavy burden, except for the author's particular notions of how Rumor should sound. “I want a special quality of voice: airy and disembodied, like a flute. Begin at the first: ‘Open your ears! For which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?'”
My flutelike voice failed to please him. “That's more like a banshee, shrieking through the night. Rumor sounds pleasant to the ear—the words go down like honey, though they oft turn bitter as gall. Pray you, try again.”
I tried again, and again, until my voice was coming out of my nose and it was almost time for rehearsal. “Well,” he sighed. “We will practice more anon.”
Since the fall season began, we had performed Part One of Henry IV twice, and tod
ay we were doing it again. The play was still pulling in happy crowds and helping to build anticipation for Part Two, now less than two weeks away. By now it needed little rehearsal except for brushing up the scenes in which Ned Shakespeare had taken Kit's former part. Ned showed little brilliance as a player, but he had a youthful enthusiasm that suited him well for Poins. Kit was nowhere in evidence while the first scene was being rehearsed. “Can't bear to see Ned carry off what he could barely pick up,” Gregory murmured to me as we sat on one corner of the stage to watch.
I made no reply, but was struck once again with the mystery of Kit's failure in the part. It made no sense, especially knowing that he had real experience in planning robberies. “We may do it as secure as sleep,” Ned gushed to his companions. “If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.”
Thomas Pope, as Falstaff, thumped Ned on the back and turned to Augustine Phillips: “Hal, wilt thou make one?”
“Who, I rob?” replied the prince. “I, a thief? Not I, by my faith.”
Not I. Not I … The words echoed in my head. Prince Hal had his limits; perhaps Kit did, also. Perhaps he was being pushed in directions he did not wish to go. I knew he had set up at least one crooked dice game—and cheerfully, too—but if he was unwilling to do more, could they force him?
“Hark,” Gregory said in my ear. “A storm brews in the east.”
I looked toward the northeast corner of the stage, where some of the chief players gathered. A servant in blue livery stood by, having delivered a letter which John Heminges was now reading. The contents had frozen him, or so it appeared; only his eyes moved, sweeping across the paper.
Richard Burbage plucked the letter from his friend's hand and perused the lines. On him they had the opposite effect; instead of freezing, he erupted in a blaze of profanity, followed by, “We won't—I care not how much gold is in it—We will not!”
This outburst was sufficient to break up rehearsal, and calming him took some time. Once he was quiet, the chief men huddled together for a short council in the first gallery, after which poor Cuthbert was sent out with messages. We muddled through a few more scenes and made ready for a performance with Rumor's fiery tongues spreading havoc among us the whole time. Just before two o'clock more blue-coated servants arrived, one with a wooden chest and another with a bound manuscript. Throughout the performance Master Shakespeare could be seen in his writer's closet off the main tiring room as he read through the manuscript, shaking his head and muttering curses.
“It's a play,” Gregory told me, from what he had overheard.
“Commanded by someone at court,” he added later, “just like that putrid House of Maximus.”
As the performance was ending, he speculated, “I wonder if it's by the same author?”
Worse than that—it was the same play, with the title and some lines changed. The Company saw fit to tell us this much when we gathered in the tiring room: the performance had been requested by a prominent personage who was seeking this favor for the love and regard between himself and the Company. And paying handsomely for it, too. “It had better be a lot,” Gregory whispered.
According to Master Burbage's outburst, no amount would be enough, but there must have been other considerations— perhaps the Company could not afford to offend any more gentlemen at court. As John Heminges began handing out the sides, Master Will gave us one curious instruction: “When you speak your part, pray leave out any references to brooks, or cobs, or hams, or old castles. Simply do not speak them. Is that plain?”
It was anything but plain. The performance was set for Monday—our first day at the Swan—and with so little time to prepare, all players would take their previous roles. I hoped that my part had been eliminated, but no such luck. Nor had Kit's. Under the circumstances, no one was surprised to see such an important part settled on a hired man; it was the response of the hired man that caused a stir.
“No, sir,” Kit said firmly when his side was offered to him. “I will not take it.”
John Heminges stood with the scroll in his hand, stunned. “What's that?”
“I will not take this part, if you please, sir.”
“I am not offering it to you, Master Glover. I am laying it on you. You have no choice.”
Kit's eyes flickered as though seeking a way out. “My answer is still no. Sir.”
“Come with me.” Master Heminges dumped the box of scrolls on Henry Condell, then drew Kit aside. Richard Burbage joined them presently, and I was reminded of the old days (not so far back) when they would band together to straighten out their most gifted, most difficult apprentice. Together they broke him. When the Company dispersed that evening, it was with the understanding that Kit would play Adrian. He would receive a bonus for it but, judging by his face, that was no consolation.
A quick scan of Silvia's part that night turned up a few references to brooks, and one to an “old castle.” Speaking around them would not be difficult, as long as I stayed alert. But I began to understand the reason for Master Will's instruction: the entire play was an insult to the Brooke family. Whoever wrote it must have held an enormous grudge. We were already in bad odor with the Lord Chamberlain and his son for our portrayal of Oldcastle; if we performed this play as written, we might as well bathe in a sewer. Leave out all references to brooks, cobs, hams, and castles? With right good will!
Two days passed—dreadful days, while I expected the Welsh Boy to ambush me at any moment and the Company fretted their coming ordeal with The House of Maximus. The play was now titled A Son's Revenge but remained as putrid as ever. In fact that's what everyone called it now—the Putrid Play—as though calling it by its right name would bring us further ill fortune. Kit went through our one rehearsal like a sleepwalker, which made me feel all the worse.
Our rehearsal broke early on Saturday because Shakespeare, Heminges, Kempe, and both Burbages had arranged a meeting with Giles Allen—though none of them seemed to expect much good to come of it. I watched them go, wondering if this would be the day Davy jumped me. Shortly thereafter, Kit went by with his cloak rolled up and tucked under his arm.
I found myself staring at the cloak. Why was he carrying it, on a cold day? It looked too big a bundle for just itself— suppose there was something inside?
At that moment my mind flashed with a recollection of him, last spring, handing a rolled-up cloak to Corporal Tom after the fencing match with “Lord Mustard.” Suddenly I knew—I knew, as surely as if I had seen through the wool— what must have been inside the cloak: a doublet of fine black damask, needed to outfit a robber. A few weeks later I had seen him leave the Curtain after John Heminges dismissed him from the Company. He'd carried a bundle under his arm then, too, and shortly afterward a black satin doublet was reported missing.
He did it, and he's doing it again! I thought. Willingly or not, he is smuggling costumes to his criminal friends, and how long might it be before the consequences come down on all our heads?
I scrambled upstairs to the tiring room to fetch my cloak, then dashed out of the Curtain and caught up with Kit on the Shoreditch Road. “I'm bound for the Bridge,” I panted. “May I walk with you?”
“As you please,” said he with something of his old regal manner. He spared me hardly a glance, though I stole many sideways looks at him. He still chewed his fingernails.
We walked for some time in silence, as a brisk wind sprang out of the west and made me pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. He kept his tucked under his arm. “Aren't you cold?”
“What do you want?”
I wanted to knock him to the ground, sit on him, and shake out the contents of that bundle. But what I said was, “Nothing. I'm on my way to the Bridge, that's all.”
He made a noise, between a laugh and a grunt.
After a moment, I tried another tack. “Where are you staying these days?”
“In hell,” he replied, with a stagey drawing-out of vowels.
I suppressed an angry sigh; this seemed to strike an overly tragic pose. “Is that the only place that would take you in?”
We had reached Bishopsgate. Watchmen were lighting torches over the portal, and by their sputtering light his features twisted in a bitter expression. “Yes.”
The word reproached me—after all, I knew not what demons were driving him. “Kit … What's happened to you? If I could help—”
He turned away and stalked through the gate. I followed a moment later, berating myself for mangling the conversation. On the other side of the portal, always thick with strolling musicians and peddlers, I spotted him in front of a puppet motion: a little booth enclosed by curtains, within which the puppet master was trying desperately to hold a thin crowd with the antics of Punch and Judy. As I drew closer, Mr. Punch was attempting to sell their baby to a roving Egyptian. Then Judy appeared and the battle developed into a tug-of-war. The play was neither kind nor clever, yet for the moment Kit appeared to be entranced by it. However, as soon as he sensed my presence, he whirled around to face me. In the torchlight his pale face leapt like a flame, his eyes flinty sparks. For an instant I thought his remark about hell might be true, in spirit. If he didn't live there, it lived in him: burning, restless, caged.
“Help me?” he burst out. “Help me? That's what you want, after coming out of the provinces and pushing me out of my place in scarcely more than a year?”
I swallowed a mouthful of wind. “What— How so?”
“I see you've learned to act innocent, too. Or perhaps you started with that and used it as your staging ground to conquer all.”
“What are you talking about? The Welsh Boy's the one who pushed you out of the Company. I know now how he baited you—”
His hand flew up, so swiftly I flinched, but it was only to silence me. “Soft,” he said. “That music …”
I recognized the thumping refrain of the Robin Hood ballad, sung in a pleasing baritone voice to the accompaniment of a single flute and drum. On the west side of the gate, a tiny stage had been formed by laying two planks across a pair of barrels. On it stood the singer, a young man with an aged face, and perched on the platform at his feet a child in a motley tunic and a parrot's mask, beating upon a hand drum.
The True Prince Page 16