The Playmaker (6 page)

My aunt's stubborn refusal to speak of him plagued me into what Mother used to call a “murdering dump”: a mood so black I
could scarcely speak. I began another week thus, flinging myself about work like a pitchfork. At least it made me proof against attack. Any petty tyrant can tell when his victim feels no fear, and most will back away straight; I thwarted the approach of one would-be assassin over the planks with no more than a killing look. This put me in a slightly better humor. Later that day I was stacking kegs to make a delivery when a girl's voice sounded from over the quay: “Ho! You with the barrow!”

I turned to the same figure who had applauded me a few days before at my first triumph. She stood on firm planking today, the shawl sensibly wrapped around her head, since our loving English clouds had dropped a steady drizzle upon us all morning. I considered ignoring her again, then called without enthusiasm, “Ho, on the dock.”

“Know you all the Psalms?”

“Over half.” I was weak on 119 and 107 and other long ones, but the rest of them tripped off my tongue readily enough.

“And do you read?”

I stared at her; what meant this examination? “Passing well,” I said, “and write, too. English and Latin—d'you need a clerk?”

“What be your name?”

This was too much; I dropped the last keg of wine on top of the handcart, stepped to one side, and turned to her briefly. “Richard, Earl of Quayside, so please you,” I called, and made a sweeping bow with one leg turned out in the courtly manner. I performed it
too well, however—dipped so low I knocked my forehead on one corner of the barrow.

She laughed—not a mean laugh but the delighted one of a child whose favorite uncle has performed a trick to amuse her. As I picked up the prongs of the handcart and trundled away, blushing furiously, she shouted, “Look for me tomorrow, Your Grace! We are destined to meet again!”

W
HAT THE
K
NIFE
S
AID

arly the next morning, Master Motheby, acting alone for once, set me to a clerking task. He thrust a ledger and a piece of slate into my hands and steered me to a corner of the dock. “Behold!” he said, waving toward a collection of barrels, all one size, piled haphazardly as though they had just been unloaded. “What do you see?”

“Barrels, sir.”

“Nay. You see a foul insult to the noble English palate. Sack from Spain, boy, and abominable stuff. Is it any wonder we're at war with the Spanish, when they foist on us bilge like this? Figure these up at one pound six per head so our clerks can write a receipt. Then, figure the least space needed in a ship's hold to send them back. Can you do that?”

He gave me a measuring line and I set to work. It
was a task to occupy my mind, but infuriating thoughts of Anne Billings intruded still. Where she was concerned, I was “long to burn” indeed—anger dug into me like a spade, gouging an ever-deeper pit until the cry of “Ahoy, Richard of Quayside!” sounded from the bank.

It was, of course, the girl who had shown such a prying interest in me. After making her salute, she walked down the dock and stood expectantly at one corner of the Motheby and Southern warehouse. I judged there would be no harm in meeting her—to discover why she was plaguing me, if nothing else. She hiked herself upon a malt barrel and swung her legs from side to side, watching my approach with a lively interest I could feel even from a distance. I guessed she was a little older than me, by a year or so, plainly dressed in a kirtle and bodice, but neat and clean. Her pleasant face was round as a pudding, framed by wispy curls escaping from her cap—curls of that mousy shade seen most often in tree bark. But her eyes glinted in the sun, green as bottle glass and more alive than any I had ever seen. I fancied they could catch any object of her curiosity and pull it in, like a skiff to bank. “How does Your Grace?” she called.

I shrugged. “Passable. What is it you want?”

“I want to make your acquaintance. My name is Starling Shaw, but some call me Star. And yours?”

“You already know it. I am occupied, as you see, and can't spare much—”

“Well then, my lord Richard, I am wondering if another occupation might suit you better.”

This captured my attention fully. “Almost anything would suit me better, but I've fallen into the habit of eating well.”

“We can arrange to see you fed.”

“Who are ‘we,' then?”

She flicked me playfully with the edge of her shawl. My humor flared up, for I was not in a mood to be toyed with. “Look you, girl—”

“I am not at liberty to tell you about the position. Would you know more, you must come to St. Mary's Parish just after dark. It's on Aldermanbury Street, just north of the church.”

I was tempted. The girl's dress and manner suggested she was employed by some wealthy merchant. The market basket by her side was filled with items of quality and she spoke fair—better than the common housemaid. This made me wonder if her master was a man of letters, or a Court official. Yes, I was tempted, but cautious. “What's the object? Why this mystery?”

“There's no mystery about me—us. But there seems to be one about you.”

“About me? How so?”

She tilted her head with a sidelong smile, much like a flirt at a county fair. The suspicion returned that she was playing me, and I felt tempted to tip her off her perch. Then she said, “You are being watched. There are two idlers on yon pier, and their chief object seems to be you. Don't look, you pumpkin!”

“But—” I blinked at her, slowly taking in what she'd said, and uncertain how to credit it. “How do you know they're
watching me?”

“When you left yesterday to make your deliveries, they followed you. And today they are here again. I'm wondering what their business is.”

“I am wondering the same—about you.”

Her shoulders raised, with a little laugh. “I come here four mornings a week to shop for my mistress. I noticed you first on the day you thwarted those attackers by your inspired use of the Psalms—”

“And what of that?” “You must come to Aldermanbury Street to find out. But I daresay those two yonder have some other reason for their care.”

She laughed again, and I began to see that she was staging a little play for my watchers—if such they were. I sidled around to the warehouse wall, leaned one shoulder against it with my arms folded, and forced a sickly smile to my face. Courting, or even the appearance of it, was not one of my accomplishments.

“Where are they?”

She ducked her head coyly. “On the next dock, playing quoits.”

I glanced around, with seeming indifference. On one side of Motheby and Southern stood the warehouse of old Roger Coverdale, a dealer in salt fish. On the other side was an empty dock, where masterless men gathered to pass the time or wait for work. Two fellows in leather aprons and hoods were idly tossing an iron ring at a post. I could tell little about them in that brief a look; one of them flickered his eyes to me, but that meant nothing. “Are they there all day?”

“How am I to know that? I don't have all day to watch them watching you.” So saying, she hopped off the barrel and wrapped her shawl around her, brushing me again with the corner. “About tonight, what I told you—it should be an easy matter to slip away unseen after dark. If by chance I do not meet you at the gate, ask for my master, Henry Condell.” She strolled past me with a little twitch to her hips, then turned for a last word. “But I will tell you this, if you are in some trouble, and seek a place where you won't be seen, it wouldn't serve you to come. Think on it.”

Truly, she had given me much to think about but not near enough to come to any conclusion. After turning in my figures to the satisfaction of both Motheby and Southern, I set off on a short delivery just west of the Bridge. Though I glanced behind me several times, no stalkers in leather aprons appeared in view. Starling must have imagined their interest in me, or else she amused herself by making up tales and passing them off as true. I hoped she was sincere about the offer of a position. In any case, I determined to go to Aldermanbury Street and the house of one Henry Condell, to satisfy my curiosity if nothing else.

St. Mary's Parish is a fine neighborhood, with tall stone or half-timbered houses behind high walls. Lanterns glowed over the gates, each illuminating a brass plate inscribed with the name of the householder. Peaceful and homelike sounds drifted over those walls: the strumming of a lute, the voices of a man and woman lifted in song, the shouts of children at play in the yard, drunk with the joy
of running wild on a warm spring night. Tall treetops whispered in the breeze and the scent of apple blossoms and lilac drenched all with sweetness, even the scream of an outraged child. Susanna used to scream at me in the same way, and for a moment I heartily wished myself back in Alford quarreling with her—except that Mother was no longer there to step in and make peace. The heavy iron gates of Aldermanbury Street leaned upon my loneliness. I walked slowly to read the nameplates and my face may have shown the melancholy I felt, for a watchman stopped me to ask my business.

I straightened and donned the look of an honest youth. “I seek the house of Henry Condell, sir. He expects me.”

This seemed to increase my worth in the watchman's eyes. “Master Condell? Three doors further, on this side. Mind you don't try him; he is a man of obligations.”

I thanked him and hastened down the next three gates. A high shriek answered my knock, then a scurry of threaded footsteps like a dozen giant mice crossing paths in a hayfield. The gate swung wide and I looked into the pert upturned features of a boy about six or seven, rosy in the lamplight. “Who's it, then?”he demanded.

Starling Shaw appeared behind him, her round face flushed, tucking strands of unruly hair back into her cap. She looked almost pretty, her green eyes snapping. “Stand aside, Neddie. This is Lord—this is Richard.”

“Has he come courting you?”

“Hold your noise! He's the new apprentice, if all goes well. Now go on about your game.”

The boy went, but not before giving a vigorous tug to her apron. “Caught you.” Then he whirled away, calling, “Olly, olly, all! I found Star!”

The girl retied the strings of her cap, head lowered. Had I not known her for a bold thing, I would have thought she was a little undone by the jibe about courting. “We were playing hide-and-seek,” she explained. “Were you followed?”

“If so, it was by the phantoms of your own imagination.”

“I'll have you know—well, never mind. Come and meet my master.” She took my arm and started me toward the house.

“What mean you by ‘new apprentice'?”

“That's what you will be if you take the position, won't you? Master Condell will reveal all.”

She led me into a long room with a low ceiling held up by heavy timbers. Everyone in it clustered at one end—so many, they seemed to tilt the room in that direction: servants, hounds, a number of young ladies and gentlemen. A kitchen maid and a waiting man were clearing away the remains of the evening meal, throwing scraps to the dogs. Several of the young people were singing to the mingled tones of a recorder and lute, while two girls drew and gossiped in a corner, and the children, rushing in after their game, began to get underfoot. Near a huge fireplace (unlit on this mild evening) stood the master of the house, instructing an elderly servant while the mistress tied the second sleeve to his gray velvet doublet. I could have taken him for no one but the master, for all attention ran to him. His face was sharp with a high-bridged nose
and strong chin—kingly, I would call it, though I had never seen a king. But his eyes, when he looked at me, were dark and soft. His wife, a handsome, willowy lady almost as tall as he, paused with her hand upon his shoulder as they turned their heads.