The Shakespeare Stealer (13 page)

T
hough the company had survived the command performance, our troubles were far from over. We were still desperately short of bodies to fill roles. When Julia gave up the role of Ophelia, she seemed to give up as well all hope of being a player.

Mr. Heminges offered her a position gathering money at one of the theatre entrances. Though I knew he meant well, Julia behaved as though she'd been offered a job as a dung collector. I understood her feelings, the more so because I'd now succumbed myself to what Mr. Pope called “the siren call.”

The position of gatherer paid well, and carried a certain amount of responsibility, but it was not the same as being a player. Still, Julia admitted that she would have to make a living somehow. She stuck with it for one week.

From the stage, I could see her standing just inside the second-level entrance, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the money box, her eyes fixed on the stage, saying silently that she would give any amount of money to be up there with us. I would have given mine as well, had I had any.

When Monday's performance came around, she was not in her place. Mr. Phillips said that she had disappeared sometime during the night, taking the few articles of woman's clothing she owned, and leaving behind all her boy's garb.

I tried to understand that, too, but it was difficult. I had been persuaded that she and I were friends, and though I knew little as yet about what friendship entailed, I felt that surely a friend would wish to say farewell.

Nick seemed to have deserted us, too. Though some of the players had seen him up and about and looking well enough, save for a bandage on his throat, he did not return to the theatre. Sander went on substituting for him in
Hamlet
, and I for Julia, but the two of us could not hope to fill all the roles both of them had been playing.

A hired boy took on a few, and Chris Beeston reluctantly agreed to don women's costume again, and for a time the sharers scheduled the plays with the fewest female roles. But these were only temporary measures. If Nick did not rejoin us soon, a replacement would have to be found. Sander and I were dispatched once again to try and surprise him at one of his customary watering holes.

I doubted that he would show his face again at the tavern where he had fought the duel, and I was right. The only sign of Nick there was the blood stain he had left on the floorboards. We stopped at three other taverns before we finally discovered him at the sign of the Dagger, and then I had cause to wish we had not.

As soon as we stepped inside the door, Sander spotted him. “There he is, with a pot of ale in his hand as usual.”

My eyes had not quite grown used to the dim interior. “Where?” Sander pointed. Nick sat at the far side of the room, gripping a pewter pot as if it were the only stable thing in the room. Across from him sat another familiar figure. His upper body was bent forward, as though to discuss some private matter. His face was shrouded in a dark hood, leaving only a hooked nose and a black, curly beard by which to identify him.

“Gog's blood!” I breathed. I backed through the door as noiselessly as I could and ducked into a narrow space between the tavern and the building next to it. There I stood, pressed to the wall, trying to recover my breath, which seemed to have been squeezed from my chest.

After a moment, Sander came into view, looking about in a bewildered fashion. “Whist!” I called softly. “Over here!” He turned in my direction. “No! Don't look at me!” I cried, and he turned away again, more bewildered than ever. “Is anyone coming out of the tavern?”

He glanced toward the door. “No.”

Fearfully, I emerged from my hiding place and pulled at his arm. “Let's go.”

“Where?”

“Back to the theatre.”

“But—but what about Nick?”

“I'll explain later. Just come.”

Good friend that he was, he did not waste time arguing. But when we had put several blocks behind us, he said, “Could you explain, now?”

How could I? What could I tell him? Would I be a better friend if I revealed the truth to him, or if I concocted another lie? Once again, two paths had opened before me, and I could take the expedient one, or the one that required courage.

“That man wi' Nick,” I said. “I ken him.”

“From the way you bolted, I'd guess you're not on the best of terms.”

I couldn't help smiling grimly at this understatement. “You might say so.” I paused, still considering the other path, then sighed and went on. “'A's called Falconer. 'A's been sent here by Simon Bass to steal the book of
Hamlet
.”

“Bass? The same Simon Bass who was with the Chamberlain's Men?”

“Aye, the very same.” I knew what his next question would be, and I dreaded it.

“What has that to do with you?”

“I…I was sent wi' him. To copy the play.”

Sander stared at me, his face a very picture of astonishment. “Copy it? How do you mean?”

“In the writing I showed you,” I said, unable to meet his eyes.

“The devil take me!” He walked on in silence for a bit, trying, I guessed, to come to terms with this idea. “Have you done it?” he asked finally.

“Of course not! I made up me mind not to, long ago! Well, some time ago, anyway.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “What a dunce I've been! I truly believed you wanted to be a player!”

“I do, Sander! As God's me witness, I do now!” He stared at me, and the look of mistrust in his eyes, where I had never seen it, pained me deeply. “I didn't think of it as wrong at first. I thought of it only as a job given me by me master. That was before I kenned any of you. Don't you see, an I'd meant to carry it out, I had ample chance. Gog's bread, I had the book in me hands!”

He blinked thoughtfully. “That's so,” he admitted. But the look of mistrust lingered. “All the same, you made fools of us. You and Julia.”

“I'm sorry.” The words felt strange and foreign upon my tongue. It felt strange, too, to have told the harsh truth for once, rather than an easy lie, yet I did not regret it. “You won't tell the others?”

“How can I not? If that fellow is still planning to steal the book, they need to know.”

“'A won't come near the Globe himself. 'A's too canny for that.”

“Then how—” He paused as the answer came to him. “You don't think Nick would—?”

“Aye. I've no doubt of it. An Falconer offers him enough money, 'a'll recite every line 'a recalls, and make up what 'a doesn't, and we've no way of preventing him.”

“We could tell the sharers.”

“And what good would that do? They can't stop him, either, short of locking him up, or cutting out his tongue. All it will do is bring out me own part in this matter.”

“I suppose so.” Sander shook his head. “I can't believe that Nick would really betray the company,” he said, though the look on his face said that he found the idea all too likely. “But then,” he added, “I'd never have believed it of you, either.”

The fact that I had elected to tell the truth one time did not diminish my ability to lie accurately when the occasion demanded it. Upon our return, I told Mr. Heminges that we had failed to find Nick. For a moment, I feared that Sander might contradict me, but he let it go. That, I assumed, would be the end of the matter. Nick and Falconer would come to some mutually satisfactory agreement, and with any luck, we would never see either of them again.

Knowing Falconer as I did, I should have known better. I should have realized that he would not be content to take to Simon Bass a secondhand version of the play.

The following afternoon, we were performing
Tamburlaine
. I was playing several small roles, my most dramatic being that of a soldier who dies a bloody death in one of the battle scenes. I had just finished strapping on my blood bag and rapier and dressing myself and was about to step from the tiring-room, when the rear door of the theatre opened and Nick stepped inside. He let the door close softly behind him and stood gazing about, as if to see whether anything had changed in his absence.

I ducked back into the tiring-room, my mind in confusion. How could he have the nerve to come here, after selling us out to Falconer? Then, for the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps he had not. Perhaps he had refused Falconer's offer. Or perhaps there had been no such offer. What if, instead, Falconer had hired Nick to bring me to him? Or what if I had misjudged Nick altogether? What if, in spite of everything, he still felt some loyalty to his theatre family and, learning of my association with Falconer, he had come to expose me?

I stood against the wall for several long minutes, overcome with anxiety and indecision. The reflection staring back at me from the looking glass appeared grotesque and strange. What was I doing dressed in soldier's garb, with an oversized sword dragging the floor at my side? What had ever made me imagine that I could impersonate someone else, that I could be anything other than Widge, the orphan, the unwilling prentice of some unsympathetic master in some unbearable trade?

My heart sank, and I turned from the glass. I did not have the courage Julian had. If Nick was here to reveal my secret, I could not bear to witness it. I moved to the tiring-room door and peered out. To my surprise, Nick was gone. If I meant to make good my escape, now was the moment.

I slipped across the area behind the stage to the rear door without attracting anyone's attention. In another moment I would have been out of the theatre had not my notice been attracted by something out of the ordinary. The door of the property room, which always stood open during performances to give the players quick access to their properties, was now firmly closed. In the perpetual gloom that prevailed behind the stage, I could see a faint light issuing through the crack at the bottom of the door.

I hesitated. Was Nick within, searching for the book? Or was it some member of the company—Mr. Heminges, perhaps, seeking a moment of solitude in which to balance his accounts? A faint grating noise came from within the room, and it was not, I was certain, the sound of someone writing in a ledger.

Knowing full well that I might be sorry, I stepped away from the exit. Carefully lifting the latch on the property room door, I eased it open.

Inside, in the light of a candle, I could make out a figure crouched over one of the property trunks, lifting some object from it. As the figure stood and turned to the light, I saw that it was Nick, and that the object he held was a play book.

B
efore I could retreat from the doorway, Nick lifted his gaze and spied me. His hand went to his rapier, and he drew it from its hanger in one swift motion. “Hold!” he commanded, his voice as faint and rasping as the sound I had heard moments before—the sound of the trunk being forced open.

I could likely have pulled the door closed before his sword point reached me, but I did not. If I ran, even to bring help, I would be letting Nick go, and the play book with him, and betraying the company as surely as if I had taken it myself.

He beckoned with his blade. “Inside! And keep quiet!” I did as he said, but when he gestured for me to move to the rear of the room, I shook my head.

“I won't let you leave wi' that,” I said in a voice nearly as faint and faltering as his.

“You can't stop me, Horse.”

“I can call for help.”

“I'll gut you if you do.”

“I don't think so,” I said, trying to sound confident. “If it hadn't been for me, you'd have bled to death on that tavern floor.”

I had not expected his gratitude, but neither did I expect the response he gave. He shrugged contemptuously, as if to say he would as soon have been left to die. “No matter. Step aside.”

“Nay,” I said, gambling that he would not strike me. “Leave the book and go.”

“Stand aside!” His voice broke like glass under the strain. His face reddened with anger and shame, and he swung his blade at me. I stumbled back against the wall and crashed painfully into a rack of weapons. Rolling aside, I yanked my stage sword awkwardly from its hanger and brought it to broad ward.

“Fool!” Nick swung at me again. I should have cried out for help, but I still feared that, if cornered by the company, Nick would reveal my connection with Falconer. Poor swordsman that I was, I would have to stop him myself.

I beat his blade aside and, from long habit, replied with a thrust. Nick warded it effortlessly, then aimed a swift cut at my head. Instead of warding it, I ducked and came up under his blade with my own. The blunted tip glanced off his ribs and knocked the play book from his grasp. With a growl of rage and pain, he set upon me in earnest, battering aside my defenses until he found a breach and delivered a quick, angry thrust. His point was not blunted, as mine was. It struck me just above the belt.

I staggered back, clutching the spot, staring in dismay at the blood welling from between my fingers and coursing down the front of my breeches. Nick was as stunned as I. His face went white, and he backed up a few steps, his eyes wide with surprise and alarm. In the next instant, he recovered enough to scoop up the play book and bolt from the room.

I collapsed on the lid of a trunk, gasping for breath but feeling no real pain yet, only a kind of numb panic flooding through my body. Footsteps pounded outside the room and Sander appeared in the doorway. “Holy Mother!” he breathed as he saw me slumped there, drenched in blood. “What happened?”

“Nick stuck me. 'A's getting away!”

“Let him.” Sander crouched before me and tore open my doublet.

“But 'a's got the book!”

“Your life is more important—” Sander started to say. Then he halted, staring at my bloody belly.

“Is it that bad?” I asked. “Am I going to die?”

To my astonishment, he began to laugh. “You sot! He stuck your blood bag!”

“Me what?” And then it came to me. Nick's point had been stopped by the protective plate, and the only blood that had been spilled was that of an unfortunate sheep. Feeling sheepish myself, I struggled to my feet. “Come! We've got to catch Nick before 'a delivers that to Falconer!” I stumbled from the property room and ran headlong into Mr. Armin.

“Widge!” He stared at my gory costume. “What in heaven's name—?”

“It's naught,” I interrupted. “Can you come wi' me, sir? Nick's stolen the book of
Hamlet
.”

As I suspected, he was not the sort to waste time on words when action was wanted. “You're due on stage, Sander,” he said, and we were out the door.

When we rounded the playhouse, I saw Nick, far ahead of us, heading for the river. So desperate was his flight that he had dropped his sword and not bothered to retrieve it. Mr. Armin paused long enough to snatch it up, thrust it in his belt, then set off again in pursuit.

I did my best to keep up, but I was hampered by the metal plate, which pinched my skin with every step. Mr. Armin glanced over at me. “Shouldn't you stay here? You're wounded.”

I shook my head. “Sheep's blood,” I said breathlessly, and he laughed in understanding.

By the time we reached the bank of the Thames, Nick had hired a wherryboat and was well out into the river. Mr. Armin sprang into a second boat, and swallowing my fear, I climbed in after him. “Catch that craft, and you'll have a shilling,” Mr. Armin told the startled wherryman.

Had there been a choice, I'd have picked someone more muscular and less sickly-looking than the old sailor who propelled us into the current. When the play let out, the bank would be thick with boats, but at the moment, his was the only one.

To my surprise, our wiry wherryman, spurred on by the promise of more money, slowly closed the gap between Nick's boat and ours. When Nick turned and saw that we were gaining, he called something to his boatman and pointed. The boat abruptly changed course; instead of heading for the opposite bank, it swung downstream, in the direction of the bridge.

“A pest upon him!” Mr. Armin muttered. “He's going to shoot the bridge!”

“Oh, gis! 'A must ha' maggots in his brain!”

“Shall I go after?” our wherryman asked, not very eagerly.

“There's another shilling in it,” Mr. Armin said.

I clutched frantically at my seat as the boat dipped and swayed. Then, catching the current, it surged downstream. Ahead, the river churned through the dozen stone arches of the bridge, as water in a smaller stream will boil between the fingers of one's hand, but with a volume and force a thousand times greater.

Nick's boatman steered toward one of the narrow arch-ways. The boat was swept through like a leaf on a flood, bobbing wildly as the water beneath it struck the bridge supports and was flung away. One side of their boat banged and scraped sickeningly against the stone arches, but it emerged in one piece on the far side of the bridge.

“'A made it!” I said, hardly knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. In the next moment, I was neither; I was merely terrified, for our turn had come to shoot the bridge. Our boatman was either less skillful than Nick's, or less favored by the Fates. As the foaming mouth of the archway swallowed us, the stern of the boat swung sideways. Though the boatman thrust out his pole to try and keep us clear, we smashed against the stone support. The boat careened, and water poured over the gunwales, overturning it and spilling us into the rushing river.

The feeling of being flung into that whirling world of water is one I fervently hope never to experience again. Everything familiar and secure was snatched away and replaced by a single, suffocating element that robbed me of sight and hearing, of my very breath.

The seething water tossed me this way and that. I fought it madly, but it was as much use as fighting the wind. There was nothing to take hold of, nothing to kick out at. It took hold of me; it wrapped itself about me, dragging me deeper. When I gasped for air, it filled my lungs.

Curiously, even in my panic, a portion of my mind stood apart, observing my plight, as it had done during the performance at Whitehall. I'm going to die now, it said; how strange.