The True Prince (16 page)

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
non
sense—”

“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.”