The True Prince (28 page)

“Hold a moment!” I knew his temper and thought it best to stop him before he worked it up. “The message wasn't a whim. There was good reason to send it.” And Starling talked me into it, I might have added, except that it did not seem honorable to blame a girl.

He inclined his head in a sarcastic bow. “Very well. Your reason?”

I told him of my visit to Newington Butts, and the conversation I had overheard there. After hearing me out, Bartlemy asked only one question: “Are you certain those were Penny's words exactly? ‘We must keep Tewkesbury in our sights'?”

“That's my work—remembering words. Do you know this man Tom?”

He nodded. “Tom Watts, a Welshman. Served with Penny in the Netherlands.”

“Well, mark this.” I leaned forward, confident that I was about to shake his “likely doctrine,” whatever it was. “Tom may have a score to settle. I saw him last May fighting a rapier match outside the Buckingham Tavern. He had insulted a gentleman, who called him out. The gentleman was Philip Tewkesbury.”

His jaw did not drop; he did not even blink. He merely took in what I said, turned it over in his mind, and came out with, “Did you ever consider that scene might have been staged?”

“Ah …” This took me aback, though now that he mentioned it, I could see it made sense. After all, if Kit had used
that opportunity to pass a borrowed costume to Tom, he must have known the man was going to be there at that time. “But,” said I, thinking aloud, “even if it was staged, that doesn't prove Tewkesbury was party to it. Unless—” I had just remembered yet another “staged” incident from the past.

“Unless what?”

“Last spring, Kit got into a bit of trouble. He was arrested for breaking the peace, along with Captain Penny. But there was someone else involved in that scrape. His name never came up, but we reckoned he must be wealthy because he paid Kit's bail.”

This finally captured Bartlemy's imagination. He sat up straighter, eyes bright. “The magistrate's record doesn't show that, nor mention a third offender. It merely says that Glover was released on bail—I assumed it was put up by the Company.”

“What—you looked into it already?”

“That's
my
work.”

“But if Tewkesbury is a part of this scheme, then … then perhaps he is the author of the Robin Hood ballads!”

He nodded, unsurprised. “If I could prove that, I'd be a made man.”

“Then who was the victim of the Robin and Marian episode?”

He thoughtfully picked at one of the pimples on his chin before deciding to share what he knew. “Listen close. Last
Sunday—the day
after
the song appeared—Sir Walter Raleigh and two of his men rode out toward Devon to visit his home estate. At dusk, about ten miles west of London, he came across a tall gentleman on a bridge, crying for help to get his horse out of a bog. The gentleman was dressed in a black satin doublet with yellow sleeves—and no Marian in sight. Raleigh sent one of his men down to see to the horse and soon after heard a scream. The tall fellow then pulled a pistol and made the usual demand for money or life, along with Sir Walter's watch. While pretending to hand over the watch, Raleigh went for his sword instead, and he and his other servant both attacked the robber. Would have had him, too, except that an accomplice appeared and helped beat off Raleigh and his man long enough for them to leap over the bridge and make their escape, on a pair of horses that—needless to say—were stuck in no bog.

“Sir Walter found his other servant badly wounded under the bridge—he almost bled to death while the fight was going on, but is on the mend now. The rogues got away, but Sir Walter believes he paid one with a gash in the arm. And though it was too dark to get a good look at the face, he matched the man's size and manner to the description given by his brother-in-law, Lord Throckmorton—otherwise known as Sir Biscuit of the boat.”

I tried to sort this out. “So, was the Marian story a sham?”

“I think it more likely they had to change their plan because Marian failed to show.”

“You mean Kit.”

“Aye. He's vanished. Which, if he
is
being set up by his so- called friends, would be a sensible thing to do.”

“Why would they do that to him?”

“Advantage. To have something on him; to make him do their will.”

“But he didn't.”

“No? How do you explain the yellow sleeves?” That was a sticky question; most likely they were rolled up in the cloak after all, and Tom had made off with them. Bartlemy went on to say, “Glover is vital to our case. If you have any notion, any glimmering, where he might be, you are obliged to tell.”

There was a hardness in his voice and eye that got my back up. “I don't. I asked him where he was staying, and he brushed me off. Perhaps he has fled the city.”

“Not likely.”

“How do you know?”

Bartlemy paused. “His mother has been doing his laundry.”

“She
talked
to you?” He seemed to have a gift for winning female confidence, though for my life I couldn't see how.

“Aye, though all she will admit is that he leaves it for her, in a place she would not tell. We're watching her now, of course.”

That explained the shirt Kit was carrying. Such a plain, homely concern emphasized how far he had fallen—so far that his poor mother had to be watched for trying to look after him.

“You'd spend your time better looking for those stolen jewels.”

He pulled a sardonic smile. “The jewels have been returned, after a fashion. The Lord Chamberlain's gold chain was found in his privy, and Throckmorton's cuff pin was tied to the collar of his hunting dog. But the other Cobham ring is still missing.”

“That makes all this sound like … a prank.”

“Except that one boy is dead and one man gravely wounded.”

The theater had mostly emptied; boards overhead creaked as stage boys swept up and put away the furniture. Soon the Company would be assembling for evening rehearsal. “I must go.”

My companion stirred. “So must I. Well, now—you've told me somewhat, and I've told you likewise; was that so bad? If you discover anything else, you must get word to me at once. Send a message through Mistress Shaw that you will meet me between … say, seven and eight of the evening, or six and seven of a morning, in the south transept of St. Paul's. She will know where to bring it.” My displeasure must have showed, for he asked, “What is it?”

“Why must you involve her?”

“Because she has more freedom to move than you—unless you want this Starling to be kept in a cage?”

“I want no harm to come to her.”

“She is not the one in danger. You may be, if you're not
careful. And Kit Glover is, sure.” He crouched on his heels and pulled the yellow and red tunic over his head. “It would mean a deal to me to know where he is.”

We parted ways, Bartlemy ducking out from under the stage and I backing through the trestles. Under the hatch door I paused, listening to make sure my way was clear before opening it. And as I crouched there, it suddenly came to me where Kit must be staying.

After all, he had told me himself.

TWO STARS IN ONE SPHERE

ehind stage, the men of the Company were congratulating each other on their success. Richard Burbage declared a holiday: the play would hold good for the morrow, and Saturday as well, and at least eight more performances by Christmas. So after the costumes and properties were put away, all would adjourn to the Mermaid Tavern for dinner on the Company's account.

If nothing else, this made a very neat opportunity for a private expedition. Starling would assume I was stuffing myself at the tavern; the Company men and boys, if they missed me, would assume I had gone home. The gloomy pall cast over them by the constable's visit was now dispelled; in the cheerful mayhem I slipped out before anyone could tuck me under his arm and haul me off to the Mermaid.

Since most of the boats were taken with theater patrons,
I walked up Bankside to the Bridge. By the time I reached it, the hour was creeping upon five o'clock and a watery sun pierced itself upon St. Lawrence steeple. The milliners and fine-goods merchants on the bridge were packing away their costly wares and closing their shops. One of them, his traveling cloak still draped over one shoulder, was grandly giving his opinion of Part Two to his clerks and apprentices. “… taken altogether, I conclude it will be fitting for you to see, because at the end—”

He was drowned out by a chorus of, “Nay, Master Percival—don't tell us how it ends!” and others begging, “Pray, how does it end, Master Percival?”

I followed Gracechurch Street through the east side of the city and passed under the wide portal of Bishopsgate. A low mist hung over Moorfields, heightening the autumn chill. I tightened my cloak about me and stepped up my pace in order to squeeze more light out of the day. The field was near- deserted; only a flock of geese crossed my path, and an angry young goose-girl soon after, screeching abuse at them. Before long, two familiar, many-sided structures loomed over the horizon: the Curtain and Burbage's Theater, one polished and spruce in the honey-colored light, the other rank and overgrown. Leaving the road I cut across the field toward the Theater.

Agents of the landlord kept the way clear that led to the public door. But I was looking for a less evident path, and after circling behind the building, I found it—more thread than
path, marked only by a crease in the tall grass. It led to a cellar opening built out from the theater wall, covered by a hatch about two feet square.

One would need sharp eyes to see it, or else be very familiar with the Theater. I had almost forgotten it myself, since it opened to a passageway that players never used—a route for workmen to carry timbers in or garbage out. A heavy padlock on the hatch gave me pause, until I noticed that the bar had been filed. I removed it, and swung the door aside on a well- greased hinge that made little noise. I stooped through the opening and lowered myself to a narrow corridor that ran under the tiring room, leading directly to “hell.”

“Halloo!” I called, receiving no answer but my own heartbeat, which sounded loud enough to summon the Yeoman Guards. Little clawed feet scurried overhead: rats making free with our tiring rooms. As soon as my eyes were accustomed to the darkness, I crept forward along the passageway until it opened to a wilderness of trestles—the timbers that held up the stage, black against the fading light that fell from the open roof. Beyond them I could see the floor, still covered with mildewed rushes, and the lower edge of the balustrade that separated groundlings from the first gallery—all draped in ghostly silence like a corpse under a shroud. But near to hand lay signs of life.

A decent little habitation had been created under the stage, with a thin straw mattress laid on a wood pallet to keep it off
the damp, a tattered quilt nailed to the trestles to hold back the drafts. There was even a hearth of bricks laid together, with the ashes of a fire on it, placed directly under the trap in the stage to let out the smoke. A pile of wood was carelessly stacked nearby. For a home in hell, it wasn't bad.

My plan was to offer Kit's brooch back to him and use it as leverage to open some sort of conversation—if he would talk to me, I might gain some idea what to do. While wondering how long to wait, I noticed the corner of a paper sticking out from under the bed. I lifted the mattress to reveal a collection of quartos—cheap copies of plays or poems that could be bought for a halfpenny at the stationers' shops on St. Paul's. Some of the plays were by Shakespeare:
Romeo and Juliet, Richard III
. A glimmer caught my eye from under the papers. Pushing them aside, I uncovered a thin gold chain and pulled it free. Looped on the chain was a gold signet ring set with a cluster of rubies, their splendor dulled in the gray light.