The True Prince (33 page)

One thing sure: I would not hesitate to inform Bartlemy. The next morning I was pacing the south transept in St. Paul's while my breath made little wads of cloud on the cold air. A couple of unemployed laborers approached to ask hopefully whether I was hiring, but Bartlemy failed to show—for the first time ever, now that I truly needed him. After half an hour I could wait no more, but hurried on to the Curtain, in a torment over what to do. Master Condell had begun to give me doubtful looks when I requested time for “private business”; strictly speaking, an apprentice was not supposed to have private business, much less the pressing, life-or-death sort that I had blundered into.

That afternoon, midway through a cold, sparsely attended performance of
Every Man in His Humor
, church bells all over London began ringing. We did not know the reason until the play ended, and the owner of the Curtain arrived to inform us that William Brooke, the Lord Chamberlain, had died. Though murmurs of “God rest his soul” scattered through the Company, I sensed a lightening among them, a hope that Brooke's successor might be more friendly to us and we could once more wear the proud title of Lord Chamberlain's Men.

For me, the news carried an entirely opposite meaning, confirmed when Starling waited at St. Paul's the next morning
and Bartlemy again failed to appear. “He must be kept away on business,” she declared. “I'm sure he would come in a minute otherwise.”

“What if his master no longer
has
any business?” I pointed out. “You know who John Clement was working for. If his employer has died, what happens to the employment?”

“I'll go back to St. Paul's tomorrow,” she promised. “He'll be there. He must be there, otherwise you'll be thinking of going to the Theater by yourself that night. You're not thinking that, are you?”

I did not answer; she knew me too well.

The Christmas season was rushing upon us and all business would soon be suspended for the great festival. Shops closed, law courts disbanded, and even the watch laid off their watching to some degree, though the season of peace and good will was not always peaceful. After the holy observance of Christmas Day came the twelve days of Epiphany, with increasing disorder in the wrong parts of London. At the Inns of Court the scholars held riotous celebrations on Twelfth Night, presided over by a “Lord of Misrule,” during which they insulted their professors, drank the wine cellars dry, and broke the furniture. All of which seems a curious way for law students to behave, but consistent after all with the wild school days described by Justice Shallow in Part Two. The common folk were only too glad to follow their example, and Lords of Misrule reigned in the streets even before Twelfth
Night. Anyone who meant mischief could do it easily under cover of merriment.

Two days after Christmas, Master Condell, Robin, and I arrived home from a rehearsal in Blackfriars to find the household in an uproar. It appeared that a pack of ruffians had lured Roland, that happy, trusting hound, out of the gate—and strangled him.

The family and servants were at dinner when it happened, so none had actually seen or heard the culprits. They assumed that such a cruel, aimless prank could only be the work of cruel, aimless boys taking advantage of the holiday carelessness to work their mischief. I knew better once I saw the dog laid out beside the garden, stiff as a pike, with a doubled string around its neck.

“It must have been Tom,” Starling said grimly. “We know his work. And it appears he knows you. He must have spied you with Kit when Davy was killed. Richard! Do you suppose he's been watching you all this time?”

We sat at one end of the table in the great room. Over by the fireplace, Master Condell attempted to cheer his grieving children with tales of Sir John Falstaff. Since Fat Jack made the perfect example of a Lord of Misrule, I would have chosen a more comfortable subject for mirth—especially with Captain Penny and his associates laying so heavily on my mind.

“I don't know.” I thought it was more likely that Tom had taken cover with Captain Penny, but supposition was worth
very little in the face of a threat like this. “Still …”

“You are
not
going to tell me you intend to be at the old Theater at midnight tomorrow. Are you?”

“I don't know.”

“How can you even think of it? This well-named Dark Tom
knows who you are.
If he caught you meddling in this, he'd kill you as sure and quick as he did Roland.”

“I know.”

“And whose side is Kit on, after all? How could he tell you that something is afoot at the Theater unless someone told him—like his lady love, or Captain Penny?”

“I don't know.”

“Now you have that look on your face that tells me you're going to do as you please, no matter what I say.”

“I know.”

“You
don't
know!” she burst out. “You can't see yourself.” Her voice cracked so sharp that others in the room stared at us. “Starling's mad at Rich-ard,” chanted young Ned, in a singsong voice.

“
That's
not news,” sniffed Thomas. “Come, father, tell us what answer Fat Jack made to the Chief Justice this time.”

I turned around on the bench, my back to the room, and Starling turned also. After a moment, I said, “I must do this. He asked me to, and he's never asked anything of me.”

“But suppose he means you harm?”

“I can't believe that. Rivals can be as close as friends.

We're not much alike, but we've shared the same space, the same sounds and smells, the same ambitions, even spoken the same lines. Our paths have met, and crossed, and …” And he's never had a friend, I thought—but did not say.

After a moment, she said, “That's not very clear.”

“I know.”

“Well—” A gusty sigh. “What do you propose to do?”

I stopped short of saying, I don't know, though it would have been mostly true. “We leave for Whitehall in three days. The Company will run our legs off all day tomorrow. After bedtime Robin should drop off like a stone, and I will be able to slip out to the Theater. After that …” I shrugged. “Tomorrow, you must try once more to reach Bartlemy. Tell him where I'm going, and when, and he may judge what to do about it.”

She was silent for some time, which made me wonder if she was concocting a plan of her own. “You promise this is only a spying mission?”

“Of course! I know that place like my own hand. I can hide and not be seen.”

“Very well. But if you get yourself killed, I will never forgive you.”

As I predicted, the entire Company worked frantically all the next day from dawn to dusk, finishing up rehearsals and packing costumes and properties to be taken to Whitehall. Also as predicted, Robin could barely keep his eyes open during supper,
and soon after prayers he dragged himself up to bed. The Condell boys followed directly, then I, yawning elaborately and ignoring all the anxious looks Starling sent my way. Even though we had had very little chance to talk, I knew that she had made several attempts to reach Bartlemy, all unanswered.

Once in my room I dressed for warmth, wrapping an extra length of wool around my legs before pulling on my nether- stocks and shrugging on a knitted waistcoat under my shirt. Then I lay down, shivering under the coverlet as a watchman passed below, crying, “Nine o'clock! Look to your lock, your fire, and your light; and so, good night.”

I closed my eyes, expecting a long wait until eleven.

CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT

leven o'clock! Look to your lock …”

My eyes flew open, and for a moment I stared upward as the ceiling beam over my head took a shadow shape. The remnants of a dream scattered like a flock of ravens. We were at the old Theater, Kit and I, in the upstairs tiring room, getting ready to go on the stage. But it seemed we were the only players, and the house was filling with angry beasts. I felt as I often did when my lines were not perfect, or I wasn't confident of the play: as if a mouse in my stomach were clawing to get out. Kit appeared as cool as ever, but his fingertips were bleeding and I knew he felt exactly as I did. He stroked a line of blood on his cheek for color, and then handed the glass to me. I took it with apprehension, dreading what image might appear. But when I held the glass up to my face, I saw—nothing.

“… and so, good night!” The watchman's call faded
as he moved on toward Lothbury Street. Slowly I sat up, took a deep breath to still my unquiet heart, eased out of the bed, and cracked open the casement window.

All the main gates of the city are barred at night, but smaller ones remain unlocked to allow for messages and urgent business. Moorgate was one of these and only a short walk from my master's house. It was seldom used because it opened to Moorfields, a dank and swampy stretch of ground. On this night, with not even a watchman standing by, I walked right through. Then my difficulties began.

I had hoped that the path across Moorfields would be frozen hard enough to walk on, but only the hollows held firm. A crust of rime covered the ridges, and when I stepped on them, I sank into miry mud. Stepping over them was risky too, as I could easily misjudge my footing in the stingy light of the half moon. Twice I slid into unseen hollows and soaked my legs, and once I tripped and fell to my knees. When the looming outlines of the old Theater finally rose into view, I felt my bones quaking hard enough almost to pull apart.

The midnight chimes had not yet struck, and no one appeared to be lurking outside. Reaching the high ground of spiky grass, I made my way to the hatch at the back of the building, then paused to feel around it. The padlock had been removed. This might mean that “hell” was occupied; I put an ear to the wood and listened for voice or movement. Hearing
none, I slowly lifted the hatch on its oiled hinges and slid into utter darkness, letting it down behind me.

My teeth were chattering so loud I could hear nothing else for some time. My wool cloak made a pod, and I a quivering row of peas drawn together for warmth against the cold cellar wall. Many moments passed before the chattering lessened and another noise crept into my ears: a steady crunch on the other side of the wall, as though some unimaginable creature were chomping through the partition to get at me.

A cold night and a perilous mission can make sinister even the homeliest details—I soon realized it was only a horse munching up grass stems. The noise came from the east side of the building, opposite the road, where an animal could be picketed out of sight. Another sound came clearer to my ears: a regular treading of boards, first in one direction, then another. Someone was pacing the stage, back and forth. It wasn't Kit—I knew his walk—but as I listened, other small sounds began to creep out: a chink of spurs, a creak of leather, a sharp, impatient sigh.

And then I heard hoofbeats clattering on the Shoreditch Road, and the whinny of the grazing horse as it lifted its head to greet the newcomers.

A meeting was at hand; I must get out of the way as quickly as possible. There was another hatch nearby, an access from the tiring rooms for players due to make an ascent from hell or the grave. I crouched along the narrow passageway,
pushing up with my hands, panic rising until I felt the boards give way over my head. The hinge squealed—I froze until the occupant of the stage shouted down into “hell” and covered the noise. “Ho! Late as always!”