The True Prince (6 page)

“I see.” The judge looked up with an impassive face. “Very well.” As the servant bowed and left the courtroom, the judge looked our way. “Do I understand the youth's guardian to be present?” John Heminges stood again, red-faced, as the judge continued. “Christopher Glover, you are free on bond, but I pray you take this experience to heart….” With a few more words of exhortation he waved us out of the courtroom and shuffled the next case from his stack of papers.

Once outside, Master Heminges turned on Kit as though ready to settle the issue then and there. But he decided against it, shook his head angrily, and led the way to Fleet Street. Master Will excused himself, claiming some errand. Master Condell caught up with John Heminges, and we boys fell in behind, as always. Robin's curiosity had long since overcome his apprehension. “You must have some well-placed friends,” he whispered.

“So it seems,” Kit murmured, refusing this invitation to tell us more. For my part, I wished to know who was the “other knave” who had posed as a clergyman to trick Mistress Oxenbridge—he must have been quite a performer himself.

“Who is this Captain Penny?” Robin persisted.

“A corrupter of youth.”

“And that barge of a woman—did she really set her two sons on you?”

“How do you suppose I got this knot on my head?” Kit pushed back his hair to reveal an ugly bluish lump on his brow. “Or this cut on my neck, or this stitch in my side, where the ribs are probably cracked?” He put a hand to the affected place and winced. “It took two of us to bring one of them down—I lost count of the things we broke over his head.”

“Was he big?”

“Something less than the size of St. Paul's tower. But with about the same measure of wit.”

Robin sniggered, as Kit favored him with a condescending smirk. I could have laughed, too, but the chilly silence wafting back from the two men ahead of us kept me from it. Suddenly John Heminges turned, quivering with fury. As soon as Kit was within range, Master Heminges slapped him so hard his head flew back.

Kit's face drained of color, except for the angry red mark on his right cheek. His pale eyes blazed, first with surprise, then rage. Robin and I, and even Master Condell, stood shocked, as though we were the ones slapped. John Heminges was not one to offer violence, nor was Kit one to take it.

Master Heminges raised his hand again, pointing two fingers in a way that, with him, always signaled a stern lecture.

“Today,” he said, in a voice as thin as a string, “you are no longer welcome in my house. One more scrape like this and you will not be welcome in the Company; I swear it. Make some other arrangement for your lodging. I've done the best I could by you, Kit. I've been a father to you, as well as I might. But by heaven, there comes a time. If you would throw away your gifts on rakehells and scoundrels, so be it. But I care for my reputation, and you will
not
disgrace me again. Do you understand?”

Kit swallowed once, but did not speak. His eyes spoke for him, burning with a fire that would not be quenched for a long, long time.

No one spoke as we retraced our steps into the city and out again through Bishopsgate, heading up the Shoreditch Road. This was a journey that took most of an hour, not lagging—a long while for five people to hold silent, but Master Heminges's reprimand had left nothing much to say.

As it happened, though, Kit's trouble was soon cast into the shade. On our approach to the Theater a curious sight met our eyes: the men who should have been inside at rehearsal were clustered around the main entrance, many of them shouting and waving their arms. Our masters looked at each other, then quickened their pace until all of us were practically running. The sterling voice of Richard Burbage rang out at our approach. “John Heminges! What a day to be late. See if you can make Master Allen see reason!”

The view before us more than justified the urgency in his
voice. Giles Allen, a stocky little pigeon with a face as round and red as an apple, stood in the midst of the Company, flanked by two marshals of the London watch. Their matched height and shining brass helmets lent authority to the landlord, not to mention the pikes held ready to fend off maddened players. What made the players mad was plain to see: dangling from the landlord's arm were a chain and a padlock.

Locked Out

heard Master Condell groan aloud as he stopped on the edges of a hurly-burly that included all the players, hired help, and stage boys. Robin and I pushed toward the center, where Master Allen stood. He seemed wonderfully composed, though his confidence may have owed somewhat to the presence of the marshals. From every side voices were shouting, “You might have warned us!” and, “This is an outrage!” John Heminges's approach prompted a general shushing.

“What is it?” he asked, reasonably enough.

Half a dozen voices all started at once, but Richard Burbage's quickly overpowered the rest. “We had just begun rehearsal when this strutting turkey cock arrives and turns us out. He claims to have an eviction order from the Lord Mayor—”

“Indeed I do. In this hand.” Master Allen displayed a weighty-looking parchment.

John Heminges took it from him and read it with no change in his weary expression. Then he sighed. “I can see no way around this.”

“No way
around
it?” sputtered Richard Burbage. “The Theater was built by my father. It belongs to
my
brother and me. He has no right to brazen his way in with chains and parchments and lock up MY BUILDING!”

“
Your
building is on
my
land,” Master Allen piped up, in a voice oddly thin for one so round. “Moreover, your lease has expired. I am well within my rights.”

“I fear he is.” John Heminges looked up from the document. “He cites all the proper statutes—the law is on his side.”

“The letter of the law may be,” growled Burbage, “but the spirit is not. Look how he gulled us all these months—plain nasty, I'd call it.”

“There's no law against nastiness,” Master Heminges remarked. He turned to the landlord and asked, “Surely you will allow us access to our costumes and properties?”

“In a day or two,” said the little man, with insufferable self-importance, “you will receive permission from my attorney—”

“Shove it down your throat, you beef-witted hedge pig!” Master Burbage snatched the eviction order and shoved it at the landlord's chest, then stalked out into the field and began kicking up clumps of sod. I was glad he had not attended Kit's hearing at Fleet court, or his temper would have given the
magistrate more meat for his prejudice against players.

“Why now?” Thomas Pope demanded of the landlord.

“Why hold the door open to us all this time, only to slam it now?”

“I am under no obligation to explain,” the landlord retorted. “Wait for word from my attorney. Until then, pray you, stay off my land.”

After a little more shouting, the scene ended, with Master Allen chaining the main entrance to the Theater and nailing his parchment to the door. The stage boys were the first to leave, followed by Adam Stewart, master of the wardrobe, wringing his hands over the silks and velvets he was forced to leave behind. The Company scattered next, agreeing to meet in two hours' time at the Mermaid Tavern to discuss their prospects. While drifting away, they voiced all sorts of speculation: “The vile bug must have sold his precious land—else why wait until now to lock us out?” “That putrid play we performed yesterday might have been enough to close any theater….”

With so much unexpected time on his hands, Gregory decided to indulge in a truly memorable breakfast. He invited me to join him, but when Kit struck out across the field on a narrow path with Robin close behind, I followed—without quite knowing why. Soon after I turned on the path, the Welsh Boy appeared at my elbow. Thomas Pope, his guardian, either had given him permission to join me or else had failed to notice his absence.

“What do it all mean, Richard?” asked he in his sweet, lilting voice. It was the first time he had sought me out, or anyone else.

“I know not.” The Theater hulked silently behind us. The white silk flag that indicated a performance would not be flown today, to the bewilderment of Londoners watching for it. I tried to reassure the boy. “The Company will meet today to find another place. They'll think of something.”

“Aye?” The boy did not sound convinced.

We followed Kit all the way to the Thames—another long walk with few words, ending at the stone dike just east of the Tower. Kit turned at the wall and stared at us: Robin and me and Davy, strung out behind him like a kite's tail. If he had wanted, he could have lost us long ago with a rude “Shug off!” Instead he sneered, “You may sit, faithful subjects.”

He boosted himself to the stone ledge and turned to face the river, sitting with ankles crossed and elbows on his knees. We scrambled up after him and formed a straggling row: Robin and Kit, me and Davy. The Tower rose forbiddingly to our right, a gray mossy heap brightened at this moment by full sunlight. Ships crowded the near bank, spiky masts swaying as their hulls bobbed in the water. A double-masted French galleass, sails furled, glided smoothly down the tide, headed toward the Channel. To me it felt surpassing strange to be idle on a warm, sunny day: strange, and not pleasant. After a long silence Robin ventured to Kit, “Will you be going to the Mermaid anon?”

“Why? To hear a flock of old hens snap their beaks?” Contemptuously, Kit heaved a gob of spit toward the river.

“It's our future they're deciding—”

“Not mine. You may go, if you're of a mind to be guided by carpenters and grocers.”

This was a slap at the Burbages' father, James, and at John Heminges. Both began their adult lives as tradesmen before turning to the stage. But Kit had no room to mock. “Some are only descended from carpenters,” I pointed out, “just as some are from grocers.”

He rounded on me, as I might have expected, and told me what to do with myself. His own parents were grocers on Bucklersbury Street, though he barely admitted to knowing them. They came to plays now and then, but seemed overawed by their shining son. His mother approached with great meekness, while his father stood afar off and waved, as if Kit were as nobly born as the great ladies he played. It made me sick.

“Honest tradesmen are nothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “Better than prison-bait companions.”

“I notice you never speak of
your
honest relations at all.”

That stung; my mother was dead and my father was not the sort of parent a lad could point to with pride. Kit knew nothing of substance about them, but his insinuation struck close. “You're the only one of us with a mother and father still living,” I snapped at him. “You value too little what you have.”

“Come off that,” Robin complained. “The Theater is locked
and barred, and here you sit matching bloodlines. Our future is at stake.”

Kit snorted. “Yours may be. But I begin to think that the Theater may go to hell.”

“You can't mean that!” Robin straddled the wall and leaned toward him urgently. “That is—I mean—Master Heminges shouldn't have … done what he did, but give him his due: he's been a good teacher and guardian. And the Theater is where you won your greatest fame. Everybody knows you're the best boy player in London. The Company—”