The Shakespeare Stealer

by Gary Blackwood

  It took even less time to gather up my belongings than it had for my life to be signed away. All I owned was the small dagger I used for eating; a linen tunic and woollen stockings I wore only on the Sabbath; a worn leather wallet containing money received each year on the anniversary of my birth—or as near it as could be determined; and an ill-fitting sheepskin doublet handed down from Dr. Bright’s son. It was little enough to show for fourteen years on this Earth.

  Yet, all in all, I was more fortunate than many of my fellow orphans. Those who were unsound of mind or body were still at the orphanage. Others had died there.

  I tied up my possessions with a length of cord and returned to where the men waited. Dr. Bright fidgeted with the sovereigns, as though worried that they might be taken back. The stranger stood as still and silent as a figure carved of wood.

  When he moved, it was to take me roughly by the arm and usher me toward the door. “Keep a close eye on him, now,” the doctor called after us. I thought it was his way of expressing concern for my welfare. Then he added, “He can be sluggish if you don’t stir him from time to time with a stick.”

  The stranger pushed me out the front door and closed it behind him. A thin rain had begun to fall. I hunched my shoulders against it and looked about for a wagon or carriage. There was none, only a single horse at the snubbing post. The stranger untied the animal and swung into the saddle. “I’ve only the one mount. You’ll have to walk.” He pulled the horse’s head about and started off down the road.

  I lingered a moment and turned to look back at the rectory. The windows were lighted now against the gathering dark. I half hoped someone from the household might be watching my departure, and might wish me Godspeed, and I could bid farewell in return before I left this place behind forever. There was no one, only the placid tabby cat gazing at me from under the shelter of the eaves.

  “God buy you, then,” I told the cat and, slinging my bundle over my shoulder, turned and hurried off after my new master.

  3

  I had no notion of where I was being taken. We headed south out of Berwick, past the slate-roofed house of Mr. Cheyney, the wool merchant, past the old mill, past the common fields. I had been south as far as Wakefield; beyond that, my geography was unreliable. I knew that if one continued south a week or so, one would end up in the vicinity of London. But I was sure this man was no Londoner.

  Judging from Dr. Bright’s accounts, the men of London dressed in splendid clothing, all ornamented and embroidered, and spoke in a civil and cultured manner. They lived in houses ten times larger and grander than Mr. Cheyney’s and consorted with ladies of elegance and beauty.

  I had a hard time matching the stranger’s pace. He never looked back to see whether I was keeping up, or whether I was following at all. Yet I was sure that, if I took it into my head to slip off into the dark woods, he would know at once. Besides, there were the woods themselves to be reckoned with.

  About Berwick, the woods were tame. The trees were broad and widely spaced; sheep and pigs grazed on the swards among them, and on my rare free afternoon, I had walked there without fear.

  These woods were dense and dark and dreadful. To run there would be like jumping into the fire to escape the cooking pot. Those trees, I had heard, concealed every unsavory brigand and every ravenous beast of prey in the shire—until nightfall, when they ventured out upon roads such as this, in search of victims.

  I shuddered and, breaking into a trot, closed the gap between myself and the stranger’s horse. When I grasped the frame of his saddle, I could shuffle along with less effort. Still, I was not used to physical exertion, and the pace took its toll on me. I summoned enough breath to say, “Will we be stopping for the night, then?”

  The man twisted in his saddle and glanced down at my hand clutching the frame. I was afraid he might push me away, but he faced front again. “Speak when you are spoken to,” he said in a low voice.

  We pushed on long after the last light was gone from the watery sky. I hoped that we might put up at the King’s Head in Wakefield, but we passed by without pausing. From there, the road was unfamiliar to me, though its ruts and rocks felt all too familiar. The bottoms of my shoes, which were thin as paper, grew ragged. At last I trod on a sharp stone that pierced the leather sole, and the sole of my foot as well. “Gog’s blood!” Losing my grip on the saddle, I fell to my knees on the hard dirt.

  The stranger wheeled his horse about. “Silence!” he hissed. “You’ll have every cutpurse within a league down upon us!”

  “Sorry!” I whispered. “I’ve hurt meself.”

  He sighed in disgust. “Can you walk?”

  I tried to place my weight on the injured foot. It was like stepping on a knife. “I wis not.”

  “If I give you the flat of my blade, can you?”

  I considered a moment, then took a sharp breath. “Nay, I still wis not.”

  He reached out for me, and instinctively, I ducked. “Give me your hand!” His voice was harsh and impatient. Hesitantly, I put my hand in his. Despite the clammy air, his palm was hot and dry, like that of a man with a fever, and his grip was painfully strong. He lifted me bodily and dragged me across the horse’s flank until I could swing one leg over the animal’s haunches. I had scarcely settled in before we were off again, at a quicker gait than before. I dropped my bundle in my lap and clung desperately to the saddle frame.

  After a time, I relaxed a bit, and even felt drowsy. My head drooped forward and came to rest on the stranger’s damp cloak. He jerked violently, as though bitten, and I sat abruptly erect again. Despite all my care, this happened several more times. Finally, the man snapped, “Either ride properly, or go back to shank’s mare”—meaning, of course, my feet.

  As the night advanced, the air grew more chill, which helped keep me uncomfortably awake. In the small hours, we came upon an inn. My master took a room; I was given a pallet on the floor and was wakened long before I was ready the following morning. A loaf of bread and some cheese served as both breakfast and dinner. Each was eaten unceremoniously upon the back of the horse.

  We paused once in the afternoon, to allow the animal to drink from a stream. I barely had time to soak my swollen foot before we were again on our way. When night fell, we were once more beset by woods on either hand, and no settlement in sight before or behind. What drove this man so, I wondered, to risk his life—and mine—on the high road after dark? Were we too near the end of our journey to stop?

  All the preceding night and day, I had been in a sort of daze, brought on by the abrupt change in my circumstances. Now I was beginning to come out of it, and a hundred thoughts and questions rose in me, none of which I dared give voice to. All I could do was what I had always done: wait and watch and hope for the best.

  The trees edged in and threatened to claim the very road. In places, their branches met above our heads and interlaced, nearly blocking out the light of the half moon. In one such dismal spot we got our first taste of trouble. There was no warning; one moment the road was deserted, dappled with moonlight, the next, half a dozen shadowy figures stood before us. I stiffened, and a gasp escaped me.

  Instead of turning back or spurring the horse in a bid for escape, the stranger reined in and slowly approached the bandits, who stood in a crescent, blocking the path. Most were armed only with staves and short swords, but one man of imposing stature held a crossbow leveled at us. “Hold!”

  The stranger let his horse advance until we were nearly abreast of the big man. “God rest you, gentlemen,” he said, in a surprisingly amiable tone.

  The big man, crowded by our horse, let his crossbow drift to one side. “Don’t tell me you’re a parson.”

  “Far from it.”

  “Good. I don’t like doing business with parsons. They’re too parsimonious.” He guffawed at his own joke. “Well, let’s have it, then.”

  “Have what?” the stranger asked innocently.

  The big man laughed again, and this time his companions joi
ned in. “Have what? ’a says. Have what? Why have a pot of ale wi’ us, of course.” More soberly, the man said, “Come now, enough pleasantries. Let’s have your purse.”

  The stranger reached inside his cloak and drew out the purse with which he had bought me. It was still heavy with coins. “Forgive me for not taking your meaning.”

  “Oh, aye,” the big man said. “An you forgive us for taking your money.”

  The stranger leaned down, as if to surrender the pouch. But instead he swung it in a sudden arc and struck the bandit full in the face. The man staggered backward; his crossbow loosed its bolt, which flew wild. I gave a cry of dismay as the other thieves sprang forward.

  But the stranger was ready. The hand that had held the purse an instant before now grasped his rapier. He kicked the nearest man’s stave aside and give him a quick thrust to the throat. A second man’s sword he deflected with his cloak, and sent the man reeling away, clutching at his bloody face. He seized the blade of a third man’s weapon in his cloak-wrapped hand and yanked it away.

  I, meantime, was struggling with a one-armed ruffian who had latched on to my tunic and was trying to pull me to the ground. I clung tenaciously to the saddle frame and kicked at my assailant, but it was no use. My small strength gave out, and I toppled like a wounded bird from my perch.

  Flailing about for something to break my fall, I fastened on the neck of the one-armed man. He cursed and stumbled backward, and we both crashed to the ground. A rock struck my elbow, numbing my arm. It did even more damage to the bandit’s head, and he lay suddenly still.

  I dragged my limp arm free and got to my feet to see the stranger dispatch the last of the outlaws with a sweeping blow that knocked the man into the road, where his companions lay in various attitudes and degrees of unconsciousness.

  The stranger guided the horse to where the crossbow lay. With a flick of his blade, he severed its string, then lifted his fallen purse with the point of the sword. He shook a single coin from it and tossed it at the feet of the big man, who sat ruefully holding his jaw. “If this is a toll road, you might simply have tolled me.”

  The big man let out an abrupt laugh, then groaned with pain. “Would that you had been a parson after all.”

  Several of the bandits had begun to come around now. “Could we go on?” I pleaded. The stranger twisted about impatiently and, grasping the back of my tunic, hoisted me up behind him. Though I kept a wary eye on the thieves, he did not deign to glance back even once. Only when they were well out of sight did I breathe easily again. “What you did back there—I’ve never seen the like.”

  The stranger was silent a long moment, then he said gruffly, “You were told not to speak unless spoken to.”

  4

  We rode on until at last, dew damp and bone weary, we came upon a small inn, where we took a room for what remained of the night. In the morning, after breaking fast with cold beef and ale, we set out once more, still heading south. My thighs were chafed raw from the constant motion of the horse, and every sinew and muscle ached fiercely.

  About midday, I got up enough courage to ask, “When will we be there?”

  The stranger gave me a glowering glance. “We will be there when we get there.” Even in daylight, I saw little of his face, for he never pulled back the hood, except by accident. I did, however, memorize every square inch of the back of his cloak.

  I despaired of that day ever reaching its end, but of course it did, and with it our journey. Just as the sun rounded the corners of the Earth, we came around a bend in the road and before us lay a landscape of stark steeples and thatched roofs glowing golden in the last rays of the sun—more buildings than I had ever seen in one place. “Is this London, then?” I asked, forgetting in my astonishment the commandment to hold my tongue.

  Unexpectedly, the stranger laughed. “Hardly. It’s only Leicester.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” I said, feeling like an ignorant lumpkin.

  Before we quite entered the town, we turned off the road and down a narrow lane to a substantial house surrounded by a high hedge. The stranger guided our horse down a cobbled walk to a stable nearly as imposing as the house.

  I was scarcely able to believe that we had reached our destination, but the stranger dismounted and snapped, “Don’t sit there like a dolt; get down!” My legs were in such a condition that they buckled under me. The stranger seized my arm and all but dragged me to the rear of the house.

  As we came around the corner, we nearly collided with a husky youth who was headed for the stable. He stepped aside quickly and bobbed his head apologetically. “You’re back, then. I’ll see to your horse, sir.”

  “Give her an extra ration of oats. She’s had a hard trip.”

  “Right, sir.” The boy tried to be on his way, but the master stopped him.

  “Adam.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your place is in the stable. Stay out of the kitchen.”

  “I will, sir.” He hurried off.

  “Lazy swad,” the man muttered. We entered a spacious kitchen, lit not by rush lights but by actual candles. A plain young woman in a linen apron and cap was busy at the fireplace. “We’ll be wanting supper, Libby,” the man told her. “The boy will have his in his room.”

  “The garret?” the girl asked.

  The man nodded brusquely, turned, and was gone.

  The girl looked me over curiously. “Where are you from?”

  “Berwick-in-Elmet.”

  She raised her eyebrows as though I’d said I came from the Antipodes. “Where’s that?”

  “Up Yorkshire way. Near Leeds.”

  “I see,” she said, as if that explained something—my appearance, perhaps, or my speech. “Well, come. Best get you to your room.”

  “I’m to have a room of me own?”

  “It looks that way, don’t it?” She picked up a candle and led me through the pantry and up a set of steps, which in my exhaustion I was hard put to climb, to a small attic room. “Here you are. It’s not much.”

  It could have been a pit full of snakes for all I cared. The moment she was gone, I blew out the candle and collapsed on the bed. I expected to be shaken awake at the crack of dawn, but when I finally woke, the sun was streaming through the gabled windows. I leaped up, hardly knowing where I was, struck my head on the low ceiling, and sat down again. For several minutes I remained there, holding my head and letting my mind adjust to these new and strange surroundings.

  A pewter bowl of cold meat, carrots, and potatoes sat beside the bed. I gobbled it in a trice, then tried standing again. My legs felt uncertain, and my foot still pained me. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I straightened myself and tried to look as though I had been up for hours and awaiting my master’s call. But my visitor was only the stableboy. He thrust my bundle of clothing into my arms. “I’d put on something clean if I was you,” he said. “You smell.”

  It seemed wicked to don my Sunday garb on an ordinary day, but it was all I had. The bundle had been tampered with, untied and hastily retied. I spread the clothing out on my bed and found my wallet, which had contained my meager savings. The money was gone, every farthing.

  Though I was sure it was the stableboy’s doing, I knew better than to say so. I was the new boy here, and I had long since learned that new boys have no rights. I would have to content myself with cursing him roundly and silently.

  When I carried my dirty clothing downstairs, the girl called Libby took them and gingerly dropped them in a basket. “The master said to bring you to him as soon as you were up, but I expect you’ll want to be fed first.”

  “I’ve eaten. What was in the bowl.”

  She clucked her tongue. “That was last night’s supper, you ninny. You were asleep when I brought it up.”

  I shrugged. “It served well enough as breakfast.”

  “Dinner, more like. It’s nearly noon. Come, then.”

  As we passed from the kitchen into a great open room, I said, “Will ’a be cros
s wi’ me, do you wis?”

  She cast me the same doubtful glance she’d given when I told her where I hailed from. “Wis?”

  “Aye,” I said, wondering what she found so strange in a word I’d used all my life.

  Libby led me up a wide staircase, to a large gallery with a dozen windows, and tapestries hung between them. “I can’t say whether he’ll be cross or no. He’s a queer one, the master is.” She turned and whispered, “Not to tell him I said so, now.”

  I made a cross over my heart as proof that I would not. We stopped before a paneled door, on which the girl knocked lightly. “Enter!” called a voice from within. The girl motioned me inside. As Libby pushed the door shut, she sent me an encouraging wink.

  The room in which I found myself was so foreign that I might have stepped into another land. A soft carpet covered the floor; two of the paneled walls were hung with pictures; the other two were obscured top to bottom by more books than I would have suspected existed in all of England. If this is but Leicester, I thought, what must London be like?

  So awed was I that it was a moment before my eyes fell on the figure at the writing desk, bent over some close task. “Widge?” he said, without turning.

  I swallowed nervously. “Aye.”

  “Come, sit down.” I was almost at the man’s side before he looked up from his papers. I stared dumbly at him. This was not the fearsome stranger who had brought me here. This was a mild-looking man with a well-trimmed beard and a balding head of hair of an odd, reddish hue. He smiled slightly at my obvious bewilderment. “My name is Simon Bass,” he said. “I am your new master.”

  5

  “You might sit down,” Simon Bass said, “before you fall down.”

  I sank into an upholstered chair. “But—but I thought—”

  “You thought the one who brought you here was to be your master.” Bass shrugged. “Falconer is not the most communicative of men, nor the most genial. But he is reliable, and effective. I could not go to Yorkshire myself because…well, for various reasons. He got you here in one piece, at any rate.”