The Shakespeare Stealer

by Gary Blackwood

  “Too much of an expense.”

  “Aye, and it won’t cost them a thing if we breaks our necks.” As I made another careless swipe at the rough reeds, I spotted on the road below a cloaked figure that I momentarily took to be Falconer. So startled was I that I lost my hold on the brush. It skittered across the thatch and plummeted to the yard three storeys below. “Oh, Holy Mother.”

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “I’ve lost me brush.” I stared gloomily after it. Half the yard was eclipsed from my view. Into the half I could see stepped a man with a large white splotch on one shoulder of his dark brown doublet.

  “Who is that up there?” the man called.

  “It’s Widge!” I replied, in a voice as high and unsteady as my perch.

  “Who?”

  “Widge! The new boy!”

  “Well, we don’t need the yard whitewashed, Widge, nor the players.”

  “Aye, sir.” I turned to Sander, who was holding a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. “It’s not funny! It struck someone.”

  “Who was it? Not Mr. Burbage, I hope?”

  “I don’t ken. A wight wi’ long, dark hair and a pointy beard.”

  Sander bit his lip and raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, gis. Will ’a ha’ me dismissed, do you wis?”

  “Not very like. He’s a bit prickly at times, but not mean-spirited. Best go fetch your brush.”

  Before I climbed down, I took another look toward the road. Falconer—if indeed it had been he—was not in sight.

  We whitewashed no more than the fourth part of the roof before the church bells rang terce, the hour for our lessons to begin. There were fencing exercises, made slightly more tolerable by the fact that Nick was gone—no one seemed to know where or why. After fencing, one of the hired men, a former apothecary’s apprentice named Richard, instructed us in the art of painting our faces. As I sat before the looking glass brushing cochineal on my cheeks, a gypsyish-looking man with a high forehead and a mane of curly black hair came up behind me.

  “A likely looking lot of lissome ladies, eh, Mr. Shakespeare?”

  “Very fetching.” Mr. Shakespeare glanced down at me. “Have a care, now. You don’t want that brush to escape you.” I flushed with embarrassment. “There, you see, you’ve reddened your whole face.”

  “I’m sorry about the whitewash,” I murmured.

  “It will wash,” he said. “A pity it did not fall a bit to the left. You’d have saved me the trouble of whiting my face for today’s performance.” His words puzzled me until I recalled his role as the ghost. So Hamlet was scheduled for this very afternoon, and here was I with no table-book in which to set it down. “That was meant to be a jest,” Mr. Shakespeare said.

  “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Thank heaven my audience is not made up of such sobersides. Sander, see that this lad is given instructions in laughing.”

  Sander grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  When Mr. Shakespeare had gone, Richard looked us over critically. “Very good, Julian. Sander, too much black about the eyes. You look as though you’re consumptive. Widge, a little less whitewash next time, and smooth it out under your chin. Clean up now; it’s nearly dinner time.” As we wiped our faces, he said, “It’s sunny today, so wear a hat outside, else we’ll be having to put a pound of white on, to hide the freckles. Remember, it’s easier to tan a hide than to hide a tan.”

  Sander elbowed me in the ribs. “Laugh,” he said.

  As it happened, Sander would have done well to leave his face made up. When the time came for the performance, Nick failed to appear. Mr. Heminges came back and took the book from Sander’s hands. “G-go and g-et yourself up in Nick’s costume. D-do you know his lines?”

  “I’ve a nodding acquaintance with them,” Sander said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

  “Have the p-property master give you his side, and read from it if you m-must.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sander hurried off.

  Mr. Heminges looked after him, rubbing his forehead as though it pained him. Then he glanced over at me and, to my astonishment, thrust the book into my hands. “Widge, you’ll hold the b-book. If anyone seems l-lost for a line, f-feed them a few words. Not a whole m-mouthful, mind you, just a t-taste, to start their chawbones m-moving. Can you do that?”

  I closed my gaping mouth and said “Aye,” and he strode off to deal with some other crisis. For a moment all I could do was stare at the book in disbelief. All the fretting and scheming I’d done over how I would copy the play, and suddenly here it was, handed over to me in one piece, without the slightest effort on my part. All I had to do was tuck it under my arm and turn and walk out of the theatre.

  15

  Everyone else in the company was occupied with some task. No one would notice. And yet, what if they did notice? My intentions would be obvious, and all chance of completing my mission would be lost. I turned toward the door, hesitated, turned back, started for the door again—and encountered Sander sweeping from the tiring-room, dressed as Hamlet’s mother.

  “How do I look?” he asked anxiously, pushing at his voluminous wig.

  Far from calm myself, I gave him a cursory look up and down. “Well enough, I wis. Wait. Your sleeve’s coming off.”

  “Pin it on, would you?”

  “Yes, very well,” I said irritably. The task required both hands, and I glanced about, wondering what to do with the play book. “Here.” I handed it to Sander.

  “Make haste,” he begged. “I’m due on the stage.”

  “I’m trying!” I snapped, fumbling with the pins. “Why don’t they just sew these on?”

  “You can change the dress about this way, put different sleeves on. Have you got it?”

  “Almost.”

  There was a flourish of trumpets above the stage. “It’ll have to do. There’s my cue.” He started for the stage entrance.

  “The book!” I whispered urgently.

  He shoved it into my hands and dashed for the doorway, tripped himself up in his hem, recovered, hoisted the skirts in a very unladylike fashion, and burst through the curtain onto the stage.

  “Ah, Gertrude,” the king said. “So glad you could join us.” The audience guffawed at this spontaneous addition to the script. The king then launched into a speech that promised to be lengthy. Time to go, I thought.

  Suddenly the king broke off, his arm upraised, as though frozen in place. I froze, too, aware that something was amiss, but not quite sure what. A few snickers arose from the audience. The king cast a perturbed glance in my direction, and I realized he had forgotten his line.

  I yanked the book open. Before I could locate the proper passage, Laertes closed the breach: “Sorry to interrupt, my lord, but I beg your leave and favor to return to France.”

  I looked about anxiously, certain that someone would swoop down to snatch the book from my incompetent hands. But everyone was too busy to notice. If I had had the sense that God gave sheep, I would have made my escape at that moment. But the king had another attack of forgetfulness. This time I had the book open to the place. “Take thy fair hour!” I called out, too loudly, drawing another snicker from the audience. The king snatched up the cue and ran with it. Behind his back, Sander made a gesture of approval at me. I couldn’t help smiling.

  Ah, well, I thought; I can just as easily stay and help out here, and still slip away before the finish of the play.

  When the scene was over, Sander came to where I stood. “How did I do?”

  “Whist!” I said. “You’ll make me lose me place!”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he teased. “Come now, truly. How was I?”

  “You were magnificent,” I said dryly. “You fairly lit up the stage.”

  He delivered a most unqueenly swat to my arm. “You dolt!”

  “Ouch! Will you go faddle wi’ your pins or something, and let me do me job?”

  “All right, then
. It’s plain I’ll get no useful criticism from you.”

  “You don’t want criticism. You want praise.”

  “Suppose I do. It would scarcely kill you.” His voice had lost some of its jesting tone.

  “What do you care what I think?”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “Oh.” I thought of how my words had stung him the day before. “Aye.” I dropped my gaze to the script, as though it might provide my next line, but it was of no help.

  Just then, the rear door of the playhouse flew open, and Nick burst in, disheveled and panting. “Am I late?” he gasped.

  “By about half an act,” Sander said.

  Nick glared at him. “What are you doing in my costume?”

  “Playing your part, actually.”

  “Well, take it off!” When Sander made no move to comply, Nick tugged at the bodice. “Did you hear me, Cooke? Get out of my costume!”

  “Soft!” I said. “You’ll be heard out there!”

  “Go eat hay, Horse.” He turned back to Sander. “Do I have to shake you out of it?”

  “You’re in no shape to go on,” Sander said, calmly. “You’ve got a bit of a beard, for one thing. And, from the smell of your breath, I’d say a bit of beer as well.”

  “I’ll beard you,” Nick growled. He yanked at the bodice, pulling loose the hooks at the side. Sander stumbled backward and tripped on the hem. His head struck the edge of the stage doorway with an audible thump.

  I had been doing foolish things with great frequency the past few days—and most of my life, for that matter—and I now did another. I swung the heavy bound book into the small of Nick’s back. He let out a grunt of pain and turned on me, like a baited bear turning on the hounds. He lashed out at me, and the blow would have caught me full in the face had I not been so adept at ducking. Instead, it glanced off the top of my pate.

  Before he could swing again, he was seized from behind by Jack, the cannoneer. “What’s going on here?” Jack demanded in a loud whisper.

  Nick shook loose from him. “He’s trying to steal my part.”

  Jack scowled at me. “You, eh? I knew you was up to no good.”

  Sander got to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s me he’s accusing, Jack. Nick, if you’re not here, somebody has to go on for you, you know that.”

  Mr. Armin hurried up. “What are you boys doing? Your clamor carried all the way to the tiring-room. Nick, where have you been?”

  “I overslept,” Nick said sullenly.

  “Until nones?” He looked the boy over distastefully. “Go home. You’re obviously not fit to perform. We’ll discuss your fine later.”

  “I’ve nothing to pay a fine with. I lost it all at dice.”

  “We’ll take it out of your future wages, then—if there are any. Go on, now.” Mr. Armin waved a hand at us. “Back to work, boys. You’re doing well, Sander. You too, Widge.”

  Though it was small enough praise, it took me off guard. I was as unaccustomed to praise as I was to having a friend, or being one. The pleasant feeling it gave me was unaccustomed, too, and gave me a small hint of what the players must experience when the audience applauded their efforts.

  For the first time, Jack noticed that I was holding the play book. He snatched it from my hands. “What are you doing with that?”

  “Mr. Heminges gave it to me.”

  “Well, I’m taking it back. I don’t trust you.”

  “But you can’t—!” I started to protest. Sander pulled me away.

  “Let it be. No point in making another commotion.”

  “But that was me job!”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll have it back soon enough.” With a grin, he whispered, “Jack can scarcely read his own name.”

  I made no reply. There was no way I could tell him how important that book was to me, or why. As I headed for the tiring-room, I cursed myself for having hesitated and lost my best chance to hand the book of the play over to Falconer. I would have to keep him waiting yet a while, and he was not the sort who would relish it. Nor, I thought, was he the sort, when I finally did deliver, to praise me for a job well done.

  16

  In the tiring-room, Mr. Heminges was putting more white in his beard for his part as Polonius, and Mr. Shakespeare, dressed all in armor, was touching up his ghostly white makeup. Mr. Heminges gave me a startled look. “Wh-where is the b-book?”

  “Jack insisted on taking it over,” Sander answered for me.

  “Lord h-help us.”

  “Still,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “it’s better than I feared. In view of his habit of dropping things, I expected that Widge had let it fall into Hell.”

  “Hell?” I echoed.

  “Our word for the cellar beneath the stage.” Sander leaned close to me. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just heckling you.”

  “I ken that.”

  Mr. Heminges sighed. “I’m due on the stage. We’ll settle this later.” He dusted the excess powder from his beard and started for the door, pausing long enough to say to Mr. Shakespeare, “You wouldn’t care to t-trade duties for a t-time, would you, Will? I’ll write the p-plays, and you run the c-company?”

  Mr. Shakespeare considered a moment. “I suppose that’s no more absurd than letting Jack hold the book.” He turned his gaze back to the looking glass. The man who played Laertes came into the room and struck up a conversation with Sander. I let my thoughts wander, and my eyes with them.

  Because of his helmet, I could not see Mr. Shakespeare’s face directly, only his reflection in the glass. He had finished repairing his ghostly pallor and now sat staring at his reflection, not as if assessing his appearance, but as though the looking glass were a scrying glass and, like the gypsies he resembled, he was seeing into another time or place. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he was preparing his next play in his mind, even as he prepared himself physically for this one.

  Before I could look away, his gaze caught mine in the glass. He frowned. “Do you have nothing better to do than lounge about in the tiring-room?”

  “Well, I was to hold the book, sir.”

  “Then you should have held it more firmly.” He rose and strode from the room, his armor clanking.

  “What was that about?” said Sander.

  “I hardly ken. Was ’a truly cross wi’ me, do you wis?”

  “You can’t tell sometimes, with him.”

  “That’s so,” said the man who played Laertes. “He’s a hard one to know. They say that, in his younger days, he was a good companion—and he still can be on occasion. But much of the time he’s withdrawn and pensive. If having a touch of genius also means having so strong a dose of melancholy, I’ll settle for merely being extremely talented.”

  “And extremely conceited,” Sander said. “By the by, you two haven’t met, have you? Widge, this is Chris Beeston. Not so long ago he was a lowly prentice like us.”

  Beeston held out a hand, which I took hesitantly. “Widge, eh? You’re the one who made me do a little jig to cover for Henry when he dropped his lines? How is it you’re not out there now, holding the book?”

  “It’s not me fault!” I said. “Why does everyone fret so about the book?”

  “Because,” Beeston said, “they have a way of ending up in the wrong hands if we’re not careful.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, though I knew well enough.

  “He means sometimes they get stolen,” Sander said.

  “Oh?” I did not care for the direction this conversation was taking. “Who would want to steal a play?”

  “Other theatre companies.” Beeston leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard it said that’s why Will Kempe left the company. They say he made off with the book of As You Like It, and sold it to a touring company in Leicester.”

  “Leicester?” I said, my voice sounding strained.

  Beeston nodded. “The man who runs the Leicester company was with the Chamberlain’s Men for a time, back when I was still doin
g girls’ parts—a fellow named Simon Bass.” I had feared this was coming, and had my face ready so that it did not betray me—or so I hoped. “He gave me my first fencing lessons.” Beeston held out his right hand. “I’ve still got a scar there, where he struck me. I never knew him well, but there was always something about him that didn’t go down right. I never quite trusted him. One thing I will admit, he knew more about makeup than anyone else in the company. His Shylock in Merchant of Venice is one of the most astounding transformations I’ve ever seen. But then, perhaps it wasn’t all acting.” His voice became even softer. “They say his name is really Simon Bashevi, and he’s a Jew himself.”

  “A jewel?” I echoed. The others burst out laughing. “What?”

  “A Jew,” Beeston said. “Don’t you know what a Jew is?”

  “Of course. I heard you wrong, that’s all.” In truth, the concept was hazy in my mind. I knew that Falconer had killed a man for calling him one. To mask my ignorance, I repeated what Falconer had said. “There are no Jews in England. Only former Jews.”

  “Well, that’s so,” Beeston said. “After what Lopez did.”

  Though I had no notion who Lopez was, I nodded knowingly. It was not until a month or two later that I learned how Dr. Lopez had tried to poison the queen and been executed, and how all other Jews had been forced to renounce their religion or be banished.

  Sander jumped up from the bench then, as suddenly as if stuck by one of his dress pins. “The cock crow!”

  “The what?”

  “The cock crow! Come!” I followed him from the tiring-room. “I missed the first one while I was dressing, and Jack is sure to forget this one.” Jack stood by the stage entrance, peering at the book as though he’d lost his place long ago.

  He gave us a sullen glance. “I don’t need no help.”

  “I wasn’t offering any,” Sander told him. “I’ve come to do the cock crow.”

  “I can do it well enough,” Jack said. “Where is it?” He ran a finger down the page. “Cock crows. There. Off with you, now.”