The Shakespeare Stealer

by Gary Blackwood

  He beckoned with his blade. “Inside! And keep quiet!” I did as he said, but when he gestured for me to move to the rear of the room, I shook my head.

  “I won’t let you leave wi’ that,” I said in a voice nearly as faint and faltering as his.

  “You can’t stop me, Horse.”

  “I can call for help.”

  “I’ll gut you if you do.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, trying to sound confident. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have bled to death on that tavern floor.”

  I had not expected his gratitude, but neither did I expect the response he gave. He shrugged contemptuously, as if to say he would as soon have been left to die. “No matter. Step aside.”

  “Nay,” I said, gambling that he would not strike me. “Leave the book and go.”

  “Stand aside!” His voice broke like glass under the strain. His face reddened with anger and shame, and he swung his blade at me. I stumbled back against the wall and crashed painfully into a rack of weapons. Rolling aside, I yanked my stage sword awkwardly from its hanger and brought it to broad ward.

  “Fool!” Nick swung at me again. I should have cried out for help, but I still feared that, if cornered by the company, Nick would reveal my connection with Falconer. Poor swordsman that I was, I would have to stop him myself.

  I beat his blade aside and, from long habit, replied with a thrust. Nick warded it effortlessly, then aimed a swift cut at my head. Instead of warding it, I ducked and came up under his blade with my own. The blunted tip glanced off his ribs and knocked the play book from his grasp. With a growl of rage and pain, he set upon me in earnest, battering aside my defenses until he found a breach and delivered a quick, angry thrust. His point was not blunted, as mine was. It struck me just above the belt.

  I staggered back, clutching the spot, staring in dismay at the blood welling from between my fingers and coursing down the front of my breeches. Nick was as stunned as I. His face went white, and he backed up a few steps, his eyes wide with surprise and alarm. In the next instant, he recovered enough to scoop up the play book and bolt from the room.

  I collapsed on the lid of a trunk, gasping for breath but feeling no real pain yet, only a kind of numb panic flooding through my body. Footsteps pounded outside the room and Sander appeared in the doorway. “Holy Mother!” he breathed as he saw me slumped there, drenched in blood. “What happened?”

  “Nick stuck me. ’A’s getting away!”

  “Let him.” Sander crouched before me and tore open my doublet.

  “But ’a’s got the book!”

  “Your life is more important—” Sander started to say. Then he halted, staring at my bloody belly.

  “Is it that bad?” I asked. “Am I going to die?”

  To my astonishment, he began to laugh. “You sot! He stuck your blood bag!”

  “Me what?” And then it came to me. Nick’s point had been stopped by the protective plate, and the only blood that had been spilled was that of an unfortunate sheep. Feeling sheepish myself, I struggled to my feet. “Come! We’ve got to catch Nick before ’a delivers that to Falconer!” I stumbled from the property room and ran headlong into Mr. Armin.

  “Widge!” He stared at my gory costume. “What in heaven’s name—?”

  “It’s naught,” I interrupted. “Can you come wi’ me, sir? Nick’s stolen the book of Hamlet.”

  As I suspected, he was not the sort to waste time on words when action was wanted. “You’re due on stage, Sander,” he said, and we were out the door.

  When we rounded the playhouse, I saw Nick, far ahead of us, heading for the river. So desperate was his flight that he had dropped his sword and not bothered to retrieve it. Mr. Armin paused long enough to snatch it up, thrust it in his belt, then set off again in pursuit.

  I did my best to keep up, but I was hampered by the metal plate, which pinched my skin with every step. Mr. Armin glanced over at me. “Shouldn’t you stay here? You’re wounded.”

  I shook my head. “Sheep’s blood,” I said breathlessly, and he laughed in understanding.

  By the time we reached the bank of the Thames, Nick had hired a wherryboat and was well out into the river. Mr. Armin sprang into a second boat, and swallowing my fear, I climbed in after him. “Catch that craft, and you’ll have a shilling,” Mr. Armin told the startled wherryman.

  Had there been a choice, I’d have picked someone more muscular and less sickly-looking than the old sailor who propelled us into the current. When the play let out, the bank would be thick with boats, but at the moment, his was the only one.

  To my surprise, our wiry wherryman, spurred on by the promise of more money, slowly closed the gap between Nick’s boat and ours. When Nick turned and saw that we were gaining, he called something to his boatman and pointed. The boat abruptly changed course; instead of heading for the opposite bank, it swung downstream, in the direction of the bridge.

  “A pest upon him!” Mr. Armin muttered. “He’s going to shoot the bridge!”

  “Oh, gis! ’A must ha’ maggots in his brain!”

  “Shall I go after?” our wherryman asked, not very eagerly.

  “There’s another shilling in it,” Mr. Armin said.

  I clutched frantically at my seat as the boat dipped and swayed. Then, catching the current, it surged downstream. Ahead, the river churned through the dozen stone arches of the bridge, as water in a smaller stream will boil between the fingers of one’s hand, but with a volume and force a thousand times greater.

  Nick’s boatman steered toward one of the narrow arch-ways. The boat was swept through like a leaf on a flood, bobbing wildly as the water beneath it struck the bridge supports and was flung away. One side of their boat banged and scraped sickeningly against the stone arches, but it emerged in one piece on the far side of the bridge.

  “’A made it!” I said, hardly knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. In the next moment, I was neither; I was merely terrified, for our turn had come to shoot the bridge. Our boatman was either less skillful than Nick’s, or less favored by the Fates. As the foaming mouth of the archway swallowed us, the stern of the boat swung sideways. Though the boatman thrust out his pole to try and keep us clear, we smashed against the stone support. The boat careened, and water poured over the gunwales, overturning it and spilling us into the rushing river.

  The feeling of being flung into that whirling world of water is one I fervently hope never to experience again. Everything familiar and secure was snatched away and replaced by a single, suffocating element that robbed me of sight and hearing, of my very breath.

  The seething water tossed me this way and that. I fought it madly, but it was as much use as fighting the wind. There was nothing to take hold of, nothing to kick out at. It took hold of me; it wrapped itself about me, dragging me deeper. When I gasped for air, it filled my lungs.

  Curiously, even in my panic, a portion of my mind stood apart, observing my plight, as it had done during the performance at Whitehall. I’m going to die now, it said; how strange.

  26

  And then my flailing arms struck something solid. I had no idea what it was and cared less. My hands clutched it. Something grasped my chin and lifted it above the surface. I spewed out a pigginful of water and began to breathe again.

  “Don’t struggle, now,” a voice said, sounding distant and muffled to my water-filled ears. “Try to relax.” The voice was Mr. Armin’s. “Kick your legs gently.” I was accustomed to obeying his instructions, and I obeyed now. “Good, keep kicking that way.”

  There were more voices, then, and hands and boathooks snatched at our clothing and dragged us over the side of another wherryboat, which had apparently seen our plight and come to the rescue. When I had coughed up a portion of the river, I sat up and looked about. Mr. Armin sat next to me, breathing heavily, water streaming from his hair and clothing. In the bottom of the boat, our wherryman was stretched out, unmoving.

  “Is ’a drownded?” I asked fe
arfully.

  “No,” said one of our rescuers. “More’s the pity. It’s swads like him give us rivermen a bad name.”

  “Well, he won’t any longer,” Mr. Armin said, “for his boat’s gone to the bottom.” He pulled his purse from inside his drenched doublet, took out two shillings, and pressed them into the unconscious man’s hand. “As agreed,” he said.

  When our feet were on firm ground again on the north bank, we stood looking up and down, wondering what to do next. “Have you any notion of where Nick is likely to take the book?”

  “I ken who ’a’s taking it to, I just don’t ken where.”

  Mr. Armin stared at me sternly. “I’ll ask you to explain all this later. For now, I’ll be content to get back the book. You think someone hired him to steal it?”

  “Aye. A man named Falconer. The man you quarrelled wi’ outside the Globe that day.”

  Mr. Armin nodded. “He’s not a Londoner, is he?”

  “Nay, sir. ’A hails from Leicester.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Leicester, is it? And you think he’ll go there now?”

  “Most like. ’A’s not the sort to linger once ’a’s got what ’a wants.”

  “He’ll be leaving by way of Aldersgate, then. Perhaps we can head him off. Come.” He shifted Nick’s rapier, which he had somehow retained through our ducking in the river, and strode off. I had been in the process of unstrapping the protective plate. I yanked it off and hurried after.

  Though I was free of that discomfort, I had a suit of clammy clothing to hinder me. In addition, I was close to exhaustion from my struggle with the river. Still, I trotted along in silence, not wishing to do or say anything irksome; my position was precarious enough already. “I’m sorry to be missing me part in the play,” I said at length.

  “They’ll manage without you. This is more important.”

  “Does it matter so much an one company besides—besides yours puts on the play?” Besides ours, I was about to say, but I did not know whether or not they would still count me as part of the company after this.

  “Of course it matters. It’s wrong. No one has the right to the fruits of another’s labor.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Besides, there are other concerns. Suppose this—What did you call him?”

  “Falconer.”

  “Suppose this Falconer sells the play to a printer, who publishes it and has it registered. Then the Chamberlain’s Men lose all legal right to perform it ourselves.”

  “Oh. I didn’t ken.”

  “We generally delay publication as long as possible. Some companies care little for registrations or rights, and to print the play is the same as saying ‘Here it is, and welcome to it.’ Yet if we don’t publish it ourselves, someone will sell a pirated version. It’s a tricky and an unfair business.”

  “Aye, I see that now.” I felt more ashamed than ever of the part I’d played in the whole affair. I wanted to believe that we still might retrieve the play book, but knowing Falconer, I did not hold out much hope. Even if we did catch up with him, he was not likely to just apologize and hand it over.

  By the time we reached St. Paul’s and turned on to Aldersgate Street, I was sweating and trembling as if in the grip of the ague. But with the gate in sight, I managed to push myself yet a little farther. A ragged, legless beggar sat by the gate. Mr. Armin crouched and dropped a shilling into the man’s filthy hat. “We want to know if you’ve seen a certain man pass by here. Describe him, Widge.”

  “’A’s tall and swarthy, wi’ a black, unruly beard and a long scar on one cheek. ’A wears a dark cloak wi’ the hood drawn up, and will have a brown horse, most like.”

  The beggar squinted thoughtfully, then shook his shaggy head. “Not as I recall, and I’ve a good eye and a good memory.”

  “We’ll keep you company a bit, then,” Mr. Armin said.

  The beggar waved us away. “You’ll have to sit somewheres else. No one gives aught to a beggar with well-dressed friends.”

  We sat on the far side of the gate, in the shade of an overhanging tree. I was grateful for the chance to rest at last, but I did not rest for long. Before five minutes went by, the beggar tossed a pebble at us to draw our attention and jerked his head down the street.

  The beggar did indeed have a good eye. It was several moments before I saw the dark, cloaked figure leading a horse—the very figure I had been hoping, yet dreading, to see. I scrambled up, prepared to run. “It’s him!”

  Mr. Armin held out a hand to stay me. “Patience. Let’s not frighten him off.” He sat there, seemingly calm, until Falconer was nearly to the gate. Then he rose quickly to his feet and blocked Falconer’s path.

  Falconer did not appear in the least surprised or alarmed. “I thought we might meet again,” he said, in that deep, rough voice.

  “Really?” Mr. Armin replied. “I rather hoped we might not.”

  “Oh? I did not take you for a coward, sir.”

  “Nor am I, sir. It’s not that I fear you, simply that I don’t like you.”

  “You scarcely know me.”

  “That may or may not be. In any case, I have never liked thieves, and I suspect you are one.”

  Falconer dropped his horse’s rein and pulled his cloak aside to reveal the hilt of his rapier. “No man calls me a thief—not more than once, at any rate.”

  “I did not say you were a thief. I said I suspected it. If I am wrong, I’ll gladly tender an apology.” He stepped casually to Falconer’s horse and began to unlace the saddlebag.

  Falconer drew his rapier. “Take your hands off that or I’ll take them off for you—at the wrists.”

  Mr. Armin went on calmly unlacing the pouch. “I’ll just have a look, and that will be that.”

  “Look well, then, for it will be the last thing you see in this world!” Falconer lifted his blade and brought it down, not upon Mr. Armin’s head, as I feared, but upon the flank of the horse. The animal bolted. Just as suddenly, Mr. Armin’s rapier left his side and came to low ward before him.

  To my surprise, Falconer did not set upon him in the fierce and ruthless manner he had used to dispatch the band of outlaws. In truth, he seemed almost cautious. He tossed back the right edge of his cloak so it would not obstruct his sword arm, then grasped the other edge in his left hand and, with one deft movement, wrapped the hem of it twice around his forearm.

  Mr. Armin seemed cautious, too, recalling no doubt their previous encounter, in which he had been so easily outdone. I know that I was recalling it. Though Mr. Armin was unquestionably an excellent fencing master, when it came to a duel fought in deadly earnest, I feared that he was no match for Falconer.

  In such a situation, I had come to Julia’s aid, and even Nick’s, but this time there was nothing I could do, short of throwing myself upon Falconer’s sword. Or was there? What if I were to retrieve the play book? That was, after all, the reason behind the fight.

  I dashed through the gate and looked about. Falconer’s horse stood alongside the road a dozen yards off, grazing blithely, with no interest in his master’s quarrels. But the moment I approached and reached for the saddlebag, he shied away, making me miss my footing and nearly fall on my face.

  “Whist, now!” I called and moved in close again. Again he moved away. “The devil take you!” I muttered and approached once more. This time I got a firm purchase upon the saddle, and when the horse moved he pulled me with him.

  He lashed at me irritably with his tail, then seeing he could not dislodge me, broke into a trot, dragging me along. Clutching the saddle frame with one hand, I plunged the other into the saddlebag, yanked out the play book, then dropped off onto the hard ground.

  I limped hurriedly back to the gate, to find Mr. Armin and Falconer engaged in heated combat. “Stop!” I shouted above the clamor of blade upon blade. “Mr. Armin! I’ve got the book! Let’s go!”

  Mr. Armin stepped back and disengaged. “You go, Widge. I’ve unfini
shed business here.”

  “But there’s no need for it now! I’ve got the book!”

  Falconer pointed his sword at me. “Put it down, boy! I’ve enough of a score to settle with you as it is!”

  “One score at a time,” said Mr. Armin, and he closed in again.

  “Stop!” I cried, more desperately. “Please! It’s not worth it!” Neither man heeded me, if indeed they heard me above the din of their weapons.

  I could not begin to describe their movements or strategies, so rapidly did they follow one upon the other. Their blades struck and warded and struck again with such speed that the eye could scarcely see them. Had it not been for their frantic clashing, I might have imagined they were not solid metal at all, but something thin and insubstantial, like the elder sticks we fought with as boys. If only it could have been so. If only they could have fought, as we did, until one adversary’s weapon broke.

  But this was a grown man’s game, and the winner would not be the one whose weapon survived but the one who lived. And, I thought, clutching the play book to my chest, if that one proved to be Falconer, then what would become of me?

  27

  Mr. Armin had taught us in fencing class never to retreat from an opponent, for it is a defensive and not an offensive posture. He seemed to have forgotten his own advice. He was in almost constant retreat before Falconer’s attack. I wanted to shout encouragement and instructions to him, as he had so often done to us. But even had my tight throat been able to form the words, I feared distracting him, so I watched in anxious silence.

  Falconer grew more confident as the duel went on, pressing his advantage, driving Mr. Armin backward first one step, then another. Mr. Armin warded the blows easily enough but often failed to return them. Finally he found an opening and delivered an edge blow that would have sorely wounded Falconer except that he absorbed its force with the hem of his cloak.

  In the same instant, Falconer stepped forward and thrust at Mr. Armin’s unprotected chest. Mr. Armin spun aside, but not quickly enough. The point pierced his doublet and passed along his ribs, making him gasp in pain and stumble back. Falconer withdrew and thrust again, meaning to catch Mr. Armin unprepared.