The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood Page B

“Hmm. That is a nasty bump you’ve suffered, though. Come. No use getting drenched into the bargain.” Keeping a firm hold on my arm, he led me inside.
    I considered breaking free and making a run for it. He was, after all, an old man, and I, though slow to sprout, was fleet of foot. But he was also a brawny man, and his grip was as inescapable as Falconer’s. My brain, which had always been as fleet as my feet, began to race instead, looking for a way out. What was it the man had said—that I belonged on the stage rather than behind it? Perhaps my salvation lay that way.
    The old player ushered me through the cluttered area behind the stage and into a large, windowed room where most of the company stood or sat about in various stages of undress. Several were grimy with soot from the fire, and one man had a large part of his beard singed away. All were rain soaked. Yet they did not appear miserable in the least; instead, they were laughing and joking, as though they had just played a game of bowls and not fought a potentially disastrous fire.
    The cannoneer, who was cleaning mud from his costume, was the first to notice our entrance. “So!” he called, over the uproar. “You’ve caught the dirty dastard, Mr. Pope!”
    My captor set me down on a stool. “Yes, he made the classic mistake of all criminals; he returned to the scene of the crime.”
    I tried to rise, but he pushed me down. “I’m no criminal!” I protested, wondering if someone had come across my lost table-book.
    A tall, kindly looking man who had been Polonius in the play said, “Of c-course you’re not.” I did not recall him stuttering on stage, but he did so now. He bent and looked closely at my bruised forehead. “Wh-what did you hit him with, T-Thomas? Your sh-shovel?”
    My captor, whose name, I gathered, was Thomas Pope, looked hurt. “I am not a violent man. The fact is, I opened a door into his head.”
    â€œA d-door into his head, eh? I hope his b-brains didn’t spill out.”
    â€œI’ll spill his brains,” the cannoneer threatened. “This is the hoddypeak who caused me to miss my aim, Mr. Heminges, and shoot that wad into the thatch.”
    â€œI hardly think he is to b-blame for that,” Mr. Heminges said. “However, it is t-true that you disrupted our performance. Would you c-care to explain why?”
    Though the throbbing in my head had subsided, I went on holding it and grimacing pitifully but bravely, to play on their sympathies. “I meant no harm. I only wished to see the play.”
    â€œThe usual method,” Mr. Pope said, “is to pay your penny and stand in front of the stage.”
    â€œI ken that. But I ha’ no penny.”
    Mr. Pope clucked his tongue incredulously. “What sort of master would refuse his prentice a penny to see a play?”
    â€œWell, the truth is…I ha’ no master.”
    â€œYou’ve c-come to London on your own?” said Mr. Heminges.
    â€œAye.”
    â€œFor what purpose?”
    It was time to bring into play the strategy that had been forming in my mind. But not too quickly. “You’ll laugh at me.”
    â€œNot I,” Mr. Heminges assured me.
    Hesitantly, I said, “I want…I want to be a player.”
    True to his word, Mr. Heminges did not laugh—but several of the others did, and he gave them an exasperated glance. “You t-truly believe you would want to t-turn Turk and become like these disreputable wights?”
    â€œAye, by these bones, I would,” I lied earnestly. In truth, aside from wanting to escape a beating, or wanting a meal, I had scarcely ever given any thought to what I wanted. No one had ever asked.
    â€œAhh, he’s as full of lies as an egg is of meat,” Jack, the cannoneer, said.
    â€œI believe him,” a voice beside me said. It was the first gravedigger, the man who had crossed swords so