The Shakespeare Stealer: Chapters 7-12

As we disembarked on the south bank, I said, "Thank you."

The people were of all positions and persuasions, from court ladies with coiffures that rivaled their skirts in volume to rank-smelling tanners' prentices.

A gatherer took my penny and I shuffled on, jostled from this side and that, until I bumped up against an unmoving mass of spectators.

The roar of voices and the smell of closely packed bodies were overpowering and unremitting.

Even after a trumpeter appeared on a tiny balcony at the peak of the playhouse and blew a fanfare, the babble scarcely diminished.

As the chatter at last abated, the two men's words became audible, and I realized they were the players.

The players attacked their lines as though afraid that, if they did not keep their words in close order, the audience might throw comments of their own into the breach.

My most pressing problem, however, was not the pell-mell flow of words, but how to identify each speaker on the page.

All women's roles were played by men and boys. That fact did not occur to me now. I was totally convinced that the Queen and Ophelia were what they seemed to be. In fact, Ophelia was quite fetching.

From the onset of the fencing match between Hamlet and Laertes until Hamlet's death, I believe I did not commit to paper more than ten lines.

But eventually I was going to have to translate the play into ordinary script, and then the gaps would be as ostentatious as the slashes in the clothing of those young dandies I'd seen.

I considered bolting, losing myself in the crowd and thence in the streets of the city. But something made me hesitate. Perhaps it was the reward promised me by Simon Bass, perhaps it was the thought of having to fend for myself in this unfamiliar territory, perhaps it was both.

He was well built, well dressed, and well mannered, with nothing foolish or humble about him, despite the fact that he had just fallen into a ditch and been relieved of his weapon.

"May I at least know your name, then? One does not often meet a man with so disarming a manner."

"That is Dr. Bright?" the player said incredulously, nodding after Falconer's departing figure.

"He is an unmannerly lout, isn't he?"

"I am the company's fencing master, you see." He looked ruefully at the muddy sword. "Though you would hardly guess it from that display just now."

The only bridge was a formidable one of wood and stone several hundred yards downstream.

I was certain he would reprimand me for talking too much.

"Among those overdressed fops and their painted doxys? You might as well go right up on stage. No, I've a better spot for you. Come."

I clenched my teeth resolutely, determined not to be caught up in the play again, and set to work transcribing all that had slipped by me before.

I believe I still lost a line or two during the riveting fencing match, but no one would miss them.

Glaring at me, he rushed to the cannon, knocking it askew in his haste, and thrust the touchwood against the fuse.

I gave the drapery a prodigious yank and was free.

The elegant ladies from the gallery scurried fearfully down the steps, hoisting their vast skirts above their ankles in an unseemly way.

The timing of the deluge had been so perfect, I could almost believe it was some grand theatrical effect produced by the company for our amazement.

"You t-truly believe you would want to t-turn Turk and become like these disreputable wights?"

"Aye, 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.

"This is a democratic c-company. Let us p-put the matter to a vote. All who favor t-taking on—What is your name, my young friend?"
With no time to concoct a lie, I said, "Widge."

As we passed behind the stage, I glanced furtively about for the incriminating table-book.

"Learn the lines, you mean? Oh, you get a little sheaf of paper we call a side, with just your part on it. You'll see."

"Of course. The book keeper keeps it under lock and key. People filch them sometimes, you know. Do their own version. It hurts our box, then."

"That is not to say that I condone prentices running off willy-nilly from their masters. You will all be prentices one day, and I expect each of you to work hard at learning your trade—just as I expect Widge, here, to work hard at becoming a player."

The bed I shared with Sander was the softest I had known, and Sander neither tossed nor snored unduly.

Yet I slept fitfully.

The man named Will gave a grudging smile.

But just then Sander turned and beckoned to me with such a cheerful and friendly countenance that I swallowed my misgivings and followed him inside the lesson room.

I had never had anything to do with weapons, beyond the mock skirmishes with elder sticks at the orphanage.

I could sense that the others were secretly laughing at my bumbling efforts, and I longed to throw the stick aside—preferably at them—and show them my skill with a pen.

"I don't need any help," I said sullenly.

He was just testing your mettle.

When Mr. Armin finally tired of trying to make us into some semblance of "scrimers"—his word for swordsmen—he passed us on to Mr. Phillips, who worked on our diction—mostly mine—and something called projection, which meant, as nearly as I could tell, shouting more loudly than the audience.

As the book keeper was ill, Sander was given the task of holding the play book and throwing out lines to players who were floundering.

In my ignorance, I did more to hinder than to help, yet none complained—except Nick.

"I'll see to you later, Horse," he growled, and swept out. His voice was so much at odds with his feminine appearance that I could not help snickering.