The Shakespeare Stealer Read online

  “No. It’s the bearbaiting.”

  I’d heard tell of bearbaitings but never witnessed one. Folk said it was a sport in which a bear, with its teeth broken off deliberately, was chained to a post and set upon by a pack of dogs. It did not sound very sporting to me.

  A building that resembled an overgrown saltcellar lay ahead of us. I thought it circular at first, but it proved to be eight-sided, a good thirty feet in height, and three times that in breadth. I wondered that the ground here could support such a large structure. It was soft, swampy land, drained by half a dozen deep ditches, which we crossed on wooden footbridges.

  The well-dressed patrons paid their admission to money gatherers, and mounted steps leading to upper galleries. The less elegant crowded through the main entrance and into a kind of courtyard. Above the entrance was a carving depicting Atlas with a globe of the world atop his shoulders—hence the theatre’s name, the Globe. Under his feet was the legend Totus mundus agit histrionem.

  I translated haltingly. “The whole world…practices theatrics?”

  Falconer shook his head at my ignorance. “All the world’s a stage. A line from As You Like It.”

  “Oh,” I said. “The play will not be in Latin, I trust?”

  “No.” Falconer made no move to approach the entrance but stood on the very fringes of the crowd, looking thoughtful. Finally he dug a penny from his purse and handed it to me. “Go on in.”

  “By meself?”

  “Yes, yes, by yourself.” He grasped my wrist and thrust the penny into my palm.

  “But what an they—what an they catch me?”

  “Whist!” Falconer held up a cautioning hand. “Softly!” In a low voice, he went on. “Just be certain they don’t. And be certain you put down every word. Understood?”

  “Aye,” I said, forgetting in my anxiety the correct response.

  “Go on, then!”

  I felt in my wallet for the pad and pencil, then slipped into the stream of people which bore me, like a stick on the flood, through the entrance. 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. God help us, I thought, should the playhouse catch fire or collapse. We would all be trapped as surely as coneys in a snare.

  The Globe’s stage was a raised platform some ten yards across and equally as deep. Its boards were strewn with rushes. On the back wall were two curtained doorways, with a larger curtained space between them. Above these was a small balcony backed by a curtain and, above that, a thatched roof which covered the rear half of the stage.

  A vendor with a basket of fruit and another selling leather bottles of beer wove through the crowd. 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. Nor did it leave off when two men in leather jerkins and helmets strode onto the stage.

  At first, I thought they had been sent out to calm the crowd—or was it to apprehend would-be play pirates? I thrust my table-book and pencil into my wallet. As the chatter at last abated, the two men’s words became audible, and I realized they were the players.

  “Have you had a quiet guard?” one said, at the top of his voice.

  “Not a mouse stirring,” said the other, fairly shouting.

  “Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, the rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.”

  I fumbled frantically with the paper and pencil. Falconer had warned me to get down every word. Two more men entered, and I began to transcribe:

  It was obvious at once that this would be no leisurely task, as copying those sermons back in Yorkshire had been. 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. And in fact, they often did.

  My most pressing problem, however, was not the pellmell flow of words, but how to identify each speaker on the page. All I could think of was to assign each a number, but that soon led to further confusion, as I forgot what number I’d given to which man. When half a dozen new players trooped out upon the stage, my heart sank into my shoes.

  Gradually I learned the names of the major characters and labeled their lines accordingly. But then a new complication presented itself. I was caught up in the action of the play. I began to think of these people not as players mouthing speeches but as actual persons, living out a part of their lives before me.

  Simon Bass had informed me that, because many considered the world of the theatre immoral, women were forbidden by law to act upon the stage. 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. So drawn in was I by the events on the stage that it seemed less important to me to copy down the lines than to find out what these people would say or do next.

  When the ghost of Hamlet’s father appeared upon the balcony and beckoned him, I gasped and shuddered but kept on writing. When Hamlet thrust his sword through the draperies, slaying Polonius, who was concealed there, I was lost. I no longer noticed the press of the crowd, nor its unwashed smell for I was no longer there among them, but in a castle in Denmark.

  My petty mission no longer seemed to matter. All that mattered was whether or not Hamlet would take action to avenge his father. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to stop delaying and debating, to go ahead and do what must be done. And yet I understood why he did not. I knew how it was to be swept along on the tide of events, and to feel you had no control over any of it, not even your own fate.

  Every now and again, there was a passage of much talk and little action, and then I came to myself and began copying feverishly. But eventually I was drawn into the world of the play again, forgetting the world about me and the world outside, where Falconer waited.

  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. I did get down every syllable of the final few speeches, but that was small comfort.

  I had gone into the theatre fearful of being discovered and punished for writing down the play. I left with a dread of being punished for not having written it down. I need not have worried about the former; no one in the audience or on the stage had paid the least attention to my jottings.

  Falconer, I knew, would not be so easy to fool. I hung back, trying to buy a little time in which to think. I could simply lie to Falconer, assure him that I’d transcribed the entire performance. Lying was one skill I’d acquired at the orphanage and polished during my apprenticeship to Dr. Bright. And of course there was no way Falconer could determine from looking at my scribbles whether or not I spoke the truth.

  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. To patch them in with a matching fabric would require an ability far greater than mine.

  What to do, then? I would have to come up with some reasonable explanation very soon, for the theatre was rapidly emptying out. In a matter of minutes, I would be left standing in the arena all alone, like that toothless bear waiting to be savaged by the dogs.

  8

  The only thing I could think of to do was to admit that I’d overlooked a few lines, but lie about just how many, and hope that I’d be allowed a second chance. When I emerged on the tag end of the crowd, Falconer stood where I had left him, a dozen yards from the playhouse, his face turned toward the river, as though watching the slow progress of the coal barges. 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. The
n Falconer turned and saw me, and it was too late. Gloomily, I approached him.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I got down most of it.”

  “Most of it?”

  “Aye. Yes. The greater part. Nearly all, in fact. Save for a few wee bits here and there.”

  He smacked his fist into his palm so violently that I shrank back. “Why not all of it?”

  “I—I couldn’t hear well from where I stood. It was a very noisy crowd.”

  Falconer cursed under his breath. “How much is missing, exactly?”

  “I don’t ken, exactly.”

  “Twenty lines? Fifty? A hundred?”

  I tried to choose a figure that would not sound too drastic yet would necessitate my coming back to fill in the gaps. “Not a hundred,” I ventured. “Closer to fifty, I wis.”

  “You wis.” He sighed heavily and stood watching the barges a moment. “When is the next performance of this play?”

  “Friday, I wi—I think.”

  “Friday.” Abruptly he turned to glare at me. “You’d best clean out your ears before then. Understood?”

  “Aye. Yes. I will.”

  He stalked off, and I hastened after. As we neared the first of the footbridges, a man appeared from the rear of the playhouse and stepped onto the bridge. Falconer brushed past him so brusquely that he knocked the man off balance. The man stumbled sideways, tripped on the edge of the bridge, and splashed into the drainage ditch. He sprang up dripping wet, strode after Falconer, and snatched the back of Falconer’s cloak, pulling the hood away from his head.

  Falconer whirled about, his rapier already sweeping free of its hanger. The other man halted. His hand, too, went to his weapon. But before he could fully draw it, Falconer’s sword point leaped forward. The move was so swift I am not certain I saw it clearly, but I believe he thrust his point through the guard of the other’s weapon, then jerked upward. The man’s rapier took flight and came to earth in the water of the ditch. With equal quickness, Falconer pulled the hood of his cloak forward again.

  “Well,” said the disarmed man, with surprising calm. “You have the advantage of me.” Now that I heard his voice, I knew who he was—the first gravedigger in the play. Small wonder I did not recognize him at first; his appearance and speech were radically changed. Within the world of the play, he had been a shabby, half-drunk clown. Outside the playhouse walls, he cut quite a different figure. 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.

  Falconer was putting away his sword. The player held up a hand to stay him. “Will you not allow me to salvage my weapon, sir, and with it my honor?”

  Without replying, Falconer thrust his rapier into its hanger and turned away.

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

  I guessed that Falconer would not be able to resist a bit of wordplay, and I was right. “You know my arms. You need not know my name.” It took me a moment to grasp the pun—if you recognized a man’s coat of arms, then you knew his family name—but the player laughed appreciatively at once.

  “It does seem to me that there is something familiar about you. Have we met before?”

  “In another life, perhaps.” Falconer strode away. The player gazed after him thoughtfully. I hastened after Falconer, not wishing to be left behind, but the player took hold of the sleeve of my tunic.

  “What is your master’s name?”

  “Me master? Why, Dr. Bright,” I said, perhaps out of old habit, perhaps as a deliberate lie—I was not sure which.

  “That is Dr. Bright?” the player said incredulously, nodding after Falconer’s departing figure.

  “That is not me master. I don’t ken that wight, and I’m as glad of it.”

  The man laughed. “He is an unmannerly lout, isn’t he?” He let go of my sleeve. “You’re merely a playgoer, then? Tell me, how did you like the play, a country lad like yourself?”

  “Oh, very much,” I said earnestly, trying not to seem anxious as Falconer faded from me.

  “Did you indeed?” He stroked his short beard with a trace of amusement. “And what parts did you fancy most?”

  “The fencing bout,” I said instantly. “It looked so real!”

  The man laughed. “Excellent!” He waded into the ditch and fished out his rapier. “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.”

  “You are?” I was torn between catching up with Falconer and hearing more about the play.

  “Aye.” He climbed from the ditch and wiped his weapon in the grass.

  I frowned. “You mock me speech.”

  “Not at all,” he assured me. “I fell into it out of old habit. I’m a country wight meself, born and bred in Yorkshire. Judging from your speech, your master must be a South County man.”

  “Aye.”

  “But surely he’s not the same Dr. Bright who authored the Treatise on Melancholy?”

  “Aye. You don’t mean you ken his work?”

  “Oh, we do indeed ken it. In fact you might tell him that our Mr. Shakespeare has found his book invaluable. As you may have noticed, Hamlet is a very master of melancholy.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll be off now, or my colleagues will be several beers ahead of me, and I’ll have trouble catching up.” Laughing, he shook his head and licked his lips. “Performing works up a thirst like nothing else—save dueling, perhaps. Adieu, my young friend. Come see us again.”

  Unused to such civility, I let him get a dozen paces down the road before I thought to reply. “Aye!” I called. “Thank you! I’ll surely do that!”

  After all, I thought, what choice did I have?

  I found my way back to the bank of the Thames, but Falconer was nowhere in sight. Since I had no penny for passage—and did not care to risk my life in another boat, in any case—I would have to find another way of crossing the river. The only bridge was a formidable one of wood and stone several hundred yards downstream. In truth, it seemed less like a bridge than like a crowded city street, so heavily laden with shops that I feared the whole affair might collapse under the rumbling wheels of the carts and the pounding hooves of the horses.

  Once safely on the north bank, I asked a cheerful fish-wife the way to The George, where I found Falconer eating his supper—fish, again.

  “So, you finally found your way,” he said.

  “The player—’a held me back.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Naught. Just as you said I should.”

  He stared at me a long moment with his shadowed eyes, as if trying to see into my soul. Then he devoured the last of his meal and rose. “I don’t like liars,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “I hope you are not one.”

  I shook my head emphatically, too intimidated to speak. I don’t believe he noticed, for he was already on his way upstairs.

  9

  I saw little of Falconer over the next two days. Around midday on Friday, he came to the stable where, to pass the time, I was helping the stableboy curry horses. He neither spoke nor beckoned to me, only stepped back out into the courtyard, knowing I would follow.

  He was even less talkative than usual, but finally, as we walked down a deserted alley, he said, “Be sure you complete your work today. We’ve lost our lodgings.”

  “Lost them?”

  “I killed one of the other lodgers. In a duel.”

  It was several minutes before I recovered from this news enough to ask, “What—what was it about, then? The duel?”

  I was certain he would reprimand me for talking too much. But he did not. Instead he replied, “The man called me a filthy Jew.”

  Something possessed me to ask, “Are you?”

  “Filthy? Or a Jew?” He sounded almost amused.

  “A Jew.”


  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “There are no Jews in England. Only former Jews.”

  The sky scowled down upon us, threatening rain as we boated over to Southwark and joined the throng of bear-baiters and playgoers. At the Globe, Falconer drew me aside. “We must find a better vantage point for you, one where you will hear every word.”

  “The galleries?” I suggested.

  “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.” He led me to the rear of the playhouse, to the players’ entrance. The door stood ajar, and through the crack, I could just make out lines being spoken on the stage.

  “This is no better,” I whispered.

  “Not here. Up there.” He pointed to the stairs beside us. “Through that door. Conceal yourself behind the curtains at the rear of the small balcony.”

  I gaped upward. “Up there? But—”

  His hand closed painfully around my upper arm. “And mark me! No excuses this time. I want every word set down. Understood?”

  Wincing, I nodded. His grip relaxed, and he pushed me roughly toward the stairs. “Go on, then.”

  I reluctantly mounted the stairs, wondering how it was that Falconer knew this playhouse so intimately. I cracked the door, listened a moment, then peered in. The interior was dim and deserted. Apparently the ghost had already done his turn on the balcony and departed. I slipped through the entrance and pulled the door carefully closed. From that spot, I could hear clearly every word spoken by Hamlet, for his voice carried well. But the speeches of the less forceful players were still lost.

  I tiptoed to the draperies that hung at the rear of the balcony. When I pulled back the edge of the drape slightly, I could hear well enough; I could also see the front half of the stage. Hamlet stood there, conversing with the ghost of his father. The ghost’s hollow, haunting voice—a voice not unlike Falconer’s—sent a shiver up my spine.