The True Prince (30 page)

I gazed up at the stars, gathered close in the clear cold sky. The round opening of the Theater ceiling framed them like a picture: a little off-center swung Charlemagne's Wagon, circling the North Star. The constellation bent at an angle, reflecting Kit and me on the stage boards, our heads together like two stars in one sphere. “Few can wear crowns,” I said slowly, “but anyone can wear honor.”

“What is ‘honor'? Can it set a leg, or an arm, or take away the grief of a wound? No; 'tis just a word.”

Learned men claim the stars are indifferent to us. But gazing up at them, I fancied their vast hearts burning with a passion for honor. “Perhaps,” I said slowly, “it's no more than a determination to be true to the best that God has put in you. Whatever the cost.” Perhaps, in the confusion of parts he had played, Kit could no longer determine the best.

“I may have been wrong about your calling. You belong in a pulpit, not a stage.”

I sighed. “Better than in a prison, like Falstaff.”

“Spoken like a self-righteous prig. Falstaff makes no pretense, and in his company Hal can drop all his pretenses, too. It's a blessed relief.”

“But suppose he means Hal no good? Suppose he has designs?”

“He is not a ‘designer.' And his love is true.”

“It may be … so long as it suits him.” By now I knew we were speaking of Kit and Penny, not Hal and Falstaff. “Have you never had a friend turn against you?”

“I have never had a friend,” he replied simply.

The statement was bare truth, naked and shivering: in the track he laid out for himself to climb to the top of every heap, there was neither room nor time for friendship. But if he counted Penny as such, he was deceived. “Kit,” I said urgently, “I must speak plain—”

“You must go,” he said, rising from the floor.

“You know who killed the Welsh Boy, don't you?”

He was walking toward the trap, a black shadow against the red glow. “I'll light your way out.”

“It was Dark Tom! And he and Penny are partners—they set you up to be charged with murder!” He dropped below the stage and I followed. “Are you deaf? I speak naught but the truth!”

His only response was to pick up the coal carrier and lead me out through the passage, ignoring all protest. When we came to the outside hatch, he pushed it open and crouched to one side so I could pass. Our eyes met, in the sickly light of the coals. “Turn yourself in,” I entreated. “I'll testify for you— you'll be cleared.”

He jerked his head toward the opening. I climbed through it with an angry snort, then turned around. “The net is closing.

We know who wrote the Putrid Play and likely more than that. He's not so clever as he thinks.”

Kit stood up and lifted the hatch to close it. “Perhaps you're not so clever as
you
think.” Then he stepped down, and the door banged shut over his head.

A FINE ITALIAN HAND

went directly to the Mermaid Tavern, to avoid any hard thought. This was a mistake, for the next morning my head felt so stuffed that even simple thoughts could barely get through it. Most of the Company were in the same state, but by noon our brains had cleared enough to present a brilliant Part Two to a full house. For me the only snag occurred when I was getting laced up for Lady Percy and my gown ripped down the side.

Muttering about cheap thread, the dresser scanned the wardrobe racks and pulled out a rose-colored silk. “This 'un seems whole. Skin off that garment and I'll see what I can mend before Master Stewart gets a look.” He exchanged gowns with me and helped me pull on the rose silk. Stifling a yawn, I adjusted my sleeve and felt a crackle in the cuff.

A piece of paper was hidden there. Pulling it out, I recognized the revised lines for Silvia that I had stuffed there on Monday, when we performed the Putrid Play. I nearly tossed it, but the writing looked familiar.

Once the dresser had grumbled his way down the stairs with the torn gown, I fumbled through my street clothes and found Kit's handwritten ballad. My eyes went at once to the line where Marian cries, “The scorpion whips of cruelty have stolen my child!” On the other paper, Silvia described Adrian's face as “o'er-raked with the scorpion whips of cruelty.” Though the latter was written in haste, the slanted Italian style and peculiar flourishes appeared also on the ballad. The same hand, and the same bad poet, had written both.

When I met Bartlemy in St. Paul's the next morning, the first thing I said was, “If I could prove that Philip Tewkesbury wrote the ballads, would you let up on Kit?”

His eyes kindled, but his voice held steady as he replied, “Perhaps. What have you got?”

I showed him the papers and told briefly where they came from, and the look on his face was my reward. His customary expression is foxy and knowing, but as I talked, his mouth softened and his eyes sparkled like a child's when presented with some new toy. At the end, he so forgot himself as to take my head between his hands and kiss me resoundingly on the forehead.

“Leave off!” I cried, outraged. “I'm not your pet.”

“Better than that,” he said, smiling. “You are my fortune.”

We stood in the south transept of the old cathedral, much like any two Londoners coming to an agreement. Since our Queen began her reign forty years ago, St. Paul's has been turned into a meeting place for every sort of business except religious—employers find help, smugglers find acceptors, lovers find each other. And Bartlemy had found priceless information, though not quite all that I had to give. I told him of Kit's hiding place, but not of Kit, nor of the ring I found in his possession. “By itself,” Bartlemy said, “the fact that the same words appear in the play and the ballad proves nothing. Authors steal words from each other all the time. But the fact that both come from the same hand—oh, this is good.”

“Is it good enough to leave Kit alone?”

“Pray, sit down.” A row of benches furnished that part of the building, left over from its days as a house of worship. Bartlemy motioned me to a spot on the nearest bench and seated himself about two feet away, facing in the opposite direction. His head was down as he studied the lines of the ballad again. Anyone looking our way might remember me; never him. Just loud enough he murmured, “There's a great rivalry going on in court between my Lords Burghley and Essex. Raleigh, too—if he were choosing sides, he would choose Burghley, but he prefers to go his own way. The Brookes are of the Burghley faction.”

“I know this,” I said. “Everybody does.”

“Hear me out: Essex attracts the young bloods at court, Tewkesbury among 'em. They all long for fame and glory, and they're right put out that Her Majesty has not been obliging enough to start any wars for that purpose. But there's a rebellion on the boil in Ireland, and Essex is begging her to send him there. If she does, he will take his favorites along with him as officers.” He paused again, then said, “Young Tewkesbury is mad to go. What better way to prove his worth than by lining up the enemies of his hero, one by one, and humiliating them through these robberies—in a way that everyone suspects but none can prove?”

I turned this over in my mind. “Is this the theory you were working on? That these crimes were mainly a ploy to attract the attention of Essex and advance the fortunes of—”

“Of one young fool of high birth and not enough money. Tewkesbury fit that description best, to my mind. We suspected someone at court all along, because whoever was planning the robberies had an intimate knowledge of where each target was likely to be at a given time. But my master has been reluctant to pull any gentleman aside, at least without evidence. And we've found precious little of that. Until now.” He looked at me so fondly I feared he might kiss me again.

“So you can arrest Tewkesbury and bring the business to an end.”

“Not yet.”

“But you have proof!”

“A question: you found this copy of the ballad on Thursday night. Why did you wait until Friday night to get word to me?”

“Because— It's no light matter, to inform on a fellow player.”

“Could it also be because you met and talked with the player?”

Lord, he was sharp. I looked away, but could not lie.

“Even though you knew,” Bartlemy persisted, “that you were giving him a chance to pack up and find another hiding place.” After a moment, I nodded. “Why are you protecting him?”

The only answer was that Kit had somehow entrusted himself to me, for reasons I did not understand and certainly could not explain. “I'm not. I mean—I begged him to give himself up, but that's a decision he must make.”

“To comply with the law? Is that a ‘decision,' or a duty?”

“Isn't it plain he's not a criminal?” My voice broke on the last word.

“He is plainly an accomplice.”

“But he didn't pose as Marian for them, even though they brought great pressure to bear. Isn't that worth something?”

“Then why doesn't he turn himself in? If his hands are so clean, why does he fear the law?”

“Well
perhaps
,” said I, with a sarcastic curl on that word, “he knows that the law will come down harder on him than it will on the gentle Philip Tewkesbury. I handed you the proof
you need to charge the real culprit. But wait—Essex may be offended. Isn't that what most concerns you and your master?”

To judge by his face, I had hit a sore spot. “What concerns me and my master does
not
concern you. But you should understand that we're not done. Steel yourself, I pray—you may have to bear a little more of my loathsome company.” He flung his knitted scarf around his neck, rose, and marched away so stiffly I might have thought I had hurt his feelings— if he had any feelings to hurt.

Starling, once she had heard all, believed I should surrender my knowledge of the ring I had found under Kit's mattress: “Holding stolen property is a
crime.
” Indeed, I said, the clearest proof of Kit's guilt yet. And exactly why I could not report it: because Kit was not a criminal. “Then what do you call one who commits crimes?” she demanded. This point was hard to counter directly, so we circled the theme more than once, our conversation ending when she threw up her hands in disgust.

“This is wrong!”

“Perhaps—but pray keep it to yourself,” I charged her.

“Don't fear me for that—but it's for your sake, not his. What do you intend to do?”

“What
can
I do? Only wait. If Kit has a change of heart, he knows where I am.”

She sniffed. “Little hope for that, I think.”