CHAPTER V
Ned perused the printed sheet, chewing at his moustache. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the apprentice, Jack, who had brought him the piece. The lad looked fit to wet himself with fear.
“Well,” he said at last. “It’s better than your last attempt.”
“Yes, sir. T-t-thank you, sir.”
“But see here.” Ned laid the sheet down on the table. “The spacing on the first word is all wrong. You want a number three ‘A’ on a word like that, then the ‘W’ will fit all snug against it. You have to take extra care with the capitals, or it looks a right old mess.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.”
Ned handed him the sheet. “Do it again. And start with an empty frame this time. You’re going to have to reset nearly every line anyway, once you’ve got that first one right.”
Jack scurried away, the offending sheet clutched in his hand. Ned sighed. He had no idea what the other apprentices had been telling the boy – some gruesome but all-too-believable story about how their master had come to lose his hand, perhaps – but he appeared terrified of Ned. Perhaps Jack’s father beat him too often, or without reason. That sort of thing could make a boy fearful, if it did not make him a bully in his turn.
The doorbell jingled, and he looked around. A man in a sergeant’s steel gorget and kettle helm stood in the doorway.
“Good morning, officer,” Ned said, as calmly as he could manage. “What can I do for you?”
“Edmund Faulkner?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant stepped further into the shop, making way for half a dozen of his men. So many. What did they think he had done?
“You four.” The sergeant gestured to his men. “Take the back room. Round up everyone you can find. Journeymen, apprentices, the lot. Bradley, Moxon, start gathering up the evidence.”
“Evidence?” Ned stepped between the soldiers and the door to the workshop. “Evidence of what?”
The sergeant glared at him. “Sedition. Treason. The usual stuff.”
“But…”
“Out of my way, little man.” The soldier pushed him aside.
Ned swung his right arm wildly, catching the man on the jawline with his brass-and-steel fist. The soldier swayed back a little then recovered his balance.
“You little–”
He aimed a punch for Ned’s temple, but Ned was gone, ducking away and heading for the door. Something hit him from behind, and the next thing he knew, he was lying face down on the floor with one of the soldiers on top of him.
“I’m flattered, mate,” he groaned, “but perhaps another time?”
The soldier grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the splintery planks. Ned hissed in pain, forcing himself to lie still.
“Right, get him up,” the sergeant barked. “I want this place cleared and locked up within the hour.”
Rough hands hauled Ned to his feet. The rest of the printers were gathered by the display shelves. One of the guardsmen had a split lip and another a swollen eye; gifts no doubt from Peter, the bull-like journeyman who wound the presses and had biceps as thick as Ned’s thighs. Peter himself stood quiet and sullen, and Ned noticed that one of the soldiers had a hand on young Jack’s shoulder.
“Is this all of them?” the sergeant asked Ned.
“I…” He scanned the pale faces. “No. John Harris isn’t here.”
“Where does he dwell?”
Ned gave him directions.
“We’ll worry about him later.” The sergeant favoured Ned with an unpleasant smile. “You might want to take a purse with you, unless you fancy braving the Common Side.”
“You’re taking us to the Marshalsea?”
Several of the printers swore, and one cried out, “We ain’t done nothing!”
The sergeant ignored them. Ned went into the back office with a sinking heart, unlocked the strongbox and took out a bag of coins. The weight of metal felt good in his hand, like a weapon, but it would be a temporary defence at best. Even a short stay in the Marshalsea Prison could ruin a man, and a longer one was guaranteed to kill him.
Gabriel pushed his way through the crowd of players milling around the tiring house. As the principal actor in this new production he had his own dressing table at the back of the room, where the wooden-barred windows gave the best light for applying makeup. His costume hung on pegs nearby, covered in linen sheets to protect it from dust and grease. Gabriel lifted the plain fabric to reveal the magnificence beneath: a doublet and hose in cloth-of-gold, embroidered all over with fake pearls, and a scarlet cloak lined with white fur. They must have cost almost as much as the theatre itself, but a London audience expected a king to look like a king, especially when the players’ patron was himself a prince.
“About time, Parrish!” A hand clapped Gabriel on the shoulder, and he turned to see Will Shakespeare grinning at him. “You know, I’m happy to take the role if you don’t think you’re up to it. I do have every line by heart, you know.”
“I would hope so, since you wrote it,” Gabriel replied. He looked around the tiring house in irritation. “Where’s that wretched boy got to? I’ll never be ready at this rate.”
“Here, Master Parrish.” Noll, Gabriel’s former apprentice, scurried over. He’d had to give up acting when his voice broke, but Gabriel had found him work as a tireman with the Prince’s Men.
Gabriel started unbuttoning his doublet.
“No,” he told the boy, “don’t uncover them yet. Wait until the last minute. In fact, leave the cloak until I’m about to go on stage.”
He shrugged out of the doublet and handed it to Noll, then kicked off his shoes and unfastened his breeches. He was about to drop them when he heard raised voices out in the auditorium. He paused, a sudden chill running over his skin despite the muggy warmth of the tiring house. The other actors crowded back towards him as a group of armed men appeared at the stage door. Shakespeare stepped forward.
“Is something wrong, officers? I was assured that this play had been cleared by the Office of the Revels.”
The leading guardsman glared at him. “Who are you?”
“William Shakespeare, poet and actor, at your service.” He swept a bow.
“I don’t know nothing about no Shakespeare,” the guardsman said. “I’m here for a fellow by the name of Gabriel Parrish.”
Gabriel froze. There was no way out except into the auditorium and through the main gates; unlike the Mirror, this older theatre had no back entrance.
“Come back at three,” Shakespeare said. “The play will be over and you can do what you will with him.”
“My orders was to take him now–”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Shakespeare said in his most reasonable tones. “Gentlemen, there will soon be more than a thousand people out there on those benches and in the yard, all watching my good friend Master Parrish like hawks.”
“How do we know he won’t try and give us the slip?”
“You can post your men at the doors, if you like, but I assure you, he won’t be leaving. Will you, Parrish?”
Gabriel shook his head, not trusting his voice not to crack. How could he go through with the performance, knowing he would be arrested at the end of it?
“Even better than that,” Shakespeare said, draping an arm around the sergeant’s shoulders, “I’ll have a stool set up for you on the edge of the stage, just like the noble lords have. The king is in nearly every scene, and you’ll be within arm’s reach of him at all times. You cannot say fairer than that, eh?”
The sergeant squinted at the playwright. “What’s the play?”
“The History of King Richard the Second,” Shakespeare said. “Newly written and never before performed in a public theatre.”
“Are there battles, and bloody murder?”
“Oh yes,” Shakespeare said. “Rebellion and regicide too.”
He drew the sergeant aside, and winked at Gabriel as he turned away. Gabriel swallowed hard, and turned back to Noll.
“You heard Master Shakespeare. Come, transform me into a king.”
A king who would be thrown into prison by the end of the play. Fate had a twisted sense of humour.