The Shakespeare Stealer: Chapters 1-6

The name I carried with me throughout my youth was attached to me, more or less accidentally, by Mistress MacGregor of the orphanage. I was placed in her care by some neighbor.

When she saw how small and frail I was, she exclaimed "Och, the poor little pigwidgeon!" From that unfortunate expression came the appellation of Widge, which stuck to me for years, like pitch. It might have been worse, of course. They might have called me Pig.

Of my life at the orphanage, I have made it a habit to recall as little as possible. The long and short of it is, it was an institution, and institutions are governed by expediency.

The rector from the nearby hamlet of Berwick came looking for an apprentice and, thanks to Mistress MacGregor's praise, settled on me.

But they gave me a comfortable place to sleep at one end of the apothecary, the room where the doctor prepared his medicines and infusions.

It was, to use his own words, "an art of short, swift, and secret writing, by the which one may transcribe the spoken word as rapidly as it issues from the tongue."

Because he had once written a book, a dry treatise on melancholy, he felt the world should ever after make special allowances for him.

Eventually our sermon stealing was discovered. The wily old rector at Leeds noticed my feverish scribbling, and a small scandal ensued.

In a new country such as Guiana, I imagined, or a city the size of London, there would be opportunities for a lad with a bit of wherewithal to make something of himself, something more than an orphan and a drudge.

In a new country such as Guiana, I imagined, or a city the size of London, there would be opportunities for a lad with a bit of wherewithal to make something of himself, something more than an orphan and a drudge.

He might have been taken for one of the shadows, or for some spectral figure—Death, or the devil—come to claim one of us. He was well over average height; a long, dark cloak of coarse fabric masked all his clothing save his high-heeled leather boots. He kept the hood of the cloak pulled forward, and it cast his face in shadow.

A bulge under the left side of his cloak hinted at some concealed object—a rapier, I guessed.

"Of course it works," Dr. Bright replied indignantly.

The hooded countenance turned on me.

All I owned was the small dagger I used for eating; a linen tunic and woollen stockings I wore only on the Sabbath; a worn leather wallet containing money received each year on the anniversary of my birth—or as near it as could be determined; and an ill-fitting sheepskin doublet handed down from Dr. Bright's son.

They lived in houses ten times larger and grander than Mr. Cheyney's and consorted with ladies of elegance and beauty.

Those trees, I had heard, concealed every unsavory brigand and every ravenous beast of prey in the shire—until nightfall, when they ventured out upon roads such as this, in search of victims.

Those trees, I had heard, concealed every unsavory brigand and every ravenous beast of prey in the shire—until nightfall, when they ventured out upon roads such as this, in search of victims.

He lifted me bodily and dragged me across the horse's flank until I could swing one leg over the animal's haunches. I had scarcely settled in before we were off again, at a quicker gait than before.

When night fell, we were once more beset by woods on either hand, and no settlement in sight before or behind.

Most were armed only with staves and short swords, but one man of imposing stature held a crossbow leveled at us.

"Good. I don't like doing business with parsons. They're too parsimonious."

He guffawed at his own joke.

But instead he swung it in a sudden arc and struck the bandit full in the face. The man staggered backward; his crossbow loosed its bolt, which flew wild. I gave a cry of dismay as the other thieves sprang forward.

I clung tenaciously to the saddle frame and kicked at my assailant, but it was no use.

I dragged my limp arm free and got to my feet to see the stranger dispatch the last of the outlaws with a sweeping blow that knocked the man into the road, where his companions lay in various attitudes and degrees of unconsciousness.

Though I kept a wary eye on the thieves, he did not deign to glance back even once.

My thighs were chafed raw from the constant motion of the horse, and every sinew and muscle ached fiercely.

Before we quite entered the town, we turned off the road and down a narrow lane to a substantial house surrounded by a high hedge.

It seemed wicked to don my Sunday garb on an ordinary day, but it was all I had.

His manner, which had become prickly, turned cordial again.

"Only if they discover you. Naturally you will be as surreptitious as possible."

"...If you fulfill it satisfactorily, the rewards will be considerable. If you do not—" He gave a wry smile. "Well, Falconer will make certain that you do."

I was better fed this time, for Libby had provided me with all manner of victuals—fruit, meat pies, clapbread.

As the Earth was the center of the greater universe, so London was the center of our miniature universe. And I, Widge, orphan and lowly apprentice, was moving toward that center.

I also became aware of the noisome stench arising from it.

Falconer growled, "Must I watch you every moment, like an errant sheep?"

"I couldn't help it. I fell in that ditch."
"Then you have reason to act sheepish. That's the sewer."

"That's the curfew bell!"
"London has a curfew?" I asked incredulously.

The largest and most cosmopolitan city in England, the symbol of freedom to thousands upon thousands of country youths, compelled its citizens to be off the streets at nine o'clock?

There was a moment's heated discussion, then one of the antagonists stalked from the room, wearing a grim look.

Every conceivable conveyance passed by, from rude carts to fine coaches, and every conceivable class of person: ragged street urchins begging for farthings; fat merchants in sensible clothing; young dandies in doublets so extravagantly slit and slashed as to appear ready to fall off; dozens of prentices my age or younger, all wearing the same style of woollen cap.

"Is that a church?" I said.
Falconer gave a derisive laugh. "That's a plague house, boy."

Ever since we left the inn, my stomach had been growing distressed, and the stench that hung in the stagnant air of that street did nothing to improve it.

Without the solid earth beneath my feet, my stomach grew even queasier.