The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(18)

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.”