Free The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood Page A

beyond the mock skirmishes with elder sticks at the orphanage. Before long, my limbs began to ache. I could sense that the others were secretly laughing at my bumbling efforts, and I longed to throw the stick aside—preferably at them—and show them my skill with a pen. But to do so, of course, would be to give myself away.
    I would have to continue to seem a willing prentice until I could complete my real mission here. And when I did, when I had stolen the script from under their very noses, then I would be the one to laugh.
    At last Mr. Armin called a halt, and he and Nick paired off. Nick was armed with a real rapier, now—blunted, of course. They saluted with their swords, their faces smiling and cordial. Then Mr. Armin said “Have at you!” and the two transformed before our eyes into deadly enemies. Their blades clashed and parted and met again with such rapidity that my eye could scarcely follow.
    Sander and Ophelia cheered them on. Their sentiments were obviously with Mr. Armin, but they shouted encouragement to Nick as well. Even with my ignorance of fencing, I could see that Mr. Armin was holding back, giving Nick time to ward and counter. The fencing scene in the play had displayed this same measured pace. As with the play, I was drawn into the drama. Just as I was tempted to shout a word of encouragement myself, Mr. Armin effortlessly caught Nick’s sideways blow on the guard of his rapier, flung his arm outward, and delivered a quick but gentle stocatta to Nick’s unguarded chest. “Touch,” he said.
    Nick’s face, already red from exertion, grew redder. He peevishly flung down the rapier and stalked off. Mr. Arminignored his outburst and approached us. “Do you three feel you’re ready for a real weapon?”
    â€œNo, sir!” we said, almost as one person.
    â€œThen go practice your passatas ,” he said. “We have an audience who pays to see us; we don’t need you lot standing about gawking.”
    As we moved away, Sander said, “Widge is going to need a bit of coaching, I think. Do you want to do it, Julian, or shall I?”
    Ophelia, whose name was apparently Julian, shrugged. “We could take turns.”
    â€œAll right with you, Widge?” Sander asked.
    Unused as I was to being asked my preferences, I took a moment to reply. “Oh, aye. I don’t mind. But Mr. Armin said—”
    â€œFie on what Mr. Armin said,” Sander replied, but softly. “I’ve done so many passatas I could do them in my sleep.”
    â€œJust be sure you do them on your side of the bed.”
    He laughed. “We’ll soon have you doing them in your sleep as well. Now, the first thing we’ll have to show you is the three wards.”
    â€œThree words?”
    â€œNo, wards.” He held the singlestick at the height of his forehead. “This is high ward.” I copied his stance. He moved the stick to his waist. “Broad ward.” His hand went down near his knee. “Base ward.”
    â€œYou might just as well show him the right way, Cooke,” a voice said. I turned to see Nick standing close by. “Here, let me have that stick.” Sander gave it up reluctantly. Nick planted himself in front of me, a distinctly unpleasant smile on his face. “I’ll learn you properly.”
    â€œLet him be,” Sander said, not as forcefully as he might have.
    â€œI’m only going to see that he learns his lesson,” Nick said innocently. “Now then. Widge, is it? You know what a widge is where I come from?”
    My throat felt too tight to speak. I shook my head.
    â€œA horse. I think I’ll call you Horse, though you look more like an ass to me. Hold your stick like this, Horse—the hand close to the knee, and the tip pointing at your opponent’s throat-bole.”
    With a shaking hand, I tried to mirror his position.
    â€œGet your point up,” he commanded. I was