Free The True Prince by J.B. Cheaney Page A

to vomit in the gutter—was too painful for speech. Nor did it help to clarify the matter for me. “I don't know myself what it was
all
about. I don't hate him, for all he makes me mad. Sometimes I think we might be friends, except for the small fact that he hates me.”
    “But he doesn't—”
    Nell bustled in and demanded her kitchen back, so Starling bundled me up—meat, onions, and all—and helped me climb the two sets of stairs to the attic. Along the way we had to fend off the eager attention of the youngest Condell boys, stop to let the mistress gently feel my ribs, and respectfully ignore Alice's pointed remark about warring savages. When we finally reached the room I shared with Robin, she eased me down on the low bed and took off my shoes, but I had to tell her I could remove my own breeches, and would do so once she was out of the room. Then she pulled up a three-legged stool and sat by the bed. “He doesn't hate you. There's more to it than that.”
    “What?” My brain was sinking into the dark waters of oblivion, but the subject held enough interest to keep me awake a little longer.
    “He's the only one—besides me—who knows how good a player you are apt to become.”
    “Oh.” She had voiced this notion before, and it seemed inthe same company with her other flights of fancy. “My performance today must have terrified him.”
    “Your performance today means nothing, in the balance. He's always seen the promise in you, better than most. I think it challenged him before. But now that he's begun to falter, it threatens him.”
    “Falter? You mean one bad performance, in that putrid play?”
    “One bad performance—one truly bad performance—is too many for him.” She was speaking with some passion, as though she had thought this out fully and had longed for the moment to share it with me. “Master Burbage spoke of ending it once and for all today. But I believe it's only begun.”
    “That's a comforting thought to sleep on.” A memory of the way Kit had said that line about being “usurped” stirred in my brain, but that brain was rapidly sinking. “You've drawn too long a bow about his opinion of me. What brought this on today was mainly the way he treats the Welsh Boy.”
    “Davy?”
her voice pierced my throbbing ears. “You were fighting over him?”
    “In a way … I've told you how Kit's been nasty to him … I know not why….”
    “That's strange.”
    “How so?”
    “I noticed him, in the midst of the combat. He always looks so bland, you can never guess what he thinks, but as hewatched you and Kit pound each other, I saw him smile. A strange, inward smile, perhaps even a little smug….”
    Her voice faded. Shortly afterward, I felt the covers settle over me, and a light touch on my forehead.
    When I woke again, the room was as black as pitch. Robin lay on his back beside me, snoring; Thomas, Ned, and Cole Condell rustled in their box bed on the floor. Through the open window a watchman cried three o'clock, and in some dark recess of my aching head, a bloodthirsty crowd was still shouting. Starling had told me something about the Welsh Boy. I remembered him now, had caught sight of him as I braced my palms against the rough boards and pushed up: saw him watching. And, yes, smiling.

Fat Jack
    unday allowed me one day of rest before returning to the stage on Monday—which I was expected to do, no matter how sore in the ribs. Kit had a cut on his chin and a bruised eye I could not remember giving him. But that, as Master Burbage had said, was what paint was for, and Kit took more time with the paint than he normally did. While waiting for him to finish so that I could occupy the space before the window, I found myself wondering if he was dawdling on purpose to make me late. The performance was to begin in only half an hour. His manner toward me seemed unchanged—cool and superior as ever—but I feared he might take some subtle revenge. Gregory and Robin were treating us