The Secret of the Rose by Sarah L. Thomson Read Free Book Online

“Look now,” Master Marlowe continued, and before I could prevent it, he had snatched off my hat. “You see? Zenocrate or Isabel. Harry is getting too old to play the girls’ parts. Soon we’ll have a Helen with a beard on her chin.”
    “But masters—,” I objected.
    They ignored me. “He’s too old,” Henslowe said, shaking his head. “Hast ever played a part before, lad?”
    “No, sir,” I said emphatically. “And to say truth—”
    “Henslowe, look at that face,” Master Marlowe countered impatiently. “He’ll hardly have to act, he looks so much a girl.”
    “I am no player!” I almost shouted it. I could have added more, that I was decent and God-fearing and mindful of my family’s reputation even if my brother was not. But Master Marlowe’s last words had frightened me so badly that, when the two men turned to me in surprise, I only ducked my head to look down at the boards of the stage.
    “I pray you pardon me,” I mumbled. “I cannot play a part.”
    My heart beat quick as a bird’s against my ribs. If they kept looking at me so, they were sure to guess. Master Marlowe had come too close already.
    “Come, lad, ’tis nothing but nerves,” Master Marlowe said heartily. I only shook my head, not looking up. Silence was surely the best way to dissuade them.
    “Well, Kit, if he does not wish it, that’s all there is,” Henslowe said after a moment.
    Master Marlowe looked reproachfully at me. “I’vedone my best for thee,” he said in a low voice. “Wilt not try thy hand?”
    I retrieved my hat from him and pulled it back on. With the relief of having my head covered and my face shadowed again, I could even feel a twinge of remorse. I supposed, by his lights, Master Marlowe had truly tried to do me a kindness. Probably he had no idea how decent people regarded a playhouse. He had not meant to insult me with the offer. I must have seemed churlish and ungrateful to him.
    “Master, I thank you, truly,” I said, without looking up. “But I cannot. I’ve reasons for it.” And that was as much as I could tell him.
    “But the other, he will do,” Henslowe was saying. “What’s thy name, lad?”
    “Robin Archer, master,” Robin said timidly.
    “And thou wishest to be an apprentice with the Admiral’s Men?”
    Robin nodded, his eyes shining.
    “Well, we’ll take thee on trial, then. A week, to see how thou dost. Now, Kit, listen….”
    I looked down at the stage, wondering bleakly where I would go when this was all over. Back out into the streets again, I supposed, this time alone. And my faithless traitor of a brother was listening eagerly to the players’ talk, asif he did not care a jot what became of me.
    The boards of the stage were not painted brightly like the rest, but were bare wood, worn smooth by the tread of many feet. A lone sheet of paper drifted about in a slight breeze. It came to rest by my shoe, and I bent down to pick it up, smoothing it carefully. It seemed a player’s part. I read a few lines at random.
    Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib’d
    In one self place, but where we are is hell,
    And where hell is, there must we ever be.
    I shivered and looked up at the dragon’s head that gaped over the stage. Like this city, it seemed poised to swallow us up, the way prison had swallowed up my father. And this bit of paper hinted that there would be no way out.
    Idle thoughts. The dragon’s head was but wood and painted cloth. And the paper was nothing but a player’s speech, insubstantial as air. I held it out to Master Marlowe.
    “Sir, I think this may be wanted. ’Tis a player’s part, for—” I squinted at the page again. “For Mephostophilis.”
    “Nick has been letting his part lie about?” Henslowe demanded angrily as Master Marlowe took the paperfrom me. “I paid for this play, damn him, and he wants to let every other company in London have it for free?”
    “You did not pay so very much, as I recall,” Master Marlowe said dryly. But