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

then he looked at me more sharply. “Thou canst read this?”
    “Aye,” I answered. Why should he care?
    Two men appeared to lay hold of the dragon’s head and push it through the door at the back of the stage. A squeal from a badly tuned viol or rebec came from overhead. “Kit, get off my stage, will you?” Master Henslowe demanded. “Take our new apprentice here and watch the performance, and keep yourself, if you can, from telling him all the players are doing it wrong. Yes, I’m coming!” he shouted to someone I couldn’t see. “Begone, Kit, take these two with you.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    AUGUST 1592
    Master Marlowe led us off the stage and into the first row of galleries. He motioned for Robin to take a seat on one of the long wooden benches, but I hesitated.
    I was no player’s apprentice. There was no place for me here. But if I walked out of the playhouse now, I did not know where I would go or what I’d do. I did not even know if the three shillings and the few odd pence I had left in my purse would be enough to buy my way into Newgate Prison so I could see my father.
    Master Marlowe had seated himself alongside Robin. But he paid no heed to him, frowning instead at me. “What’s thy name?” he demanded.
    I remembered in time what my new name was. “Richard Archer, master.”
    “And canst read?”
    I could not imagine why it mattered so to himwhether or not I was lettered. “I can.”
    “Prove it.” He held out to me the paper I had picked up from the stage.
    I squinted at the scribbled lines and they came clear to me, although it made little sense, being only the words set down for one player to speak. Lacking the answers to questions, or the questions to answers, it was but a jumble. Still, I cleared my throat and read. “‘So now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt. Under the heavens. Within the bowels of these elements, where we are tortur’d and remain for ever.’”
    Master Marlowe lifted his eyebrows. “And canst write a fair hand as well?”
    “Aye, sir, I can write.” Robin had studied Latin at the grammar school with the other boys, but my father had taught me at home. I should have enough knowledge of numbers that no shopkeeper could cheat me, he said, and enough of letters to write down what the household bought and spent. I had been good with my pen; I wrote a fairer hand than Robin. Master Marlowe’s words brought back, with a sting of tears in my eyes, the bitter smell of ink, the honey-colored surface of the old table in the back of the warehouse, and my father’s presence at my shoulder, watching as the quill in my hand scratched steadily over the paper.
    “Indeed,” Master Marlowe said, eyeing me as if I were a horse at market. “If ’tis true, I might have use for thee. The law will take thee up for a vagabond if thou’rt not in service, so thou mayst as well be in mine.”
    The word “no” sat on my tongue. I did not wish to be this man’s servant, and it was not my pride that revolted at the idea. To be a servant was not grand, but it was honest.
    But in truth, I was baffled, and in my confusion, even afraid. Why should Master Marlowe be so kind? He had offered twice now to save me from begging in the streets, but he hardly looked at me, leaning back on the bench, his legs stretched out before him, his eyes on the empty stage. His careless manner made it seem as if my life were a matter of indifference—he might save it or lose it, it was all the same to him.
    Nevertheless, I knew I’d be a fool to throw aside this second chance. Work, food, a bed, wages even—I must take it and be grateful. “Master, I thank you,” I said as humbly as I could. “God reward you for your kindness.”
    Master Marlowe made an impatient gesture with one hand. “’Tis not kindness. I’ll take thee on trial for a week. If thou canst do the work I need, I’ll feed and clothe thee. If not, I’ll not keep thee. And by this light, do not start a rumor that I have a conscience. My