The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood Page A

gleefully.
    â€œNay!” I protested.
    The boy burst out in giggles. “That’s not how horsies say it!”

    After church, Sander said, “We have the whole day and the whole city at our disposal. Where shall we go?”
    â€œYou decide.”
    â€œWell, there’s a zoo in the Tower, with lions and tigers and a porpentine, even a camel. But all they do is sleep. We could go to Paul’s instead.”
    â€œWho is Paul?”
    â€œ Saint Paul’s. It’s a cathedral. I’ll pay for the crossing.”
    Though a cathedral did not sound like the height of excitement to me, I had no better suggestion. It was another cobweb day, and by the time we crossed the Thames we looked as though we had swum it. Sander’s spirits were not dampened in the least. His long legs carried him so swiftly up the hill that I had to fairly trot to keep up. At last we came to the huge cathedral which had attracted my awe the night of my arrival.
    â€œSt. Paul’s,” Sander said. “The center of things.”
    So now I stood in the center of the center of the universe. I stared about, openmouthed, like the greenest plow-boy. The chaotic courtyard of the cathedral was packed with people and vendors’ booths. Voices hung in the air as densely as the misty rain. I felt the urge to hold my breath as we plunged into the sea of bodies.
    â€œKeep a firm hold on your wallet,” Sander called over the clamor.
    I laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve naught left to steal,” I said.
    â€œYou want to go up in the tower? I’ll pay.”
    â€œWhat’s there?”
    â€œA good view of the city. And a few bats.” The view from the top of Paul’s was, indeed, a good one. Sander pointed out the roofs of the queen’s London residence far off to the west, and the Tower prison to the east. Between the two lay more buildings than a man could count. The streets were as crooked and wayward as country streams, dissecting the city not into square blocks but into convoluted shapes of all sizes.
    â€œBeautiful, isn’t it?” said Sander.
    â€œIt’s like a maze. How in heaven’s name do you find your way about?”
    Sander laughed. “It’s easy, when you’ve grown up in it.”
    â€œAnd you like it?”
    â€œOf course. Don’t you?”
    â€œPerhaps I’m just not used to it yet.”
    â€œYou’ll come to like it.” He put a hand on my shoulder. I was not used to being touched in a comradely way either, and I flinched. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget that the height makes people nervous.”
    â€œAye,” I said. “Let’s go back down.”
    The courtyard was no place for a person who was shy of being touched. I lost sight of Sander temporarily but caught up with him again at a bookseller’s stall. “Here,” he said. “Have a look at this.”
    Displayed prominently were a number of plays and poems written by “Wm. Shaksper.” “Is that our Mr. Shakespeare?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Eagerly I searched for a copy of The Tragedy of Hamlet , then realized that of course if it were bound and printed like these Simon Bass would never have gone to the trouble to send me and Falconer here; he would simply have bought one.
    They say that if you mention the devil’s name, he is likely to appear. As I turned away from the bookstall, I found that, by thinking his name, I had somehow conjured up Falconer, and to my dismay, he was headed directly for us.
    I could not have said whether or not he saw me. As always, his hood sheltered his face. He was pushing his way impatiently through the crowd, but then he always did that. Perhaps it was not too late to avoid him. I plunged into the shifting maze of people. Sander shouted after me, “Widge! Where are you going?”
    I did not bother to reply; I only pressed on, burrowing through the tangle of arms and legs like a hare