The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood Page B

through briars. At last I found daylight at the edge of the courtyard and turned to look back.
    Falconer was a tall man, and I could see the tip of his hood bobbing through the crowd. “Gog’s blood!” I murmured. He was onto me for certain, and he’d want the script, and perhaps my blood as well. No excuses, he’d said. There was nothing for me to do but run, and no way to run but through the cathedral graveyard.
    Though I did not care for the company of dead folk, it was easier to make my way through them. I slipped as quietly as I could between headstones and crypts. The earth was soft from the rain and, in places, from being recently turned up. It gave way slightly under my feet, making me fear that if I did not move quickly, I would sink down into the realm of the dead.
    Shuddering, I broke into a trot, never pausing until I reached solid ground. When I peered back through the drizzle, I thought I spied a dark figure weaving among the tombstones. I began to run again, with no goal but to get away. I trotted down one unknown street, then another, sending up sprays of water with each step.
    Finally I sank exhausted onto a doorstep. If I hadn’t lost Falconer by now, I never would. Unfortunately, I had lost myself as well. I had no idea in which direction Southwark lay. South, of course, but with the sun so well concealed, who could say where that was?
    It stood to reason, though, that if I followed the water in the gutters and kept a downhill course, I would eventually run into the Thames as well. How I would get to the far side was another matter. I would have to cross that bridge, or lack of one, when I came to it.
    As it turned out, my reasoning was seriously flawed. After only a few minutes’ walk, I came to the massive wall that encircled the city. Even I knew that the wall did not run between St. Paul’s and the Thames. But by now I was so disoriented that I kept on that street, which was at least broad and well traveled.
    Finally I found the good sense to ask an old farmer to point me in the right direction. “Turn left at the next chance,” he said, “and follow your nose ’til you wets your toes.” I thanked him and hurried on.
    The thoroughfare onto which I turned seemed innocuous enough at first, but after a time I noticed that each block was a bit more dismal-looking than the last. Before long the street began to seem less like the path to the river than like a descent into hell.
    The prosperous merchants and busy tradesmen had disappeared, and in their place were coarse women and menacing men, bands of noisy, grimy children and scores of beggars.
    Lining both sides of the street were ramshackle booths and huts constructed of any material that would keep out the weather—hides, sticks, mud. My impulse was to turn and retrace my steps, but I told myself that I could not possibly be far from the river now, so I kept on, dodging piles of muck.
    I did not see the two youths until they were directly before me, blocking my path. My immediate impression was that they were large—large of body, with large grinning mouths and large daggers at their belts. Separately, each would have been daunting; together they were terrifying. I stepped back. They stepped forward. I stepped aside. They followed.
    â€œWh-what do you want?”
    â€œWhat have you got?” one of them said.
    â€œNaught but the clothes on me back.”
    He fingered the hilt of his dagger. “We’ll have that, then.”

14
    I took a few more backward steps, preparing to run. “You won’t get far,” the boy said. “There’s not a man or woman in sight that won’t help catch you. We’re all one big family here, you see. And we don’t like strangers.”
    â€œI was—I was just passing through.”
    â€œWell, then you’ve got to pay a passing-through fee.” He drew his dagger. “Now, what will it be? Your clothing? Or your