The Shakespeare Stealer Read Online Free Page A

hastily retied. I spread the clothing out on my bed and found my wallet, which had contained my meager savings. The money was gone, every farthing.
    Though I was sure it was the stableboy’s doing, I knew better than to say so. I was the new boy here, and I had long since learned that new boys have no rights. I would have to content myself with cursing him roundly and silently.
    When I carried my dirty clothing downstairs, the girl called Libby took them and gingerly dropped them in a basket. “The master said to bring you to him as soon as you were up, but I expect you’ll want to be fed first.”
    â€œI’ve eaten. What was in the bowl.”
    She clucked her tongue. “That was last night’s supper, you ninny. You were asleep when I brought it up.”
    I shrugged. “It served well enough as breakfast.”
    â€œDinner, more like. It’s nearly noon. Come, then.”
    As we passed from the kitchen into a great open room, I said, “Will ’a be cross wi’ me, do you wis?”
    She cast me the same doubtful glance she’d given when I told her where I hailed from. “Wis?”
    â€œAye,” I said, wondering what she found so strange in a word I’d used all my life.
    Libby led me up a wide staircase, to a large gallery with a dozen windows, and tapestries hung between them. “I can’t say whether he’ll be cross or no. He’s a queer one, the master is.” She turned and whispered, “Not to tell him I said so, now.”
    I made a cross over my heart as proof that I would not. We stopped before a paneled door, on which the girl knocked lightly. “Enter!” called a voice from within. The girl motioned me inside. As Libby pushed the door shut, she sent me an encouraging wink.
    The room in which I found myself was so foreign that I might have stepped into another land. A soft carpet covered the floor; two of the paneled walls were hung with pictures; the other two were obscured top to bottom by more books than I would have suspected existed in all of England. If this is but Leicester, I thought, what must London be like?
    So awed was I that it was a moment before my eyes fell on the figure at the writing desk, bent over some close task. “Widge?” he said, without turning.
    I swallowed nervously. “Aye.”
    â€œCome, sit down.” I was almost at the man’s side before he looked up from his papers. I stared dumbly at him. This was not the fearsome stranger who had brought me here. This was a mild-looking man with a well-trimmed beard and a balding head of hair of an odd, reddish hue. He smiled slightly at my obvious bewilderment. “My name is Simon Bass,” he said. “I am your new master.”

5
    â€œY ou might sit down,” Simon Bass said, “before you fall down.”
    I sank into an upholstered chair. “But—but I thought—”
    â€œYou thought the one who brought you here was to be your master.” Bass shrugged. “Falconer is not the most communicative of men, nor the most genial. But he is reliable, and effective. I could not go to Yorkshire myself because…well, for various reasons. He got you here in one piece, at any rate.”
    â€œAye…mostly.”
    Bass chuckled. “Neither is Falconer the most considerate of traveling companions, I warrant. Have you eaten?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œGood. Good.” He shoved his papers aside, took up a pipe, and filled the bowl of it with tobacco from an earthenware jar. “Then we can get right down to business. You’ll be wanting to know what’s expected of you.”
    â€œAye.” Though my seat was comfortable, I shifted about nervously.
    â€œVery well.” He went to the fireplace, touched a taper to a live coal, and lit the pipe. “The first thing I expect is that you say ‘yes’ rather than ‘aye.’ Your task will not require you to speak overmuch, but