Read Online The True Prince by J.B. Cheaney - Free Book Online Page B

circle, straightened his back, and tucked the limestone into a pocket on his sleeve.
    “But what if they do real damage, and we're out two players?”
    “Real damage can be prevented.”
    “And bruises, and cuts, and black eyes? Won't our gentle ladies look fetching with black eyes?”
    “That's what paint is for. Kit, Richard; stand here, please you.”
    Master Heminges threw up his hands and backed away, shaking his head. As Kit and I approached, I felt goose bumps rise on my arms, having by now gained a notion of where this wind blew. The murmurs around us fell silent as Master Burbage motioned us to stop.
    “Now,” said he, “the two of you have never managed to get along since you met. Whatever the bone of contention between you, I propose that you have it out this hour, for once and for all. That is how honest men settle things—”
    “It's how
barbarians
settle things!” Master Heminges called from the back of the stage.
    “Peace, John,” Will Sly spoke up. “For my part, I like it well. Straightforward and simple.”
    “And,” continued Burbage, “as it is bound to happen anyway, we might as well see that it happens where the least possible damage may be done.”
    Except to my own sweet person! thought I, desperately looking about for an advocate. But of the boys, only Robin appeared the least bit alarmed. I noticed Gregory shaking hands with one of the stage keepers and guessed that he had just made a wager. Of the men, Master Heminges had raised the only objection, and though one or two may have been impatient to get on with rehearsal, few would dare to take issue with Richard Burbage. The only two who might—Masters Kempe and Shakespeare— stood in grave discussion, with occasional glances to Kit and me. They seemed to be comparing our advantages, perhaps in view of a wager of their own. Even the serving girls and penny takers, who had just finished sweeping up, crowded among the men for choice places. I sent a look of distress to Starling, who merely raised her shoulders in a tiny shrug, then smacked her fist against her palm.
    “Box, or wrestle?” inquired Master Burbage.
    Kit deferred the choice to me. “Box,” I said helplessly. My fighting experience was of the untutored kind that consisted of aiming for the soft parts of the opponent while protecting my own soft parts. It might be called boxing.
    “Well enough,” Master Burbage said. “Remember you must be on your feet by Monday. We'll stop you before you cripple each other—”
    “And the faces—the faces!” called John Heminges.
    “Very well; try not to go for the other's face. A swollen jaw might pass, but—”
    “Richard!”
    Our mediator sighed. “Avoid the face, if you can. And below the belt—that leaves a wide expanse between neck and waist to work on, eh?” He rubbed his hands together, and I suddenly guessed that he needed this fight as much as he claimed we did. Better battling youths in plain sight than battling lawyers in court, perhaps. “Stay within the circle; any step outside and we'll push you back in. Ready?”
    Kit's flinty eyes told me he was more than ready. And indeed, the whole crowd of spectators appeared ready; I could almost feel their breath, and thought of bulls pawing the ground. I might vie with John Heminges for most reluctant player, but no honorable alternative occurred to me. I prayed a swift petition for speed, endurance, and fists like a hammer as I slowly pulled off my shirt and tossed it behind me. A voice—
    I could not tell whose—shouted out, “God speed you, Richard.” Another answered back, “Slam him, Kit!” and the battle of the voices was joined.
    As we closed in, the shouting made a hedge around us. I heard his name and mine, but saw only him, approaching at a crouch, fists raised. He made a jab at my chin, which told me that he did not intend to go by the rules, and while ducking, I replied with a blow to his side. Then we circled for a while, coming to know each other