Shakespeare's Spy (16 page)

“I couldn’t let you be caught. You haven’t done anything wrong.” A bit uncertainly, I added, “Ha’ you?”

“No.” He smiled wryly. “Aside from being a traitor to the Crown, of course.”

“Well, I should be getting back.” I glanced about me. We had made several turns, and I was not entirely sure where the Cross Keys lay. “Assuming I can find me way, that is.”

Gerard pointed to his left. “You’ll want to head in that direction. But before you go, there’s something I must tell you. I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner, but I had to be certain I could trust you.”

“Trust me?”

“As you will see, I couldn’t very well reveal this without also revealing my profession.” He paused, as though to collect his thoughts, then went on. “Several months ago, when I was holding services in Leicester, I was called to a tavern outside the town, to give the last rites to a thief who had been shot while trying to rob a wealthy merchant. Before he died, we had a chance to talk. When I mentioned that I was going to London soon, he asked if I would contact his son, who, he said, was a player … with Mr. Shakespeare’s company.” Gerard fixed his black eyes on me. “He seemed quite proud of the fact.”

With the little breath I could muster, I said, “What … what was this fellow’s name, then?”

I suspected what his reply would be, and I was right. “Jamie Redshaw,” he said.

From time to time, some small-minded critic took Mr. Shakespeare to task because so many of his plays were neither strictly tragedy nor strictly comedy, but a mingle-mangle of the two. Mr. Shakespeare seemed unperturbed by such accusations. He was, he said, merely trying to reflect the nature of real life, which was invariably a mixture of the awful and the absurd—hilarity one moment, heartbreak the next, and sometimes both at once.

My situation proved his point. All my life I had longed to know who my parents were. Now that I had been given the final piece of the puzzle, I should have been overjoyed. But how could I be, when, at the very moment I learned at last who my father was, I also discovered that he was dead?

I was stricken not so much by grief as by a sad sense of regret. As the circumstances of his death showed, Jamie Redshaw had not been the most admirable of men. Yet he had possessed admirable qualities—among them courage and cleverness. Who could say what he might have become had Fortune dealt him a better hand? If he and my mother had not been kept apart by her parents, his life would no doubt have been quite different. And so, of course, would mine.

“I’m sorry,” said Father Gerard, “that I was unable to save his life. The wound was too grave. But the fate of our earthly body matters little when compared to the fate of the soul. Be assured that he has gone to a better life.”

“I hope so, for the one ’a had here was naught to boast of.”

Gerard placed the script of
Sejanus
in my hands. “You should go. If they do find me, I don’t want you implicated.”

“You’ll leave London now, surely?”

He shook his head. “Not for a while yet.”

“But where will you stay?”

“I’ll find a place. There are a number of the faithful here who are willing to put their lives in jeopardy by sheltering us. Go now.”

When I returned to the Cross Keys, dinner was over, but the sharers were still sitting about the table with grim looks on their faces, talking in low, somber voices. They all seemed relieved to see me. “Widge!” said Mr. Armin. “Thank heaven
you’re all right. I was afraid the pursuivants might catch Gerard, and you with him.”

“Nay. We saw no sign of ‘em.” I took a seat and scavenged what few morsels were left.

“G-good,” said Mr. Heminges. “I wish the m-man no ill, even though he has c-caused us a good d-deal of trouble.”

“Will they shut us down for harboring a priest, do you wis?”

“It’s doubtful,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “at least as long as we have the queen’s protection.” He sighed heavily and put his head in his hands. “I apologize to you all for my part in this. If I had known he was a priest, I would not have agreed to help him. Judith led me to believe that he was a recusant from Warwickshire who had refused to pay his fines and was forced to flee to avoid being imprisoned. She also said that he had been a friend to my father, at a time when my father had few others.”

“Well, that much was true,” I said. “ ‘A told me that when your father was ill, ’a tended him and gave him the last rites.” I glanced about the room. “Where is Judith now?”

Mr. Shakespeare sighed again. “I’m not certain. We … we had words, and she ran off.” He glanced down at the script of
Sejanus
, which lay on the bench next to me, “Where did that come from?”

“Father Gerard was on his way to deliver ’t to us. Mr. Jonson is laid up wi’ th’ ague.”

“You may as well set to work on it, then. For the moment, anyway, we’re still in business.”

I popped a boiled egg in my mouth and headed upstairs. When I entered the office, I found Judith sitting on the floor next to the windows, her legs drawn up, her face buried in the folds of her gown, weeping as though she had lost her only
friend. I had experienced that sort of grief once, when Sander died, and feared that I might again, if I could not bring Julia home.

Judith had not actually lost a friend, of course; she was upset because Mr. Shakespeare had reprimanded her—rather harshly, no doubt, and in front of the entire company. I knew how that felt as well. Though I had little experience in comforting folk, I did my best. I knelt and laid a hand gently on her arm. “Please don’t cry. It’s not so bad, really.”

She turned her tear-streaked face toward me; though her eyes were red and swollen from weeping, her fair skin mottled, she somehow contrived to look more appealing than ever. Mr. Pope had known a lady, he said, who could stop a man’s heart with her smile. Here was one who could do it with her tears. “Yes, it is,” she said, her words broken by sobs. “It
is
bad. I’m being sent home.”

S
tricken, I sank to the floor next to Judith. “Oh, gis! I suppose ‘a has a right to be angry wi’ you, but to send you home … Is there any chance ’a will change his mind, do you wis?”

Judith gave a trembling, bitter laugh. “You don’t know my father very well. Once he’s made up his mind to something, there’s no changing it. He never wanted me here to begin with.”

“I’m sure that’s not so,” I lied. “Anyway, surely ’a won’t just pack you off on your own. ‘A will ha’ to find someone to travel wi’ you.” Had it not been for the unfinished business with Julia, I would have volunteered my services.

She wiped her eyes with the hem of her gown. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it will be a while, then, before he can make the arrangements.”

“Aye, it might be weeks—months, even.” I did my best to sound confident and cheerful, though I felt quite the contrary. It was not enough that I must see to it that Julia got home; now I had to try to make certain that Judith did not.

I suddenly felt quite overwhelmed by it all. If love was difficult to play upon the stage, it was even harder to manage in earnest. I needed a respite from it; I needed to throw myself into some task that would make no demands on my mind or my emotions. “Listen. I really must get to work on this play.”

“Oh. Well. If you’d rather do that than talk to me.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

“I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” She rose and straightened her gown. “You did promise to read some of it to me, though.”

“Nay, it’s not
that
play. It’s Mr. Jonson’s. Your father’s asked me to copy it out.”

“Well, then, of course you must do it. We must all do as Father says, mustn’t we?” She examined her face in the small looking glass Mr. Shakespeare used for his makeup and rubbed at her cheeks with a kerchief. “You needn’t feel too sorry for yourself, Widge, for never having had a father. They’re a mixed blessing at best.” As she went out the door, she whispered archly, “Have fun with
your play.
“ Her tone made it clear that she considered it just that—play, not work. Whatever it was, I was grateful to occupy myself with such an undemanding task.

According to rumor, one of the priest hunters’ favorite methods of extracting a confession was a procedure known as
peine forte et dure
, in which a slab of stone is placed upon the chest of the reclining victim; the next day a second slab is added, then a third, and so on, until the subject either gives up the desired information or gives up the ghost.

Though I had so far been spared the slabs of stone, for the past week or so Fortune had been busy laying troubles upon me, one by one, until I felt at times as though I could not breathe. I had no notion, however, what I was expected to confess.
All I could do was try to ignore the growing pressure by turning my mind to other things.

I had copied out no more than half a dozen pages of
Sejanus
before I was interrupted by a breathless, perspiring Sam, fresh from scriming practice. “Well?” he demanded.

I glanced up irritably. “Well, what?”

“Did you manage to warn Mr. Garrett in time?”

“Father Gerard, you mean.”

“Yes, yes. Did you?”

“Aye.”

Sam gave a relieved grin. “Thank heaven.”

“You might wish to thank
me
as well.”

“Thanks. He’s not leaving London, is he?”

“Not for a while yet, ’a says. But ’a’s not likely to come around here again.”

“Oh, bones. I suppose not. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“Nay. And I wouldn’t go looking for him an I were you. Priests are dangerous company.”

Sam scowled at me. “Will you stop it?”

“Stop what?”

“Playing the older brother.” He rose and started from the room, then turned back to say, “Mr. Garrett’s my friend, Widge; I’m not going to forget about him just because he happens to be a Papist.”

That evening we performed
All’s Well That Ends Well
again. I knew the play backward and forward and so was able to lose myself in it, as in a dream, and give no thought to anything. Julia had never acted in the play, so there was nothing in it to remind me of her, and since Judith did not turn up, I was even able to forget about her for moments at a time.

Ordinarily I looked forward to my time with Mr. Pope at the end of each day. But tonight I felt rather as though I were headed for a
session of peine forte et dure, in which all the
doubts and worries I had tried so hard to suppress would be squeezed out of me. Though it would have been a relief to unburden myself to someone, I dared not make Mr. Pope my confessor; we had been instructed not to bring up anything that might upset him.

When I reached the library, I found Mr. Pope asleep in his chair. I stole silently out again, grateful that I had neither to reveal nor to conceal the news that Father Gerard had given me concerning Jamie Redshaw. I needed to digest it myself first, to mull over what it might mean to me.

Though I knew now where I came from, did it really change anything? I had no notion whether any of Jamie Redshaw’s relations—or my mother’s—were still alive or, if they were, where to find them. And even if I did manage to uncover them, how likely was it that they would welcome some long-lost, illegitimate child who claimed to be their kin? And even if they did accept me, could I bear to leave London and the world of the theatre for some other world I knew nothing of?

Once again I was thankful to have something less confusing to turn my mind to, something more within my control. I retreated to my room, lit a candle, and sat down at my desk with Mr. Shakespeare’s script—no,
my
script—before me. In a quarter hour or so, I had finished copying into my own hand all that Mr. Shakespeare had written, up until the end of the second act. After that, there were no complete scenes, only scraps of speeches, plus some notes he had made concerning the mechanics of the story.

Well, he had given me the bare bones; it was up to me to put flesh upon them. I took a deep breath and wrote on a fresh sheet of paper
Act III.
Then I sat staring into space for a very long time. I had only now begun to realize that being in control might prove to be more of a curse than a blessing. With perhaps ten thousand possible words at my disposal, how did I settle on just the right one, and then one to follow it, and so on?

And yet, was it really so impossible? After all, in real life we managed to speak to one another well enough without agonizing over every word. Well, then, perhaps what I must do was not write the lines but speak them, say whatever came into my head, as folk do in conversation. Sometimes, admittedly, the results were unfortunate. But I had the luxury of taking mine back.

Mr. Shakespeare had already established that Timon was in financial trouble. What I needed now was a scene in which he sends his servant, Flaminius, to ask one of the nobles—Lucullus, let us say—for a loan. So.
Scene I. A Room in Lucullus’s House. Flaminius waiting. A servant enters
and says … says what? Well, I ought to know; I had played the part of a servant often enough. “I have told my lord you are here,” I said aloud, under my breath. “He is coming down.” Hardly inspired, but believable, at least, and certainly far better than a blank page. I wrote it down. And Flavius replies … “Tell him to hurry”? No, too cheeky. “Ill just sit down here”? No, that would require a chair. “Thank you”? Good enough. Now to bring Lucullus on.
Servant:
“Here’s my lord.” A bit obvious, but never mind. Lucullus is a greedy wight, so …
Lucullus (aside):
“One of Lord Timon’s men? Bringing me another gift, no doubt.”

As though I had broken through a barrier of some sort, the words began to flow from me, through my pencil, and onto the
paper—only a trickle at first, but then such a steady stream that I was forced to switch from Italian script to my system of swift writing in order to keep up. I felt almost as if someone were dictating the lines to me—not Mr. Shakespeare, certainly; he would have dictated better ones.

Well, no matter that it was not deathless prose; I could always go back later and liven it up a bit. I made no attempt at meter. As with most of his plays, Mr. Shakespeare had begun writing this one in fairly regular iambic pentameter. But by the middle of Act II he was, for no apparent reason, putting in long passages of prose. If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.