Shakespeare's Spy (20 page)

I stared at him, momentarily baffled. “What’s that, then?”

“Your play?”

“Oh? Oh, aye! I’ve considered so many titles, I’d forgotten that one.”

“It’s a good title,” said Mr. Phillips.

“Yes,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“Well, you may ha’ ’t, an you like. I can easily call mine something else. I’ve no shortage of titles.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“It’s naught.” I glanced nervously about at the four of them in turn. “So … is that all you liked about it, then? The title?”

“No, no,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “In fact, it has quite a number of good qualities.”

I waited for him to go on, to cite some of its good qualities. When he did not, I swallowed hard and said, “But it’s not good enough, is it?”

Mr. Shakespeare cast a beseeching glance at Mr. Heminges, as though asking for help from a more tactful quarter. “N-not as it stands,” said Mr. Heminges gently. “P-perhaps if you were to w-work on it a b-bit more, and then sh-show it to us again.”

Unaccountably, I found myself fighting back tears. I felt nearly as forlorn as I had when Judith left, or when I learned that my father had died. Though none of the sharers had said, or even suggested, that my work was worthless, it was what I heard—or at least what that part of me that was governed by emotion heard. Yet, at the same time, some more reasonable part acknowledged that they were right, of course, that I could not possibly expect to turn out a well-made play on the first try, any more than a scrimer could expect to defeat the first opponent he ever faced. It was just that I had worked so hard on it, and hoped for so much from it.

“You mustn’t be discouraged, Widge,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We’re all agreed, I think, that the play shows—”

“Aye, I ken. It shows
promise.”

“I was about to say that it shows considerable skill, and a good ear for dialogue. There were several speeches in there that I would have sworn I wrote myself.”

“You d-did,” Mr. Heminges reminded him.

Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “I meant in the parts that Widge composed.” He turned to me. “You know, if you intend to be a playwright, you may wish to take a
nom de plume
, one that will look a bit more distinguished on a playbill.”

“And with your talent for titles,” said Mr. Phillips, “you should have no trouble coining a good name for yourself.”

It struck me, then, that none of them knew yet about Jamie Redshaw. I had not meant to keep it from them, only from Judith, and now that she was gone, what did it matter? “Actually,” I said, “I do ha’ a name—or the nether end of one, at least.”

Half my audience seemed astonished by my news; the other half were not. Mr. Phillips and Mr. Armin confessed that they had never really believed Jamie Redshaw’s story. Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Heminges said that though they had not completely trusted the man, they had never doubted that he was my father.

“Will you take his name, then?” asked Mr. Armin.

I stared thoughtfully into my pot of ale. “I’ve not made up me mind.”

“Redshaw never indicated what your Christian name might be?” said Mr. Phillips.

“Nay. ‘A was not around when I was born, and me mother didn’t live long enough to name me. I do recall Mistress MacGregor saying once that the priest who baptized me gave me his own name, for want of any other. No one has ever called me by it, though.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“William, I believe.”

“That’s an excellent name,” said Mr. Shakespeare.

Mr. Heminges nodded approvingly. “W-William Redshaw. That would not l-look amiss on a playbill.”

I gave a skeptical sniff. “Assuming I ever manage to write a decent play.”

“Oh, you w-will.” He turned to Mr. Shakespeare. “Will he n-not, Will?”

Mr. Shakespeare shrugged and gave me a rather sly smile. “If he has the will, he will.”

I refused to be coaxed out of my sour mood by their banter. “Well, i’ the meanwhile, will you gi’ me back the putrid one?”

Though I wanted nothing less than to look at another play just then, I forced myself to return to the office, this time by way of the outside stairs. Even if I did not work on
Sejanus
, I must at least determine what I had done with the key. The sky was nearly dark now, and even before I reached the second-floor balcony, I noticed a faint glow of light issuing from the small window of the office.

Someone must be working within. But who? All the sharers had either gone home or were gathered in the dark parlor. Curious and a little alarmed, I crept along the balcony, crouched down next to the window, and peered inside.

A single lighted candle sat atop Mr. Shakespeare’s desk. Bent over it, one large hand cupped about the flame as though to keep its light contained, was a hulking figure that I did not recognize at once. Only when the man’s face moved from the shadows and into the candle’s light, revealing thick, unruly eyebrows set above bulging eyes, did I realize who the intruder was—Henslowe, from the Admiral’s Men. It was easy enough to guess why he was here; he wanted the script of
Sejanus.

I
f I had had a dell of sense, I would have run and fetched the sharers. What prevented me was the thought that had I not left the key in the lock, the man could not have gotten into the room. If I handled this myself, perhaps no one need know of my blunder.

I was not foolish enough to try to subdue Henslowe; he was roughly twice my size. I would do better to trust my wits. I took a deep breath, stood, and flung open the door. Henslowe spun about with a quickness surprising in such a bulky wight. In one hand he clutched the script of
Sejanus.
“I wouldn’t take that an I were you,” I said. Despite my efforts to keep my voice calm and confident, it cracked a little.

Henslowe looked me up and down, as though assessing how much of a threat I might pose. He seemed to conclude that it was very little. “And why is that?”

“Because. That’s th’ old script, the one wi’ all the Papist propaganda. The new version is locked in a trunk i’ the property room.”

Scowling, he glanced at the script, then back at me. “No. It can’t be.” But it was clear that if my lie had not convinced him, it had at least given him pause. With a look that warned me to keep my distance, he turned and held the script to the light. “You’re lying. This is not in Jonson’s hand; someone has copied it. Who would bother to copy out a script they couldn’t use?” He stuffed the papers into his wallet and headed for the door.

I blocked his way with my body. “I won’t let you—” I managed to say before his fist knocked all the breath out of me. I doubled over and fell to my knees. Henslowe shoved me out of the doorway and was gone.

Gasping, I struggled to my feet and stumbled after him. When I reached the top of the stairs, I halted, taken aback by the scene below me. Henslowe lay sprawled upon the steps, with the point of Mr. Armin’s rapier at his throat. Mr. Shakespeare was bent over Henslowe, digging through the man’s wallet.

Mr. Armin glanced up at me. “We’ve caught the culprit. Are you all right?”

“Aye,” I groaned. “More or less.” I slowly descended the stairs, holding the railing with one hand and my aching gut with the other. “Shall I fetch a constable?”

“No,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We may as well let him go; we have what we want.” In one hand he brandished the purloined pages; in the other, the key to the office.

Mr. Armin lowered his blade and Henslowe got to his feet, straightening his doublet. “It’s I who should call the constables,” he growled. “I was only taking what already belonged to me.”

“Well, you may as well bring on the catchpolls,” said Mr. Armin. “Heaven knows you’ve tried everything else to shut us down.”

To my surprise, there was very little real rancor in either man’s voice. In truth, they sounded less like enemies than like members of opposing teams engaged in some rough-and-tumble sport, a sort of grown-up version of King of the Hill that would decide once and for all which was the premier theatre company in London.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” replied Henslowe.

“Why, Henslowe,” said Mr. Armin. “I do believe you’ve missed your calling. You feign innocence and indignation so well, you should have been a player.”

“And you two should have been thieves.” Henslowe scowled at his empty wallet, then at the bundle of pages in Mr. Shakespeare’s hand. “You have a paper there that’s not part of the script. I’ll have it back.”

Mr. Shakespeare held up a sheet that had been folded several times. “Is this what you mean?”

“Yes.” Henslowe reached for it.

Mr. Shakespeare drew it back. “No, I believe we’ll keep this for now. If you want it so badly, there must be some reason.”

Henslowe glared at him a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter; you won’t be able to read it, anyway.” He turned to me. “How can you bear to be part of this band of thieves?”

“At least they don’t go about walloping folk i’ the gut,” I said.

Henslowe gave a short laugh. “I like your spirit, lad. If you ever decide you’d prefer to work for a reputable company, come and see me.” Pushing roughly past the sharers, he stalked off into the night.

“I tried me best to stop him,” I said.

“Well, it looks as though you stopped his fist, at least,” said Mr. Armin. “Come, let’s lock up and go home. You’ve done enough work for one day.”

As we climbed the stairs, Mr. Shakespeare said, “What I wonder is, how did Henslowe come by this key?”

“Um … I can answer that,” I said reluctantly. “I left it i’ the lock this morning, I wis.”

Though Mr. Shakespeare did not exactly look happy, he did not chide me. “Well, there’s no harm done, I suppose, except perhaps to your stomach—assuming that the play is all here, that is.” He held the crumpled pages up to the light and examined them.

I peered over his shoulder. “That looks like all of it.”

He unfolded the sheet that Henslowe had said was not a part of the script. “Well, he was right. I can’t begin to read this.” Mr. Shakespeare handed the paper to me. It was smaller than the script pages, and contained neither Mr. Jonson’s handwriting nor mine, but several rows of curious symbols that might have been some foreign alphabet:

“It’s some of your scribble hand, is it not?” said Mr. Armin.

I shook my head emphatically. “Nay. A few of the characters are similar to ones I use, and a couple of them look like numerals, but most I’ve never set eyes on afore. It’s obviously a message of some sort, though.”

“Obviously. The question is, from whom?”

Mr. Shakespeare was looking at me in an odd fashion, not unlike the way Henslowe had looked when I told him he had the wrong script. He took the paper from me, refolded it, and tucked it into his wallet. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that it’s from our spy.”

Mr. Armin looked thoughtful. “You know, perhaps we should give Henslowe a dose of his own poison—hire someone in
his
company to be
our
informant.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” asked Mr. Shakespeare.

“No,” admitted Mr. Armin. “I’m sure Henslowe has convinced them all that we’re Satan’s minions.” He held up a hand. “Ah, I have it! One of us will cleverly disguise himself and convince the Admiral’s Men to hire him!”

Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “That’s the worst idea I ever heard.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Armin. “It always seems to work in your plays.”

Neither of the men had paid Mr. Pope a visit for some time, and they decided to make up for it now. In fact, as Mr. Armin revealed, that was the very reason they happened to meet Henslowe on the stairs—they had been on their way to fetch me and accompany me home.

Mr. Pope greeted them with such enthusiasm that I feared his health might suffer. “This calls for a round of brandy!”

“I’ll fetch it,” I said, not wishing him to overtax himself.

“Thank you, Widge.”

Mr. Armin held up an admonishing hand. “Tut, tut, Thomas. You must address the boy properly. From now on it’s to be William Redshaw, Esquire.”

Mr. Pope gave me a baffled look. “Redshaw?”

“Aye. ‘A was me father after all, it seems.”

“How long have you known?”

“A few days, is all.”

“Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“I—I don’t ken. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment.”

“I’m sorry, Widge,” said Mr. Armin. “I assumed he knew.”

“You called me Widge,” I said.

“I’m sorry. William, then.”

“Nay. I’ll not be William, either. That was no more a real name than Widge was, only a sort of expedient. If I’m to have another name, I’ll choose it meself.” I turned and left the library. I had nearly forgotten about La Voisin’s predictions, but one of them came back to me now:
You will make a name for yourself.

When I returned with the brandy, the three sharers were huddled together like conspirators, talking in low tones. “Thank you, Wi—” Mr. Pope broke off. “Well, whoever you may be. Why don’t you find Goody Willingson and ask her for something to eat? The three of us have business matters to discuss.”

The manner in which he dismissed me seemed brusque and impersonal, not like Mr. Pope at all. I supposed that he was cross with me, for not telling him about Jamie Redshaw. I felt almost as though I had been cast out, like Timon. But instead of retreating to the woods, I went only as far as the kitchen, where, as I had no roots at hand, I cut a slice of bread and buttered it, then sat nibbling halfheartedly at it while I mulled over what my name should be.