Shakespeare's Spy (26 page)

“That he is one of my recruits.”

“‘A means to be a
priest
?”

Gerard nodded. “He’s spent a good deal of time with me lately, learning about the faith.”

“Shrew me,” I murmured.’A’s turned traitor after all.”

He gave me a startled glance. “You consider Catholics to be traitors?”

“Nay, not I. It’s another of La Voisin’s predictions.” Though I suspected that Sam’s interest in religion was not nearly so strong as his admiration for Gerard, I did not say so. I did not need to. The priest seemed to have read my mind.

“I am not so naive,” he said, “as to think that it was my lectures on the Trinity and original sin that won Sam over. More likely it was my accounts of exotic places and hairbreadth escapes. But the Church is not particular about our reasons for joining.” He gave a wry smile. “If it were, I would be a gentleman farmer now, managing my father’s lands, trying to save sick sheep and not souls. Like Sam, I was attracted more by the prospect of travel and adventure than by the faith itself. That came later.”

“Aye, well, don’t expect too much of Sam. ‘A’s not a bad sort, but a bit of a scamp.” I drew my purse from inside my doublet and shook the three sovereigns from it. “An you find Julia, will you give her these, to pay her passage home?”

The priest closed one hand around the money and the other around my arm. “I’ll find her,” he said.

With the aid of the smelling salts and a bit of brandy, we brought Tom Cogan fully back to life at last. But, as Gerard pointed out, that life would be worth very little if he remained in London, for he would surely be apprehended again.

“I don’t know where else I’d go,” Cogan said sullenly.

“I can take you to France with me,” Gerard offered. “Of course,” he added, “you’d have to agree to join the Society of Jesus.”

Cogan snorted. “I’d as soon join the Society of Satan.” He poured himself another drink of brandy and downed it. “No,
gentlemen, I’ll take my chances here in London. If I keep to Alsatia, the authorities can’t touch me. Where I made my mistake was in stepping outside it, and mixing with well-bred folk.” He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. “It’s funny, though, isn’t it? If I’d just gone ahead and stole the money to send to Julia, instead of humbly asking folk for it, none of this would have happened.” He fingered the T-shaped scar on his neck. “I guess it’s best just to be what’s expected of you.”

His words sounded familiar, but it took me a moment to recall where I had heard them before: Julia had said something almost identical, when she was forced to quit the company because she was a girl.

In the morning, I woke to the sound of church bells. They were not the gentle treble bells, though, that rang prime each dawn; these were deep-voiced bells with melancholy tones, and they were tolling slowly, rhythmically, without ceasing.

I sat up and peered through my window. Across the river, in the vicinity of St. Paul’s, a shifting tower of gray smoke was climbing into the sky. To the east, somewhere near the Cross Keys, rose another. I sighted a third far to the northeast, where Finsbury Fields lay, and a fourth in the northwest—at St. Bartholomew’s, no doubt.

My first muddleheaded thought was that we were being invaded by some foreign army—from Spain, perhaps, or France—and that its soldiers were setting fire to the city. But it was not an alarm that the bells were ringing, either; it was a death knell. Once I realized that, it was easy enough to guess what the source of the smoke was: It came from the bonfires that, by tradition, were lighted to signal the passing of the Crown from one monarch to another.

T
he queen’s was not the only death we mourned that day. When I reached the Globe I learned that Sal Pavy had passed away during the night. So La Voisin’s last unfulfilled prophecy had come true: someone had died because of me—because I had not had sense enough, or courage enough, to ignore a foolish dare.

I had hoped to say farewell to Sam. But soon after the news of Her Majesty’s death spread through the city, Father Gerard and his recruits boarded a ship bound for France. I knew that the priest would do his best to locate Julia and send her home, as he had promised; what I did not know was whether his best would be good enough. I could only wait and see.

The fate of the Chamberlain’s Men was equally uncertain. In her final hours, Elizabeth had indicated at last, through the use of signs—for her voice had deserted her entirely—that her successor would be James, the current King of Scotland. We had all expected that, of course. But we had no idea what else
to expect of him; no one seemed even to know when he might arrive in London, let alone what he might do once he got there.

Nearly a week passed without news from any quarter, aside from a rumor that the Admiral’s Men had hired Ned Shakespeare as a player, not merely an informant. It seemed that, like us, they had determined to go on as though the future of the London theatre were assured.

We could not truly go on the same as always, though. With Ned and Sam and Sal Pavy all gone, the company was as sparse as it had been on tour the previous summer. There were not enough actors left to cast any of our usual plays, and yet we could ill afford to take on new prentices or hired men until we knew where we stood.

The weather had grown so warm that on the afternoons when it did not rain, we held our rehearsals upon the stage. The long winter had been hard on the boards; many were warped and a few were rotten, so that treading on them was nearly as risky as walking on the river ice had been. We were willing to put up with it, though; we all longed to play to an audience again, and when we were on the stage we could at least have the illusion of performing.

Occasionally some tradesman or truant prentice passed by and, hearing our voices declaiming and our swords clashing, peered in through the entrance and perhaps lingered for a while to watch. No one attempted to chase off these interlopers. Any audience was better than none.

As the weather improved, so did Mr. Pope’s health. Several days a week he joined us for dinner at the Globe, or sat in on a rehearsal and read all the unfilled parts. He had already grown accustomed to calling me James. The rest of the company was just as quick to adjust. It was nothing new to them, after all,
having to address a fellow player by a different name; every one of us changed his identity, sometimes even his age and gender, from performance to performance.

On the days when Mr. Pope did not visit, I made my nightly report to him as usual. One evening as we sat talking over mugs of ale, Goody Willingson entered the library with a curious look on her broad face—half eager, half guarded, as though she had received some delicious bit of news but had been forbidden to tell it. “There’s a young gentleman here to see you,” she said solemnly.

“What sort of young gentleman?” asked Mr. Pope.

Goody Willingson lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “A rather scruffy-looking one, sir, to tell the truth.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Pope sighed. “Well, I suppose you may as well send him in.” When the housekeeper departed, he turned to me. “Collecting for some charity, no doubt.” A few moments later the boy appeared in the doorway—a slight lad, dressed in a shabby tunic and trousers, with a woolen prentice’s cap pulled low over his ears. His face was liberally smudged with coal dust.

“Begging your pardon, sirs.” He had the same thick, working-class accent as Tom Cogan. “I was wondering whether your acting company might have room for another prentice.”

“They may, in a few weeks.” Mr. Pope looked the lad over. “Can you act?”

“Apparently so,” said the boy. Laughing, he yanked off the cap, revealing a wealth of auburn hair.

“Gog’s blood!” I cried. “Julia!”

Mr. Pope was even more astonished than I. Clutching his chest, he staggered backward and slumped into his chair.

“Oh, gis! The shock was too much for his heart, I wis!”

Julia ran to the old man’s side and seized one of his limp hands in hers. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pope! I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

His lolling head suddenly popped upright and he beamed at her triumphantly. “Apparently so!”

She flung down his hand. “You were
pretending
?”

“No, my dear, I was
acting
.”

“Whatever you call it, it was cruel. I thought you were dying.”

“And I thought you were a lad, so we’re even.”

Julia could not suppress a smile. “I suppose we are, at that.” She turned to me with a mischievous look. “I had you fooled as well, didn’t I?”

“Only for a moment,” I said indignantly. “It was the dirt on your face that did it. It hid your features.”

She wiped one cheek with the sleeve of her tunic. “That’s the idea. I thought I’d be safer among all those sailors if they didn’t suspect I was a girl.”

“Gerard gave you the money I sent, then?”

“Gerard?”

“The priest.”

She shook her head. “I talked to no priest.”

“Then how did you pay for your passage?” asked Mr. Pope.

“Well, after a week or so I despaired of ever hearing from my da, so I did the only thing I could think of: I sold my clothing.”

“Your
clothing
?”

“Two very elegant gowns, given to me by—” She paused, clearly embarrassed. “Well, at any rate, they fetched a good price, enough so that I could pay the rent I owed and purchase these rags—” She plucked distastefully at the worn tunic
and trousers. “—and still have enough left over to buy my passage.”

“You needn’t ha’ done that,” I said. I went on to recount the whole story of how Tom Cogan had come to us, and everything that ensued—or nearly everything. I made no mention of the things Cogan had confessed to me prior to taking the mandrake potion. He had asked me to reveal them to Julia if he died. But since he had survived, he could do it himself, if he chose.

“There,” said Mr. Pope. “James has told you what went on here; now we’d like to hear your side of the tale.”

Julia gave me a puzzled glance. “
James
?”

“It’s me new name. I’ll explain later—after you’ve told us why you had to leave France.”

Julia lowered her gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not a pretty story.”

“Well, you needn’t tell us if you’d rather not,” said Mr. Pope. “But you’re among friends now, my dear.”

She smiled faintly. “I know. And I’m grateful to be. I’ve missed you all, very much.” She wiped at her face again, this time leaving damp, pale streaks in the coal dust. Then, in a voice so soft at first that I could scarcely hear, she gave us a brief account of all that had befallen her during her fifteen months in Paris.

I knew many of the details already, from her letters. She had had the good luck to arrive in France at a time when the notion of women acting upon the stage was just beginning to gain acceptance. Because there were so few experienced actresses, Julia had found a position at once with one of the most successful companies in Paris.

What she had never revealed in her letters was that most of the public still regarded female players as degraded and immoral, little better than women of the streets, and treated
them as such. And, as the companies themselves did not consider actresses the equal of actors, they were paid a pittance. In an attempt to improve their social and financial status, most of the women players found a patron, some wealthy lord who would offer them protection, money, and a measure of respectability in return for their favors.

Julia flatly declared that she would be no man’s mistress. For a time she managed well enough, lodging with the company manager and his wife and discouraging the amorous advances of male players and playgoers with the help of a concealed dagger.

As her popularity and the number of roles she played increased, she caught the eye of the Comte de Belin, who was well known for his many affairs. At first he expressed his admiration only with gifts—including the two gowns she had later sold for passage money. But with each month that passed his attentions grew more and more ardent, and the more she resisted them the more insistent he became, until at last he declared that if she would not come to him willingly, he would take her against her will. That same day, she quit the company and found a room in a seedy section of the city where the count could not find her.

When she had finished her story, she bowed her head, as if in contrition. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, my dear,” said Mr. Pope. “You behaved courageously and virtuously.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” she replied. “I was not very shrewd, though, was I? In being so courageous and so virtuous, I lost my one remaining chance to be a player.”

T
hough Julia could never have brought herself to ask for charity of any sort, when Mr. Pope insisted that she stay with us for the time being, she was clearly relieved. For the next several nights, she and I sat up long past the time when the rest of the household had retired. Mostly, we talked; it had been an eventful year for both of us, and there was much to tell. But sometimes we sat silent for long stretches, lost in our own thoughts yet always aware of each other—not separated by the silence so much as sharing it, the way folk may share a warm and satisfying meal.

During one of these times, I caught Julia gazing at me in a peculiar fashion, as though I had done something amusing or unexpected—let go a belch, perhaps, or torn a hole in my hose. “What?” I said.

“You’ve changed.”

I ran a hand self-consciously over my close-cropped head.
“It’s me hair, no doubt, or the lack of it. No more pudding basin.”

“I noticed. But that’s not it.”

“I’m an inch or two taller than when you saw me last.”

“I noticed that as well. But it’s not that, either. I think it’s your manner.”

“Me manners?” I thought perhaps I had belched after all, or passed wind without knowing it.

She laughed. “Your
manner
. The way you speak and act.”

“Well, me acting’s got a bit better, but me speech has stayed the same. Folk still make fun of ’t.”

“You sot. That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”