Shakespeare's Spy (5 page)

“Does ‘t ha’ a name? The play, I mean.”

He gave me a rather peevish glance. “I did not bring you here to ply me with questions.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. I’ll just … get me pencil, then.” I dug into my wallet for the plumbago pencil I used when I needed to write rapidly.

Mr. Shakespeare sighed. “You needn’t apologize, Widge. I’m not upset with you, only with the play.”

“Oh. It’s not going well, then?” Realizing I’d asked yet another question, I added quickly, “An you don’t mind me asking.”

“If ‘not going well’ is the Yorkshire way of saying ‘a total shambles,’ then yes, I’d say that’s an accurate assessment.” He
lifted his tankard and, finding it empty, rapped it on the table. When the innkeeper had filled it, Mr. Shakespeare
took a long draught of ale and then sighed again. “At this point the play has no title. I suppose I could name it after the main character, Timon, but that seems a bit dull.”

“You called
Hamlet
after the main character,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well, this is not
Hamlet
. More’s the pity.”

“Most of the wights seem to ha’ Roman names: Lucius, Sempronius, Flaminius. Is that where it’s set, then?”

“That was my plan, originally. But considering how cold the climate is these days for Catholics, I thought it would be wiser to choose some non-Papist country.”

At a nearby table, a quartet of well-dressed wights who had clearly swallowed too many tokens, as they say, had been trading drunken insults for some little while. Now their dispute suddenly turned physical. It might have escalated into a duel with rapiers and daggers had not one of their number suddenly been seized by the urge to bring up all the ale he had consumed, even more quickly than it had gone down.

When the cursing innkeeper had chased them out and set about mopping up the mess, I said, “I don’t ken how you manage to write anything down here, wi’ all the hurly-burly.”

“I seem to work better where there’s life going on about me. It’s far too quiet in my lodgings—not to mention cold. Besides, I like to read the dialogue aloud. My landlord disapproves of theatre folk enough as it is; if he were to catch me ranting to an empty room, he’d likely call a constable and have me evicted. But here”—he gestured at a table across the room, where a grizzled man in a dyer’s apron was apparently having a spirited discussion with a meat pie—”no one even notices.” Mr. Shakespeare took another swig of ale. “All right, then. Where did I leave off?”

I did my best to read his scrawl. “
Flavius:
‘The greatest of your having lacks a half to pay your present … belts’?”

“
Belts?
“ echoed Mr. Shakespeare. “Where does it say ‘belts’?” I pointed to the word in question. “Oh. It’s
debts
. Go on.”

“
Timon:
‘Let all my land be solid—
sold
.’ That’s where you stopped.”

He stared out the window again, fingering his earring. “
Flavius:
“Tis all engaged, some forfeited, some …’ No. ‘Some forfeited and gone. And what remains … and what remains will hardly stop the mouth of present dues; the future comes apace.”‘ He glanced at the paper. “Am I going too rapidly?”

“Nay, I’ve got it. See?” Though Mr. Shakespeare’s hand was difficult for anyone but himself to decipher, mine was impossible, for I had used the system of swift writing taught to me by Dr. Bright, my first master. The passage I had put down looked like this:

Mr. Shakespeare waved the paper away. “I’ll take your word on it, Widge. Let’s proceed.” But before he could dictate another word, a slim, beardless fellow with black hair that was pulled back into a horse’s tail strode up to the table and, without a by-your-leave, blurted out, “Will! I must speak to you! At once!”

M
r. Shakespeare turned to his brother with a look that would have made anyone with an ounce of tact apologize and return at some better time. Instead, Ned glared accusingly at me, as though I were the intruder. “Don’t you have something else to do, Widge?”

I, in turn, looked to Mr. Shakespeare. “Shall I …?”

“Yes, yes, go on,” he said. “We’ll work some more this afternoon.”

I slid from the booth and Ned took my place, so impatiently that he trod on my foot. As I headed upstairs, I heard Mr. Shakespeare say wearily, “What is it
this
time, Ned?”

I did not linger to listen to Ned’s reply. I was already more familiar with his troubles than I cared to be. They were predictable, in any case, nearly always involving either a game of chance, a drunken brawl, or an insult to someone’s honor—very often a woman’s. Occasionally he managed to combine all three. The most predictable thing was that Ned himself was
never at fault. He was, he insisted, a mere victim of circumstances, condemned by Fate forever to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the wrong company.

I made for the tiring-room, meaning to unpack and examine my costume for that night’s performance of
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
. I found Sam rummaging through a costume trunk like a badger digging a den. The floor was strewn ankle-deep with gowns and cloaks, doublets and breeches. There was no sign of our tiring-man. “Where’s Richard, then?” I asked.

“At home,” Sam replied without looking up from his task. “Sick with the ague.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s good. I was afeared ‘a might be buried under all this. I thought you were supposed to be straightening up this room.”

“I am!”

“Well, an this is your notion of straightening up, I’d hate to see you make a mess.”

He paused from his pawing to wave his arms about despairingly. “I can’t find my costume for tonight! I’ve looked everywhere!”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Sam. It’s certain to be here somewhere—beneath all this, no doubt.” I picked up several items of clothing, smoothed them out, and hung them on one of the many hooks that lined the walls. “You’ve made a mingle-mangle of these. Help me sort them out.”

Grumpily, Sam left off digging and set about separating the costumes into lots, according to the name tags that were sewn inside them. “This gown says
Julia
. Does that mean Julia the character, or Julia the real person?”

“Julia the character.” I picked up the dress labeled
Silvia
and held it up near the window to catch the dull winter daylight.
There was a ragged hole under one arm. “Oh, gis. A rat’s been gnawing at me gown. It’ll ha’ to be mended.”

“Never mind that now,” Sam said. “Help me find Lucetta’s costume. If it doesn’t turn up, they’ll take it out of my pay.”

“Surely they wouldn’t blame
you
, would they?”

“That’s the rule. We’re each of us responsible for our own stuff.”

“Oh. I thought it was up to the tiring-man to take care of the costumes.”

Sam shook his head. “The sharers made the rule several years ago, when costumes started disappearing. As it turned out, one of the hired men was making off with them and selling them for several pounds apiece.”

“Gog’s nowns! They’re worth that much?”

“Why do you think I’m so frantic to find mine? Even if they held back my whole wages, it would take me months to pay it off.”

“Unless, of course, you win the lottery,” I said.

“Well, I was hoping you’d help me out, once you come into that fortune.”

“I might. For now, let’s keep looking.”

Between us, we shook out and hung up every piece of clothing from the trunk. There was no sign of Sam’s costume for
Two Gentlemen
. Sighing, he sat on the trunk and put his head in his hands. “It’s no use. I’m in the briars.”

“Perhaps it got put i’ some other trunk by mistake?”

“Well, we don’t have the time to go through them all. I’ll just have to wear something else.” He eyed my gown, which was spread out on the windowsill. “Perhaps I’ll wear yours. As much as you’ve grown in the past year, I’ll wager it no longer fits you.”

“I’ll wager it does.”

“A penny?”

“A penny.” I began unhooking the front of my doublet.

Sam picked up Sal Pavy’s gown and studied the tag that read
Julia
. “What do you hear from the real Julia, then?”

I tossed my doublet aside and started on my linen shirt. “Naught, for three months or more. I hope she’s not fallen ill or something.”

“It’s possible. I hear the plague took nearly as many lives in Paris as it did here.”

The mere suggestion that Julia might have met the same dismal fate as Sander sent a shudder of dread through me.

“I’m sorry, Widge,” Sam murmured. “I wasn’t thinking.”

I forced a smile. “It’s all right. I’m sure there’s naught amiss wi’ her. Most likely she’s busy, that’s all.” I was down to my underclothing and about to slip into the gown when the door to the tiring-room swung inward and a face appeared in the opening. To my surprise and dismay it was not one of the men from the company. It was, in fact, not a man at all, but a very attractive young woman.

I quickly covered myself with the gown, my face hot with embarrassment. The intruder, however, was apparently neither very embarrassed nor very apologetic. More than anything else, she seemed amused. Her eyes, which were strikingly blue in contrast to her milk-white skin, gave my gown an appraising glance, as though I had held it up for her approval. “Very fetching,” she said. “But the hem is several inches too short.”

“There, I told you!” crowed Sam. “You owe me a penny!”

I was having some difficulty finding my voice. When I finally did, it betrayed me by breaking dramatically. “What—” I cleared my throat, and blushed even more deeply. “What did you want then, mistress?”

Her only difficulty seemed to lie in keeping a laugh from escaping her. She succeeded by biting her lower lip—which, I could not help noticing, despite my discomposure, was red as a rose petal. “I was looking for my father, actually.”

“Oh.” It was all I seemed able to come up with.

Luckily, Sam was not so tongue-tied. “If you tell us
who
he is, perhaps we may tell you
where
he is.”

“Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Which one? Ned or Will?”

She laughed a very charming laugh. “Does it seem likely to you that Ned Shakespeare would have a daughter of seventeen?”

Sam shrugged. “He may have gotten an early start.”

“I’m sure he did. But not
that
early.”

The tiring-room had no heat save what little crept in from adjacent rooms, and in my scantily clad state I had begun to shiver. “An you gi’ me a moment,” I said pointedly, “I’ll be happy to take you to your father.”

“All right.” She added mischievously, “I suppose you’d like me to wait outside.”

“Aye.”

She had started to leave, but this brought her back. “
Aye?
You’re not from London, are you?”

“Nay. No. Yorkshire.”

“Really? How did you happen to come to London?”

My teeth were fairly chattering now. “Do you mind an we discuss this another time?”

“
An
you insist.” She closed the door at last. I scrambled into my breeches, shirt, and doublet.

“I never knew Mr. Shakespeare had a daughter,” Sam said. “He so seldom speaks about his family. She’s a lot better looking than he is, don’t you think?”

“I can’t say that I noticed,” I lied.

Sam laughed. “Much! That’s why you were gaping at her so dumbly, as though she were some Gorgon whose gaze turns men to stone.”

“I was embarrassed, that’s all.” I sat on the trunk and put my hand to my chest.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t ken, exactly. Me heart’s pounding and I’m—I’m all out of breath, as though I’d been dancing the Spanish panic. And just feel me forehead.” Despite the chill in the room, my face felt like a live coal.

Sam’s face grew grave. “I’ve seen these same symptoms before, Widge. They’re unmistakable.”

I tried to swallow a rising sense of fear, but my throat was dry and tight. “What do you wis it is, then? It can’t be—it can’t be the plague, surely. I’ve shown none of th’ other signs.”

“I’m afraid it’s even worse than that. Unless I’m sorely mistaken, you’ve a bad case of lovesickness.”

For a moment I stared incredulously into his face, which now wore a broad grin. Then I shoved him away. “You huddypeak!” I got to my feet and straightened my doublet. “Love’s not an illness!”

As I exited the tiring-room, Sam called after me, “I wouldn’t be so sure!”

M
r. Shakespeare’s daughter was waiting just outside the door. I suspected, in fact, that she had been eavesdropping. If so, she showed no sign of shame. “Well, at last!” she said. She turned to her companion, a tall, fashionably dressed fellow with a curly black beard, a swarthy complexion, bushy eyebrows that nearly met over a nose like a hawk’s beak, and eyes as dark as lumps of coal—or Madame La Voisin’s scrying ball. “And I thought,” the girl went on, “that it was only women who were so slow in dressing themselves.”

“I—I was only—” I stammered.

“Instead of trying so hard to embarrass the lad,” said the stranger, “you might introduce us.”

“I can’t,” the girl said, a bit petulantly. “I don’t know his name.”