Shakespeare's Spy Read online

  “Like Hamlet.”

  “Yes. Like Hamlet.” He rubbed his high forehead as though it pained” him. “Unfortunately, money is the thing that is uppermost in my mind these days. Perhaps I was trying to purge myself by writing about it.” He gathered up the wadded papers. “But that’s not your concern. The reason I called you in was to ask another sort of favor.”

  “Gladly. What is’t?”

  “I want you to escort my daughter to my lodgings. You know where I live?”

  “Aye. The corner of Silver and Monkswell Street in Cripplegate.”

  “I’ve sent her trunk on ahead, along with a note to the—” Mr. Shakespeare broke off as someone approached the booth. The scent of cloves infused the air around us.

  Judith slid in next to me. I kept my eyes on the table, certain that the expression on my face must be a foolish one. “You were saying, Father?” she prompted.

  “I was saying that I’ve sent your trunk to my lodgings, along with a note to Madam Mountjoy, asking if she will kindly put you up for a few days.”

  “I would rather you had said a few weeks.” Judith picked up his tankard and peered into it to see whether any ale remained. I snatched up the mug that had held the horse urine, lest she decide to examine it, too. “In fact,” she said, “I’m not at all sure that I won’t decide to stay in London indefinitely.”

  Mr. Shakespeare appeared alarmed by this prospect. “Oh? Have you discussed this with your mother?”

  “Of course not. She’d have had a seizure.” Judith gave a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Father, you know what Stratford is like. Aside from mother, there’s absolutely no one and nothing there that holds the slightest interest for me.” She gave an impish smile. “And, honestly, sometimes even Mother can be a bit tiresome.”

  Mr. Shakespeare did his best not to look amused. “All the same, I don’t think it would be wise to stay in London. What would you do with yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Be a gatherer for the Globe, perhaps. I’m good at managing money. On what you send us, I’ve had to be.”

  “That’s enough of that!” Mr. Shakespeare snapped. Judith’s smile faded and she looked down at her lap as though a trifle ashamed of her impudence—but only a trifle. “Now,” her father continued, “I’ve asked Widge to accompany you to the Mountjoys’.”

  Judith’s gaze met his again, and it seemed puzzled, reproachful. “You’ve asked Widge? I thought that you would …”

  Now Mr. Shakespeare was the one to look away. “I’m sorry. As I’ve told you, I’m very busy just now. We have a sharers’ meeting shortly. We must come to a decison on whether or not to raise the admission price of the plays.”

  “Oh. Well. I can see how that would be more important than squiring me about.” She slid from the booth and held out a hand to me. “Come, then, Widge. You’ll no doubt be better company, anyway.”

  Though Mr. Shakespeare pretended to ignore his daughter’s barbed remark, I could tell from the way he stiffened slightly that it had struck its mark. As I got to my feet, Judith said to her father in a voice as cool as a cowcumber, “I trust you were able to make some arrangements for Mr… . Garrett?”

  “Yes. Ben Jonson has volunteered to take him in.”

  “Good.” She slipped her arm through mine. “I suppose I’ll see you after the performance this evening, Father?”

  “Yes. You needn’t wait up for me, though. I may be late.”

  “Of course.” She swept out of the parlor, hauling me with her. After fetching our cloaks, we passed through the courtyard and onto Fenchurch Street. Judith drew in a deep breath of the cold air and put on the semblance of a smile. “Parents can be so vexing. Particularly fathers. Don’t you agree?”

  “I … I wouldn’t ken,” I murmered.

  “What do you mean?”

  I was not anxious to reveal how little I knew of my mother and father and their station in life. Mistress MacGregor, who ran the orphanage where I grew up, had given me a crucifix my mother once wore, inscribed with the name Sarah. Jamie Redshaw had told me a few more things about my mother, but whether or not any of them were true I could not say, any more than I could say whether anything he had said about himself was true.

  Judith peered into my downturned face, making me so flustered that I missed my footing and very nearly sent us stumbling into the path of a costermonger’s cart. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Never mind. I want to know what you meant when you said you wouldn’t ken.”

  “It means I wouldn’t know.”

  “I ken that. But why would you not know?”

  “Because.” I would have left it at that, but the way her bright blue eyes were fixed upon me somehow made me wish to tell her everything that was in my mind and in my heart, all in one great rush. “Because me mother died borning me, and me father … well, I’m not exactly certain who me father was.”

  She bit her lip. “I see. You’re an orphan, then?”

  “Aye,” I admitted mournfully, half expecting her to pull away, as though I’d confessed to being the bearer of some dread disease.

  To my surprise, she drew even closer and patted my arm. “But that’s not such a bad thing, is it? I mean, if you don’t know who your parents are, then they might be anyone, mightn’t they? Who knows, perhaps you’re the illegitimate son of some great lord with piles and piles of money.”

  “Would that were so,” I said fervently. “Then I might hope to—” My voice broke then, and perhaps it was just as well, for I had been about to say something I had no business saying, or even thinking: that if I were rich and of noble birth, and not a poor prentice with no prospects beyond my next role, then there would be some chance, however small, that I might win her affections.

  “What?” she urged. “What would you hope for?”

  “Nothing,” I said. But the knowing smile on her face led me to suspect that she had guessed my thoughts.

  She tossed her yellow curls. “Well, in any case, I believe it doesn’t matter whether a man is born high or low, not in this day and age. If you work hard and use your wits, you can make of yourself what you will. Look at my father, or Mr. Jonson. They’re the sons of tradesmen, both of them, and yet they’ve earned both renown and respect.”

  “I didn’t ken that anyone had much respect for theatre folk—even for playwrights.”

  “Of course they do. My father’s name and work are well regarded all over England.”

  “It sounds as though you’re very proud of him.”

  “I am. I may not always show it, I grant you. Even though he’s a genius and all that, he can be a bit of a dolt sometimes. My mother says that it’s not just him, it’s men in general.” She shook my arm playfully. “Tell me, Widge, are you a dolt sometimes?”

  “Aye. More often than not, I expect,” I said glumly.

  Suddenly aware of how dismal her image of me must be, I rummaged through myself, as Sam had rummaged through the costume trunk, searching for some admirable quality or uncommon skill that I might bring to her attention. My acting? No, she had seen a sample of that this afternoon, and I did not care to remind her. In my desperation I resorted to a deplorable habit I had foolishly thought I was rid of: I lied. “I am writing a play, though.”

  10

  Alie is like an arrow: once you’ve let it fly, there’s no calling it back; the damage is done. And telling a single lie is like loosing a single arrow at an angry bear: one is seldom enough; it must be followed by another, and another.

  “You’re not!” she said.

  “You doubt me?” I managed to sound indignant.

  “No, of course not. What’s this play of yours called, then?”

  I pulled a title out of the air, a phrase I had once heard. “It’s called The Mad Men of Gotham.” There was a certain perverse satisfaction in finding that my talent for fabling had not grown rusty from disuse.

  “And what is it about?”

  I had asked Mr. Shakespeare the very same thing that morning, and, l
ike a good player, I recalled the line he had given me in reply. “An excellent question. Would that I had as good an answer for you.”

  “Oh.” She smiled slyly. “I see what you’re doing.”

  I swallowed hard, fearing my lie was so transparent that she had seen through it, “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re putting me off, because you don’t want to discuss it. Father does the same thing. I think he’s afraid that if he talks too much about a play in progress, it will put a curse on it somehow, and he’ll never complete it.”

  “That’s it exactly. I don’t wish to put a curse on ’t.”

  “Well, will you let me read it, at least?”

  I wanted to say, Aye, at the last Lammas—meaning never. Instead I shrugged and said, “I might. When I’m further along wi’ ’t.”

  “I can’t wait.” She shook my arm again. “Perhaps it’ll be performed, and become wildly popular, and make a fortune for you!”

  Her words brought to mind Madame La Voisin’s prediction that I would come into a fortune. I let out a nervous laugh. “Much! I’ve never heard of a play making its author rich.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Father does well enough with his.”

  “‘A does?”

  She nodded. “He never lets on to Mother and me how much he makes, of course; he doesn’t want us demanding more of it. But”—she leaned in close to me, nearly stopping my poor heart—”it’s enough to allow him to buy a hundred acres of land in Stratford, and the largest house in town—three stories, it is, with ten fireplaces!”

  “Gog’s blood! I never would ha’ thought it. ‘A lives so modest a life here, and ’a’s always fretting about money.”

  “I know. To tell the truth, he’s a bit of a miser. He won’t even consent to loan money to his nearest friends. I think he’s afraid of ending up like his father—my grandfather.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When Grandfather died, he was up to his ears in debt. Father says it’s because he was too trusting, too ready to loan money to anyone who asked. But Mother says there’s more to it than that. She says it’s because …” She stood on tiptoe to whisper in my ear. “Because he was a recusant.”

  “A what?”

  “A Catholic who refuses to attend the Anglican services.”

  “Oh. So ’a paid all his money out in fines, then?”

  “That was part of it. But his business suffered because of it, too. No one but his fellow Catholics would buy wool or gloves from him, or rent his properties from him. He lost a good deal of property as well, in the rash of fires that Stratford suffered several years ago. Grandfather always claimed that the fires were set deliberately by Puritans. My mother has always staunchly denied it, but of course she would, being a Puritan herself.”

  “I take it you’re not, then?”

  “Not really. I suppose that when it comes to religion, I take more after my father. He says that the world is so full of ideas and customs and beliefs, each with its own merit, it seems a shame to place our faith in only one and rule out all the others.” She turned her face up to me. “And what about you, Widge?”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, I assume you’re not a Puritan, or you wouldn’t be a player. But what are you? A good Protestant? A Church Papist? A skeptic? An atheist?”

  “I don’t ken, exactly. Is there a name for folk who can’t make up their minds?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re called women.” Though she clearly expected a laugh from me, I was not in a laughing mood. In fact, my heart had suddenly turned as heavy as horse-bread. My face must have given me away, for Judith said, “What is it, Widge? What’s wrong?”

  I nodded toward the house that lay just ahead of us. “We’re here,” I said grimly.

  She laughed. “You needn’t sound as though you’re delivering me to the Tower.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that—” I faltered, unable to give voice to the feeling that rose up in me—the feeling that, despite the cold, despite the fact that my shoes were soaked through with slush, I would willingly have gone on walking—in circles, if necessary—for another several days at least, as long as I had her company.

  Once again she seemed to read my thoughts and, patting my arm, said, “Don’t worry, Widge. We’ll have lots more time together.”

  “Truly?”

  “Of course. After all, we’ll have to, won’t we, if you’re to read me your play?”

  I left Judith in the care of Mary Mountjoy, a plump, rose-cheeked girl I had met several times before, when I carried some message to Mr. Shakespeare. I had always thought her attractive enough, but put up against Judith, she seemed as plain as porridge.

  Reluctantly, I turned my steps again toward Cheapside, the most direct route back to the Cross Keys. My head was as full of thoughts as a hive is of bees. Like a player committing a new part to memory, I went over and over every word that had passed between Judith and me, relishing hers, deploring my own. My conversational skills were on much the same level as my acting skills had been earlier in the day. At least at rehearsal my lines had been written out for me, and so my speeches, when I could get them out, had consisted of something a bit less plodding and obvious than “I’m sorry” and “How’s that?” and “‘A does?”

  I had often wondered why the wights in plays were forever composing songs or sonnets to their ladies, and not just saying straight out what was in their hearts. Now I understood. But, thanks to my lying tongue, Judith would never be content with a mere stanza or two of maudlin verse. She expected an entire play. When it came to stupid behavior, the Mad Men of Gotham—whoever they might be—could not possibly hope to compete with me.

  And yet, as I mulled it over in my mind, the notion of writing a play was not really so preposterous as it seemed on the face of it. I had some little knowledge, after all, of how the deed was done, from transcribing Mr. Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well for him. I had even made a few modest contributions of my own, including the title.

  Though I might be stupid, I was not so stupid as to imagine that I could come within hailing distance of a gifted poet such as Mr. Shakespeare, even at his worst. But not all the plays we performed were as accomplished as his. In fact, there were times, as I was mouthing some silly, stilted speech from The Dead Man’s Fortune or Frederick and Basilea, when I swore that I could do far better without even breaking a sweat.

  In truth, the notion of composing a play held a certain appeal for me. Though I found acting more gratifying than anything else I had ever done, I sometimes felt less like a player than like an instrument, a mouthpiece for someone else’s words. The feeling was not an unfamiliar one; I had experienced it years before, when I was forced to copy down other rectors’ sermons for Dr. Bright in the swift writing he taught me, and again when I was hired to set down the words of Hamlet as it was being performed. All my life I had been compelled to do and say as others instructed me to. I wondered what it would be like, for once, to be the one telling others what to say and do, to be the craftsman, not the tool.

  What I had told Judith might not be altogether a lie, then. Perhaps it was like one of La Voisin’s predictions, instead. Sam had said that she was only telling her clients what they wished to hear. Perhaps I had merely been expressing some secret wish.

  I was startled to my senses by the sound of the bells at St. Paul’s tolling nones. For the first time I took a good look about me. Not only had I lost track of time, I had lost my way. I had come out not on West Cheap as I had meant to, but a good deal farther to the south and west, where Ludgate Street passed through the city wall. After two years of navigating London’s crooked streets, I still had not fully mastered the maze, just as I had not completely mastered London speech.

  I was but two or three minutes’ walk from Salisbury Court, where we had visited Madame La Voisin the day before. I had missed dinner already and, if I did not hurry, I would miss scriming practice as well and be obliged to pay a fine. But such mundane concern
s as food and fines seemed of little consequence at the moment. I had more weighty matters on my mind—my future, for example.

  Folk who are contented with their lot in life tend not to give much thought to the future. Ever since I joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, I had been more or less contented. My thoughts about the future had been limited mostly to wondering what would become of me if I lost my position with them. Now, suddenly, like a sailor who spies some green and welcome land on the horizon, I had been given a glimpse of new and unfamiliar territory, and I longed to know whether or not I had any hope of reaching it.

  It took me some time to find the cunning woman’s tattered tent, for the sign with the enormous eye no longer stood before it. I paused at the flap, uncertain whether or not to call out to her. To my surprise, a rough voice within said, “You may enter, young lady.” When Sam and Sal and I came here together, she had called us young ladies. Did she know it was me waiting outside, then? Or was it simply that most of her clients were young ladies?

  I ducked through the opening. The interior was even more smoky than I remembered. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw why. Instead of coal, she was burning a chunk of the wooden sign in her kettle.

  “Sit,” said La Voisin, and I obeyed. She peered at me from beneath the layers of woolen scarves. “I have already read your future.”

  “Aye. But I—I’d like to know more.”

  “Hmm. It is not wise to try to learn too much of what lies in store.”

  “I don’t wish to know everything …”

  She gave a hoarse, humorless laugh. “Only the good things, eh?” When I had placed a penny gingerly in her grimy hand, she unveiled her scrying ball and gazed into it, but only for a few seconds. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I see that you will make a name for yourself.”

  Though I suppose this should have pleased me, I was disappointed. It seemed to me a sort of all-purpose prediction, designed to appeal to anyone and everyone. “That’s all?”