Love Disguised (10 page)

“And I am no man but a giant fool if I do nothing. I hereby
vow to retrieve my fortune and be avenged on those who stole it.”

“I'll witness your vow and do what I can to aid you,” said Meg, though she had no idea how to help Will.

News of Will's loss had reached Master Overby, who declared that he must stay at the inn at no charge. Meg knew her master was afraid Will would go away and declare to everyone he met how he had been robbed at the Boar's Head, which would give the inn a bad reputation.

Will replied to Overby's offer by producing a pair of gloves, which he offered in payment of the night's reckoning.

Meg saw the gloves were made from a pale, buttery leather ornamented with gold braid. She longed to touch them, though she could see they would never fit her own large hands.

“What use have I for such gloves?” said Master Overby.

“None, I hope. You may give them to your wife,” answered Will.

“Gwin? Have you seen the size of her hand? I think not.”

Hearing her name, Mistress Overby elbowed her husband aside and tried in vain to insert her round fingers into the delicate glove. “Are you a peddler of gloves, young man?” she asked.

Will seemed offended. His mouth formed a thin line. He looked around the nearly empty innyard. Job Nockney and his son were already taking down the stage. Meg followed Will's gaze, which came to rest on the fat, whelk-faced player who was splayed out on a bench and drinking from a large tankard.

“No, I am a player,” Will said. “And I would make a far better Pyramus than that ape!”

Besides the dauntless Long Meg and the toothy Mistress Over-byte, the Boar's Head could now boast a young tragedian: Will Shake-his-beard, from Straight Forward Uneven, in Workshire. Will delighted in Violetta's mispronunciation of “Stratford-upon-Avon” and “Warwickshire,” though Meg informed him that he did have a peculiar manner of speaking. He added false hair to his own beard so that it shook when he was in the throes of his stage passion.

The young tragedian promised to deliver a play that would please one whom he called his “great master, the poet Ovid.” He needed three players: Thisbe, the beloved of Pyramus; a lion to threaten her; and a father to oppose her love for Pyramus. Overby agreed to play the father if the character was made a king, and Will persuaded Job Nockney to play the lion.

“But
I
want to play the lion,” said Dab.

“You are too small and cannot roar loud enough to frighten the ladies,” said Will. “You shall play the very famous Thisbe!”

“I must play the
girl?
” Dab's voice rose in protest.

“Yes, for you have the perfect voice for the lovelorn Thisbe.”

Because she was tall and strong, Meg was the wall that separated Pyramus and Thisbe. She stood inside a painted prop and held it upright. It proved more difficult than she imagined to keep the wall still.

It soon became apparent that Dab was a poor Thisbe. He spoke every line with resentment and looked so sour when Pyramus tried to kiss him through the wall that even Meg laughed. The wall shook. Will was furious.

“Meg, there is no earthquake when Pyramus and Thisbe
meet. I would there were. Dab, you must pretend to love me—to love
Pyramus
. His breath smells like roses to you, not dead rats. Job, wear gloves to keep the splinters out of your paws, for you must roar only upon cue. And try to
lurk
more; you should be a cat, not a dog.”

Through the gaps in the wall Meg watched the play, immersed in its every action and word. Soon she knew every line of the play by heart. She marveled at how Will held the stage like a captain commanding a ship. His voice set the very planks of the stage throbbing. His expression was so true, Meg blushed when she saw him pretending to kiss Thisbe and almost cried when he cradled her lifeless body. She was thankful to be hidden within the wall.

Through the wall Meg could also see Violetta serving the playgoers. Whenever Pyramus declared his love for Thisbe, she paused and stared at the stage with her lips parted. Her yearning for Will Shakespeare was as evident as the sun at midday.

The play opened the same day as the Southwark Fair. Travelers filled the Boar's Head. Master Overby was happy; he didn't care that none of the actors but Will had any skill. Will on the other hand was in great earnest, demanding so much of his players that Dab sat down in the middle of a performance with his arms crossed over his chest and refused to utter another word. His father leaped across the stage and threatened to tear him limb from limb, but the boy paid no heed. Will was forced to extemporize, lamenting that Thisbe had been struck dumb with fear. The play ended without the lovers' deaths, which blunted the force of the tragedy.

When the confused playgoers had left, Will exploded. “I'll
not stand onstage again until I have a Thisbe who can speak of love without mocking Pyramus.”

Overby faced Will. “As the king, I decree we
will
have this play for the purpose of luring the fairgoers hither.” Since taking on his new role, he spoke in a more elevated manner than usual.

“Then, O King,
mighty
King, bring me someone who can play Thisbe,” said Will mockingly. “O Wall, upstanding Wall, know you of a proper Thisbe?”

Meg, who was not at the moment inside the wall, could not suppress her laughter.

“Here she is. Here am I. Let me be Thisbe.” It was Violetta, wiping her hands on her apron. Her wide brown eyes glistened. “I can love Pyramus well.”

“I cannot allow that!” spluttered Overby. “For a woman to appear on a stage is an offense against the law and Nature herself.”

“But Meg is on the stage,” Violetta protested. “Is she not a woman?”

“That is not the same,” said Master Overby. “Within the wall she is invisible. She might as well be a man.”

“I might as well be a
wall
,” said Meg, her hands on her hips, “the way you talk about me.”

“Why force Dab to play Thisbe?” Violetta went on. “Not knowing a woman's heart, how can he even feign to be in love?” Her voice faltered at the end.

Will stroked his beard and considered Violetta. “Can you feign being a boy pretending to be a woman?”

Violetta frowned as if she were doing a difficult sum in her head. “I can,” she said. “Give me scissors and a comb.”

Stunned, Meg watched as Violetta held her abundant dark
hair away from her head and proceeded to cut it off. What remained fell raggedly to her chin. She was still so pretty she would never be mistaken for a boy.

“Why have you done this?” said Meg.

As soon as she saw the look of delight Will bestowed on Violetta, she knew why.

The desire for profit persuaded Overby to allow Violetta on the stage. Finally Pyramus had a fitting Thisbe, and if the audience suspected that the curvy player was not a boy, that only seemed to increase their enjoyment. Pyramus courted his new Thisbe with renewed ardor. He railed against the wall for standing between him and his love. Meg felt it as a personal rebuke.

Cruel wall, think you to keep us parted?

I, Pyramus, and my love, true-hearted

Thisbe?

Violetta thrust her hand through a chink in the wall and Will kissed it with a smack loud enough for the audience to hear. Violetta's eyes rolled upward and she panted her words.

O Pyramus, I would thee wed

And take unto my maiden bed;

But cruel fathers oppose our love
—

Violetta fell silent. She often forgot her lines. Pyramus waited.

“Though 'tis blessed by gods above,” Meg whispered from within the wall.

Violetta repeated the line and no one was the wiser. She
feigned tears and the audience gasped when Thisbe discovered the dead Pyramus.

Asleep, my love?

What … dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise
,

Ope' once … thy lovely eyes
.

Again Meg whispered the words Violetta could not remember, and Thisbe's hesitation seemed the natural expression of grief. No one could see Meg's tears and for this she was glad.

When Pyramus did not awaken, Thisbe pretended to stab herself. She fell upon him and lay there until the applause roused them to take their bow. Meg knew she should be scandalized. Instead she envied Violetta and Will. How did they wring such emotion from an audience? Meg often murmured whole scenes to herself, enamored both of the words and of the mind that produced them—Will's mind.

At night in the room they shared, Violetta prattled of Will until Meg wanted to scream.

“O Meg, when I ran away from father and Thomas Valentine, I wanted to be in love and now I am! Don't you think Will handsome? When I am so near to him and his eyes are on me, I can't remember Thisbe's lines.” Violetta sighed like a bellows, fanning the flame of her own love. “Truly I cannot say if he is handsomer than Thomas—nor can you, alas, not knowing Thomas—for I have heard love is blind and cannot see to judge itself. Therefore
you
must assure me. Is this not love?”

“How should I know what love is?” said Meg irritably.

Heedless, Violetta chattered on. “I dare believe Will regards me as I do him. I
feel
it. Do you see love in his eyes when he is Pyramus and I am Thisbe?”

Meg lay on her bed as unmoving as the wall that Pyramus cursed, as unloved, and as tall to boot. But filled with the kind of nameless longing a wall could never feel.

“Indeed,” said Meg, sighing. “Pyramus loves his Thisbe eternally.”

Will's play drew so many spectators to the Boar's Head that Master Overby agreed to pay him a few shillings out of the profits from each performance. The fairgoers were an obstreperous crowd, however, and with Meg on the stage there was no one to keep order among them. One night they began to throw bread crusts and bones on the stage to make the lion roar. When Job flung them back, the audience was provoked to throw more garbage. Someone even tossed Piebald; Meg heard the cat yowling and felt his body thump against her wall. When someone jumped on the stage and stole Overby's tin crown, the irate king cried, “I do not condone rebellion!” and declared all further performances of
Pyramus
cancelled.

Now Will sat disconsolate, pondering ideas for a new play. Scraps of paper were spread out on the table before him. He groaned to see Violetta approaching. She seemed to relish distracting him.

“Sad Thisbe greets proud Pyramus this moonlit morn,” she said, planting herself at his elbow. “Are you writing another play? Shall I be in it?”

“Not if you insist upon being Thisbe still,” said Will without looking up. Violetta's nearness confused him. There was an ardor to her touch that reminded him of Anne and a coyness that recalled Catherine. Had he not left Stratford to forget those sisters? He moved his elbow away from Violetta.

“Can I be a queen? Like Esther from the Bible?”

“And who shall play the traitor Haman and be hanged onstage?”

It was not a biblical drama Will had in mind, but something from ancient history—the ill-fated love of Mark Antony and Cleopatra. Violetta had dark hair and her face could be smudged with coal, but she was too short for a queen of Egypt.

“Can you wear chopines on your feet without falling from them?” he asked.

“I will walk on stilts to please my Pyramus,” said Violetta.

“Stop calling me Pyramus!”

“You would not die for me?”

“Die for you, no. Die
on
you, maybe.” The bawdy pun slipped from Will but Violetta seemed not to mark it. “Don't you have some pots or floors to scrub?”

With a sigh she took her vexing presence from him, whereupon Meg appeared. It was like a scene from a play, Will reflected.

“Demigoddess, bring me some ale!” he called, pleased at the sight of her. When she came back with the cup Will asked, “Would you hear my idea for a play?”

Long Meg tilted her head to the side. “Is it about a young man seeking to recover his father's stolen wealth?”

“No, it is about a Roman general in love with the queen of Egypt,” Will said defensively.

“Who will play in it? You know Dab is unreliable and Job Nockney has sworn never to take the stage again. Violetta's memory is like a sieve, useless for carrying wit or water.”

Will rubbed his head. “Violetta's lines will be few and short. I shall write a part for you if you like. And one for Mistress Gwin. And the costermonger's daughter. Confound the laws, I'll have a whole company of women players. What a spectacle that would prove! We'll travel to every shire in England and dare the magistrates to punish us. Do you long to stand in the the pillory?”

Will knew his ranting was beside the point. The few shillings he had saved from playing Pyramus amounted to less than a tenth of what Burbage was owed. The rest he had spent on ink, pen, and notebooks. The court date, October fifteenth, was not three weeks away.