Love Disguised (13 page)

“I love them and I hate them,” he said.

Meg only nodded, wondering,
Do all men have such complicated loves?

“The bit in the horse's mouth, the bridle of his ambitions, the end of his youth, is marriage to a woman!” Will continued. He patted his doublet and dug in his pockets. “Drat! I have no pen to write down my lament of the disappointed lover.”

He had looked so comical, Meg smiled at the recollection.

Her wherry touched the shore. She disembarked and was soon back at the inn. Quickly she changed her clothes and was Long Meg again, filling pitchers of thick brown ale.

At once Violetta was at her side, eager for news. “Why do you look so pleased? What happened?”

“I did a virtuous deed today,” said Meg, thinking of the child.

“But what did you say to Will?” Violetta demanded. “Did you tell him my father is rich?”

“Ill news for you. He is averse to marriage.”

Violetta looked dismayed. “You must change his mind!”

“Go away,” said Meg. “He will arrive at any minute and overhear us.”

An hour later Will had not returned. Meg decided he was exploring the city on his own. Patrons demanding ale and victuals kept her too busy to worry. Another hour went by. What if Will was lost?

“I can wait no longer. What did he say about me?” Violetta demanded, holding Meg's sleeve.

In truth Will had said not a word about Violetta. But rather than lie to her, Meg handed her a pitcher. “Go wash this,” she said and vanished into the pantry. Moments later she felt Violetta jump on her back and seize her by the hair.

“Tell me what was said between you. Will he woo me?”

“Zounds, never! He abhors shrews. Let go of my hair.” Violetta complied but clung to Meg's neck. “I confess I found no opportunity to praise you.”

Violetta kicked the back of Meg's legs. “But you were with him for hours!”

“Yes, in taverns and dark alleys. Places hardly suited for courtship. Aaagh! He has an affinity for bad company—” Meg was having trouble breathing.

“And all the while you not once spoke of me?”

“—Making him a doubtful companion for an honest woman,” she continued.

Violetta slid off Meg's back. She looked so disheartened Meg felt sorry for her.

“Why not write a letter and I'll give it to him,” she offered.

“No. Next time walk in the fields and weave a garland of flowers. That will dispose him to love. If you do not advance my suit, I will reveal ‘cousin Mack' for who he is.
You
shall feel the shame.” She pinched Meg's cheek.

“Ow! You have my word; I shall win him for you,” said Meg, surprised by Violetta's wrath. Did all women turned into shrews when their path to love was blocked?

Violetta reached up to tuck her hair back under her coif and Meg poked her under the arm. “Thus I repay you, acorn,” she said.

“Stop, Meg! This is not a game.” Violetta was almost in tears. “Tell me, where is Will? When is he coming back?”

“God's truth, I know not!”

Violetta's face showed alarm.

Meg wondered,
Where, indeed, is Will Shakespeare?

Will was lying with his face in a puddle not far from where he and Meg had parted. Someone was shaking him. He heard himself groan and felt himself shiver with cold. He managed to open his eyes. Two dark figures hovered over him. Pain surged in his jaw and neck, and he remembered the blow that had knocked him down. How long had he lain there?

“Are you hurt, sirrah? Will you let me examine you?”

Now this is a new stratagem for a robber, Will thought dully. To feel for broken bones—and hidden purses.

“Go 'way. I've naught left to take,” he muttered and tried to roll over. The foul water caused him to retch, which made his head and ribs ache.

A second voice said, “Thomas, let us be on our way. This vagabond is not worth our time.”

“Thomas Treadwell? You sapsucker, leave me alone,” Will said. He blinked, trying to focus.

“No, by my troth. I am Thomas Valentine, a student of physick, and this is Sir Percival Puttock.” He pulled Will out of the mire and helped him to sit up. He had a box with large
handles, Will noted, something a physician might indeed carry. “We are newly arrived in the city.”

“Within the hour, I see, for had you been here longer you would already lack your cloaks, your purses, and everything in that kit.” Valentine was taking out a jar of ointment and a bandage. “I speak from experience—as the victim, not the thief, for I am an honest man. My worst vice is that I am a liar. I write plays.”

Sir Percival drew his cloak aside to reveal a pistol tucked into his waist. “I will not be deceived,” he said stiffly.

“I do not lie now,” said Will hastily. “Except in the street where you found me. Alack, my poor head! I think my wit is damaged.”

“I saw you take that blow,” said Valentine, peering into his eyes. “Can you remember your name?”

“Will Shakespeare, by this hand.” He held it up and examined it himself. All five fingers were attached and straight. He could still write.

“And what befell you?”

“A most undeserved blow felled me! A knave dressed like a courtier, but with a bare neck where his crimpled ruff should be, demanded my sword, and said it belonged to him.”

“That is the very fellow who ran by us,” said Thomas Valentine. “Go on.”

“I said to him, ‘Prove it by telling me what is on the hilt.' Like a dog he growled at me. ‘R! R!' Those were the very letters engraved on the sword.”

“You
are
a base thief, then,” said Sir Percival.

“That is what he said but with the addition of vile swearing, for he was not a kind gentleman like you.”

Sir Percival reddened.

Will addressed himself to Thomas Valentine. “I came by that cursed sword innocently enough, but I would not die by it. I flung it aside, whereupon the madman began to beat me with his walking staff.”

Valentine had finished examining Will's limbs and bandaging his head. “Can you stand?”

Grimacing, Will stood up. “If you came to London to fix the head of every unfortunate in the street, you shall work until doomsday and never be rich.”

The doctor gazed past Will and sighed. “I came looking for my true love, the lady Olivia. She has run away and I like a hound must run after, for she holds the leash around my heart.”

Seeing Valentine was quite serious, Will held in his laughter. The fellow was a doctor after all, not a poet.

“Once we find the ungrateful thing, she is yours to wive, Thomas, and I am well rid of her!” said Sir Percival, whom Will took to be Olivia's unhappy father.

“O speak not unkindly of my sweet mammet, my only plaything,” said the doctor.

Will didn't know whether to pity Valentine or Lady Olivia the more. “I'll be on my way now,” he said. “It is growing late.”

“Let us walk with you as far as your lodging,” said Valentine. “I want to be certain you are well.”

Will assented, for he still felt dazed, and the threesome made their way across the bridge and through the thinning crowds. Will's limp slowed their steps. Sir Percival kept his hand upon his weapon, and Valentine talked unceasingly of his beloved's many virtues. By the time they arrived at the
inn Will was convinced of the doctor's devotion, but he had no clearer image of Olivia than he did of the Queen of Sheba.

Finally Will interrupted him. “I am poor and cannot pay a doctor's fee, but I can offer you food and drink here where I am well known.”

“I would be glad to eat and drink with you, Will Shakespeare,” said Valentine.

“Stop! I know that stratagem.” Sir Percival narrowed his eyes at Will. “Do you take me for a witless rustic?”

A desire for mischief tickled Will. “Your suspicions are quite valid, Sir Percival,” he said. “This inn is the deepest den of iniquity in all London. The serving maids are wantons. Ha-ha! And I am a varlet, a most
crafty
varlet—a poet and a player. Therefore trust nothing that I say—” Will was laughing so hard his ribs and his head pounded with pain.

Sir Percival drew back in alarm. “Thomas, you should not have aided this madman. Come away now.” He grabbed the doctor's cloak.

“God go with you, Valentine, my good fellow,” said Will, holding up his hand. “Come back and see my play in a few weeks. I have such a fetching and womanish actor playing Cleopatra, I swear you will forget your love for the lady Olivia.”

“Let me die first!” said Valentine. He turned to follow Sir Percival, who was fleeing as if a devil were chasing him.

Meg hardly noticed the man who stumbled to a table in the corner and leaned on it. His head was bandaged, his clothes torn and dirty. Someone shoved a stool beneath him and he sat down heavily, his head in his hands.

She heard Violetta shriek. “O look at poor Will!”

Meg felt liquid all over her hand. The tap was overflowing. She turned it off and hurried over with a dripping cup of sack.

Violetta glared at her. “I suppose you will blame
Mack
for this?”

“My brother would not hurt Will,” said Meg, giving Violetta a stern look of warning. “Will, tell me who did this and I'll thrash the guts out of him.”

Violetta tried to wipe the dried blood and dirt from Will's face. He turned his head aside with a grimace and took the towel from her.

“I would feign a good tale but my wit took a battering. In truth, it was no honorable fight; I dealt not a single blow in exchange for my hurts.” Will gulped down the sack. “I gave
up the sword to one who proved his ownership, and he thanked me thus!” He touched his bandaged head.

Violetta whimpered.

“Who was my assailant, you ask? ‘Aargh, Aargh!' ” Will groaned.

Meg nodded. “Was he wearing a ruff?” she asked.

“His
hands
were rough but his neck was notable for the absence of one,” said Will.

“Certainly he was that notorious pimp and brawler, Roger Ruffneck,” said Meg. He must have been following them.

Violetta gasped. “He is the same one who pinched my arm!”

“You're lucky he did not kill you, Will. It is rumored that he has murdered more than one of his rivals,” said Meg. “It was I who took that sword from him, and I shall do it again and skewer him through the—” Meg stopped, for she saw Will looking at her in alarm. “Where was my brother when Ruffneck attacked you?”

“We had just parted,” said Will. “Blame him not. He was excellent good company and we are already fast friends.”

“I love him myself,” said Meg, smiling to hear Will speak warmly of Mack.

“It was a
false
friend who left you in danger,” said Violetta, frowning at Meg. “
I
would not have done so.” She turned her attention back to Will. “Who tended to your wounds?” Her eyes brimmed with tears of tender concern.

“It was a young doctor in the company of an old, bald coot who would have left me in the street. The doctor himself was a good fellow named Thomas Valentine.”

Violetta cried out again, putting her hand to her throat.
She leaped up as if to run out the door, then turned and fell to her knees, grasping Will's fingers and watering them with her tears.

Will gave Meg a surprised look. “Am I really such a pitiable sight?”

“Indeed you are,” she said. Of course she knew the real reason for Violetta's distress. Her father and her faithful lover were nearby looking for her.

“You are drawing unwanted attention,” said Meg, not unkindly. “Go and wipe your eyes.”

“What prodigious tears!” said Will as Violetta scurried away. “Think you Cleopatra cried so over the wounds of Mark Antony?”

Meg shook her head. “Hers were crocodile tears. Violetta weeps with unfeigned sadness at your plight.”

“It would seem she loves me then,” Will mused. He looked a little dismayed.

Now was Meg's chance to speak on her friend's behalf. “As hard as Roger smote you, love has smitten her. The difference is
your
wounds will heal.”

“What about you, Meg?” Will's tone was plaintive but his eyes sparkled. “Do mortal goddesses never weep? Do they fall in love? In Ovid's poetry they do.”

There he goes again, calling me a goddess!
Meg felt confident, even bold. Perhaps Meg could banter with Will as Mack had done. She tipped her head to the side and winked. “I soak my pillow every night with tears of unrequited love for Will Shake-his-beard.” A hot blush rose up her neck. She wondered if she was being too saucy.

“So she loves me!” Will threw his head back and laughed.
The sudden movement made him wince with pain. “What can I do about it?”

“Woo her,” said Meg. “She will tire of you, fall out of love, and you will be free again.”

“I woo the indomitable Meg?” asked Will. “How shall I undertake that Herculean task?”

Meg did not know what “indomitable” or “Herculean” meant, but she suspected Will was referring to her great size. Once again she was Long Meg, the object of men's taunts.

“You misunderstand me and mock me to boot. I'll pluck your shaking beard for that!” she said, her teasing mood giving way to vexation.

“Peace, you Amazon warrior!” said Will. “I am wooing as you suggested.”

“Not
me
, fool! We were talking about Violetta.
She
is the one smitten by love. Woo
her
.” Meg didn't really mean it. Why should she encourage Violetta's silliness?

“Then you do not love your poor, wounded Will?”

“I do not, for you irk me on purpose like every other jack,” she said, but to her surprise she was not angry.

“I shall not rile you further, Long Meg, for if you throw me out of here how shall I court the fair Violetta?” he said, letting out his breath in a sigh.