Love Disguised (23 page)

“I'm going off to piss,” said Will, a little drunk.

Meg continued on her way, ruminating. If Will decided to visit Meg at the Boar's Head, she would have to run ahead of him and become Long Meg again. Had she purchased Will's freedom at the price of her own sanity?

“Stop there, scoundrel,” someone said. She paid no heed, for she was just a confused young woman on her way home.

But when she heard “I know you, Mack,” she paused. Her heart pounded with alarm. Slowly she turned to find herself
facing a man with a scarred hollow at his temple, a very ugsome fellow.

“I don't know you,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

The street was crowded with people. Will was somewhere nearby. No one would assault her in the presence of so many witnesses. Still her hand touched her leg where the dagger was hidden.

The man opened his greasy jerkin to reveal a pistol in his belt. He waved a document at Meg and said in a tone of smug triumph, “Under this warrant and in the name of the Queen's Majesty, I arrest you, Mack, alias Long Meg de Galle, for the assault upon one Roger Ruffneck.”

Thomas Valentine had traversed the length and breadth of London searching for the lady he longed to marry. His hopes never faltered, for he was of a sanguine nature. Sir Percival, to the contrary, had an excess of black bile that made him choleric. Every day Thomas was forced to listen to the same complaint: “O a serpent's tooth is not so sharp as a daughter's ingratitude!”

At first Thomas believed Olivia had run away to escape her father, who kept her like a bird in a cage. But if Olivia wanted to fly away, why did she not fly to him, her betrothed? Every day after finishing his studies, he would bring her a posy of sweet flowers and describe to her the wonders of the heart, the liver, and the blood. She would close her eyes and bury her nose in the bouquet.

One day he considered that perhaps Olivia had fled from
him
. The thought caused a pang like a surgeon's knife nicking his heart. He understood the body's humors and the causes of fever better than he understood how Olivia could disdain his love. He held her always in his mind's eye. She was his star by night—but which one among the distant, shimmering
multitude? By day she was the invisible moon. Where among the earthly multitude of this mazelike city had she concealed herself?

Thomas wandered that mid-October day as dusk drew on. The ailing Sir Percival lay in his bed at the Red Lion Inn with a mustard poultice on his chest. The doctor stroked his beard, a new feature of his appearance. He reasoned that since Olivia was fleeing him, he might have better luck catching her if she did not recognize him. Finding himself near Aldgate, he remembered the day he had arrived in London and bandaged the head of a young man. Will was his name and he had been writing a play. Was not the fellow lodging at a nearby inn? He had not yet inquired there for Olivia, an oversight he decided to remedy.

Just at the city gate he was knocked to his knees by someone in a great hurry.

“Pardon me,” the fellow said and paused to help him up. “Are you the doctor? By your beard I hardly know you. Have you found your love yet?”

“How can this be? I was just thinking of you,” Thomas said. “If I could conjure my beloved with my thoughts, there would be a thousand Olivias before me, but there is not one.”

Will Shakespeare—for that was his name, as Thomas recalled—said, “What does she look like? Maybe I have seen her.”

Thomas frowned to aid his thinking. “Her eyes are evenly spaced, her flesh as white as bone, and her hair falls about her shoulders. In brief, she is the most proper size and proportion for a woman such as herself.”

“She beggars all description,” said Will with great
seriousness. “If I see her I will say that you seek her.” He touched his cap in farewell.

Thomas did not want to be alone. Nor did he want to return to the sickroom of Sir Percival. “Shall we sup together at your lodging?”

Will groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. “I cannot eat or sleep tonight—”

“Your head! Does it still hurt you?”

“No, but I must be up all night with my law book, good doctor. For the ruffian who beat me up now sues my dearest friend for beating
him
up. I have just got out of prison, but my friend is locked up and I must contrive a way to free him by morning.”

Thomas drew back, wary of being mixed up with people who were always being assaulted, sued, and jailed. Perhaps Sir Percival was right that Will was bad company.

“I shall take no more of your time tonight, Will Shakespeare. Good luck against your foe. He did seem a ruthless one.”

“Wait!” Will laid a hand on his arm. “You saw my assailant that night, did you not?”

Thomas could not deny it, for he was an honest man. And before he knew it he had been persuaded to appear as a witness against Roger Ruffneck, who, by the deeds Will described, was undoubtedly a villain. He had no choice now but to trust Will, for without bleeding him and analyzing his humors he had no way to judge his nature.

“When this mistaken affair is ended, Thomas, I shall be forever your debtor.”

“I want no money, only my Olivia,” said Thomas with a sigh. “I will meet you tomorrow at the guildhall.”

Thomas went back to the inn and tended Sir Percival's rheumy chest. He did not tell him about his appointment the next day, knowing the old man would try to dissuade him from it. As the night wore on, doubt and hope battled within him. He was a man of reason who did not easily comprehend strong feeling, much less succumb to it. But he almost believed his meeting with Will Shakespeare was preordained and that an event of great moment would soon occur to change his destiny.

He heard Sir Percival grinding his teeth and murmuring in his sleep, “Olivia, Olivia, ungrateful daughter!”

Thomas could not rest. He rose from his bed and leaned on the windowsill, gazing up at the winking stars.

“Will! Help me,” Meg cried as the bailiff swiftly bound her wrists with a leather thong. She berated herself for being so heedless. Had she seen him in time, she could easily have outrun him.

Summoned by Meg's shouts, Will followed her and the bailiff all the way to the Wood Street prison.

“Listen to me, you wretched catchpole,” Will said to the bailiff. “This man is no criminal. It's Roger Ruffneck you should be arresting.”

“Stop barking at my heels, cur,” replied the bailiff, jerking Meg forward. She had concluded he was the same rudesby who came looking for her at the Boar's Head, frightening Gwin.

“Keep your hands off my friend, you yellow-bellied sapsucker!” said Will.

Meg strained toward Will. “There's truth in the charge. Ruffneck and Weasle—their testimony will convict me.” Her tone was low and urgent. “Find someone to defend me!”

“Mistress Ruffneck will testify against her husband.”

“Yes, but she saw me rob him, and I gave her the loot. They will turn her words against me—”

“Oh drat,” said Will. “How did we come to be in such a pickle?”

“And Ruffneck will be so angry, he is sure to harm her.”

“Away with you!” said the bailiff, menacing Will with his knife.

Will easily skipped out of his reach. “All will be well, Mack! I'll borrow money and get you out just as you did me.”

“Don't ask Burbage, or he will take us for base cheaters,” Meg called after him.

The Wood Street clink was as horrible as she remembered it, dark and damp and filled with the noise and stench of human misery. The heavy door thudded behind her and the bolt fell into place. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see shapes that stirred, groaned, and subsided again into shadows and stillness. The floor was made of planking and strewn with filthy straw like an untended manger. Bilboes were fixed into the stone walls. At least she was not chained to them. High on one wall was a small grate at the level of the street. It was the only source of light and air. Meg had stood outside that same grate to pass food to her poor father.

She sat down, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Surely Will would find a way to get her out in the morning. But what if he did not? She would be taken to court, convicted of assault, and returned to prison. Would she die here like her father? The chill of despair crept over her and she began to cry soundlessly.

At the rustling sound all her muscles tensed. From the shadows emerged a boy on his hands and knees. His eyes reflected the scrap of light that came through the grate.

“You don't look like a murderer,” he said. “Are you a jarkman?”

“I am not a killer or a forger. Why are you here?” she asked.

“I was nabbed for robbing a peddler. My cuffins left me high and dry. They'll find another foist, one who won't get himself caught.” He brushed away a tear. “That Davy Dapper was no true mate! Nor Peter Flick.”

Meg leaned forward. “I know those cozeners well. Did they corrupt you?” She felt anger rising in her. The boy was no older than twelve, the age she had been when Davy and Peter deserted her.

He shrugged. “My father tried to teach me but gave up and sent me to their school. Now I wish I had never learned their crafty tricks.”

“Have you told the magistrate your story?”

“Yes. He said I was an errant brat and as guilty as Adam.” Suddenly wary, he frowned. “How do you know my cuffins?”

“It's a long story. What is your name?”

The boy hesitated. “I am called Grabwill Junior.”

“Is your father Nick Grabwill?” Meg asked in astonishment.

“Yes. Now who are you?”

“Never mind. Why doesn't he help you?”

“He brings me food sometimes. But he is afraid of being caught himself.”

“So Nick Grabwill is still thriving by hook and by crook!”

“How do you know my father?” the boy demanded.

“Have you ever heard of Long Meg?”

Grabwill Junior's eyes, the only part of him Meg could well discern, grew even wider. “Who has not heard of Long Meg? He is hated and feared by Davy and Peter and their band.”

“He?” asked Meg.

“Davy and Roger believe Long Meg is a roarer named Mack who disguises himself as a tavern maid to cover his deeds. Others say Long Meg is a woman begotten by the devil.”

“And what do you say?” said Meg, hiding her smile.

The boy scratched his head. Fleas were already biting Meg too.

“No woman is strong enough to do what Long Meg does,” he said.

“Who says she is a woman?”

“My father. One night a few years ago, a strange cuffin made him steal women's clothing. Soon after, Long Meg began to rough up every rakehell that went to the Boar's Head.”

“Indeed!” said Meg. She enjoyed hearing about her own exploits. “But why does your father believe Long Meg—or Mack—to be a woman?”

The boy leaned closer and spoke as if conveying a great secret. “Because he peered at the fellow as he donned the skirt and saw that he lacked a yard. You know, a staff.” He pointed to his own lap.

In the darkness Meg blushed. “By my beard I don't believe it!”

Young Grabwill shrugged. “My father has the eyes of an owl. He can see in the pitch dark. But he is old and no one heeds him anymore.”

“Do you know Roger Ruffneck?” asked Meg, hoping to hear something that might aid her at the next day's trial.

“I hate him with all my guts!” The boy's sudden cry caused the other inmates to clank their chains and curse. “He said my father had not raised me to fear God, but he would remedy that by beating me. He broke my arm. See, it is still crooked.”

He held out his misshapen arm. Meg ached at the thought of his suffering.

“I was glad when Long Meg beat up old Ruffy.” The boy smiled. “He said a horse trod on him. But he spends all his days grumbling against Mack and devising his death.”

“When I see him in court tomorrow, I swear it will be the end of
him
!”

“What? Are
you
Mack?” Grabwill's voice was soft with wonder. “Long Meg!”

“We are one and the same,” said Meg.

Now five people knew her secret. Nick Grabwill had been the first. The second was Violetta, who remained her devoted friend. The others—Jane, James Burbage, and now this boy—had responded with admiration, even awe. Why was she afraid of what Will might think?

“Junior! Boy?” The whispered voice came from the overhead grate.

Young Grabwill ran over to the wall and stood on tiptoe. A flattened loaf of bread fell through the grate into his waiting hands. “Father! You will never guess who is here. Mack! I mean Long Meg.”

“That she-devil?” came Nick Grabwill's voice. “Let me see her.”

Meg approached the grate. She could barely make out the shape of the old curber, black as the night around him.