Mistress Shakespeare (20 page)

Since we expected a large, important crowd at the memorial for Tarlton, gowned in our feminine best, we went early. The big old church was in the area of the great carrier inns that also housed numerous theatres, quite close to the one where the famed clown had singled me out. Looking around, I reckoned the crowd of mixed theatre folk, a few gentles and plain Londoners was larger than any Tarlton must have performed for when he was alive.

I wore a hood and black velvet half mask and made Maud wear one too. Not only did I not wish to run into Kit Marlowe, but, should Will be there, I did not intend to have another verbal fencing match with him. I’d been playing that one from last week over and over in my mind and did not need more reasons to lose sleep by night and patience by day.

I could tell by the way people reacted to Maud and me that they thought I was a lady
incognito
with her maid. Fine, I thought, let that be my disguise today. I stood by a very comely, finely garbed youth with long, golden locks, so luxurious he almost looked feminine. He was, I guessed, not yet twenty years. He looked to be with a guardian, for the other man—perhaps ten or so years older—seemed to be pointing out particular people to the youth.

“I adored Tarlton,” the young man said to me. He gave me a shy smile while his companion was talking to someone on his other side.

“I too,” I told him, using the fan Kat’s family had given me to partially hide the lower part of my face. “He addressed me once from the stage, and I shall never forget it.”

“I told my mother that when I come into my majority, I shall sit on the stage so I can feel more a part of the action!” His voice was petulant but polite. I fancied he spoke as a noble youth would. Amethysts in his doublet buttons winked at me despite the poor light in the vast, crowded nave.

I had seen gentles sit upon the stage, mostly to be seen rather than to see, but I nodded and smiled, flipping my fan. When his friend turned to look at me too, I asked, “I wonder if I could prevail upon you two gentlemen to point out Philip Henslowe, the theatrical agent, if you know him, for I would speak with him.”

“Ah,” the youth’s companion said, leaning around him to eye me closer, “I’d steer clear of that one, unless of dire necessity.”

“Why so, sir?”

“Do I know you, madam?”

“I cannot say, but I believe you know about Master Henslowe, and I would value that information before this service starts.”

“Indeed, I’d not deem this a service,” the youth put in. “More like a play where some who knew the clown will recount his virtues and, hopefully, not his vices. All theatre folk have vices, and that’s the fun of them, the theatre offstage, if you will.”

“Henry,” the older man said, “that’s the clown’s wife there, coming in, Em Ball her name is.” He gestured toward a red-faced, plump woman who was wheezing like a horse that had been run too far.

The youth raised his voice as the buzz of the crowd swelled. “Then, I believe, Lord Strange, this shall be better than a play by even Marlowe.”

Lord Strange, be it a title or nickname, seemed to set the mood for the strange event. Not a prayer service indeed, but an impromptu drama as the youth had said: part history as Tarlton’s early life was recounted; part tragedy as those who knew him spoke about his loss; and part comedy as some recalled his antics onstage and off and as his widow sobbed aloud as if she were a professional mourner, making those who spoke raise their voices.

Kit, looking wobbly-legged and a bit unkempt, spoke briefly about one time the clown came drunk to perform but didn’t miss a cue. To my amazement, Will spoke, telling how kindly the clown had treated him as a new-fledged actor and playwright in London. Another man, whose name I did not catch, wept copiously into his handkerchief as he blubbered on about someone named Will Kemp who must now carry the fallen mantle of the immortal Richard Tarlton.

I had shifted to stand behind Lord Strange and the youth, though we were far enough back I didn’t think Will would note me.

“Madam,” Lord Strange said, turning around to face me when it was over and the buzzing crowd began to shift toward the door, “if you insist on speaking with Henslowe, I shall point him out—for one glimpse of your fair face.”

“I am not fair in face, but in character, sir,” I told him. I whisked my fan and mask aside and back in one quick motion. Startled at how fast I’d moved—or at my dusky or exotic appearance—he broke into a grin while the youth hung on our every word.

“There is Henslowe—in the high-crowned, popinjay blue hat,” he told me, pointing at the man who had spoken last. “But I must warn you, he is a speculator, out to make money any way he can. Starch-making, usury, bull- or bear-baiting, and, yes, the theatre. ’Tis all the same to him. Just a word to the wise.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“To the wise and to the fair,” he added and doffed his hat to give me a quick bow. “Let’s get you back to Southampton House, Henry, before your mother sends the servants after us.” Taking the youth by the elbow, he tugged him away through the crowd.

So both Lord Strange, whom I’d never heard of, and the youth—for Southampton was a well-known noble family—had been my betters and I’d won over both, I thought smugly. ’Twas well known that the Earl of Southampton, whose name was Henry Wriothesley, was as wealthy as King Croesus. His father had died when the boy was but eight, leaving the lad not only his title but much wealth and property. I’d heard he’d been given into the care of the queen’s chief minister, Lord Burghley, until the age of twelve, but now lived with his doting mother. Gossip said he’d resented Burghley’s wardship of him and now chafed under his mother’s care, but at least he’d been out and about with a friend today. I couldn’t wait to tell Jennet.

With Maud in my wake, feeling a bit more confident, I made for Henslowe, who was still wiping his eyes. Surely, Lord Strange had exaggerated this man’s rapacity, for he looked most moved by Tarlton’s loss.

Still wearing my mask, I introduced myself and made my speech about scented cushions. Suddenly dry-eyed, he looked me over thoroughly. “You’re asking much too much per item,” he told me, “but the idea has merit. I cannot believe I didn’t think of that.”

“That’s the price the Burbages paid, Master Henslowe, and—”

“I might see myself clear to try a few and rent them out per performance. For the Rose, of course, my new theatre over on Bankside.”

I’d never been to the Rose, for Bankside was full of stews, animal-baiting pits and prisons. It was across the river in an area where the city fathers had little control, the place Jennet had warned me against on my first tour of London.

“All right, then, for the Rose,” I said. “And I was hoping you would agree to be our middleman for sales to the other theatres.”

“My lovely young woman, I am middleman to no one, but front man to all. Alas, if you only had someone’s plays to sell, for we need a steady diet of them for these ravenous crowds . . .”

Before I even thought, my long-honed business instincts took over. “I write, sir, but would you take a drama from a woman?”

“Highly unlikely,” he said, stroking his shovel-shaped beard, “but if you wrote under a man’s name—”

“Then if a woman with pen in hand is anathema, just as is a woman on the stage, you’d best buy Will Shakespeare’s plays.”

“The country upstart? He’s finished them? I know he claims to—”

“I’m quite familiar with his work from the shires—both his acting and his playwriting. He is an original, brilliant talent. You, sir, will greatly regret it later if you do not get in line to buy them now.”

“In line? But who else is—? I mean,” he said, hieing himself after me as Maud and I moved away, “he didn’t mention anyone else . . .”

“We will come to the Rose when we can with sample cushions, Master Henslowe. Until then, I’d suggest—”

Someone stepped aside to allow my exit, and I banged right into Will, who must have been intent on finding Henslowe too.

“Is this your wife or patron?” Henslowe blurted to Will.

Will and I both gasped at how Henslowe had worded that. Will set me back and removed his hands from my shoulders as if I’d burned him.

“Why do you ask, Master Henslowe?” Will said.

“Her ladyship is promoting her pillows and your plays, man. If you have aught prepared for me to see, bring them to the Rose first thing on the morrow, even if they’re not quite polished up yet, you hear me?”

“I hear you. I will, and each play shall be signed ‘I, Will.’”

Henslowe snorted a laugh. “Mayhap you should take Tarlton’s place instead of Kemp,” he muttered and pushed away from us through the remnants of the crowd. Maud gaped at us. I kept my hand on the lower part of my mask as if its removal would slay me. “Should I stay or go home, Anne?” she asked. “It’s not far from here and—”

“Yes,
Her Ladyship
gives you permission to leave us,” Will said. His hail-fellow-well-met expression had now flown.

“Yes, Maud,” I said, when she tarried yet, “it’s all right.” Neither Will nor I looked away from each other as she left us.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or spank you,” he said under his breath and steered me out the door and up Winding Lane toward Bishopsgate Street. “My ladyship, indeed. It’s one thing for me to bargain with Henslowe, but he’s one to talk your petticoats right off you before you know what’s happened.”

“It takes such a man to know one.”

“Stop it, Lady Disdain. You hardly hate me if you were promoting my plays to him.”

“It was like giving alms to the poor to help you out.”

“Curse you, Anne Whateley!” he cried and hustled me into the entrance to Swan Alley. “You’re getting in the way of my writing—my obsession with you, wanting you—I need to write, I grip my pen until it bends and my spastic hand racks me but not so sore as do my memories of you. I have only pieces of plays to show Henslowe tomorrow unless I stay up all night and write with my pen in my teeth!”

“If I am in your way, will you hire someone to rid you of me? Will you—” was all I got out before he pressed me against the alley wall and kissed me hard, crushing my half mask askew.

I wanted to push him off, to tell him off, but I didn’t. Somehow my arms got wrapped around his neck to grapple him to me. I pushed back against him as he flattened my petticoats and my breasts under my taut bodice by grinding me against a wall. The kiss went on and on, deeper, spinning the entire city around us. His hands raced over my waist, my hips and breasts. We slanted our heads to drink deeper of each other, open mouths, breathing hard in unison. He rained mad kisses down my throat to where my breasts swelled and I thought he might yank my bodice down. We both gasped for air as if we were being smothered.

When we broke the kiss and caress at last, he lifted a hand to pull my mask up and shove back my hood.

“Tell me Kit Marlowe is naught to you!” he gasped raggedly. “Tell me you haven’t been in his bed.”

“You know he favors lads.”

“Tell me, vow it to me!”

“I was in his bed, but only because I was drunk. I swear nothing like you’re thinking happened, and if he says it’s so, he lies. I went out a window when he wasn’t looking.”

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed. “If I believe you, it’s only because you just had the perfect chance to drive me completely mad by saying he’s had you. If you’d let him—let him use you—”

“Does he say so, the wretch?”

“Ah, music to my ears that you don’t care for him. But then, you have berated me and you once cared for me. Anne—my Anne, we can hardly go to your rooms with Jennet and John there, and I have had to hire a scrivener to copy my work back in my room. Besides, it’s dank there, and if I fail as an actor or writer, I shall just hawk the mushrooms that grow in the corners of my room. ‘Mushrooms, fresh mushrooms!’ Ah, you’re smiling.”

“One crazed kiss does not mean I shall bed with you any more than with Kit Marlowe.”

“Maybe I only desire that you read my work,” he said with a wink.

“Will, my hand is strong and sure, and my penmanship good. I used to read to you, but cannot I help you write—that is, take your dictation so we can get something finished for Henslowe on the morrow? You must get a good start with him or the Burbages or whoever is to discover your work beyond your acting. And if your room is dank and dark, we shall just take part of the table from your scrivener and work all night by candlelight.”

“It’s a small, wretched room, that’s the rub, and I left him with my last candle stubs. Damn, but those are dear in this town. Sometimes I sit up all night in a tavern writing because candles are free there, but the noise and stench . . . But you—our love—deserves much more.”

“And we must be somewhere at least tonight where we would not be distracted from the writing.”

“Anne,” he cried, crushing me to him again and covering my throat with hot kisses, “I have missed you so, needed you so.”

“I have it,” I told him, though my voice was shaky and I could barely catch my breath. “We’ll work the night in the Davenants’ kitchen. Jennet has plenty of candles there, even a horn lantern we can light. How long before you can look in on your scrivener, then come to the back door with your work?”

“I’ll run. An hour at most, as I’m up by Shoreditch near the theatres, on Holywell Lane. I’ll keep him working at
Titus
and bring the comedy with me. But will you be all right, getting home? You look so—so stunning today that—”

“It’s still light out. Her ladyship will be fine. Fine now that we are partners at least with the plays, if not with playing.” I gave his firm midriff a light punch. “Hurry,” I told him. “This is your place, Will, and this is your time.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Considering that I had been
denied my wedding night, this was the most thrilling night of my life. Will and I took a quick supper with John and Jennet, and John helped her up to bed. The child was not due for several weeks yet, we reckoned. I had vowed to be with her each moment when her time came, and I was dreading that, however much I tried to bolster her spirits and mine too. When John and Jennet were gone, Will and I turned to our work.