Shakespeare's Spy (12 page)

Even as I was turning all this over in my mind, our all-male province was invaded by two fair and fashionably dressed young ladies. So finely turned out were they, in fact, that I almost failed to recognize them. But my heart did not; it leaped in my chest. “Judith!” I exclaimed softly.

Sam elbowed me again. “Come now, if you want her attention, you’ll have to speak up.” But even had I been brave enough to call out to her, I could not have done so, for my breath had deserted me. The company rose as one to greet the girls. “Who’s the wench with her?” Sam whispered.

“Mary Mountjoy, the daughter of Mr. Shakespeare’s landlord.”

Sam pursed his lips appraisingly. “She’s even better looking than Mistress Shakespeare.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You truly think so?”

He grinned. “No. I was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Judith was saying, “that we couldn’t join you all for dinner. We were too busy buying things.”

“What sort of things?” Mr. Shakespeare asked, apprehensively.

“Why, our dresses, Father!” Judith lifted the hem of her gown and turned in a slow circle so we might admire it, then gestured to Mistress Mountjoy, who giggled and made a cursory twirl. “And our shoes!” Judith gave us a glimpse of a pair of chopines with soles a good six inches high, designed to keep her skirts from dragging through the mud and slush. “And our billiments!” She patted the satin band, garnished with jewels, that adorned her hair.

Radiating disapproval as a stove does heat, Mr. Shakespeare led his daughter over near the window. But, though the rest of us did our best not to notice them, it was impossible. Over Mr. Armin’s voice inviting Mistress Mountjoy to have some fruit and cheese, I could hear Mr. Shakespeare asking how much all their finery had cost, and Judith replying nonchalantly that she wasn’t certain but it might have been seven or eight pounds. I nearly choked on my cheese; that was a full year’s wages for a prentice.

Mr. Shakespeare sounded nearly as astonished as I was, and considerably more upset. “And how did you manage to pay for it?”

“I asked them to send the bill to you,” she said, as though the answer should have been obvious. “They said they were happy to, and were certain you were good for it.”

“Then they’re far more certain than I am,” growled Mr. Shakespeare.

“Oh, Father, you can’t expect me to come to London and not buy a few new things for myself.”

“I didn’t expect you to come to London at all.”

Mr. Armin, who had been patiently listening to Mary Mountjoy prattle on, saw that we were eavesdropping. “I’m sorry to cut short our delightful conversation, my dear, but it’s time I took these wag-pasties upstairs and put them through their paces.”

“Paces?”

Mr. Armin pretended to run her through with an invisible sword, eliciting a burst of giggles. “Sword practice, mademoiselle.”

“Oh!” cried Judith from directly behind me. “May we watch, sir?”

I had seldom seen Mr. Armin taken off guard, either by sword or by speech. “Well, I—I—” He looked to Mr. Shakespeare for help. “What do you think, Will?”

Mr. Shakespeare took half a step back, as though he meant to stay out of it. “It’s up to you, Rob.”

Mr. Armin frowned. “I’m not certain it’s such a—”

“We won’t be any bother,” Judith assured him. “Will we, Mary?”

“No! Not a bit!”

With obvious reluctance, Mr. Armin said, “All right—provided you’re quiet and stay out of the way.”

Since none of the chambers at the Cross Keys was spacious enough for swordplay, we held our practice sessions in the long gallery, before the stage. As we mounted the stairs, Judith called over her shoulder, “How is your play progressing, Widge?”

I groaned inwardly, knowing what was coming next. Sure enough, Sam spoke up. “His
play?
You’re writing a play, Widge?”

I murmured something noncommittal, hoping they would let the subject drop. It was a vain hope. “Hasn’t he told you?” Judith said.

“No, he hasn’t.” Sam gave me a reproachful look, as though hurt that I should tell Judith before him. “What’s it about, then?”

“So far, it’s about two pages.”

“Pages? The sort that wait on nobles, you mean?”

“Nay, the sort you write on.”

To my relief, Mr. Armin cut the conversation short by handing us our wooden singlesticks. “Sam, you and Sal square off. Widge, you’ll work with me.”

Judith and Mary were as good as their word, sitting far up in the two-penny seats, well out of reach of even the most wayward sword thrust. But perhaps it was too much to ask them to be silent as well. No sooner had we begun our practice than they began whispering and tittering behind their hands. I suspected, from their sidelong glances, that we were the source of their amusement.

We did not mean to be amusing. Under Mr. Armin’s unforgiving eye, even Sam was on his best behavior—for a time, at least. We prentices had more or less mastered the basic cuts and thrusts—the
stoccata
, the
passata
, the
imbrocata
, the
stramazone
, the
dritta
and
riversa
—and had lately been working on a new move. The
montano
was an underhanded sweep of the sword, designed to catch the opponent’s blade from beneath, where his wrist is weakest.

At first, I was painfully self-conscious, afraid of embarrassing myself before Judith. But serious swordplay requires such concentration, such precision, that after half a dozen blows I lost all awareness of being watched—until I heard the sounds of stifled laughter coming from the two-penny seats. I glanced toward the girls, and saw at once the reason for their merriment: Sam’s last
montano
had not been quite according to
Caranza, as they say. It ended up not beneath his opponent’s sword but between his opponent’s legs. Sal Pavy was standing practically on tiptoe, with an extremely worried expression on his face. Sam was giving his singlestick little jerks upward and snarling, “Yield, varlet!”

Something struck my left shoulder painfully, making me cry out. “That is what happens,” Mr. Armin said, lowering his weapon, “when you allow yourself to be distracted.” He turned to the other two scrimers. “That’s enough, Sam.”

Sam hung his head. “I was only having a bit of fun.”

“Oh? Well, I like a bit of fun myself. Why don’t you and I have an amusing bout or two while Widge and Sal blade it out?”

Sam looked as though Mr. Armin had proposed a round of shin-kicking with hobnailed boots. Reluctantly he took my place and I took his.

The girls had gone back to merely whispering. I did my best to ignore them and concentrate on Sal Pavy. He wasted no time in striking the first blow. No doubt he was humiliated by Sam’s horseplay and anxious to redeem himself, for he swung his stick much harder than he should have. My weapon went flying.

Angry, I snatched up the stick and delivered a blow that made Sal Pavy draw back. He replied with an edgeblow aimed at my knees. I knocked it aside and, without thinking, gave him a
stoccata
that would have knocked the wind out of him had he not dodged. Even so, it scraped his ribs. He cursed under his breath and swung at me again, harder than before. Without our really meaning it to, our friendly practice had degenerated into a hostile duel.

W
hen Sal Pavy first joined the Chamberlain’s Men, I had regarded him as a rival for the choicest roles and had naturally resented him. Though I had come to accept him as one of us, there were times when that old enmity welled up unexpectedly, like some intermittent fever that, just when you think you’ve rid yourself of it, makes you sweat again.

This was one of those times. Though I am not ordinarily a violent sort, I laid on as though I meant to disembowel him at the very least. In truth, I had no wish to harm him, only to show him up, to make him look bad and myself look good.

I was very much aware of the audience now. Judith and Mary called out words of encouragement, though which of us they were aimed at, I could not tell. Mr. Armin was shouting at us, too, and I suspected that his were not words of encouragement. We were too intent on each other to heed him.

Though I hated to admit it, Sal Pavy put up a good defense.
Not
only did he turn aside my every blow, he answered
with several that nearly found their mark. For the first time, I began to wonder whether he might be the one to show me up.

But I knew his weakness. For all his skill at convincing folk that he was charming and a hard worker, when it came to scriming he was a poor deceiver. Each time he made a move, you could see it coming, in his eyes and in the way he set his body. I, on the other hand, was quite good at falsifying—feigning one sort of blow and delivering another.

I started what seemed to be a right edgeblow, deliberately leaving myself open. When Sal Pavy lunged at me, I stepped aside and swung a downright blow that would sorely have cracked his collarbone if it had connected. Luckily for both of us, it did not. It met Mr. Armin’s singlestick instead, with a resounding clunk that numbed my forearm.

“If you two wish to kill each other,” he said, “there are more efficient ways than with dull wooden swords.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, rubbing my tingling arm. “I got carried away.”

“So I noticed. And if that blow had landed, Sal might have been carried away as well.”

I recalled La Voisin’s prediction—that I would cause another’s death—and a shudder went through me. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, so earnestly that my voice cracked.

“I know. It was not entirely your fault.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t mine!” put in Sal Pavy.

Mr. Armin gave him a look that said he’d be wise to put his tongue in his purse. Then he turned to Judith and Mary. “Ladies, I must ask you to leave.”

Judith bit her lip and folded her hands demurely in her lap. “We’ll behave, sir. I promise.”

“The problem is not so much
your
behavior as the way you make these poor wights behave. Go on now, before I give you swords and set you to scriming.”

“Oh, would you?” Judith exclaimed. “It looks like great fun!”

When they left, I was both disappointed and relieved. I apologized to Sal Pavy for attacking him so fiercely.

“Oh, were you?” he said. “I thought you were going easy on me, so I did the same.” One thing about Sal Pavy; he was reliable. If I should ever forget exactly why I had once disliked him so, I could count on him to remind me.

After scriming practice, Sam did a bit more prying about the play. I dared not confess that the whole thing was a fabrication; however solemnly he might swear not to, he would surely let the secret slip out, and then Judith would know me for the liar I was. Besides, I might yet produce a play as promised, if only I could come up with a sensible story.

“So,” Sam said, “what’s this play of yours called, then?”

My original title,
The Mad Men of Gotham
, had begun to seem irredeemably stupid. I replaced it with the first thing that came to mind:
“Let the World Wag.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Not bad. A comedy, is it?”

“Aye. But not your usual comedy. It’s got ghosts, and revenge, and star-crossed lovers.”

“Ah,” said Sam. “Sounds hilarious.”

As the company stood behind the stage that evening, waiting to go on in
The Spanish Tragedy
, Will Sly said, “I hear you’re writing a play.”

Thanks to the hubbub from the audience, he probably did not hear the curse I uttered under my breath. “I’m trying,” I said.

“I hope there’s a part in it for me?”

“Of course,” Knowing how fond he was of dashing, romantic roles, I added, “You get to play a leprous beggar.”

To my surprise, he replied, “Excellent!” and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Will I be horribly disfigured, with appendages falling off and such?”

“I was only jesting, Will. There’s no leper.” I did not bother to mention that neither were there any other characters of any description.

His face fell. “Oh. But you could put in a leper if you wanted, couldn’t you? I mean, it’s your play.”

I sighed. This play was already getting out of hand, and I had yet to write a single word of it. “I’ll do me best. I can’t promise anything.” I took out the small table-book I carried with me and jotted down a new title possibility:
The Leper’s Revenge.
What audience could resist that? Well, in one way at least I had the advantage of Mr. Shakespeare—I had no shortage of compelling titles. Perhaps he and I should become collaborators; I could supply the titles, and he could write the scripts to go with them.

Though I was tempted to peek around the curtain to see whether or not Judith was in the audience, I talked myself out of it. I was better off not knowing. That way, I would have no call to be either disappointed or self-conscious.

As it turned out, I was wise to restrain myself. After the performance, Judith came clomping onto the stage in her chopines to congratulate us. She clasped one of my hands in hers; I would have expected them to be warm, but they were cold as a key. “You were very good, Widge. So convincing. If I hadn’t known, I never would have suspected you were a boy.”

Before I could compose a reply that did not sound halfwitted, she had let go of me and latched onto Sal Pavy. “Master Pavy! You were … Oh, how shall I put it?”

“Superb?” he suggested.

She laughed. “I was about to say magnificent.”

“That’s even better.” He swept off his wig as though it were a cap and made a small bow. “I thank you for your kind words, and will endeavor to be worthy of them.”

“Oh, you are, I assure you! When you were lamenting Horatio’s death, I nearly cried.”

I could bear no more. I flung open the door and took the outside stairs two at a time, avoiding a broken neck only by grace of the fortune that protects fools, for the steps were coated with ice. I changed quickly and left without waiting for Sam; I had no desire to talk to anyone. Though I had forgotten my cloak, I was so hot with spite and shame that I scarcely noticed the cold.

By the time I reached Mr. Pope’s, I had cooled down a bit. When Goody Willingson asked how my day had been, instead of shouting “Utterly miserable!” I replied in a relatively calm voice, “I’ve had worse.” And it was true; I had had worse days—the day my mother died giving birth to me, for instance. The difference was, I couldn’t remember that one.