Shakespeare's Spy (17 page)

For nearly two years, however, I had been spouting verse for several hours every day. It was bound to affect me. I found myself unconsciously composing ten-syllable lines, with the stress on the even-numbered syllables:

Sometimes the meter limped a little, but then Mr. Shakespeare’s lines did not always glide as smoothly as swans, either.

Just when I grew used to the words pouring onto the page, without warning the source—whatever it was—dried up, and I was back to squeezing lines out of my brain, drop by drop. But even at its most frustrating, the task held a sort of perverse satisfaction. While everyone else in our household—and in other households all over the city—were in their beds, here was I at my desk, slaving away, creating a work of art. I felt noble, righteous, a martyr in the service of Melpomene, the muse of tragedy. Like those who slept, I was spinning out a sort of
dream. But, whereas theirs would fade even before they awoke, mine would be written down and perhaps acted out, for others to hear and to see, again and again.

I did not feel nearly so righteous in the morning. I felt, in fact, less like a noble playwright than like a noddy who has slept half the night in a hard chair, with a pile of papers for a pillow, and who has wax in his hair from a melting candle. Well, I reminded myself, a martyr is expected to suffer for his cause, otherwise he would not be a martyr, only an ordinary wight doing an ordinary job that anyone might do as well. As I tried to get my stiff limbs in working order, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was now nearly one act nearer to having a completed play and the money to rescue Julia.

Sam could not, of course, resist commenting upon my haggard appearance. “Don’t tell me. The cats of creativity kept you up until all hours again with their infernal mewing.”

“As a matter of fact, I was hard at work writing posies for the lottery.” I had learned from Sam that when you bought a chance in the lottery, you gave the agent a slip of paper with some distinctive motto or verse upon it; when the winners were announced, their posies were read aloud.

“You’re
going to enter the lottery?”

I nodded soberly. “Not the royal one, though. This lottery is only for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, to determine which of us will get his wages this week.”

Sam gaped at me. “Truly?”

“Nay. I was only jesting.”

He swatted my arm. “That’s nothing to jest about.” As we entered the courtyard of the Cross Keys, he said, “I suppose you won’t be favoring us with your company again today?”

“Nay. I’ll be another two days, at least, copying Mr. Jonson’s script—or should I say
deciphering
it. His hand is so poor, the whole thing looks as though it’s in some sort of code that only remotely resembles th’alphabet.”

“Perhaps it is!” Sam whispered dramatically. “Perhaps it’s a secret means of communication known only to Catholics!” When I looked dubious, he said, “Well, it’s possible. They have a whole mysterious language of their own, you know.”

“Aye. It’s called Latin. And it’s not all that mysterious.” I peered through the window of the office; there was no one inside. I dug from my purse the key Mr. Shakespeare had given me.

“It’s mysterious if you’ve never studied it,” Sam said.

“I ha’, a bit.”

“Have you? Say something in it, then.”

“Umm …
Totus mundus agit histrionem.
”

“Ahh, I know that one already. It’s on the front of the Globe. ‘All the world’s a stage.’ Say something else.”

I rolled my eyes long-sufferingly.
“Carpe diem, tempus fugit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means ‘Get to work.’”

I was tempted to tell Sam the news about Jamie Redshaw. But if I told him, it would be the same as telling everyone, and I was not eager for Judith to know. As long as my heritage remained a mystery, there was always the possibility, however unlikely, that I was the son of some great lord, and not of a common brigand.

I found it harder than ever that morning to make sense of Mr. Jonson’s scribbles—perhaps because my eyes were closed
so much of the time. It was not only my lack of sleep that was to blame; no matter how well rested I was, Mr. Jonson’s script would surely have sent me into a stupor.

How could such a coarse and colorful wight, I wondered, write such insipid stuff? Considered purely as poetry, there was nothing wrong with it. It was dignified, evocative, and eloquent. But as dialogue for the stage, it was, to use Mr. Shakespeare’s term again, putrid—hopelessly stilted and unnatural. I wondered whether I should introduce Mr. Jonson to my method of speaking the lines aloud before I wrote them down. Probably not. If I did, he would no doubt speak aloud a few choice lines himself. They would not be suitable for use upon the stage, of course, but at least they would have some life in them.

Though copying the script was a struggle, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I still did not know much about how to write a play, but at least I knew a good deal about how
not
to write one. That night, I sat down at my own desk with a new determination. For the first time I actually believed that if I worked hard enough at it, I might write something worth reading, and worth acting—if not with this play then with the next one, or the next.

Perhaps, in the process, I might even manage to make something of myself—unlike my father. But, though Jamie Redshaw had done little enough for me, there was one thing I might thank him for: Like Mr. Jonson, he had instilled in me a fierce resolve not to follow in his footsteps.

T
o my surprise, I had no trouble staying awake to work on my play. It was as though, after so many hours of plodding along in a sort of daze, I had at last passed beyond the boundaries of weariness and into some other realm, where the body gives up trying to have its way, and the mind becomes master.

In the morning, of course, my body came to its senses again, and it was all I could do to drag myself to the theatre. But I had another half an act to show for it. I tucked several pages of the script into my wallet, meaning to read them to Judith if the opportunity presented itself.

It did not. In fact, Judith did not present herself, even at the midday meal. Though I longed to know where she was and how she was, I was not inclined to ask Mr. Shakespeare. I was still angry with him and with Mr. Heminges over their seeming lack of concern for Julia, and was doing my best to avoid them.

Sam, who never hesitated to ask anyone about anything, reported that Judith had been banished from the Cross Keys as punishment for putting the whole company in jeopardy. This only added to my resentment. If she could not come to the theatre, and I could not leave it, how would we ever meet?

There was, of course, tomorrow afternoon, when she had arranged for Sal Pavy and Sam to show her about the city after church. Though it would be hard to be content with one-third of her attention, perhaps it would be better than not seeing her at all. If Mr. Shakespeare made good his threat to send her home, there was no telling how many more chances I might have.

The weather had been so miserable of late that I feared it might spoil our plans. But for once Sunday lived up to its name, dawning bright and clear. By the time we set out for St. Saviour’s, it was almost too warm for a cloak. Sam, who lodged with Mr. Phillips but a few streets away from us, ordinarily accompanied us to church, to the delight of Mr. Pope’s orphan boys; they laughed at all his jests, however inane, and were awed by his simpleminded sleight-of-hand tricks, such as pulling pennies from their mouths.

When he failed to join us, the boys were sorely disappointed. As we filed into the church, I spotted Mr. Phillips; Sam was not with him, either. Before I could ask him what had become of the boy, Mr. Phillips asked me the same thing. I had no answer for him. I only hoped that Sam’s absence would not be noted by the priest or the deacons.

It was possible, of course, that he was only late, and would show up at some point in the services. To my shame, I found myself wishing he would not; then I would have to share Judith only with Sal Pavy—who was, unfortunately, sitting in his usual spot at the end of our pew, alongside Mr. Armin.

The priest began by asking us all to join him in a prayer for the queen’s health. Apparently there was some small hope that Her Majesty would yet recover. Though her body might be weak, her will was not; she was as stubborn and independent as ever. She had refused to take to her bed, for to do so would be to concede that she was near the end. Instead, she spent all her time sitting upright on cushions placed upon the floor.

After the services, I searched for Sam, but there was still no sign of him. I caught Sal Pavy coming out of the church and let him know that I intended to join him and Judith. To my surprise, he seemed agreeable, or at least as agreeable as Sal Pavy ever got. “What about Sam?” he asked.

“Whist!” I said softly. After making certain no one would overhear, I whispered, “‘A never turned up.”

“Oh. He won’t be happy if we go without him.”

“Then ‘a should ha’ been here. Besides, ‘a would only ha’ pestered us to cross over on th’ ice.”

“It would be a good deal quicker than going by way of the bridge.”

“Aye, and perhaps a good deal wetter as well. Now that the weather’s changed, th’ ice may begin breaking up at any time.”

Sal Pavy gave me a smirking smile. “You sound a bit white-livered to me.”

“I’m hot afeared, an that’s what you mean. I’m cautious, that’s all.”

“Caution is but another name for fear.”

“And daring is but another name for stupid.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You cross the bridge, and I’ll cross the ice, and we’ll see which of us gets to Judith first.”

I searched his face for some sign that he was jesting, and failed to find any. “You mean it?”

“Of course.”

He was clearly issuing a challenge, like the one I had issued several months earlier when I proposed an acting duel to determine who would play the part of Helena in
All’s Well.
If I ignored his dare and took the bridge, he would most likely follow. But suppose he did not? Even if I ran all the way to St. Olave’s, I might arrive to find him and Judith gone or, even worse, sharing a laugh over my foolish caution, which they would take for fear.

Whether he was truly serious or only bluffing, I had no choice but to take up the gauntlet he had thrown. “All right, then,” I said, with a nonchalance that was badly damaged by my voice breaking. “Let’s be stupid—I mean, daring.”

“Good.” Sal Pavy gestured toward the steps that led to the river. “After you.”

“It was your idea,” I reminded him.

He could not deny it. With his head held high, rather like a condemned man determined to make a good show on his way to the scaffold, he descended the stairs and, with a reluctance that was hardly visible, stepped onto the ice. He turned to me with a smug look, tinged with relief. “There, you see? It’s perfectly safe.”

I had no doubt it would be, this close to shore, where the water was still. It was the part farther out, where the current flowed fastest beneath its frozen shell, that worried me. As we shuffled toward the middle of the river, I took some heart in the fact that a dozen or so wights were out there already, fishing through holes they had cut in the ice. Of course, we had no notion how many more had made holes through it without meaning to, and were now down there with the fish.

“Sam will really be angry with us now, for going without him,” said Sal Pavy.

“Assuming we survive, you mean.”

When we had gone perhaps fifty yards, I began to notice dark patches here and there, where a pocket of air or a mass of floating debris had been trapped in the ice. Though I carefully detoured around these spots, Sal Pavy seemed to pay no attention to them—until he put his weight on one and the ice gave way like the trapdoor in our stage at the Globe, which could be used to send an evil villain plunging into the pit of hell.

Sal Pavy’s cry of dismay was cut off as he dropped into the river and the water closed over his head. My instinct was to run headlong to his rescue; then my reason took over and told me that if I did, I might well join him instead. I flung myself onto my stomach and scuttled along like a crab until I reached the spot where he had fallen through. Sal Pavy had fought his way to the surface—within the circle of open water, luckily, and not beneath the ice—and was clinging with both hands to the crumbling edge of the hole, choking and coughing up water. Between spasms, he called out in a faint and trembling voice, “Widge! Help me!”

I crept several inches nearer. I could hear the ice creaking under my weight, and expected a new chunk to break loose at any moment. “I’m here! Take my hand!”

“I can’t! I daren’t let go!”

“All right,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I’ll take yours, then.” I groped about until I located what I took to be one of his hands; it was hard to be sure, for it was as cold as the ice. I pushed myself forward another few inches and wrapped my fingers around his wrist. It was impossible to pull him to me
though; I could get no purchase on the slick ice. “You’ll ha’ to climb up me arm.”

“I can’t!” he gasped. “My cloak. Too heavy.”

“Unfasten it wi’ one hand, then. I’ll keep hold of th’ other.”

“Don’t let go!” he begged. For what seemed like a full minute or more I heard him thrashing about, trying to free himself from the waterlogged cloak. At last I felt his fingers clutch the sleeve of my shirt.

“Get a good grip,” I said. “I’m going to let go of your other hand now.”

“No!” he cried.

“I must, Sal. You’ll need it to pull yourself out. The moment I let go, you grasp me arm. All right?”

“I’ll try,” he said weakly.

“Good.” I released my hold on his wrist. He slumped down in the water, and for a moment I thought I’d lost him. Then his other hand slithered forward and seized the fabric of my sleeve. With painful slowness, using me as his ladder, he dragged himself from the river and onto the ice.