Shakespeare's Spy (28 page)

When I asked whether I might tell my fellow players the news, she made no objection. The company reacted much the way they had when I told them of my true father. Half of them were astounded; the other half declared that her likeness to Essex was so unmistakable that they should have seen it before.

I returned from the theatre late that afternoon to find Julia gone and Goody Willingson growing anxious. “She said she’d be back in time to help with supper. I don’t mind that she’s not; I’m just wondering what’s become of her.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“To see a friend. Someone named … Frances, I believe.”

“Oh, gis!” Without pausing to explain, I dashed out of the house and down to the river, where I paid a wherryman sixpence to make the quickest crossing he could.

I knew well enough where Sir Thomas Shirley’s mansion lay. It was one of the grandest in a string of grand houses that stretched out along the north bank of the river, their red tile roofs glowing like great gems in the light of the sinking sun. The moment the boat touched shore, I leaped from it and scrambled up the stairs. When I reached Thames Street, I hurried down it, scanning both sides of the thoroughfare, praying that I might see Julia heading home, safe and sound.

Instead I found her sitting on a low stone wall across the street from Shirley House, gazing at the imposing structure. “What are you
doing
?” I demanded breathlessly.

She gave me a startled look. “I might well ask the same of you.”

I sank down next to her. “Trying to keep you from doing something foolish.”

“You needn’t have bothered. I wasn’t planning to burst in and declare myself the rightful heir, or anything.”

“You told Goody Willingson you were going to see Frances.”

“And so I did. She came out not a quarter of an hour ago. She crossed the street and passed by me, so near that I might have reached out and touched her.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. Nor did I speak to her. I only wanted to have a look at her, to see …”

“To see whether you resembled her. I ken. I did the same wi’ Jamie Redshaw. And do you?”

She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “No. She’s very beautiful.”

I shrugged. “Oh, well, wi’ enough face paint and a costly gown and the right wig, anyone can look beautiful—even me. Besides, I think you’re quite comely.”

“Do you?”

“Aye.”

“Well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Can we go now, or do you want to have a look at Sir Thomas as well?”

“No. I’m done.” As we headed toward the river, she said, “That’s one of the things I miss most about acting—getting to wear those elegant gowns.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s caps and aprons for me from now on.”

“There may yet be hope. I’ve heard that the new queen enjoys performing in plays and masques and such. Perhaps she’ll talk her husband into letting women appear upon the stage.”

Julia laughed humorlessly. “He’d have to get rid of all the Puritans first.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “He could send them all off to colonize the New World.”

T
hough Julia and I had by now discussed in great detail nearly all that had befallen us in the year we were apart, there were two subjects I had carefully avoided. One was my infatuation with Judith; the other was my pitiful attempt to compose a play. I had been foolish to imagine that either was within my limited reach. The most I hoped for now was that I might manage to forget about them both.

Unexpectedly, Judith proved easier to get out of my head than did the notion of writing a play. Ideas and characters and titles came to me unbidden at the most inconvenient times—often in the dead of night—and I found that the only way to stop them plaguing me was to write them down. Once I had done that, I refused to have anything more to do with them. They could sit at the back of my desk until they moldered into dust for all I cared.

One of my titles, however, had found a place for itself. Mr. Shakespeare was calling his latest play
Measure for Measure
.
Without the demands of a nightly performance to occupy his time, he had finished the script in record time, and even though it was still uncertain whether or not we would ever perform again, he instructed me to begin copying out the players’ sides.

By the time the new king arrived at last in London, the plague was claiming nearly a thousand lives each week. His Majesty remained in the city scarcely long enough for the Crown to settle on his royal costard, and then he retreated to Hampton Court, some ten or fifteen miles upriver.

Our sharers had concluded that if we hoped to win the king over to our cause, we must get to him before the Puritans did. To my surprise, they also concluded that it would be far wiser if, instead of each company pleading its case alone, we combined our forces. What was even more surprising was that Mr. Henslowe agreed. The less renowned companies were only too eager to join this unlikely, uneasy alliance.

So it was that, toward the end of June, a delegation made up of members of all the London companies, from the largest to the smallest, set out for Hampton Court, determined to convince the new monarch that the theatre was not an evil influence upon his subjects, as the Square Toes claimed, but an innocent source of entertainment and enlightenment.

The half dozen of us who remained were given the day off. It was just as well; we were all so distracted with worry over the company’s fate that it would have been useless to try to rehearse. I was unaccustomed to being idle, though. By midday I had grown so restless that I decided I would be better off at the theatre, copying out sides.

“I’ll go with you,” said Julia.

I stared at her. “Truly? But you said—”

“I know what I said. I’ve decided I was being silly. After all, I can’t very well refuse ever to enter a theatre again, can I?”

“I suppose not. None of the company will be there, though, except for me.”

“Good. This will be hard enough without having to face them as well.”

As we neared the Globe, Julia halted and stood gazing at it, in the same wistful way she had regarded Shirley House—as though she would have liked to feel she belonged there, but knew that she never could. When we entered the area behind the stage, her face took on an expression of such longing that I had to look away. “Perhaps you were right to begin wi’,” I said. “Perhaps you should not ha’ come.”

“No, it’s all right.” Though her voice was a bit unsteady, it was calm and determined. “You go on and do your work. I’ll just … have a look about.”

By now I had done so much transcribing for the company that I scarcely needed to give any thought to what I was copying; my hand seemed almost to have a mind of its own. But ever since I began struggling to write a play, I had been paying closer attention to Mr. Shakespeare’s verse. In truth, I believe I was looking for flaws in it. As petty and mean-spirited as it may seem, I found it curiously comforting to be reminded that even the most accomplished and highly regarded of playwrights sets down his share of putrid passages.

I had, in fact, just copied one: “Go to your bosom; knock there and ask your heart what it doth know.” Had I composed such a line myself, I would have burned it. Though I gloated each time the script struck a sour note, the truth was that they were few and far between. For every awkward speech, there
were a score of others so graceful and well made that I found myself speaking them under my breath, just to savor the sound of them.

As I was finishing up Isabella’s part, which I thought of as mine, I heard a clamor of voices outside and rose from the desk to investigate. Before I reached the rear door of the theatre, it burst open, revealing Mr. Heminges and Mr. Shakespeare. They were clearly in good spirits—and, from the looks of them, they had gotten some of those spirits in an alehouse along the way. It took them a while to actually come inside, for each of them was loudly insisting that the other enter first. “Age before beauty, “ said Mr. Shakespeare.

“N-no,” protested Mr. Heminges. “William the C-Conqueror always goes before K-King John.” He spotted me, then, and, pushing Mr. Shakespeare aside, sprang through the doorway, lost his balance, and used me to steady himself. “James! W-we succeeded! Your n-namesake has proclaimed that all the th-theatres in London are to resume b-business as usual!”

“Gog’s blood! How soon?”

“Well,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “we can’t actually reopen the Globe until the plague deaths decline a bit. In the meantime we’ll be presenting our performances at the court.” He shifted his gaze to something behind me, and I turned to see Julia coming through one of the curtained entrances that led to the stage.

She curtsied slightly to the sharers. “God you good day, gentlemen.” Her manner was a bit guilty, as though she’d been caught trespassing. “I was just seeing whether anything had changed.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We’ve some good news for you.”

“Yes, I heard.” Though she wore a smile, it seemed a bit forced. “I’m happy for you all.”

“Thank you. But that’s not the news I meant. This concerns you directly.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Heminges wiped his brow. “Let’s sit d-down to discuss it, shall we? I’m f-feeling rather light-headed, and there’s a s-sort of humming in my ears.”

“I believe it’s the hum in your belly that’s the problem,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
Hum
was the London term for a mixture of ale and spirits. Mr. Shakespeare stepped into the alcove at the rear of the stage and dragged forth the two chairs that served as our royal thrones. He helped Mr. Heminges into one and seated himself in the other. “If we’re to be the King’s Men we should begin behaving accordingly.”

I gaped at him. “The
King’s
Men? His Majesty himself is to be our patron?”

Mr. Heminges nodded enthusiastically; his head appeared a bit wobbly. “It seems he’s quite f-fond of the theatre after all. His son, Pr-Prince Henry, is to be H-Henslowe’s new patron, and Worcester’s c-company are henceforth the Queen’s M-Men. And speaking of the creen—the queem—” He turned unsteadily to Mr. Shakespeare. “P-perhaps you’d best tell it, Will. My t-tongue has t-turned trader. Traitor.”

Mr. Shakespeare gestured at the book-keeper’s bench. “You two may as well sit; this will take some explanation. You see, after our audience with the king, Queen Anne summoned me to her chambers, to discuss the possibility of my writing a masque for her court to perform.”

“And did you agree to?” I asked. I knew how contemptuous he was of those stilted, stylized spectacles, which, he said,
were no more like a real play than a plate of marchpane is like a meal.

“Not exactly. I told Her Majesty that a good masque—if indeed there is such a thing—required a lighter touch than mine, and I recommended Ben Jonson as the best man for the job. But the point is, during this discussion, Julia, your name came up. As a woman with acting ambitions of her own, I thought Her Majesty would appreciate your plight. I also took the liberty of mentioning that you were Essex’s daughter. Well, it was as though I had told her you were the daughter of Zeus. It seems that Essex visited the Scottish court several times—no doubt plotting with James to seize the English throne—and, like most women, Anne found him irresistible. She insisted that you come to court at once, to join her retinue of young ladies.”

Julia gave an astonished laugh. “
Me
? I know nothing about waiting upon a queen!”

“I don’t believe it’s your waiting ability she’s interested in; it’s your acting ability. She wants you to perform in her plays and masques.”

For a day or two, I fooled myself into believing that Julia would not accept the queen’s offer—which in truth sounded less like an offer than like a command. Though she would not have admitted it, Julia was clearly intimidated by the prospect of mingling with royalty. But she had never before let a little fear prevent her from getting what she wanted. The main thing that seemed to be holding her back was a reluctance to leave Mr. Pope and Goody Willingson and the children—and, perhaps not least of all, me.

Had the lot of us implored her to stay, I suspect she would have done so. I also suspect that she would have been miserable.
However strong her wish to remain with us might be, I knew that her desire to be a player was stronger. Of course, if she left, then I would be the miserable one. But given the choice between her happiness and mine, I preferred hers. Perhaps that is the true measure of love.

I
f the country’s Catholics had imagined that a new monarch would mean a new era of religious tolerance, they were sorely disappointed. Those who converted to the Old Faith, or preached it, were still considered traitors, and those who failed to attend Anglican services on the Sabbath still risked paying a substantial fine. I was content enough to spend my Sunday mornings in church; at least it was something to do. Now that Julia was at court, playing the part of a maid of honor, I no longer had any companions my own age, and the one afternoon I had to myself seemed empty and endless, more of a burden than a boon.

For all the grief the contagion had caused, it had one benefit: the streets of the city and its public places were practically deserted. I had never grown quite used to the hurly-burly here, and though I would have welcomed the company of a friend or two, I rather relished not having to rub shoulders with a thousand strangers.

Even the churchyard of St. Paul’s, which was ordinarily as crowded as a cheap coffin, had no more than twenty or thirty folk wandering about like lost souls. Most were purchasing herbs and infusions that were guaranteed to guard against the plague. Should the herbs fail, of course, the buyer was seldom in a position to demand his money back.

I had little faith in such nostrums. I was drawn, instead, to the rows of sixpenny playbooks displayed at the printers’ stalls. As I was leafing idly through them—looking, I suppose, for putrid passages at which I might scoff—a particular title caught my eye. I picked it up and stared at the cover.
Timon of Athens
, it read.
A Lamentable Tiagedie. By Wm. Shakspeai
. I waved it at the printer. “Who sold you this script?”