Shakespeare's Spy (6 page)

“It’s Widge,” I offered.

“
Widge?
What sort of name—?”

“My name is Garrett,” the man interrupted, and offered his hand to me. His grip was so firm that my finger hones ached for some time afterward. “And this is Mistress Judith Shakespeare. You’ll have to pardon her if she seems a bit lacking in the social graces. She’s from Warwickshire, you know, and doesn’t get out much.”

I was accustomed to such good-humored jesting, but the indignant look on Judith’s face told me that she was not. Though I was not schooled in the social graces myself, I knew how well-bred folk sounded from having played them so often. “As Aristotle says, ‘Beauty is a greater recommendation than any letter of introduction.’”

The man named Garrett laughed heartily. “Well spoken, lad.”

A smile stole across Judith’s face, making it even more striking. “You know, I think I’m going to like you, Widge.”

Even had I had another suitable line at the ready, I could not have found the breath to utter it. All I could manage to do was look at my feet.

“You promised to take me to my father,” Judith reminded me.

“Oh. Aye. Yes. This way.” I led them down to the dark parlor, where Mr. Shakespeare and Ned were still engaged in a heated discussion.

“Our father would have helped me out readily enough!” Ned was saying.

“Perhaps so. Unfortunately, he’s dead.” When Mr. Shakespeare saw us approaching, his face took on a curious expression that seemed composed equally of astonishment, delight, and disapproval. “Judith! What in heaven’s name brings you here?”

“Why, a horse, Father.” She curtsied to Ned. “God you good day, Uncle.”

“Yes, hello.” Ned seemed to be not so much pleased to see his niece as he was peeved by the intrusion.

Judith gave her father a kiss on the cheek. Mr. Shakespeare smiled rather wanly and patted his daughter’s hand. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it.”

“Of course I am; of course,” Mr. Shakespeare said, not very convincingly. Clearly, her sudden appearance had put him out of square, and thinking about it later, I could see why. Mr. Shakespeare’s world was divided into two hemispheres. One centered around his hometown of Stratford and his family, the other around London and the theatre, and the two seldom intersected. To have someone arrive unannounced from his other life must have been jarring, as though he had been performing in
Hamlet
and a character from
The Comedy of Errors
had suddenly strolled onto the stage.

Though Judith pretended to be put out, I had the feeling that she rather enjoyed seeing her father so disconcerted, just as she had enjoyed catching me unclothed. “As you see, I’ve brought someone with me. This is Father—” She broke off and cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Garrett. She appeared flustered, as though she had said something improper. “That is … I mean … Father, this is John. John Garrett. He was kind enough to accompany me all the way from Warwickshire, providing me with both companionship and protection.”

Mr. Shakespeare shook the man’s hand. “My thanks, sir.” He turned back to Judith. “But why—”

“Have we met before, sir?” Ned interrupted. “I don’t recognize the name, but your face seems familiar to me.”

“It’s possible,” said Mr. Garrett. “I travel about a good deal.”

“Do you? For what purpose?”

“Uncle!” Judith said. “You’re being rude!”

“Why?” Ned asked innocently. “Does he have something to hide?”

“Ned!” Mr. Shakespeare put in. “A gentleman’s business is his own.”

Ned glanced irritably at his brother, then made a slight, ironic bow in Mr. Garrett’s direction. “My apologies, sir. And now I must take my leave. I have business to attend to.”

“Do you?” said Mr. Garrett. “What sort?”

Ned gave a quick, sharp laugh. “Touché. Your point.”

“Will you not stop and talk awhile, Uncle?” Judith said. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“You’ll be here a few days, won’t you?”

Judith turned to her father with a look that seemed to carry a subtle challenge. “Longer than that, I hope.”

“Then we’ll talk later.” He placed a swift kiss on her pale cheek and departed.

“Now,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We will all sit down and have a drink, and you will tell me why you came to London.”

“I—I’d best see to me costume,” I said. “I’m afeared it will ha’ to be let out.”

“You’re keeping it prisoner?” said Mr. Garrett.

“Nay. It will need altering, I mean. It’s grown too small.”

“I suspect it’s you who have done the growing,” said Mr. Shakespeare.

“Oh, don’t you rush off as well, Widge.” Judith patted the seat next to her. “Come. Sit with me.” She gave Mr. Shakespeare that challenging look again. “My father is about to chide me, I suspect, for being so impulsive, and he may go easier on me if I’ve a friend at my side.”

“You’ve Mr. Garrett,” I pointed out.

“Oh, he’s an
adult
. He’ll side with Father.”

“You may as well sit, Widge,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “If we don’t let her have her way, she’s liable not to speak to me at all.”

Judith clucked her tongue. “You make me sound as though I were a spoiled child!”

“I’m sorry. It’s—it’s difficult sometimes for me to realize that you’ve become a young woman.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s because you see me so seldom.” There was an awkward silence, then Judith went on, more brightly, “Anyway, that’s one reason I’ve come to London—so that we may spend some time together.”

“Oh. Of course. I’d like that. Unfortunately, I don’t have a great deal of time, what with the demands of putting on existing plays, and the constant need to turn out new ones, and …”

Judith nodded, as though this was precisely what she’d expected to hear. “That’s just what Mother said. But I don’t ask for much—an hour or so in the evenings, that’s all, and I could come to the plays and see you perform. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so …”

“And Widge could show me around the city, couldn’t you, Widge?” When she turned to me, I caught the scent of cloves, which ladies sometimes chew to sweeten their breath. It worked.

I looked to Mr. Shakespeare for my cue; he shrugged rather helplessly. “I—I don’t ken,” I said. “We prentices don’t have many hours free, either …”

“Well, it’s time you did, then.”

“Have you given any thought to where you’ll stay?” said Mr. Shakespeare.

“Wherever you lodge, I suppose.”

“Oh. Well. The Mountjoys do have a daughter near your age. Perhaps she would be willing to share her room … for a
short
while.”

Judith clapped her hands. “Good! It’s all settled, then! Now. I believe that Mr… . Garrett”—she stumbled over the name like an actor who is uncertain of his lines—”would like to speak with you in private. I’ll just go help Widge with his costume. I’m not a bad hand with a needle, you know.” She slid sideways, nudging me out of the booth. The fleeting contact between our bodies turned my knees so weak that I could scarcely stand.

“Wait one moment,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “You said that a desire to spend time together was
one
reason you came to London. What was the other?”

“Oh. I’m to try and persuade you to send more money home.”

S
am had managed to put the tiring-room in order, or as near as one could expect from a wight who once cleaned the sheep’s blood from his costume by giving it to a dog to lick. “Did you find your gown for tonight?” I asked him.

He shook his head in disgust. “I suppose I can say farewell to my wages for the next several months.”

“Not to worry; I’ll lend you half of mine.”

“Thanks. And don’t forget—you owe me a penny.”

“Nay! I paid you back!”

He held up the gown that no longer fit me. “Our wager, remember?”

I drew a penny from my purse and threw it to him. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked for interest on’t.”

He grinned. “Well, now that you bring it up—”

“Don’t you have something else to do?” I suggested.

“Yes, and so do you. It’s called rehearsal.”

“Aye, all right. I’ll be along.”

“Take your time. I’ll just tell Mr. Lowin that you’re already busy rehearsing …” In a sugary, fluttering voice, he added, “A looovvve scene!” At that moment I longed for something far larger and more dangerous than a penny to throw at him. As he went out the door, he could not resist a parting shot—a line from
Two Gentlemen:
“‘I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes!’”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured in Judith’s direction. “‘A’s such a swad.”

“Oh, he’s young, that’s all. He’ll fall in love himself one day, and then he’ll sing a different tune.” Taking my gown by the sleeves, she held it up against my shoulders and surveyed it critically. She seemed wholly unaware that, only a few inches from her right hand, my heart was doing its utmost to leap out of my chest. “If we let down the hem a bit and move the hooks and eyes out, you may get by with it—provided you don’t make any sudden movements. Where can I find a needle and thread?”

“I’ll—I’ll just get them.” Reluctantly, I pulled away and went to seek out the sewing box.

“Sam mentioned someone named Mr. Lowin. I don’t recall my father ever speaking of him.”

“‘A’s new to the company. When Mr. Pope retired, John Lowin took his place.”

“Oh? When did Mr. Pope retire?”

“Well, when we toured last summer, ’a stayed behind, and ’a’s never performed since.” I handed her the sewing box. “It’s his health, you ken. ‘A no longer has the strength for it.”

She set about threading a needle. “That’s a pity. He must miss being on the stage.”

“No more than we miss him, I wis. I’ve naught against Mr. Lowin, but it’s just not the same. Of course, I still see a good
deal of Mr. Pope, as I lodge wi’ him.” I stole a glance at Judith, to find that she was regarding me with open amusement. “What?”

“Your speech.” She proceeded to mimic me. “‘I wis.’ ‘I’ve naught against him.’ ‘I lodge wi’ him.’”

I felt my face flush again. “And I suppose in Warwickshire they all sound like princes, do they?”

She laughed. “Far from it.” She laid her hand—the one not holding the needle—on mine. “I’m sorry, Widge. I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings. I just find it … quaint.”

I had been called many things in my life—a poor pigwidgeon, a lazy lout, a liar and a thief, even a horse—but no one had ever considered me
quaint
before. I was not certain how I felt about it. I would have preferred to be thought of as courageous or clever or handsome. Still, I supposed that being quaint was better than being a liar or a thief.

I would also have preferred that Judith go on resting her hand on mine for the foreseeable future. But at that moment the door of the tiring-room opened and Sal Pavy entered. It was clear that he had been to a barber. His hair, which had been ragged and unsightly after his encounter with the hair bandits, was now evenly cropped. He still seemed self-conscious, though, tugging at the back of his cap as though to conceal as much of his head as possible.

“You’re missing rehearsal,” I said, not very cordially.

“So are you.” He looked Judith over rather suspiciously, eyeing her yellow tresses in particular, as though he suspected her of being the receiver of his stolen hair. “Have we hired a seamstress?”

Judith gave him a swift, sarcastic glance and then said to me, “Have you hired a new fool?”

I suppressed a smile. “Nay. Sal has been wi’ us for some time now. Sal Pavy, this is Judith, Mr. Shakespeare’s daughter.”

“Oh?” Sal Pavy’s manner changed at once. “Well, that explains how the lady came by such a sharp wit. It certainly served to cut me down to size. Mistress Shakespeare.” He bowed to her, and she half rose from her stool to perform a cursory curtsy.

Though Sal Pavy was often disagreeable, he could put on the trappings of charm, like a new suit of clothes when it suited him. The other members of the company had long since ceased to be fooled by his performance, but Judith was seeing it for the first time, and she was an appreciative audience.

“Never fear.” Smiling, she held up the rat-chewed sleeve of my gown, which she had nearly mended. “I am also very good at making
amends
.”

I got to my feet. “We’d best get ourselves upstairs.” Though I had no wish to quit Judith’s company, I wished even less to quit the Lord Chamberlain’s company. I was not likely to get the chuck merely for being late to a rehearsal, of course. But I had worked hard to earn a reputation for being trustworthy and conscientious, and I didn’t mean to compromise it.

Judith looked hurt. “You’re not going to leave me here all alone, are you?”

“I’m certain no one will mind if you attend the rehearsal,” said Sal Pavy, and offered her his hand.

“What a good idea!” Judith tossed aside my gown and slipped her arm through Sal Pavy’s. “Coming, Widge?”

“Aye,” I replied miserably—but quaintly.

For the past week, our morning rehearsals had been devoted to getting that ancient, creaking vehicle called
The Spanish
Tragedy
into suitable shape to go on. Like my gown, it needed extensive alterations. But rather than letting it out, we were taking it in, so that it would fit into the two hours between evening prayers and curfew—the only time of day when the city fathers grudgingly permitted us to present our plays.

Though
The Spanish Tragedy
was set in a Catholic country, of course, our audience loved it so that we were obliged to resurrect it at least once a year. Perhaps its appeal lay in the fact that so many of its Popish characters were killed off. Despite the script’s many flaws, I had a certain fondness for it; it was the first play in which I appeared at the Globe. I had played a messenger, with a total of three lines to say. Now I had the part of Bel-Imperia, and two hundred and twelve lines—as every aspiring player does, I had counted them. I had made a good deal of progress in less than two years.

No one would have guessed it from the performance I gave that morning. I had long since grown accustomed to spouting speeches before a crowd of several hundred rowdy playgoers. Aside from the irrational fear that always seized me just before I stepped onto the stage, it no longer bothered me. Yet I found myself reduced to a blethering, nowt-headed noddy by an audience of one well-mannered girl who neither offered her opinions of my acting at the top of her voice nor pelted me with hazelnuts.