Shakespeare's Spy (8 page)

Suddenly aware of how dismal her image of me must be, I rummaged through myself, as Sam had rummaged through the costume trunk, searching for some admirable quality or uncommon skill that I might bring to her attention. My acting? No, she had seen a sample of that this afternoon, and I did not care to remind her. In my desperation I resorted to a deplorable habit I had foolishly thought I was rid of: I lied. “I am writing a play, though.”

A
lie is like an arrow: once you’ve let it fly, there’s no calling it back; the damage is done. And telling a single lie is like loosing a single arrow at an angry bear: one is seldom enough; it must be followed by another, and another.

“You’re not!” she said.

“You doubt me?” I managed to sound indignant.

“No, of course not. What’s this play of yours called, then?”

I pulled a title out of the air, a phrase I had once heard. “It’s called
The Mad Men of Gotham
.” There was a certain perverse satisfaction in finding that my talent for fabling had not grown rusty from disuse.

“And what is it about?”

I had asked Mr. Shakespeare the very same thing that morning, and, like a good player, I recalled the line he had given me in reply. “An excellent question. Would that I had as good an answer for you.”

“Oh.” She smiled slyly. “I see what you’re doing.”

I swallowed hard, fearing my lie was so transparent that she had seen through it, “You do?”

“Yes. You’re putting me off, because you don’t want to discuss it. Father does the same thing. I think he’s afraid that if he talks too much about a play in progress, it will put a curse on it somehow, and he’ll never complete it.”

“That’s it exactly. I don’t wish to put a curse on ’t.”

“Well, will you let me read it, at least?”

I wanted to say,
Aye, at the last Lammas
—meaning never. Instead I shrugged and said, “I might. When I’m further along wi’ ’t.”

“I can’t wait.” She shook my arm again. “Perhaps it’ll be performed, and become wildly popular, and make a fortune for you!”

Her words brought to mind Madame La Voisin’s prediction that I would come into a fortune. I let out a nervous laugh. “Much! I’ve never heard of a play making its author rich.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Father does well enough with his.”

“‘A does?”

She nodded. “He never lets on to Mother and me how much he makes, of course; he doesn’t want us demanding more of it. But”—she leaned in close to me, nearly stopping my poor heart—”it’s enough to allow him to buy a hundred acres of land in Stratford, and the largest house in town—three stories, it is, with ten fireplaces!”

“Gog’s blood! I never would ha’ thought it. ‘A lives so modest a life here, and ’a’s always fretting about money.”

“I know. To tell the truth, he’s a bit of a miser. He won’t even consent to loan money to his nearest friends. I think he’s afraid of ending up like his father—my grandfather.”

“How’s that?”

“When Grandfather died, he was up to his ears in debt. Father says it’s because he was too trusting, too ready to loan money to anyone who asked. But Mother says there’s more to it than that. She says it’s because …” She stood on tiptoe to whisper in my ear. “Because he was a
recusant
.”

“A what?”

“A Catholic who refuses to attend the Anglican services.”

“Oh. So ’a paid all his money out in fines, then?”

“That was part of it. But his business suffered because of it, too. No one but his fellow Catholics would buy wool or gloves from him, or rent his properties from him. He lost a good deal of property as well, in the rash of fires that Stratford suffered several years ago. Grandfather always claimed that the fires were set deliberately by Puritans. My mother has always staunchly denied it, but of course she would, being a Puritan herself.”

“I take it you’re not, then?”

“Not really. I suppose that when it comes to religion, I take more after my father. He says that the world is so full of ideas and customs and beliefs, each with its own merit, it seems a shame to place our faith in only one and rule out all the others.” She turned her face up to me. “And what about you, Widge?”

“What about me?”

“Well, I assume you’re not a Puritan, or you wouldn’t be a player. But what are you? A good Protestant? A Church Papist? A skeptic? An atheist?”

“I don’t ken, exactly. Is there a name for folk who can’t make up their minds?”

“Yes,” she said. “They’re called women.” Though she clearly expected a laugh from me, I was not in a laughing mood. In fact, my heart had suddenly turned as heavy as horse-bread.
My face must have given me away, for Judith said, “What is it, Widge? What’s wrong?”

I nodded toward the house that lay just ahead of us. “We’re here,” I said grimly.

She laughed. “You needn’t sound as though you’re delivering me to the Tower.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—” I faltered, unable to give voice to the feeling that rose up in me—the feeling that, despite the cold, despite the fact that my shoes were soaked through with slush, I would willingly have gone on walking—in circles, if necessary—for another several days at least, as long as I had her company.

Once again she seemed to read my thoughts and, patting my arm, said, “Don’t worry, Widge. We’ll have lots more time together.”

“Truly?”

“Of course. After all, we’ll have to, won’t we, if you’re to read me your play?”

I left Judith in the care of Mary Mountjoy, a plump, rose-cheeked girl I had met several times before, when I carried some message to Mr. Shakespeare. I had always thought her attractive enough, but put up against Judith, she seemed as plain as porridge.

Reluctantly, I turned my steps again toward Cheapside, the most direct route back to the Cross Keys. My head was as full of thoughts as a hive is of bees. Like a player committing a new part to memory, I went over and over every word that had passed between Judith and me, relishing hers, deploring my own. My conversational skills were on much the same level as my acting skills had been earlier in the day. At least at rehearsal my lines had been written out for me, and so my speeches, when I could get them out, had consisted of
something a bit less plodding and obvious than “I’m sorry” and “How’s that?” and “‘A does?”

I had often wondered why the wights in plays were forever composing songs or sonnets to their ladies, and not just saying straight out what was in their hearts. Now I understood. But, thanks to my lying tongue, Judith would never be content with a mere stanza or two of maudlin verse. She expected an entire play. When it came to stupid behavior, the Mad Men of Gotham—whoever they might be—could not possibly hope to compete with me.

And yet, as I mulled it over in my mind, the notion of writing a play was not really so preposterous as it seemed on the face of it. I had some little knowledge, after all, of how the deed was done, from transcribing Mr. Shakespeare’s
All’s Well That Ends Well
for him. I had even made a few modest contributions of my own, including the title.

Though I might be stupid, I was not so stupid as to imagine that I could come within hailing distance of a gifted poet such as Mr. Shakespeare, even at his worst. But not all the plays we performed were as accomplished as his. In fact, there were times, as I was mouthing some silly, stilted speech from
The Dead Man’s Fortune
or
Frederick and Basilea
, when I swore that I could do far better without even breaking a sweat.

In truth, the notion of composing a play held a certain appeal for me. Though I found acting more gratifying than anything else I had ever done, I sometimes felt less like a player than like an instrument, a mouthpiece for someone else’s words. The feeling was not an unfamiliar one; I had experienced it years before, when I was forced to copy down other rectors’ sermons for Dr. Bright in the swift writing he taught me, and again when I was hired to set down the words of
Hamlet
as it was being performed. All my life I had been compelled to do and say as others instructed me to. I wondered what it would be like, for once, to be the one telling others what to say and do, to be the craftsman, not the tool.

What I had told Judith might not be altogether a lie, then. Perhaps it was like one of La Voisin’s predictions, instead. Sam had said that she was only telling her clients what they wished to hear. Perhaps I had merely been expressing some secret wish.

I was startled to my senses by the sound of the bells at St. Paul’s tolling nones. For the first time I took a good look about me. Not only had I lost track of time, I had lost my way. I had come out not on West Cheap as I had meant to, but a good deal farther to the south and west, where Ludgate Street passed through the city wall. After two years of navigating London’s crooked streets, I still had not fully mastered the maze, just as I had not completely mastered London speech.

I was but two or three minutes’ walk from Salisbury Court, where we had visited Madame La Voisin the day before. I had missed dinner already and, if I did not hurry, I would miss scriming practice as well and be obliged to pay a fine. But such mundane concerns as food and fines seemed of little consequence at the moment. I had more weighty matters on my mind—my future, for example.

Folk who are contented with their lot in life tend not to give much thought to the future. Ever since I joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, I had been more or less contented. My thoughts about the future had been limited mostly to wondering what would become of me if I lost my position with them. Now, suddenly, like a sailor who spies some green and welcome land on the horizon, I had been given a glimpse of new and unfamiliar
territory, and I longed to know whether or not I had any hope of reaching it.

It took me some time to find the cunning woman’s tattered tent, for the sign with the enormous eye no longer stood before it. I paused at the flap, uncertain whether or not to call out to her. To my surprise, a rough voice within said, “You may enter, young lady.” When Sam and Sal and I came here together, she had called us young ladies. Did she know it was me waiting outside, then? Or was it simply that most of her clients were young ladies?

I ducked through the opening. The interior was even more smoky than I remembered. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw why. Instead of coal, she was burning a chunk of the wooden sign in her kettle.

“Sit,” said La Voisin, and I obeyed. She peered at me from beneath the layers of woolen scarves. “I have already read your future.”

“Aye. But I—I’d like to know more.”

“Hmm. It is not wise to try to learn too much of what lies in store.”

“I don’t wish to know
everything
…”

She gave a hoarse, humorless laugh. “Only the good things, eh?” When I had placed a penny gingerly in her grimy hand, she unveiled her scrying ball and gazed into it, but only for a few seconds. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I see that you will make a name for yourself.”

Though I suppose this should have pleased me, I was disappointed. It seemed to me a sort of all-purpose prediction, designed to appeal to anyone and everyone. “That’s all?”

“It seems quite enough to me.”

“Can’t you tell me something more … well,
specific?
”

“Just what did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps something about …” I had no desire to discuss with this odd old woman anything as awkward and intimate as love. “… about other people?”

“Other people,” she muttered. “I can try. But I see only what I see.” She held out her hand and I dropped another penny into it. This time she stared into the ball, motionless, for so long that I feared she had drifted into some sort of daze, or fallen asleep with her eyes open. As surreptitiously as I could, I waved the wood smoke away from my face. The motion seemed to bring her out of her trance. When she spoke, it was in a monotone, without inflection, without emotion. “Because of you,” she said, “someone will die.” Before I had quite gotten my mind around this ominous prediction, she made a second that was even more startling: “But another will return to life.”

“
R
eturn to life?” I said. “How is that possible?”

“I do not interpret. I only—”

“Aye, I ken. You only see.” I leaned forward to get a closer look at the scrying ball. “I don’t suppose you saw aught about someone …” I hesitated, embarrassed. “… someone named Judith?”

She pulled the cloth protectively over the black ball. “No.” Then on her shrouded, wart-speckled face, I saw something approaching a smile. “But if you were to send this Judith to me, I could tell her future … and perhaps make certain that you appeared in it.”

“For a price, of course.”

“Of course.”

So, not only did she tell her clients what they wished to hear, she would also tell them what someone else wanted them to hear. She was clearly a fake. And yet … and yet she had revealed to each of us one thing that we could not conceivably
have wished to hear—that Sam would turn traitor, that Sal Pavy would lose his hair, that I would he the cause of another person’s death. Those were hardly the sorts of predictions that were calculated to keep us coming back for more.

I got unsteadily to my feet, dizzy from breathing in the smoke—or from too many confusing thoughts buzzing in my brain. “I must go. God you good day.”

“A good day,” she said, “would be a warm one.”

I glanced at the smoldering sign. “You’ve run out of fuel, then?” She nodded and pulled her scarves more tightly about her. Impulsively I reached into my purse, brought out my last shilling, and laid it on the table. “To buy coal with.” As I left the tent, I thought I heard her murmur something in reply; I could not be sure of the words, but they might have been “May Fate be kind to you.”

Only when I was halfway back to the Cross Keys did I realize how foolish I had been to give her that shilling. What would I use now to pay the fine Mr. Armin was sure to demand of me for missing scriming practice? And, as I soon discovered, that was not the only penalty I would be expected to pay.

In my preoccupation with Judith, I had forgotten all about my costume for that night’s performance, and the fact that it had not yet been let out to fit me. With our tiring-man home ill and but two hours remaining before performance, it would have to wait. Perhaps no one would notice if I pressed into service my costume from
The Spanish Tragedy
.