“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.”
8
Sam 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.
Though I prided myself on my excellent memory, I could not say two sentences together without consulting the side, or partial script, I had tucked in my wallet. Despite daily lessons in graceful footwork, I found myself stumbling over the other players’ feet, and occasionally my own. To make my mortification complete, my voice reminded me regularly of how unreliable it had become.
My one consolation was that none of the sharers was there to witness the debacle. They customarily went over their lines on their own, while the prentices and hired men practiced under the eye of a seasoned player such as Mr. Lowin. Very often our first performance before an audience was also the first time the entire ensemble was on the stage together.
From the the way the company clustered about Judith after rehearsal, anyone would have thought that she had been the one performing and that we were all complimenting her. I knew that, with all the attention being paid her, she would pay none to me. Heaving a melancholy sigh, I slunk off to the tiring-room.
Just as I reached the door, it opened and a tall, unfamiliar figure emerged, dressed in the apothecary’s robe from Romeo and Juliet. “Here!” I cried, my voice breaking yet again. “Who are you, and where are you going wi’ that costume?”
The man raised his hands, as if to show that he was unarmed and harmless. “It’s only me, Widge. John Garrett, remember?”
“Mr. Garrett?” He looked very different from the man I had met a few hours earlier. His hair was cut nearly as short as my own, and it was now an odd brownish hue. So were his mustache, his beard, and his eyebrows, which no longer met in the middle. His beard had been trimmed into a neat spade shape. The only feature I recognized was the coal-black eyes. Even his swarthy complexion seemed to have grown several shades lighter.
There was one other peculiar thing about him—he gave off a rank smell that I could not quite identify but that put me in mind of a stable somehow, one that had not been cleaned lately. Grimacing, I stepped back. “What—why are you wearing one of our costumes?”
“Mr. Armin will explain. Do you by any chance know where I might find Mr. Jonson?”
“Try Mr. Heminges’s office, two doors down. ‘A may be there, working on his script.”
“Thank you. And thank you for being so polite as to not mention my offensive odor. Mr. Armin will explain that as well.”
In the confines of the tiring-room, the awful odor was so strong that I could scarcely keep from gagging. Mr. Armin seemed not to notice. He was busy gathering up barber’s tools, sponges, and jars of makeup. “What reeks so badly?” I demanded.
“Horse urine,” Mr. Armin said matter-of-factly. He handed me an earthenware mug—clearly the source of the smell. “Will you empty that outside for me, please?”
“Horse urine?”
“Yes. You know, the yellow liquid sometimes known as—”
“Aye, I ken what it is well enough. What I don’t ken is why you’d want a mug of ’t.”
“For bleaching purposes.”
“Oh. Mr. Garrett’s hair and beard, I wis.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t suppose ‘a will be performing in a play wi’ us?”
“No.”
“So it’s a disguise?” I took Mr. Armin’s silence as an affirmative. “I expect that Garrett is not his true name, either.” Mr. Armin remained silent. “Has ’a done something wrong, then, that ’a must conceal his identity?”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Mr. Armin said. “I happen to think not. Still, it would be best if you do not inquire further into the matter. Can I depend on you?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Now empty that mug, will you?”
9
I dumped the horse urine into the ditch that ran down the center of Gracechurch Street. The ditch had been designed to carry rainwater—and, along with it, household wastes and the contents of slop jars—downhill into the Thames. It did not fulfill its function very well, mainly because home owners tossed into it all sorts of inappropriate objects, some too large to be washed away by anything short of a flood—animal hides and guts, dead dogs, broken crockery, moldy straw from bed ticks, and the like.
Some folk felt that the plague was caused by corrupted air; if they were correct, then the city’s gutters must be the prime breeding ground for the disease. But the corrupted air theory was only one of many. Astrologers blamed some particular alignment of the stars. Others, depending upon their own religious convictions, claimed that the contagion was part of a Popish plot, or a Jewish one, or even a Protestant one.
I had my own tentative theory about the plague and how it spread. I had noticed how often the illness was preceded by a rash of tiny red marks on the victim’s limbs, like so many insect bites. My old master Dr. Bright believed that the contagion passed from person to person by means of invisible “plague seeds”; though he was not a particularly good physician, I suspected that, for once, he had stumbled upon the truth. Perhaps, then, the seeds could be conveyed not only through the air, but also through the bites of mosquitoes, fleas, bedbugs, and the like, that carried the seeds within them. After all, these insects were at their worst in the summer months, when the plague was also at its peak.
I had converted our housekeeper, Goodwife Willingson, to my way of thinking, and she had begun a crusade against all manner of bugs. So far her tactics had worked; since Sander’s death, no one in Mr. Pope’s household had been stricken. It remained to be seen whether or not they continued to work once the hot weather returned.
Just to be safe, Goody Willingson insisted that we have our daily spoonful of sage, rue, and ginger steeped in wine, and that we take the time-honored precaution of wearing about our necks small pomanders filled with wormwood and rosemary. I wondered whether she might know of some such measure one might take to avoid being stricken by love.
But perhaps it was too late for that. Perhaps I needed not a preventive but a cure. Each time Judith’s face entered my mind—though, in truth, I don’t believe it ever quite left—a curious feeling came over me, not unlike the one that always gripped me just before I was due on the stage. It was impossible to define, it was such a mingle-mangle of conflicting emotions—anticipation and uncertainty, eagerness and dread, pleasure and pain.
A rapping sound brought me out of my reverie. I turned to see Mr. Shakespeare beckoning me from within the dark parlor. I scoured out the mug with snow and went inside.
Mr. Shakespeare had obviously continued working on his unnamed play—or at least had attempted to. The booth was littered with wads of crumpled paper. The stack of completed pages, though, seemed no thicker than before. He was not writing now, only staring into his ale pot as though, like Madame La Voisin’s scrying ball, it might tell him how to proceed.
“Did you want me to transcribe for you, then?” I asked.
“Not really.” His voice echoed a little in the empty tankard. “Unless you can think of something yourself to set down. I certainly can’t—nothing that isn’t a pile of putrid tripe, at any rate.”
I perused the few uncrumpled pages. “Perhaps … perhaps an you found somewhere quiet …”
“What I need,” he replied sharply, “is not somewhere quiet. What I need is a decent story to work with—something with a bit of life to it. Plays should not be about money.” He flicked the pages contemptuously with one finger. “They should be about … about madness and betrayal, about love and death.”
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