Judith had not actually lost a friend, of course; she was upset because Mr. Shakespeare had reprimanded her—rather harshly, no doubt, and in front of the entire company. I knew how that felt as well. Though I had little experience in comforting folk, I did my best. I knelt and laid a hand gently on her arm. “Please don’t cry. It’s not so bad, really.”
She turned her tear-streaked face toward me; though her eyes were red and swollen from weeping, her fair skin mottled, she somehow contrived to look more appealing than ever. Mr. Pope had known a lady, he said, who could stop a man’s heart with her smile. Here was one who could do it with her tears. “Yes, it is,” she said, her words broken by sobs. “It is bad. I’m being sent home.”
21
Stricken, I sank to the floor next to Judith. “Oh, gis! I suppose ‘a has a right to be angry wi’ you, but to send you home … Is there any chance ’a will change his mind, do you wis?”
Judith gave a trembling, bitter laugh. “You don’t know my father very well. Once he’s made up his mind to something, there’s no changing it. He never wanted me here to begin with.”
“I’m sure that’s not so,” I lied. “Anyway, surely ’a won’t just pack you off on your own. ‘A will ha’ to find someone to travel wi’ you.” Had it not been for the unfinished business with Julia, I would have volunteered my services.
She wiped her eyes with the hem of her gown. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it will be a while, then, before he can make the arrangements.”
“Aye, it might be weeks—months, even.” I did my best to sound confident and cheerful, though I felt quite the contrary. It was not enough that I must see to it that Julia got home; now I had to try to make certain that Judith did not.
I suddenly felt quite overwhelmed by it all. If love was difficult to play upon the stage, it was even harder to manage in earnest. I needed a respite from it; I needed to throw myself into some task that would make no demands on my mind or my emotions. “Listen. I really must get to work on this play.”
“Oh. Well. If you’d rather do that than talk to me.”
“It’s not that, it’s just—”
“I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” She rose and straightened her gown. “You did promise to read some of it to me, though.”
“Nay, it’s not that play. It’s Mr. Jonson’s. Your father’s asked me to copy it out.”
“Well, then, of course you must do it. We must all do as Father says, mustn’t we?” She examined her face in the small looking glass Mr. Shakespeare used for his makeup and rubbed at her cheeks with a kerchief. “You needn’t feel too sorry for yourself, Widge, for never having had a father. They’re a mixed blessing at best.” As she went out the door, she whispered archly, “Have fun with your play.“ Her tone made it clear that she considered it just that—play, not work. Whatever it was, I was grateful to occupy myself with such an undemanding task.
According to rumor, one of the priest hunters’ favorite methods of extracting a confession was a procedure known as peine forte et dure, in which a slab of stone is placed upon the chest of the reclining victim; the next day a second slab is added, then a third, and so on, until the subject either gives up the desired information or gives up the ghost.
Though I had so far been spared the slabs of stone, for the past week or so Fortune had been busy laying troubles upon me, one by one, until I felt at times as though I could not breathe. I had no notion, however, what I was expected to confess. All I could do was try to ignore the growing pressure by turning my mind to other things.
I had copied out no more than half a dozen pages of Sejanus before I was interrupted by a breathless, perspiring Sam, fresh from scriming practice. “Well?” he demanded.
I glanced up irritably. “Well, what?”
“Did you manage to warn Mr. Garrett in time?”
“Father Gerard, you mean.”
“Yes, yes. Did you?”
“Aye.”
Sam gave a relieved grin. “Thank heaven.”
“You might wish to thank me as well.”
“Thanks. He’s not leaving London, is he?”
“Not for a while yet, ’a says. But ’a’s not likely to come around here again.”
“Oh, bones. I suppose not. Do you know where he’s staying?”
“Nay. And I wouldn’t go looking for him an I were you. Priests are dangerous company.”
Sam scowled at me. “Will you stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“Playing the older brother.” He rose and started from the room, then turned back to say, “Mr. Garrett’s my friend, Widge; I’m not going to forget about him just because he happens to be a Papist.”
That evening we performed All’s Well That Ends Well again. I knew the play backward and forward and so was able to lose myself in it, as in a dream, and give no thought to anything. Julia had never acted in the play, so there was nothing in it to remind me of her, and since Judith did not turn up, I was even able to forget about her for moments at a time.
Ordinarily I looked forward to my time with Mr. Pope at the end of each day. But tonight I felt rather as though I were headed for a session of peine forte et dure, in which all the doubts and worries I had tried so hard to suppress would be squeezed out of me. Though it would have been a relief to unburden myself to someone, I dared not make Mr. Pope my confessor; we had been instructed not to bring up anything that might upset him.
When I reached the library, I found Mr. Pope asleep in his chair. I stole silently out again, grateful that I had neither to reveal nor to conceal the news that Father Gerard had given me concerning Jamie Redshaw. I needed to digest it myself first, to mull over what it might mean to me.
Though I knew now where I came from, did it really change anything? I had no notion whether any of Jamie Redshaw’s relations—or my mother’s—were still alive or, if they were, where to find them. And even if I did manage to uncover them, how likely was it that they would welcome some long-lost, illegitimate child who claimed to be their kin? And even if they did accept me, could I bear to leave London and the world of the theatre for some other world I knew nothing of?
Once again I was thankful to have something less confusing to turn my mind to, something more within my control. I retreated to my room, lit a candle, and sat down at my desk with Mr. Shakespeare’s script—no, my script—before me. In a quarter hour or so, I had finished copying into my own hand all that Mr. Shakespeare had written, up until the end of the second act. After that, there were no complete scenes, only scraps of speeches, plus some notes he had made concerning the mechanics of the story.
Well, he had given me the bare bones; it was up to me to put flesh upon them. I took a deep breath and wrote on a fresh sheet of paper Act III. Then I sat staring into space for a very long time. I had only now begun to realize that being in control might prove to be more of a curse than a blessing. With perhaps ten thousand possible words at my disposal, how did I settle on just the right one, and then one to follow it, and so on?
And yet, was it really so impossible? After all, in real life we managed to speak to one another well enough without agonizing over every word. Well, then, perhaps what I must do was not write the lines but speak them, say whatever came into my head, as folk do in conversation. Sometimes, admittedly, the results were unfortunate. But I had the luxury of taking mine back.
Mr. Shakespeare had already established that Timon was in financial trouble. What I needed now was a scene in which he sends his servant, Flaminius, to ask one of the nobles—Lucullus, let us say—for a loan. So. Scene I. A Room in Lucullus’s House. Flaminius waiting. A servant enters and says … says what? Well, I ought to know; I had played the part of a servant often enough. “I have told my lord you are here,” I said aloud, under my breath. “He is coming down.” Hardly inspired, but believable, at least, and certainly far better than a blank page. I wrote it down. And Flavius replies … “Tell him to hurry”? No, too cheeky. “Ill just sit down here�
�? No, that would require a chair. “Thank you”? Good enough. Now to bring Lucullus on. Servant: “Here’s my lord.” A bit obvious, but never mind. Lucullus is a greedy wight, so … Lucullus (aside): “One of Lord Timon’s men? Bringing me another gift, no doubt.”
As though I had broken through a barrier of some sort, the words began to flow from me, through my pencil, and onto the paper—only a trickle at first, but then such a steady stream that I was forced to switch from Italian script to my system of swift writing in order to keep up. I felt almost as if someone were dictating the lines to me—not Mr. Shakespeare, certainly; he would have dictated better ones.
Well, no matter that it was not deathless prose; I could always go back later and liven it up a bit. I made no attempt at meter. As with most of his plays, Mr. Shakespeare had begun writing this one in fairly regular iambic pentameter. But by the middle of Act II he was, for no apparent reason, putting in long passages of prose. If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.
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:
Has friendship such a faint and milky heart
It turns in less than two nights? Oh, you gods!
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.
22
To 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 go
od 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.
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