Shakespeare's Spy

by Gary Blackwood

  Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “I meant in the parts that Widge composed.” He turned to me. “You know, if you intend to be a playwright, you may wish to take a nom de plume, one that will look a bit more distinguished on a playbill.”

  “And with your talent for titles,” said Mr. Phillips, “you should have no trouble coining a good name for yourself.”

  It struck me, then, that none of them knew yet about Jamie Redshaw. I had not meant to keep it from them, only from Judith, and now that she was gone, what did it matter? “Actually,” I said, “I do ha’ a name—or the nether end of one, at least.”

  Half my audience seemed astonished by my news; the other half were not. Mr. Phillips and Mr. Armin confessed that they had never really believed Jamie Redshaw’s story. Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Heminges said that though they had not completely trusted the man, they had never doubted that he was my father.

  “Will you take his name, then?” asked Mr. Armin.

  I stared thoughtfully into my pot of ale. “I’ve not made up me mind.”

  “Redshaw never indicated what your Christian name might be?” said Mr. Phillips.

  “Nay. ‘A was not around when I was born, and me mother didn’t live long enough to name me. I do recall Mistress MacGregor saying once that the priest who baptized me gave me his own name, for want of any other. No one has ever called me by it, though.”

  “Do you know what it was?”

  “William, I believe.”

  “That’s an excellent name,” said Mr. Shakespeare.

  Mr. Heminges nodded approvingly. “W-William Redshaw. That would not l-look amiss on a playbill.”

  I gave a skeptical sniff. “Assuming I ever manage to write a decent play.”

  “Oh, you w-will.” He turned to Mr. Shakespeare. “Will he n-not, Will?”

  Mr. Shakespeare shrugged and gave me a rather sly smile. “If he has the will, he will.”

  I refused to be coaxed out of my sour mood by their banter. “Well, i’ the meanwhile, will you gi’ me back the putrid one?”

  Though I wanted nothing less than to look at another play just then, I forced myself to return to the office, this time by way of the outside stairs. Even if I did not work on Sejanus, I must at least determine what I had done with the key. The sky was nearly dark now, and even before I reached the second-floor balcony, I noticed a faint glow of light issuing from the small window of the office.

  Someone must be working within. But who? All the sharers had either gone home or were gathered in the dark parlor. Curious and a little alarmed, I crept along the balcony, crouched down next to the window, and peered inside.

  A single lighted candle sat atop Mr. Shakespeare’s desk. Bent over it, one large hand cupped about the flame as though to keep its light contained, was a hulking figure that I did not recognize at once. Only when the man’s face moved from the shadows and into the candle’s light, revealing thick, unruly eyebrows set above bulging eyes, did I realize who the intruder was—Henslowe, from the Admiral’s Men. It was easy enough to guess why he was here; he wanted the script of Sejanus.

  26

  If I had had a dell of sense, I would have run and fetched the sharers. What prevented me was the thought that had I not left the key in the lock, the man could not have gotten into the room. If I handled this myself, perhaps no one need know of my blunder.

  I was not foolish enough to try to subdue Henslowe; he was roughly twice my size. I would do better to trust my wits. I took a deep breath, stood, and flung open the door. Henslowe spun about with a quickness surprising in such a bulky wight. In one hand he clutched the script of Sejanus. “I wouldn’t take that an I were you,” I said. Despite my efforts to keep my voice calm and confident, it cracked a little.

  Henslowe looked me up and down, as though assessing how much of a threat I might pose. He seemed to conclude that it was very little. “And why is that?”

  “Because. That’s th’ old script, the one wi’ all the Papist propaganda. The new version is locked in a trunk i’ the property room.”

  Scowling, he glanced at the script, then back at me. “No. It can’t be.” But it was clear that if my lie had not convinced him, it had at least given him pause. With a look that warned me to keep my distance, he turned and held the script to the light. “You’re lying. This is not in Jonson’s hand; someone has copied it. Who would bother to copy out a script they couldn’t use?” He stuffed the papers into his wallet and headed for the door.

  I blocked his way with my body. “I won’t let you—” I managed to say before his fist knocked all the breath out of me. I doubled over and fell to my knees. Henslowe shoved me out of the doorway and was gone.

  Gasping, I struggled to my feet and stumbled after him. When I reached the top of the stairs, I halted, taken aback by the scene below me. Henslowe lay sprawled upon the steps, with the point of Mr. Armin’s rapier at his throat. Mr. Shakespeare was bent over Henslowe, digging through the man’s wallet.

  Mr. Armin glanced up at me. “We’ve caught the culprit. Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” I groaned. “More or less.” I slowly descended the stairs, holding the railing with one hand and my aching gut with the other. “Shall I fetch a constable?”

  “No,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “We may as well let him go; we have what we want.” In one hand he brandished the purloined pages; in the other, the key to the office.

  Mr. Armin lowered his blade and Henslowe got to his feet, straightening his doublet. “It’s I who should call the constables,” he growled. “I was only taking what already belonged to me.”

  “Well, you may as well bring on the catchpolls,” said Mr. Armin. “Heaven knows you’ve tried everything else to shut us down.”

  To my surprise, there was very little real rancor in either man’s voice. In truth, they sounded less like enemies than like members of opposing teams engaged in some rough-and-tumble sport, a sort of grown-up version of King of the Hill that would decide once and for all which was the premier theatre company in London.

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” replied Henslowe.

  “Why, Henslowe,” said Mr. Armin. “I do believe you’ve missed your calling. You feign innocence and indignation so well, you should have been a player.”

  “And you two should have been thieves.” Henslowe scowled at his empty wallet, then at the bundle of pages in Mr. Shakespeare’s hand. “You have a paper there that’s not part of the script. I’ll have it back.”

  Mr. Shakespeare held up a sheet that had been folded several times. “Is this what you mean?”

  “Yes.” Henslowe reached for it.

  Mr. Shakespeare drew it back. “No, I believe we’ll keep this for now. If you want it so badly, there must be some reason.”

  Henslowe glared at him a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter; you won’t be able to read it, anyway.” He turned to me. “How can you bear to be part of this band of thieves?”

  “At least they don’t go about walloping folk i’ the gut,” I said.

  Henslowe gave a short laugh. “I like your spirit, lad. If you ever decide you’d prefer to work for a reputable company, come and see me.” Pushing roughly past the sharers, he stalked off into the night.

  “I tried me best to stop him,” I said.

  “Well, it looks as though you stopped his fist, at least,” said Mr. Armin. “Come, let’s lock up and go home. You’ve done enough work for one day.”

  As we climbed the stairs, Mr. Shakespeare said, “What I wonder is, how did Henslowe come by this key?”

  “Um … I can answer that,” I said reluctantly. “I left it i’ the lock this morning, I wis.”

  Though Mr. Shakespeare did not exactly look happy, he did not chide me. “Well, there’s no harm done, I suppose, except perhaps to your stomach—assuming that the play is all here, that is.” He held the crumpled pages up to the light and examined them.

  I peered over his shoulder. “That looks like all of it.”

  He
unfolded the sheet that Henslowe had said was not a part of the script. “Well, he was right. I can’t begin to read this.” Mr. Shakespeare handed the paper to me. It was smaller than the script pages, and contained neither Mr. Jonson’s handwriting nor mine, but several rows of curious symbols that might have been some foreign alphabet:

  “It’s some of your scribble hand, is it not?” said Mr. Armin.

  I shook my head emphatically. “Nay. A few of the characters are similar to ones I use, and a couple of them look like numerals, but most I’ve never set eyes on afore. It’s obviously a message of some sort, though.”

  “Obviously. The question is, from whom?”

  Mr. Shakespeare was looking at me in an odd fashion, not unlike the way Henslowe had looked when I told him he had the wrong script. He took the paper from me, refolded it, and tucked it into his wallet. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that it’s from our spy.”

  Mr. Armin looked thoughtful. “You know, perhaps we should give Henslowe a dose of his own poison—hire someone in his company to be our informant.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?” asked Mr. Shakespeare.

  “No,” admitted Mr. Armin. “I’m sure Henslowe has convinced them all that we’re Satan’s minions.” He held up a hand. “Ah, I have it! One of us will cleverly disguise himself and convince the Admiral’s Men to hire him!”

  Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “That’s the worst idea I ever heard.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Armin. “It always seems to work in your plays.”

  Neither of the men had paid Mr. Pope a visit for some time, and they decided to make up for it now. In fact, as Mr. Armin revealed, that was the very reason they happened to meet Henslowe on the stairs—they had been on their way to fetch me and accompany me home.

  Mr. Pope greeted them with such enthusiasm that I feared his health might suffer. “This calls for a round of brandy!”

  “I’ll fetch it,” I said, not wishing him to overtax himself.

  “Thank you, Widge.”

  Mr. Armin held up an admonishing hand. “Tut, tut, Thomas. You must address the boy properly. From now on it’s to be William Redshaw, Esquire.”

  Mr. Pope gave me a baffled look. “Redshaw?”

  “Aye. ‘A was me father after all, it seems.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “A few days, is all.”

  “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

  “I—I don’t ken. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment.”

  “I’m sorry, Widge,” said Mr. Armin. “I assumed he knew.”

  “You called me Widge,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. William, then.”

  “Nay. I’ll not be William, either. That was no more a real name than Widge was, only a sort of expedient. If I’m to have another name, I’ll choose it meself.” I turned and left the library. I had nearly forgotten about La Voisin’s predictions, but one of them came back to me now: You will make a name for yourself.

  When I returned with the brandy, the three sharers were huddled together like conspirators, talking in low tones. “Thank you, Wi—” Mr. Pope broke off. “Well, whoever you may be. Why don’t you find Goody Willingson and ask her for something to eat? The three of us have business matters to discuss.”

  The manner in which he dismissed me seemed brusque and impersonal, not like Mr. Pope at all. I supposed that he was cross with me, for not telling him about Jamie Redshaw. I felt almost as though I had been cast out, like Timon. But instead of retreating to the woods, I went only as far as the kitchen, where, as I had no roots at hand, I cut a slice of bread and buttered it, then sat nibbling halfheartedly at it while I mulled over what my name should be.

  • • •

  I could not work on the sides for Sejanus the next morning; Mr. Shakespeare had kept both the script and the key to his office, as though he no longer trusted me with them. Instead, I helped Sam in the property room. As there had been no performance the night before, there was little for us to do. Nevertheless, in the time-honored tradition of prentices everywhere, we managed to make it look as though we were hard at work.

  “It’s a pity Sal Pavy isn’t here,” said Sam. “He’s so good at pretending to be busy. He could give us a few pointers.”

  “Ha’ you looked in on him?”

  Sam reacted as though I’d asked whether he had looked in on the inmates of Bedlam, the asylum for the insane. “Don’t you know that the grippe may be passed on, like the plague?”

  “That may be. But it’s not quite as likely to kill you.”

  “I prefer not to take the chance. Besides, he’d only tell us how they never had the grippe at Blackfriars.”

  The prentices and hired men gathered for rehearsal, just as though we had every expectation of performing again soon. We were attempting to revive Mr. Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, which had lain buried in the book-keeper’s trunk for at least a year. It was not responding.

  As we were making much ado ourselves about who should read Hero’s part in Sal Pavy’s absence, Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Armin appeared and asked to speak to me privately. “Can’t it wait?” asked Mr. Lowin, who was conducting the rehearsal.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Armin.

  They took me aside, scarcely out of earshot of the other players. Mr. Shakespeare drew two sheets of paper from his wallet and held them up, side by side. “This is the coded message we took from Henslowe. This is a page from All’s Well, written in your charactery. We’ve compared them, and find a number of similarities—too many, in our opinion, to be the result of coincidence.”

  I stared at him incredulously. “What are you saying? That I wrote this? That I’m in league wi’ Henslowe?”

  “Soft,” said Mr. Armin, “unless you wish the others to hear.”

  “Let them! I’ve nothing to hide!”

  “We believe you do. How could Henslowe have gotten the key, unless you gave it to him?”

  “It’s as I told you—I left it i’ the lock!”

  “Deliberately, perhaps.”

  “Nay! What would I ha’ to gain from Henslowe stealing the script?”

  “Money?” suggested Mr. Shakespeare.

  “Money?” I fairly shouted. “For what?”

  “For Julia, perhaps. You said yourself that you didn’t think we would help her.”

  The rest of the company had given up any pretense of minding their own business and were gaping at the scene unfolding before them, which must have been as compelling as any play ever acted. Tears had sprung to my eyes, and I made no effort to stay them. “I would never do such a thing, so help me God and halidom!” My voice broke like thin ice.

  “Not even to save Julia?” said Mr. Shakespeare.

  I could not deny that the idea had occurred to me. Though I had not acted upon it, I could hardly blame them for believing that I had, especially in view of my past record as a thief and a liar—and, of course, the even worse record of my father. Still, I was innocent, and I must not let myself appear otherwise. With all the dignity I could muster, I looked Mr. Shakespeare in the eye and said, “An you and the other sharers truly believe that I would betray you, then I can no longer consider meself a part of this company.”

  “Under the circumstances,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “I think that would be best. But you needn’t give up acting altogether; remember, Henslowe has promised to take you in.”

  27

  So it was that the thing I had feared the most—more than the death of the queen, more than the plague itself—had come to pass.

  We prentices had been taught always to exit the stage as swiftly as possible so as not to draw the audience’s attention away from the next scene. Accordingly, I made my exit from the Cross Keys a quick one, not wishing to be a part of the scene that I knew would follow. I could not bear to face my fellow players and their questions, their disbelief, their doubts, perhaps their derision. I should have known that no matter how nimble I was, I could not escape S
am.

  Just as I left the courtyard I heard him calling behind me, “Widge! Wait!” Though I hurried on, heedless, this did not discourage him in the least. He came trotting up alongside me to ask breathlessly, “Where are you going?”

  “To see whether the Admiral’s Men ha’ room for another prentice.”

  “You can’t!”

  “What do you suggest, then? I’m too old for the Chapel Children, and too young to be a hired man wi’ one of the small companies.”

  “Come back to the Cross Keys. The sharers will change their minds. The rest of us will stand up for you. No one believes that you’re a traitor. I know you’re not.”

  Another of La Voisin’s forgotten predictions came bobbing to the surface of my mind. You will turn traitor, she had told Sam. “What makes you so certain?”

  “Because. I know you.”

  “So do the sharers. They ken that I tried to steal a script from them once before. They also ken that me father was a thief—and, as they say, the seedling bears the same fruit as the tree.”

  “But perhaps they were just uncertain; perhaps they were testing you, making accusations to see whether you would confess.”

  “The way the pursuivants do wi’ the Jesuit priests, you mean? An the sharers would stoop to that, I don’t care to be part of their company.”

  Sam scowled. “All right, then. If you’re set on leaving, I’m going, too. Without you there to hold me back, I’m certain to strangle Sal Pavy within a week.”

  “Nay, you won’t. Wi’out me there, you two will ha’ to become friends. Besides, Henslowe would never hire you. ‘A would suspect you of being a spy for the Chamberlain’s Men.”

  “And what makes you think he won’t suspect you?”

  “Why would ‘a, when the Chamberlain’s Men ha’ given me the chuck?”

  “How will he know that?”

  “The real spy will tell him.”

  “If you can get Henslowe to trust you, perhaps he’ll reveal who it is.”

  “Oh, aye. And perhaps ‘a will gi’ all of Mr. Alleyn’s roles to me as well.”

  This notion was so ludicrous that it drew a halfhearted laugh from Sam. Next to our own Mr. Burbage, Edward Alleyn was the most celebrated player in London. We walked on in silence for a while. Finally Sam said, “How will you break this to Mr. Pope?”