"Madman," Burbage said, half in annoyance, half in affection. Now Kemp bowed like a don. Burbage returned it. Kemp skittered up to him-and kissed him again. "Madman!" Burbage cried again-this time, a full-throated roar of rage.
"Not I." The clown let out a mourning lover's sigh. "With pretty Tom gone, I seek beauty where I find it."
He puckered up once more.
"You'll find my boot in your backside, sure as Tom found Bacon's yard in his," Burbage said. Kemp's sigh wordlessly claimed he wanted nothing more.
Shakespeare asked, "Know you where de Vega went on leaving this place? Will he descend on me with a company of pikemen at his back, fearing me murthered?"
Nobody answered. Shakespeare made as if to tear his hair.
That only got him a scornful snort from Kemp, who said, "Leave clowning to clowns, foolery to fools.
You have not the art of't."
"Wherefore should that hinder me?" Shakespeare replied. "You leave not sense to sensible men."
The players laughed and clapped their hands. Will Kemp's glower, this time, was perfectly genuine. He enjoyed making others the butt of his japes. When he had to play the role, though, it suited him less well.
Before he and Shakespeare could start another round of insults, Richard Burbage asked the poet, "Doth the work thus far done suit the principal?"
Was he speaking of Don Diego or of Lord Burghley, of King Philip or of Boudicca? Shakespeare wasn't sure. He wondered if Burbage were sure. Either way, though, he could safely nod. "So I am given to understand."
"Good, then. Beside that, naught else hath great import." Burbage set his hands on his hips and raised his voice till it filled the Theatre: "Now that Will's back amongst us, and back with good news, let's think on what we do this afternoon, eh? The wives of Windsor shall not be merry unless we make them so."
Kemp fell to with more spirit than he often showed at rehearsals-but then, of course, he played Sir John Falstaff, around whom the comedy revolved. Even though the play ended with Falstaff's humiliation, the part was too juicy to leave him room for complaint. Indeed, after the rehearsal ended, he came up to Shakespeare and said, "Would you'd writ more for the great larded tun." He put both hands on his belly.
He was not a thin man, but would play Falstaff well padded.
"More? Of what sort?" Shakespeare asked. He knew Kemp spoke because he wanted the role, but was curious even so. The clown might give him an idea worth setting down on paper.
But Kemp said, "He is too straitened in a town of no account. Let him come to London! Let him meet with princes. No, by God-he deserveth to meet with kings!"
Shakespeare shook his head. "I fear me not. I got leave to write of the third Richard, he being villain black. But, did I bring other Kings of England into my plays, and in especial did I speak them fair,
'twould be reckoned treason, no less than the. other matter we pursue. Can you tell me I am mistook?"
Will Kemp scowled. "Damn me, but I cannot. Devil take the dons, then! A bargain, Master Shakespeare-do we cast them down, give me Falstaff and a king."
If he had a reason to throw off the Spaniards' yoke, he would be less likely to go to them in a fit of temper or simply a fit of folly. "A bargain," Shakespeare said solemnly. They clasped hands.
Lope De Vega and Lucy Watkins stood among the other groundlings at the Theatre. The boy playing Mistress Page said,
"Good husband, let us every one go home,
And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;
Sir John and all."
Richard Burbage, who played Ford, replied,
"Let it be so. Sir John,
To Master Brook you shall hold your word;
For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford."
A flourish of horns announced the end of the play. The actors bowed. Despite the rain that had been coming down all day, the Theatre erupted in applause. Lope clapped his hands. Beside him, Lucy hopped up and down in the mud, squealing with delight. De Vega smiled. "I am glade it pleases thee," he said. He had to repeat himself to make her hear him through the din.
She nodded, her eyes shining. "Ay, it likes me well. My thanks for bringing me hither."
" El gusto es mio," Lope replied. And the pleasure was his; through the way The Merry Wives of Windsor enchanted her, he enjoyed it as he couldn't have if he'd come alone. The whelk-seller didn't try to pick it to pieces to see how it worked. She just let it wash over her, taking it as it came. Lope couldn't do that by himself. With her, he could.
William Shakespeare came out on stage. "Behold the poet!" Will Kemp shouted. The applause got louder still. Shakespeare bowed. Lucy Watkins whooped and blew him kisses. She wasn't the only one in the crowd sending them to him or to one or another of the players. After another bow, Shakespeare withdrew. The rest of the company followed him, one or two at a time.
"Art fain to meet them?" Lope asked.
She stared at him. " Could I?" she said, as if expecting him to tell her no.
He bowed. " 'Twould be my pleasure," he said. "Pleasing thee is my pleasure." Lucy leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. A man who smelled of onions standing behind them whooped and rocked his hips forward and back. Lope ignored the churl. He took Lucy's hand and led her towards the wings, towards one of the doors that opened onto the backstage tiring room. A delight of falling in love, as he'd said, was that which he took in making her happy.
Some small part of him knew that one day before too long he would spy another face, another form, that pleased him as much as Lucy's, or more. He would fall in love with the woman who had them, too.
Maybe he would lose his love for the whelk-seller, maybe he wouldn't. He had no trouble staying in love with two or three women at once-till they found out about it. Then he had trouble. He tried to forget what had happened after the bear-baiting in Southwark.
Lucy helped by distracting him. "Look! A man guards the way. Will he give us leave to go forward?"
"Fear not, my sweet," Lope answered grandly. The tireman's helper had just turned a prosperous-looking merchant away from the door. De Vega pushed past the disgruntled Englishman, an anxious Lucy on his arm. "Good day to you, Edward," he said.
"Ah, Master Lope." The tireman's helper stood aside. "Go in, sir. I know they'll be glad to see you."
The look on Lucy Watkins' face was worth twenty pounds to him. "They'll be glad to see thee?" she whispered in what couldn't have been anything but awe.
"Certes," Lope said, and patted her hand. "They are my friends." Her eyes got wider still. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her on the spot, but didn't for fear of embarrassing her. She wasn't, and didn't act like, a trull, a woman of the town; if she gave herself to him when they were alone together, she behaved like a lady when in public.
"God give you good morrow, Master Lope," Richard Burbage called when de Vega and Lucy came into the tiring room. Lope bowed in return. Lucy's curtsy came a heartbeat slower than it might have, but was graceful as a duchess'. As if she were a noblewoman, Burbage made a leg at her.
"They are thy friends," she said in wonder, pressing closer to Lope.
"I'd never lie to thee, sweetheart," he answered, and knew he was lying.
Will Kemp had got out of the padded costume he'd worn as Falstaff. The water he'd used to wash paint and powder from his face still dripped from his beard. He was puffing on a pipe of tobacco. "Here," he said with an inviting smile, holding it out to Lope. Smoke eddied from his mouth and nose as he spoke.
" Gracias." Lope puffed, too, blew out his own stream of smoke, and handed the clay pipe to Lucy.
"I've not done this before," she said doubtfully. Kemp snorted. Lope shot him a warning glance. For a wonder, he heeded it. Lucy raised the pipe to her lips. She sucked in smoke-and then coughed and choked and almost dropped the pipe. She made a horrible face. "What vile stuff! How can anyone take pleasure in't?"
Lope retrieved the pipe and gave it back to Kemp. "We have no trouble," he said. The clown nodde
d.
Lucy only looked more disgusted. Will Kemp laughed. For once, he and Lope agreed completely.
Before that agreement could shatter, as it was likely to do, de Vega led Lucy away from the clown and over to Shakespeare. She curtsied to the English poet. He bowed over her hand, saying, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."
"And I yours, sir," she said. "The play today-'twas a marvel. I all but split my sides laughing. When Falstaff hid amongst the washing-" She giggled.
Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. "That it like you delights me," he said. Without words, his face said something else to Lope, something like, You didn't choose her for her wit, did you?
"Her pleasure becomes mine," Lope murmured. Lucy, still gushing about The Merry Wives of Windsor, didn't notice. Shakespeare gave back a thoughtful nod, part understanding; part, Lope thought, something else. Here is a quirk worth remembering for a play, was likely going through the English poet's mind.
"Hark you now, Master Lope," Shakespeare said. "Here's Don Juan de IdiA?quez, King Philip's secretary-whose role, I hope, you'll essay-speaking to his royal master: a€?Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so may you the circle of the world.' "
Lope tasted the lines, then slowly nodded. "An honor to play so great a man. An honor to have such splendid words to say." Shakespeare nodded thanks for the compliment.
Lucy Watkins' eyes widened. "Thou'lt tread upon the stage, with Master Shakespeare here writing thee a part?"
"Even so, my beloved," Lope answered. Some women, especially those of higher blood, would have looked down their noses at him for it. To one who sold shellfish, though, the glamour of the theatre seemed perfectly real. Lope knew how tawdry a place it could be. In Lucy's eyes, it shone-and so, through her, it shone again for him, too, at least for a little while.
When he and Lucy left the Theatre a little later, they found the closest lodging they could. He never quite figured out whose arms first went around whom. Lucy had been less lively in bed than some women he'd known. No more. Up till then, he hadn't learned all that went into igniting her. He laughed at the moment they spent themselves together, something he'd hardly ever done despite all his many partners. The theatre had more enchantments than even he'd thought.
VIII
Along with the rest of the parishioners, Shakespeare came to the church of St. Ethelberge early on Easter morning, before the bells rang out that would have summoned them to Mass. As he walked into the church, deacons went up and down the aisles lighting candles and torches till the building blazed with light.
A small stone sepulcher stood against the north wall of the church. More candles burned before it; it was covered by a cloth embroidered with scenes of the Passion and the Resurrection. On Good Friday, a priest had laid the Host and a crucifix within it. Since then, men prominent in the parish had taken turns watching over the sepulcher, receiving bread and ale and some small payment for their service.
Now the clergymen formed a procession that went up to the sepulcher. A priest swung a censer over it.
The sweet smoke tickled Shakespeare's nostrils. Another priest ceremoniously lifted the sepulcher cloth, while a third took the pyx that held the Host and returned it to its usual position above the altar.
Then, solemnly, yet another priest raised the crucifix from the sepulcher and carried it in triumph all around the church. The bells in the steeple clamored out joy. The choir sang Christus Resurgens:
"Christ, rising again from the dead, dieth no more. Death shall have no more dominion over Him. For in that He liveth, He liveth unto God. Now let the Jews declare how the soldiers who guarded the sepulcher lost the King when the stone was placed, wherefore they kept not the rock of righteousness. Let them either produce Him buried, or adore Him rising, saying with us, Alleluia, Alleluia."
The crucifix was reverently placed on an altar on the north side of the church. Worshipers crept towards it, some on their knees, others on their bellies. Tears of rejoicing streamed down their faces as they adored the risen Christ.
Tears stung Shakespeare's eyes, too. His father had spoken of such ceremonies when he was a young man, and again in Mary's reign. Till the coming of the Armada, Shakespeare had never seen them himself.
Elizabeth had suppressed them along with so much other Catholic ritual. They did have a grandeur, a passion (fitting word for this season of the year), missing from the Protestant liturgy she'd imposed on England.
Matins began. And my treason thrive, all this once more'll be cast down, Shakespeare thought. That saddened part of him, the part that responded to the drama of Catholic ceremonial. But the rest. Did we choose it of our own will, well and good. But the dons forced it down the throat, as a farmer'll force an onion up the arse of a sick ox. Let them keep it.
Mass followed Matins. At the end of the ceremony, Shakespeare queued up to receive communion.
"Have to take my rights," someone in front of him muttered. He nodded, though the words hadn't been aimed at him. Taking communion on Easter Sunday marked one as part of the adult community; being denied the Host on this holiest of days ostracized and disgraced a man or a woman. In some towns-even in some churches in London, Shakespeare had heard-folk delinquent with parish dues could be refused the sacred wafer.
He reached the head of the line. " Hoc est enim Corpus Meum," the priest murmured, as he had so many times before, and popped the Host into Shakespeare's mouth. Sinners, it was said, choked on the Host.
To prevent embarrassing accidents, a parish clerk stood by the priest with a chalice of unconsecrated wine. He offered it to Shakespeare, who took a mouthful to wash down the unleavened morsel.
Often, when he left the church after Easter Mass, the green of new spring growth offered its own symbolic resurrection. Not this year. With Easter so early-only a day after the equinox-winter's grip still held the land. Trees and bushes remained bare-branched; the muddy ground was brown, with only the sickly yellow-gray of last year's dead grass showing here and there.
To his own surprise, he didn't much care. Maybe the Mass had inspired him. Or maybe. He stopped, a sudden delighted smile illuminating his face. Do I not work towards England's resurrection?
However much the thought pleased him, it did nothing for the fellow behind him, who bumped into him when he unexpectedly halted. "Here, pick up your feet, you breathing stone," the man grumbled.
"I pray pardon," Shakespeare said, and got out of the way. Still unhappy, the man who'd bumped him went up the street. Shakespeare followed more slowly. The glory of that notion still blazed in him. It struck him as a perfect cap for the day Christ rose from the dead.
It struck him as a perfect cap, that is, till he got back to the house where he lodged. Jane Kendall had gone to the early Mass, too, and had got back before him. She was already throwing fresh wood on the hearth. This day, for once, she cared nothing for expense. "God bless you, Master Will!" she said. "Now we feast!"
"Let it be so, my lady," Shakespeare answered. "Never before this year have I known Lent to seem so long."
"Nor I," his landlady said. "I had not thought on it thus, but you have the right of't. I wonder why it might be so."
"Haply for that Lent began so early," Shakespeare said. " 'Twas but the middle part of February, mind you."
Widow Kendall nodded. "Yes, it could be. But now Lent too is passed away. Will you do me the honor of carving the leg of pork I took just now from the fire?"
"A rare privilege!" Shakespeare cried, and bowed over her hand as he'd seen Lope de Vega bow over that of his latest lady friend. Jane Kendall giggled and simpered, playing the coquette for all she was worth. Shakespeare's stomach rumbled. He'd gone without meat for a long time at a hard season of the year, which made it seem even
longer. Spit flooded into his mouth at the thought of finally breaking the fast.
As he carved slice after slice from the leg of pork, a few odd bits-or perhaps more than a few-found their way into his mouth. His landlady looked on indulgently. No matter how indulgent she looked, he did try to be moderate, and evidently succeeded well enough. "Pleaseth you the flavor?" she asked.
He made sure he swallowed the morsel in his mouth before answering, "Ay." He had no trouble sounding enthusiastic. The Widow Kendall had been lavish with cloves and cinnamon and pepper, and the meat was so fresh, it hardly even needed the spices to taste good-an advantage of Easter's coming in a cool season of the year.
One by one, the other lodgers came back to the house. Shakespeare exchanged Easter greetings with Jack Street and Cicely Sellis and Sam King and the rest. When Jane Kendall wasn't looking, he tossed Mommet a bit of pork. The cat made the treat disappear, then stared up at him as if tosay, Well, where's the rest of it?
Everyone ate pork and bread and boiled parsnips smothered in melted cheese and drank the Widow Kendall's fresh-brewed ale. Shakespeare wondered if he were the only one not only eating meat but making a point of eating it where others could see. Nobody, now, could claim he was continuing the Lenten fast and waiting for what the old calendar reckoned to be Easter.
Jack Street patted his belly. "Oh, that's monstrous fine," the glazier said. "Would I were so full every day."
Sam King nodded. He still remained without steady work, so a feast like this had to be an even bigger treat for him than for the other man. Grinning at Street, he said, "So it's the emptiness within you, then, that roars forth when you sleep?"
That made everyone laugh-everyone but the glazier, who asked, "What mean you?"
"Why, your snoring, man," King said. "What else?"
"What?" Jack Street shook his head. "I snore not."
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