Love Disguised

by Lisa Klein

  “You were willing to be deceived, I think. And I never claimed to be my sister.” She spoke softly.

  “Why did you do it?” Will said, even as a voice inside him whispered that his own passion had done it, had blinded him.

  “Because I am a fitting match for you, Will Shakespeare.” Now Anne sounded defiant. “Not my sister. She is a child who does not know her own mind.”

  “I know you are a jealous harpy!” cried Catherine. She shook her balled fists inches from Anne’s face. “You can’t get a young lover without tricking your way into his bed!”

  “O I am bewitched and bewildered!” lamented Will. He had relished every moment he spent with Anne, believing she was Catherine. Did that mean it was Anne he loved, not Catherine? Now Anne, bold and sensual, was appealing to him. And her sister, whom he thought he loved, was behaving like a shrew.

  Anne didn’t reply to her sister, only slipped Will’s ring on her finger and removed it, tucking the ribbon into her bodice again.

  Catherine stiffened as she understood the significance of the ring. “No! You marry old Fulke Sandells. Let me have Will Shakespeare!” She was sobbing now.

  Anne did not flinch but bore the assault as if she deserved it. Will saw the tears in her eyes. He knew he should be angry with her, but those tears stirred him while Catherine’s frightened him. Gog’s wounds, he was confused!

  “I hate you, sister,” Catherine said. “And you, too, Will Shakespeare, now and for all time.” She stalked away, plucking up flowers and flinging them to the ground.

  Will turned. Anne was touching his arm. Her cheeks were wet but she made no effort to wipe them. With her other hand she fingered the ring. She gazed on him with eyes full of sorrow and strange affection. She opened her mouth to speak but Will did not stay to listen. He turned and fled down the garden path, certain of only one thing: the desire to put Shottery and the Hathaway sisters far behind him.

  Chapter 7

  London 1582

  The pale morning sun crept over the innyard, making the cobbles shine with dew, and climbed the walls of timber and wattle to the sign of the Boar’s Head, where it glinted on the beast’s newly painted gold tusks. A thrush nesting atop the sign hopped to the ledge of a nearby window and began to sing. Below, a cloaked figure scurried through the patch of sunlight and disappeared around the corner of the inn.

  Light streamed into a gabled room on the third story where Meg de Galle lay flat on her bed, the crown of her head pressed against the wall. Her gold curls tumbled around her face like the bloom of a flower. Her arms were bent and her hands, two folded leaves, rested on her stomach. Her body under her shift was slim and straight as a stem. Two graceful, long-toed feet rested flat against a heavy chest at the end of her bed.

  Meg awoke to the song of the thrush but lay abed with her eyes closed, wishing for a few more moments of sleep. She heard heavy footsteps, the scrape of her door, and the voice of her mistress.

  “How can you sleep like that? You look like the duchess on her tomb,” said Gwin Overby, coming into her chamber.

  Meg knew what Gwin meant, having seen tombs with stone effigies lining the nave of St. Paul’s when she helped Davy and Peter filch purses there. Now her daily companion was a honest alewife, and true to her word, she had stolen not so much as a farthing since hooking the clothes from the bawdy house two years earlier.

  “I’m not asleep,” said Meg.

  “How can a body rest in peace on a stone slab with people going by at all hours?” Gwin’s words whistled through the gaps in her front teeth, which jutted forward as if they wanted to escape from her mouth. Some customers mockingly called her Mistress Overbyte.

  “I believe the duchess rests quite well, being dead,” said Meg. She sat up and rubbed the top of her head, which was sore from being pressed against the wall. “Will you measure me today?” She handed Gwin a piece of chalk and stood with her back to the door.

  Gwin bunched up her skirt and with Meg’s help climbed onto a stool.

  “Don’t slouch, bean blossom,” she said, reaching over Meg’s head. The chalk scraped on the wood.

  Meg turned around and saw the new mark on the door—a finger’s width above last month’s. “It’s not working,” she said, glaring at the chest at the foot of the bed.

  “You’re fifteen and almost done growing,” said Gwin hopefully.

  Meg sat down on the bed and regarded her long legs with their sharp knees and long, narrow feet. They looked like her father’s legs. Her long, sinewy arms were the same as her mother’s. They had bequeathed her not a penny, but all their height and strength combined.

  “It’s bad enough being called Long Meg,” she said. “But must they stare at me with mouths agape and slap their heads?”

  “Don’t mind them,” said Gwin. “Somewhere is a good man who likes a woman who can reach the top shelf on her own.”

  “But would he would marry a girl whose lips are so high above his?” said Meg mournfully.

  “There are worse fates than not being married,” said Gwin.

  Meg thought of her parents. It was not marriage itself but misfortune that had made them miserable. She did not tell Gwin that her father had died in prison and her mother had killed a priest and drowned herself. These were secrets she meant never to reveal. Nor would she ever speak of Davy and Peter, though some days she missed her old companions, missed the freedom of being Mack. Secure as she was under Gwin’s wing, she longed for the excitement—yes, even the danger—of her old life.

  “Get dressed and break your fast,” Gwin said, passing through the doorway sideways because of her wide hips. She fed herself as generously as she did Meg, having a special fondness for butter and cakes.

  Meg sat on her bed brooding. She had wanted to become a new person when she came to the Boar’s Head, but her body had its own ideas of what that meant. Her limbs were long, her breasts like flatcakes, her hips narrow as a lath. She reached down to draw on her shoes—an old pair of the master’s that had been chewed by Bandog, the mastiff—and noticed there were hairs growing on her big toes. Was I meant to be a man? Did Nature err in making me?

  A new idea occurred to her. Taking an old piece of linen and a needle and thread, she sewed along the inner seam of her shift, making two large pockets.

  In the kitchen below pots clanged, Master Overby shouted, and Piebald the cat yowled as if he were being skinned alive. Gwin called, “Be quick, Meg!”

  “I come anon!” Meg laced up her bodice and stepped into her skirt. She took the stones she used to warm her bed, each one the size of her fist, and put them in her pockets, noting with satisfaction how they weighed her down.

  “This must keep me from getting any taller,” she murmured. She picked up the chamber pot and descended the stairs with care, pushed open the back door, and tossed the slops into the ditch between the inn and the mews.

  “Watch it, Long Meg!” shouted the chamberlain, jumping to avoid the yellow liquid and dropping a pair of boots into the mire. “Beshrew you, wench!”

  He was a surly fellow, Meg thought. “Fie upon you too, Job Nockney!”

  Neither of them saw the cloaked figure in the shadows where the ivy grew upon the walls.

  A growling Job Nockney picked up the boots and crossed the courtyard with his curious flat-footed gait. He looked up at the sign and frowned at the white smears on the boar’s visage. “Dab, come hither!”

  Job’s son emerged from the stable scratching his flea bites. His hair, mixed with straw, stood on end.

  Job thrust his finger upward. “I just painted that sign,” he said.

  Dab picked up a small stone, fitted it into his slingshot, and let it fly. The nest fell to the ground.

  “You’re a wicked boy, Dab!” Meg cried, running over to pick up the nest. She carried it inside and left in on the hearth, meaning to place it safely under the eaves after she finished her work. The thrush sang on, unaware that her home was lost.

  Unseen, the cloaked figure had inser
ted a foot in the back door before it closed.

  The inn had few guests besides the gentleman waiting for Job to clean his boots. Come September it would be teeming with travelers arriving for the annual Southwark Fair. They would sleep two or three to a bed and crowd into the public rooms to play at dice, drink, sing rowdy songs, and tease Meg, saying “How far up do those legs go?”

  Master Overby and Gwin sat at a table in the public room, chewing cold venison and calculating their likely gains from the fair.

  “We’ll charge four pence for bed and board, two for a bed only—a fair price, considering the demand there will be for lodging,” Master Overby said, jotting down numbers. “A penny to see the play and two for a seat in the gallery—”

  “A shilling for a quart of canary wine; in drink will be our greatest profit,” said Gwin.

  “Two for a seat in the gallery!” Master Overby repeated, raising his voice. He did not like to be interrupted.

  Meg shooed Piebald away with her broom. The cat jumped onto the table and meowed, nosing the greasy platter from which Gwin had eaten every bite.

  “For entertainment I’ll hire Sir Andrew d’Arke. That great swill-belly shakes the stage with his ranting, which pleases the—”

  “And he is content to be paid with sack,” said Gwin.

  “Which pleases the audience!” shouted Master Overby.

  Meg winced and looked away in time to see a figure cross the doorway.

  “Are you looking for your boots, sir?” she asked, but got no reply.

  Was the fellow deaf? Or was he a thief? Broom in hand she went after him. No one would sneak past her into the Boar’s Head!

  The sun had not yet lighted the dim hallway, but Meg could hear someone at the top of the stairs. She took the steps two at time and saw the hem of a cloak disappear into a far room.

  “Who goes there?” she demanded, stepping into the room with her broom raised. No one was visible. The back of Meg’s neck began to tingle. Gwin liked to tell of a merchant who had been murdered in his bed and whose ghost still haunted the inn. The door creaked on its hinges and fell shut behind her. She whirled around. Whoever had fled from her stood pressed against the wall. Meg stifled a scream as a pale hand emerged from the cloak and pushed back the hood. And she beheld not the transparent visage of a ghost, but the face of a living, breathing girl like herself.

  Only much shorter.

  Chapter 8

  The breath rushed out of Meg and she dropped the broom. The girl barely came to her shoulder. She had dark, abundant hair, wide brown eyes, and a pink mouth shaped like Cupid’s bow.

  “Why are you skulking around here?” Excitement made Meg speak with the cant of the street she had learned from Davy and Peter. “Who is your marker? Speak, minion!”

  “I do not understand you,” said the girl, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Your accomplice, thief. Where is he?”

  “I am no thief! I am Lady Violetta Puttock. I saw you pick up that nest and thought you might help me too.” She fell to her knees, threw her arms around Meg’s legs, and uttered a cry of pain.

  Meg winced. The girl had struck her head on the stones in her pocket. At every step they bumped against Meg’s thighs. She could already feel the bruises.

  “Be careful,” said Meg. “I have very hard bones.”

  The girl sat back, rubbing her head. “Maybe it was a mistake to come here.”

  Meg considered her fresh, healthy features, her fine cloak and blue damask gown, only a little muddied. This Violetta was well cared for.

  “Then go back home to your family,” she said roughly.

  The thrush’s plaintive song came to her ears. Had she discovered her nest was gone?

  “I cannot. My father, Sir Percival Puttock, will force me to marry a man I hate!” Tears spilled from Violetta’s eyes.

  “There are worse fates than being married,” said Meg, misquoting Gwin. “Why do you hate him? Is he old or ill-favored?”

  “No. He is young and you might call him handsome. But he fawns upon me in a most offensive manner with flowers and love-tokens and flattery.”

  “How could you not love a handsome man who gives you gifts?” asked Meg.

  “He always holds my hand to keep me near him,” Violetta complained. “He studies me as if he were diagnosing a disease, for he is learning to be a doctor.” She wrinkled up her nose. “He will spend every day letting blood, sniffing bottles of urine, and prescribing strange physick.”

  “Do you love someone else?” asked Meg. Violetta’s distress was truly a mystery to her.

  “I haven’t had the chance! But I could. Indeed I wish to.”

  Even damp with tears, Violetta’s face was still pretty. When Meg cried her face swelled and her eyes grew rheumy. Violetta had a rounded figure, narrow at the waist, and small, delicate hands. A green thorn of envy pricked Meg.

  “What is the name of this offensive fellow?”

  Violetta let out a deep sigh. “Thomas Valentine.”

  Thomas Valentine. The name was like music; it made Meg’s lonely heart stir.

  “If I were you, I would far rather be Mistress Violetta Valentine,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “than Lady Puttock. Even if your Thomas had a wen the size of a ducat on his forehead.” The idea caused Meg to laugh merrily.

  Violetta pouted. “I see you have never had the misfortune to be tormented by a lover.”

  “I see that you scarcely know what suffering means,” Meg shot back.

  “But I do! My father locked me in my room after I refused to marry Thomas. When my maid opened the door I escaped, stole some coins from him, and ran away.” Her little chin was thrust out in defiance.

  “Then keep running,” said Meg. “If you stay here he might find you.”

  Violetta shook her head. “I have come all the way from Stoke Farthington and cannot go another mile.” She considered the room with its neat bed, stool, washbasin, table, and chair. Narrow beams of light peeked through the shuttered window. “This place will suit me.”

  “It will cost you two shillings a night for supper, bed, and breakfast.”

  Violetta smiled. “Two shillings? That’s not much, is it?” She opened a little velvet purse and tumbled the coins into Meg’s hand.

  “Is this all your money?” asked Meg. She counted five shillings, four groats, and three pennies.

  “I had to pay the coachman two crowns.”

  “Two crowns? You were robbed!” Meg said, anger rising in her.

  “I know nothing about money. I’ve never had to buy anything for myself.” Violetta looked as if she would cry again. “I suppose I shall have to sleep on the church steps.”

  Meg sighed. She could hardly turn Violetta away. A kitten would have a better chance of surviving on its own.

  “My mistress might hire you in the kitchen, for the fair begins soon and we will have many customers.”

  “Shall I learn to make pudding and pies, confections and conserves?”

  “No, you’ll learn to pluck poultry until you sneeze your head off and chop onions until your eyes are on fire,” Meg said. “Do you have any possessions or were you cheated of those too?”

  “I hid my bag beneath the trellis.”

  Meg thought for a moment and said, “Climb out this window. It faces the mews and no one will see you. Fetch your bag, go to the front gate, and ask for Mistress Overby. Tell her that her kindness is mythical. No, I mean legendary. Alack, just say you are my cousin.”

  Meg tied a sheet under the girl’s arms and lowered her from the window. She weighed not much more than a sack of grain.

  When Violetta was halfway down, Meg remembered something. “Psst! When you greet my mistress, do not stare at her teeth or note her girth.”

  Clutching the sheet with both hands, Violetta nodded.

  When Gwin summoned her to meet her “cousin,” Meg picked up Violetta and spun her around, feigning joy.

  “By the veil of the Virgin, it’s a miracl
e how you found each other!” said Gwin with a grin so wide it showed all her teeth and her gums as well.

  Meg felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving her mistress but deemed it a small wrong because Gwin was so delighted.

  Meg was showing Violetta the kitchen when Master Overby returned from an errand at the brewery. Gwin accosted him, still fluttering with excitement.

  “Meg’s cousin is here! All the way from Stoke Farthington the pretty maid came. She is called Violetta, after the flower. Where is Stoke Farthington?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” said Master Overby. “Didn’t Meg tell us she had no living kin?”

  “What does it matter!” said Gwin. “Let them be cousins if they will.”

  “I’ll be keeping my eye on them both,” said Master Overby. “This town is full of country-bred cheats who come here thinking to make an honest man their mark.”

  Meg glanced at Violetta and wondered if she was as innocent as she seemed.

  “Pishery-pashery!” said Gwin. “There cannot be a wicked bone in her body if she is cousin to Meg. I’m already fond of her.”

  “You’ve always been soft,” grumbled Overby.

  “And you’re hard as a stone,” said Gwin with a low growl.

  Meg heard the sounds of wet kissing. Blushing, she quickly steered Violetta outside.

  “Speaking of stones,” Violetta said, “why do you have them in your pocket?”

  Meg was caught off guard. Had Violetta reached into her skirt while they were in the kitchen? Was she a thief after all?

  “Don’t ask questions and you won’t be told lies,” she said, glowering. It was the line she used on overly curious patrons of the Boar’s Head. “Away with you.”

  Violetta looked stricken as she turned and ran inside.

  The stones pulled Meg’s shift tight over her shoulders, tugged at her waist, and weighed her down. Her legs ached with bruises. How foolish she was for thinking she could keep herself from growing taller! She wondered if her mother had put stones in her pocket before she disappeared into the Thames. Had she changed her mind at the last moment and struggled to be free of the muddy depths? Meg shuddered. She reached under her skirt, tore the pockets from her shift, and dropped the stones among the cobbles.