Love Disguised

by Lisa Klein

  “And who shall play the traitor Haman and be hanged onstage?”

  It was not a biblical drama Will had in mind, but something from ancient history—the illfated love of Mark Antony and Cleopatra. Violetta had dark hair and her face could be smudged with coal, but she was too short for a queen of Egypt.

  “Can you wear chopines on your feet without falling from them?” he asked.

  “I will walk on stilts to please my Pyramus,” said Violetta.

  “Stop calling me Pyramus!”

  “You would not die for me?”

  “Die for you, no. Die on you, maybe.” The bawdy pun slipped from Will but Violetta seemed not to mark it. “Don’t you have some pots or floors to scrub?”

  With a sigh she took her vexing presence from him, whereupon Meg appeared. It was like a scene from a play, Will reflected.

  “Demigoddess, bring me some ale!” he called, pleased at the sight of her. When she came back with the cup Will asked, “Would you hear my idea for a play?”

  Long Meg tilted her head to the side. “Is it about a young man seeking to recover his father’s stolen wealth?”

  “No, it is about a Roman general in love with the queen of Egypt,” Will said defensively.

  “Who will play in it? You know Dab is unreliable and Job Nockney has sworn never to take the stage again. Violetta’s memory is like a sieve, useless for carrying wit or water.”

  Will rubbed his head. “Violetta’s lines will be few and short. I shall write a part for you if you like. And one for Mistress Gwin. And the costermonger’s daughter. Confound the laws, I’ll have a whole company of women players. What a spectacle that would prove! We’ll travel to every shire in England and dare the magistrates to punish us. Do you long to stand in the the pillory?”

  Will knew his ranting was beside the point. The few shillings he had saved from playing Pyramus amounted to less than a tenth of what Burbage was owed. The rest he had spent on ink, pen, and notebooks. The court date, October fifteenth, was not three weeks away.

  “How will my standing in a pillory enact your revenge against those two thieves?” said Meg, standing with her arms akimbo.

  Will groaned. “Your words sting my remembrance.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, dropping her arms. “You made a vow that I witnessed. I am only trying to hold you to it.”

  Talk of vows made Will feel guilty. He did not want to think of the Hathaway sisters or his promise to his father.

  “You tell me, Meg, how shall I find those two shifty rogues in all of London? Can’t you help me? Have you not a single word of encouragement?”

  “Yes. Leave!” The sinews in her arm grew taut as she pointed to the door.

  Will was stunned. “Are you throwing me out? What have I done?”

  “Nothing,” she said, exasperated. “Therein lies the problem. Who ventures to London and is content to see no more of it than the four walls of an inn?”

  Someone who wants to hide, thought Will. Someone shirking his duty.

  “Go out and find something to write about. You might also find the rogues you seek.”

  “I would gladly explore the city to feed my fancy, but I lack a single friend to keep me from the pathways of peril.” He picked up his pen again. “I must write that down.”

  The nib of his pen scratched over paper. He looked at what he had written, then blotted it. Drivel! Meg was right; he had nothing to write about.

  After what seemed like a long silence Meg said, “You can trust my brother.”

  “Your twin! How could I have forgotten?” Will jumped up and gathered his papers together. “Where is he now?”

  Meg hesitated. She seemed flustered, glancing overhead as if her brother might be concealed in the rafters. “On Tuesday he has some business at Leadenhall Market,” she finally said. “He will meet you at noon near the well in the courtyard.” She lowered her voice. “Keep this a secret, for no one knows I have a brother.”

  Will was puzzled, even suspicious. Why would she hide the fact that she had a brother? But he was afraid to ask, lest she take offense and withdraw her offer.

  “How shall I recognize him?” He deemed it safe to ask this much.

  Meg raised her eyebrows at him. “He is my twin. If you know me you will know him.”

  Chapter 13

  Once she was out of Will’s sight, Meg clasped her head with both hands. “What have I done?” she murmured. The words “you can trust my brother” had simply rolled from her lips and could not be called back. Had her inward mind decided to hatch some plot unknown to her outward senses? It did irk her to see Will dreaming his days away and writing about ancient history while all of London, a very present place, awaited his discovery. Even more, she was irked that Davy Dapper and Peter Flick were still on the loose.

  Having made her promise, Meg was determined to fulfill it. At a shop in Finch Lane she bought a slightly worn suit of men’s clothes, yesterday’s fashion at a cheap price. She pondered an excuse to be away from the inn and decided to tell Gwin she was doing charitable work at a parish far enough away that Gwin would not be tempted to join her. Violetta she was not concerned about. The girl was so consumed with thoughts of Will she didn’t notice anything Meg did.

  Meg set in motion her engine of deceit. The wheels turned with surprising ease. Gwin gave her four shillings for the poor, which made Meg feel guilty. Working secretly in her room, listening all the while for footsteps, she padded the doublet to disguise her breasts and embellished it with braid. Despite her caution, light-footed Violetta burst in and Meg had only a moment to throw a sheet over her work.

  “I am full of woe!” complained Violetta. “For hours on end Will’s pen makes love to his paper. He has not favored me with a glance all day.” She dropped to Meg’s bed, sitting on the edge of the sheet. “How shall I live without his looks?”

  “The same way you lived before you saw him. From day to day rising, eating, working, sleeping.”

  “But every hour of the day and night he is on my mind!” Violetta wailed. She balled the sheet in her fist. Meg froze as the sleeve of the doublet peeked out.

  “I hear Gwin calling you,” Meg said. “Go see what she needs.”

  “I was not meant to be a servant. Thomas Valentine would have given me servants.” Violetta pouted. “Yet here I am waiting on love. On one who hardly deigns to speak to me!”

  “I do not think men love women who hang upon them like chains,” said Meg.

  “What I need is a friend to woo him on my behalf.” She glanced sideways at Meg.

  “Don’t look at me so,” said Meg.

  “Please! Will is not in love with you nor you with him, so there can be no misunderstanding!”

  “That may be true,” said Meg, wounded, “but I will not be your go-between. It is your father’s office to oversee your courtship. Now go away, for I would sleep.”

  “I have no father anymore!” Violetta wailed, pulling the entire sheet to her bosom. She gasped at the suit of clothes lying in full view on the bed.

  “Meg! Really!” She glanced around the tiny room and peered under the bed. “Where is he? It’s not … Will?” Her voice trembled.

  “Of course not!” snapped Meg. She snatched up the doublet. “I’m doing some mending.”

  “Don’t pretend you have become a seamstress. You would not be so red-faced unless you had a lover.” Violetta’s voice fell to a whisper. “You can tell me who he is.”

  Meg was not about to lie and say she had a lover. But how could she explain to Violetta that she planned to impersonate a man in order to assist Will? Meg hardly understood this decision herself. She decided on a half truth that would please Violetta—if she believed it.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Meg said. “Knowing how much you love Will, I planned to disguise myself as your cousin—that is, my brother, whom I’ll call Mack—and persuade him to woo you.”

  Violetta clapped her hands. “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he handsome?”
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  Meg sighed. “I don’t. It’s a disguise.”

  “Oh, I see the purpose of the clothing now! How foolish of me to guess that you had a lover!”

  “And why shouldn’t I?” Though how such a thing would happen if she were running around as a man, Meg didn’t know.

  “You should, and someday you will,” Violetta said with a wave of her hand. “But for now I shall advise you what to say to Will.”

  Meg was not listening. She had no intention of asking Will to woo Violetta. Her business was not courtship and love but helping Will find Peter Flick and Davy Dapper. But she had not considered the many deceptions her disguise would entail. Will was no fool; what if he recognized her the first time he and Mack met? How long before Gwin and Overby became suspicious? And could Violetta, who was still chattering like a jackdaw, keep from revealing Meg’s disguise? She must be scared into silence.

  “Violetta!” she said, interrupting her. “If you count yourself my friend, you will tell no one of our plan nor reveal that I am Mack. If we are caught in this scheme, eternal shame and ridicule will be our reward.”

  “You would take such a great risk for me?” Violetta whispered, touching Meg’s arm.

  Meg looked away to avoid meeting her eyes. “It shall be my pleasure,” she said. For she felt a growing excitement at the prospect of meeting Will Shakespeare at Leadenhall Market and roaming the streets with him, freed for a time from the burden of being Long Meg.

  Chapter 14

  Will was at Leadenhall Market well before the appointed hour. The place made him uneasy, for it was not far from where Davy Dapper had accosted him. He wished Mack would hurry. He wondered if Long Meg was setting him up to be gulled. But she was so plainspoken, so upright, he did not want to believe she would deceive him.

  The market teemed with harvest bounty and buxom wenches who made him think of Anne Hathaway. Despite what she had done he could not banish her from his mind. She was even in his dreams. Or was it Catherine? Her sweet features came to mind, her buttery fingers touching his lips—and the sound of her raillery, her vows of eternal hatred. How had he ever gotten entangled in their witchcraft? Even now he was not free of it.

  “I won’t let a woman deceive me again! Or a man for that matter,” he declared, squaring his shoulders and striding back and forth as if daring anyone to try and trick him.

  He recognized Long Meg’s twin at once. He was taller than anyone in sight. As he drew near, Will could see that he shared her slender build, her blue eyes, and her curly golden hair, which peeked out from beneath a feathered cap. Of course he was wider in the chest and shoulders, and though he did not have a beard, his upper lip was darkened with fuzz. When he spoke his voice was deeper than Long Meg’s.

  “I am Mack de Galle and you had better be Will Shake-beard or Short-beard or whatever you call yourself, for the last two fellows I greeted denied they were and one took offense, for he was a No-beard with not a whisker on his face,” he said in a rush of words.

  Will smiled. He liked the fellow’s wit. “I call myself Will Shakespeare, though I have none to shake.” He noticed Mack wore a sword, as did most of the gallants in the streets. Almost no one in Stratford went around so strongly armed.

  “If you would be true to your name you must have a spear,” said Mack. “For safety as well as for show.” He unbuckled his sword and secured it around Will’s waist.

  Will gulped. “I have no skill with weapons.”

  “Wear it. It will make you look dangerous.” Mack lifted the lower edge of his doublet to reveal a sheathed dagger and a pistol tucked between the points of his hose. “Gifts from my sister. Lost or confiscated at the Boar’s Head.” He winked. “I prefer my weapon to be hidden.”

  Will chuckled at the bawdy joke but Mack did not smile. So Will converted his laugh to a cough and placed his hand on the sword hilt like a man accustomed to doing so.

  “Let us go now to Southwark, for ’tis the last day of the fair,” said Mack.

  He led the way past Eastcheap, where the street narrowed and became New Fish Street. Will’s sword bumped against his thigh with every step. He could feel the dampness in the breeze and smell the river at low tide: mud, fish, and offal. A roaring filled his ears, and just ahead he saw the great bridge and the river surging beneath it. As he and Mack crossed the crowded bridge, Will gazed in wonder at the fair shops and dwellings on both sides. At the middle point was an old drawbridge from which Mack pointed out the tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the city’s heart. On the river below, wherries, barges, and boats of all sizes crossed to and fro. In the distance they looked like waterbugs skittering over the surface. Near the bridge the river slowed, waiting to pass through the arches clogged with branches, debris, and dead animals. On the other side the water fell several feet, churning and rushing seaward with the ebbing tide. The sight made Will dizzy.

  “I wonder how many debtors and other disconsolate souls have jumped to their deaths here,” he mused.

  Mack suddenly strode away and Will wondered how he had offended him. On the other side of the bridge, where the road became a wide thoroughfare, he found Mack waiting for him.

  “I hear those cunning foxes are still up to their crimes,” Mack said. “Let’s trap them in their lair before taking our sport at the fair.”

  Will’s heart sank. In truth, he never wanted to meet Peter Flick and Davy Dapper again. The first time he had lost only his money. This time there was bound to be a fight, and he might lose an arm or a leg or even his life. No, he wanted only to explore the city in the company of this knowing and friendly Mack.

  “Show me the way; I am prepared for some stout action,” said Will, not wanting to appear cowardly.

  He followed Mack into Crooked Lane, which indeed had a crook in it, beyond which the lane ended in an alley barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Together they crept down the dirt path flanked by ruined houses and a foul-smelling stable. No sunlight found its way there.

  “Call me Will Shake-in-my-boots if you will, but I like not this place,” said Will, striving to sound lighthearted.

  “Fear not; we are well armed,” said Mack. “I have it on good intelligence that our two thieves used to resort here.”

  Misgivings crowded Will’s mind. Was he being led into a trap? But why would Mack have given him a weapon if he meant to harm him? He gripped the sword and was about to draw it but realized the alley was too narrow for a sword to be of any use. He was sure to lose any fight in this dark byway. His body might never be found. Would death make his father proud of him, or would he berate Will’s cold corpse for losing the twenty-five crowns in the first place?

  Mack paused before a weathered sign of a cock over a decrepit door. He put a finger to his lips and drew his pistol. Will’s mouth was dry. He wished he had Mack’s dagger instead of the unwieldy sword.

  Mack lifted his knee nearly to his chin and struck the sole of his boot against the door with such force that the door splintered. He fell backward into Will and they both tumbled to the ground. A loud blast sounded and the sign over the door fell with a crash. An acrid smell reached Will’s nose. Mack’s pistol had fired! Will could only lie on the ground wondering if he was still alive.

  “Gog’s wounds!” cried Mack, jumping to his feet. “Open up, you base knaves, you creeping caterpillars!”

  There was no reply. A furry creature scurried over Will’s hand.

  “There goes a rat! Was that you, Davy?” said Mack. “Peter Flick must be inside.” He motioned for Will to rise. “Come, men. Charge the door of this vile den!”

  A sudden vigor surged through Will and he leaped up. He would not disappoint Long Meg’s brother. The splintered door hung on a single hinge but seemed to be bolted from within. He drew his sword and hacked at the door until it fell off. His arm was jolted and numb. He stumbled through the opening into a room cluttered with chunks of plaster, dusty planks, moldy clothing, and broken furniture. In the dimness Will could discern not a single thing of value�
�no hangings or furnishings, no chests that might hold a robber’s booty. There was not so much as a chair to sit on, much less the persons of Davy and Peter.

  “This does not look like a thieves’ lair,” said Will.

  “Maybe they are hiding in the loft,” whispered Mack.

  Will looked up. The ceiling was missing, the rotting rafters visible. “What loft?” he said.

  Mack made a surprised sound.

  “Perhaps there is a cellar,” Will said, looking at the broken boards under his feet.

  Mack shook his head. “There is not.”

  “How do you know?” Will asked. “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, but I … was outnumbered, so I went away again.”

  “You should have fetched a constable. What use am I to you? Or did you bring me here for some dire purpose contrived by you and Meg?” Will felt his blood rushing in his veins, suspicion making him alert.

  Mack looked furious. “Do you doubt my sister, a true and honest woman? Her manner may be rough, but she harms no man unless he deserves it.” He thrust his weapons into Will’s free hand. “Here, take these if you do not trust me.”

  Will fumbled with the dagger and pistol. “You burden my two hands with three weapons, knowing I lack the skill to defend myself with any of them. Now will you set your confederates upon me and rob me a second time?”

  Mack rolled his eyes. Will had seen Long Meg do the same thing.

  “Why should I contrive to rob you, Will Shakespeare? I believe you have no money.”

  Will felt his face redden. “I know I have no money. Therein lies all my trouble. Alack, I am Fortune’s victim!” He tossed the sword, the dagger, and the pistol to the floor. They landed with a great clatter, raising a cloud of dust.

  In the silence that followed Will heard a tiny sound, something between a whimper and a feeble laugh. “Even the rats mock me!”

  But Mack was instantly alert. “Come forth, cowardly varlet,” he said, fumbling in the rubble for the dagger.

  Will’s eyes followed the sound to a corner where there seemed to be a pile of filthy cloth. Something stirred there. Was it a dog?