Love Disguised

by Lisa Klein

  He heard Mack draw in his breath as a skeletal creature crawled out of the darkness and stood up. It was a child with large eyes and lank hair, wearing only a ragged shift.

  To Will’s surprise, Mack dropped to his knees and in a soft voice coaxed the child nearer. He murmured and the child nodded.

  “She knows our culprits,” said Mack. “They chased her away when she came begging for food.” He swept the child up and strode out of the house, leaving Will to pick up all the weapons. He tucked the pistol and dagger in his belt, sheathed the sword, and clumsily ran after Mack.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To buy her a meal and take her to the orphan’s hospital. Her plight is now our fault if we do nothing to help her.”

  Will observed with what compassion his new friend fed the child and carried her to the nearby hospital, giving the matron four shillings for her care.

  “I regret that I ever thought you meant to harm me,” said Will. “You are a better man than I am.”

  “We shall see whether that is true,” was Mack’s cryptic reply. He strode ahead, veering into every tavern and alehouse in Southwark. He stayed not to drink but only to search for Davy and Peter, growing grim with his lack of success.

  But Will was in the mood for revelry. Pots of bubbling ale and roasted meat beckoned him. Street peddlers hawked trinkets, mountebanks their magic cures, and drabs their darker pleasures. Goodmen strolled arm in arm with their wives and dandies with their doxies. Jugglers, musicians, beggars, and cutpurses with shifty eyes wove through the crowds. But why should Will worry? He had a staunch weapon about him. He was at Southwark Fair, where everything was for sale and promised delights he could no longer resist.

  “Pick out a pretty wench and let’s have some ale,” he suggested, hoping to turn Mack from his vain pursuit.

  “Mercy, no!” said Mack. “I cannot revel while thieves ply their dishonest trade, Justice closes her eyes, and starving children sleep on rotten blankets.”

  “Let wicked souls be heavy with guilt; yours should be light and fly upward. You saved a child’s life today!” said Will. He put his arm around Mack’s shoulder. “Dear friend, we are alive and well. We will find those villains next time. Now let us enjoy the present and one another’s company.”

  Mack turned to him and smiled, his sorrowful look fleeing. In that moment he resembled Long Meg so closely that Will was drawn to him like iron to a magnet.

  Chapter 15

  From a second-story window overlooking the crook in Crooked Lane, Roger Ruffneck was keeping watch. He was a member of Davy and Peter’s gang, which included the smooth-talking Tom Treadwell and a thirteen-year-old boy, son of the old curber Nick Grabwill. Roger noticed a tall young man and a shorter, bearded one pass by. Their furtive manner aroused his suspicion and he summoned Davy. While Davy watched them, Roger tied on his ruff lest the occasion call for him to go out.

  “Foh!” exclaimed Davy. “They’ve got that ragged kinchin.”

  “I tried to catch it once but it was too quick,” said Roger.

  “If they were at the sign of the cock they must be looking for us,” said Davy. He started. “Why, that looks like the cuffin we robbed at the Boar’s Head!” There was something familiar about the taller man as well.

  Roger peered at him and growled. “I’ll be sworn he has my sword!” He thundered down the stairs with Davy at his heels and seized a heavy walking staff.

  “Don’t hurt me, Master Roger. I’ll do whatever you say!” Grabwill Junior cowered with his hands over his ears.

  “Hold, you oaf!” Davy blocked the door. “Take off that vile ruff; it betrays you. We need a third man. Hie, Peter! Come anon! We must not lose them.”

  Davy thrust a pistol into Grabwill Junior’s hand. “Wait here, toadlet. If they return, hold them until we get back.”

  Young Grabwill’s father had placed him with Davy as an apprentice, that he might learn all the criminal arts. But he lacked ruthlessness and Roger tried to beat it into him. He knew he mustn’t anger his elders. So he took the pistol; it was so heavy he needed both hands to hold it.

  Moments later the trio of hounds were tracking their prey through the crowds of fairgoers, to the hospital, and from tavern to tavern.

  “They don’t even suspect we are following them!” said Davy, grinning. “Pudding-for-brains!”

  “What was he called, the one we robbed?” Peter flicked his thumb against his fingers, trying to shake the name from his feeble mind. “He kept his money in his boot.”

  “Along his shank. His name was Shanksboard!” said Davy. “Or was it Shake-spire?”

  Roger scratched his head. “How did he come by my sword?”

  “Let’s take them now,” said Peter. “We are three cuffins against two.”

  “Well counted, Flick! But we are only spying in order to see where they lead us,” said Davy.

  “You are! I aim to get my sword back if I have to kill him,” said Roger.

  “Look at them now, as merry as playfellows,” said Davy. “What is their purpose?”

  “They’re parting ways,” announced Peter.

  Davy seized Roger’s bare neck. “Go after Shanksboard if you will. But if you kill him I don’t know you from Cain. You’ll hang, and I’ll confiscate all your goods and sell every one of your precious ruffs.”

  “Unhand me, huff-snuff!” Roger said, shaking off Davy.

  By now Davy and Peter had to run to catch up with the tall companion, who was climbing into a wherry. They jumped into another boat to follow him.

  “I swear I know that fellow,” said Davy.

  “I heard Shanksbird call him ‘Farewell Mack,’ ” said Peter.

  “Was there not a boy named Mack with us once? His parents died in a fire,” said Davy. “He set up our marks. He could outrun us both.”

  Peter scratched the dent in his head. He could not remember how he came by it.

  “This cuffin somewhat resembles that Mack,” said Davy.

  “Which Mack?” asked Peter.

  “The boy we left behind in the innyard, you clotpoll!” He shook Peter, causing the wherry to rock from side to side.

  The shaking improved Peter’s memory. “He was caught that day. I hope they cut off his ear. Did you see if Farewell Mack had both ears?”

  “What would that prove, dolt?”

  The wherry in front of them had landed. Now theirs touched the wharf. They followed their mark up Tower Hill.

  “I can still see the look on the pippin’s face as he begged for help.” Davy laughed. “As if we would risk being captured.”

  “Why do you speak of him now? That happened long ago,” said Peter.

  “Because I think he is the same Mack.”

  “As who?”

  Davy hit Peter with the back of his hand. “Since your head was staved in, you have become unbearably irksome. Look, he’s passing through Aldgate.”

  “Oh, that Mack. We went to an inn together,” said Peter.

  “He’s gone into the Boar’s Head,” announced Davy. “What if this Mack is the same one we left here two years ago?”

  Peter shook his head. “Can’t be. He was a pippin and this one is a giant.”

  “And you, Peter, are an ass.”

  Davy and Peter returned to their lair. Roger Ruffneck was still out, so Davy related their discovery to Tom Treadwell, who agreed that the connection to the Boar’s Head was more than a coincidence.

  “I remember now. Shankspit took us there to see a play,” Peter said. “I robbed his boot. And that maypole threw us out.”

  Davy frowned, deep in thought. Long Meg—like Mack—surpassed the height of ordinary men. And her strength was greater than a woman’s. He snapped his fingers. “Zounds, I have it! Long Meg is none other than our old companion Mack grown up. Disguised as a woman he enforces the peace at the Boar’s Head.”

  “But why would he pretend to be a woman?” asked Tom.

  “Maybe Mack is a girl,” ventured Grabwill Junio
r. “Once a fellow forced my father to steal women’s clothes, and when he put them on my father saw he really was a girl. It addled his mind.”

  “Stow it, toadlet,” said Tom. “We are thinking.” He shook his head. “It shows unmanly cowardice for Mack to hide in such a manner.”

  “Worse, ’tis an abomination for a man to go about dressed as a woman,” said Davy, his mouth twisted in disgust.

  “Where have you been to church?” asked Tom.

  “At St. Paul’s. With you!” said Davy. He was out of all patience. “Do you pay no heed to the preacher as you fleece his congregation?”

  “Long Meg threw us out of the Boar’s Head. Let’s go back and roast her ribs,” said Peter.

  “Him, you lackbrain. We’ll roast his ribs and gripe his guts. Punish his ungodly transgression,” growled Davy. “Now where the devil is Ruffneck?”

  Chapter 16

  Meg had to arrive at the Boar’s Head before Will, who might become suspicious if he found her absent. So she took a shortcut, crossing the Thames in a wherry. Despite her sadness over the child, she felt her spirits lift. Before she and Will parted he had called her “dear friend” and promised, “We will find those villains next time.” She could hardly wait for another opportunity to roam the streets as free in her movements as a man. How easily adventure came to her! Creeping into Crooked Lane she had felt quicksilver flowing in her veins. Talking to Will was like opening a tap and letting wine pour out. It took some effort to curb her tongue, especially once she agreed to share a bottle with him. When Will asked how Mack had been betrayed, she told him how Davy and Peter had been his companions in mischief until the day they chose to save their own skins. She remembered at the last moment to leave the Boar’s Head out of her tale. To Will’s question about Mack’s family she only said, “Our parents are dead. I raised Meg and she raised me.”

  “And what is your occupation now that you go about the city furnished like an armory?” Will had asked.

  “Like you I am seeking my fortune.” She winked and would say no more.

  The drink that eased Meg’s worries made Will melancholy. “A misfortune it was to lose your parents, yet I envy you.”

  “Will, are you so stony-hearted that you wish your own parents dead?”

  “I mean that you are free to fashion yourself while I, like a hawk tied by jesses, am bound by this debt to my father.”

  Meg thought of her parents for the first time not with sorrow, but with resignation. “One day Death will come and cancel all debts, letting the hawk fly free.”

  “Unless he has a wife. Nothing binds a man more tightly than marriage,” said Will, refilling their cups.

  “Clips his wings, forsooth,” said Meg, striving for the same manly tone. Curious, she added, “Why are you against marriage?”

  Will filled Meg’s ears with a tale of the two Stratford sisters, the one he had courted who turned into a shrew, and the other who let him believe she was her sister.

  “I love them and I hate them,” he said.

  Meg only nodded, wondering, Do all men have such complicated loves?

  “The bit in the horse’s mouth, the bridle of his ambitions, the end of his youth, is marriage to a woman!” Will continued. He patted his doublet and dug in his pockets. “Drat! I have no pen to write down my lament of the disappointed lover.”

  He had looked so comical, Meg smiled at the recollection.

  Her wherry touched the shore. She disembarked and was soon back at the inn. Quickly she changed her clothes and was Long Meg again, filling pitchers of thick brown ale.

  At once Violetta was at her side, eager for news. “Why do you look so pleased? What happened?”

  “I did a virtuous deed today,” said Meg, thinking of the child.

  “But what did you say to Will?” Violetta demanded. “Did you tell him my father is rich?”

  “Ill news for you. He is averse to marriage.”

  Violetta looked dismayed. “You must change his mind!”

  “Go away,” said Meg. “He will arrive at any minute and overhear us.”

  An hour later Will had not returned. Meg decided he was exploring the city on his own. Patrons demanding ale and victuals kept her too busy to worry. Another hour went by. What if Will was lost?

  “I can wait no longer. What did he say about me?” Violetta demanded, holding Meg’s sleeve.

  In truth Will had said not a word about Violetta. But rather than lie to her, Meg handed her a pitcher. “Go wash this,” she said and vanished into the pantry. Moments later she felt Violetta jump on her back and seize her by the hair.

  “Tell me what was said between you. Will he woo me?”

  “Zounds, never! He abhors shrews. Let go of my hair.” Violetta complied but clung to Meg’s neck. “I confess I found no opportunity to praise you.”

  Violetta kicked the back of Meg’s legs. “But you were with him for hours!”

  “Yes, in taverns and dark alleys. Places hardly suited for courtship. Aaagh! He has an affinity for bad company—” Meg was having trouble breathing.

  “And all the while you not once spoke of me?”

  “—Making him a doubtful companion for an honest woman,” she continued.

  Violetta slid off Meg’s back. She looked so disheartened Meg felt sorry for her.

  “Why not write a letter and I’ll give it to him,” she offered.

  “No. Next time walk in the fields and weave a garland of flowers. That will dispose him to love. If you do not advance my suit, I will reveal ‘cousin Mack’ for who he is. You shall feel the shame.” She pinched Meg’s cheek.

  “Ow! You have my word; I shall win him for you,” said Meg, surprised by Violetta’s wrath. Did all women turned into shrews when their path to love was blocked?

  Violetta reached up to tuck her hair back under her coif and Meg poked her under the arm. “Thus I repay you, acorn,” she said.

  “Stop, Meg! This is not a game.” Violetta was almost in tears. “Tell me, where is Will? When is he coming back?”

  “God’s truth, I know not!”

  Violetta’s face showed alarm.

  Meg wondered, Where, indeed, is Will Shakespeare?

  Chapter 17

  Will was lying with his face in a puddle not far from where he and Meg had parted. Someone was shaking him. He heard himself groan and felt himself shiver with cold. He managed to open his eyes. Two dark figures hovered over him. Pain surged in his jaw and neck, and he remembered the blow that had knocked him down. How long had he lain there?

  “Are you hurt, sirrah? Will you let me examine you?”

  Now this is a new stratagem for a robber, Will thought dully. To feel for broken bones—and hidden purses.

  “Go ’way. I’ve naught left to take,” he muttered and tried to roll over. The foul water caused him to retch, which made his head and ribs ache.

  A second voice said, “Thomas, let us be on our way. This vagabond is not worth our time.”

  “Thomas Treadwell? You sapsucker, leave me alone,” Will said. He blinked, trying to focus.

  “No, by my troth. I am Thomas Valentine, a student of physick, and this is Sir Percival Puttock.” He pulled Will out of the mire and helped him to sit up. He had a box with large handles, Will noted, something a physician might indeed carry. “We are newly arrived in the city.”

  “Within the hour, I see, for had you been here longer you would already lack your cloaks, your purses, and everything in that kit.” Valentine was taking out a jar of ointment and a bandage. “I speak from experience—as the victim, not the thief, for I am an honest man. My worst vice is that I am a liar. I write plays.”

  Sir Percival drew his cloak aside to reveal a pistol tucked into his waist. “I will not be deceived,” he said stiffly.

  “I do not lie now,” said Will hastily. “Except in the street where you found me. Alack, my poor head! I think my wit is damaged.”

  “I saw you take that blow,” said Valentine, peering into his eyes. “C
an you remember your name?”

  “Will Shakespeare, by this hand.” He held it up and examined it himself. All five fingers were attached and straight. He could still write.

  “And what befell you?”

  “A most undeserved blow felled me! A knave dressed like a courtier, but with a bare neck where his crimpled ruff should be, demanded my sword, and said it belonged to him.”

  “That is the very fellow who ran by us,” said Thomas Valentine. “Go on.”

  “I said to him, ‘Prove it by telling me what is on the hilt.’ Like a dog he growled at me. ‘R! R!’ Those were the very letters engraved on the sword.”

  “You are a base thief, then,” said Sir Percival.

  “That is what he said but with the addition of vile swearing, for he was not a kind gentleman like you.”

  Sir Percival reddened.

  Will addressed himself to Thomas Valentine. “I came by that cursed sword innocently enough, but I would not die by it. I flung it aside, whereupon the madman began to beat me with his walking staff.”

  Valentine had finished examining Will’s limbs and bandaging his head. “Can you stand?”

  Grimacing, Will stood up. “If you came to London to fix the head of every unfortunate in the street, you shall work until doomsday and never be rich.”

  The doctor gazed past Will and sighed. “I came looking for my true love, the lady Olivia. She has run away and I like a hound must run after, for she holds the leash around my heart.”

  Seeing Valentine was quite serious, Will held in his laughter. The fellow was a doctor after all, not a poet.

  “Once we find the ungrateful thing, she is yours to wive, Thomas, and I am well rid of her!” said Sir Percival, whom Will took to be Olivia’s unhappy father.

  “O speak not unkindly of my sweet mammet, my only plaything,” said the doctor.

  Will didn’t know whether to pity Valentine or Lady Olivia the more. “I’ll be on my way now,” he said. “It is growing late.”

  “Let us walk with you as far as your lodging,” said Valentine. “I want to be certain you are well.”