Kissing Shakespeare

by Pamela Mingle

  I ticked off the whereabouts of everyone who might possibly catch me snooping. Jennet was in the stillroom with Elizabeth for the morning, and Will of course was at rehearsal. No one else, except Stephen and me, had a chamber in this passageway. The servants should have straightened the rooms by now, so I didn’t think one of them would catch me. Stephen was supposed to be my lookout, but I had no idea where he might be.

  I found him in his room, seated by the fireplace, Cop curled up at his feet. “What are you doing in here? I thought you’d be hunting or doing something else outdoors.”

  “Come, be seated. Nay, I do not feel up to anything; I am brooding.”

  I didn’t ask what about. “I want to search Shakespeare’s room. He’s at rehearsal, and no one else is around. A perfect opportunity.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be. Come on, I need your help.”

  I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the passage. “Wait!” he said. “We need to form a plan.”

  “I have a plan. I’ll look for the letter while you keep watch. With all the doors open, you can see in either direction. If someone’s coming, your job is to distract them.”

  “Linger in the passage? That will seem suspicious indeed.”

  “Why are you acting so weird? Nobody has a reason to suspect you of anything. If someone shows up, talk in a loud voice, so I’ll know you’re warning me.”

  He looked skeptical, but nodded. “As you say.” He seemed awfully distracted, but I didn’t have time to worry about that.

  I slipped into Will’s room, glancing back to make sure Stephen was in place. Once inside, I slowly twirled around, trying to decide on the best place to start. Will was not exactly a slob, but he wasn’t Mr. Neat, either. Books and papers were piled on a writing table. He’d tossed his sleeping smock onto the settle. His bed had been made, probably by a servant.

  With its jumble of papers, the writing table seemed the most likely place to start. Pushing an ink jar and dirty quills aside, I sorted through the stack of foolscap quickly. Most of the documents were closely written in what I recognized as Will’s hand and looked like the beginnings of poems—sonnets, perhaps—with several crossed-out words and smudges.

  I abandoned the writing table in favor of the wardrobe, sorting through some clothing. Not that he had much. A few doublets, a couple pairs of hose that looked like they could use a good washing, one linen shirt. Apparently he had only one pair of boots—the ones he was wearing. I exhaled my frustration. Nothing there.

  I lifted the mattress off his bed. It was light, like my own, made with some kind of ticking. After I removed it, I could plainly see the ropes, sagging from one end of the bedstead to the other. But no letter. I even ripped off the bed linen, quickly replacing it when it yielded nothing. Damn!

  Stephen stuck his head in. “Are you almost done?” he hissed. “ ’Tis near mealtime.”

  “Oh my God, you scared me!”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Yes! Get out of here.” He disappeared.

  Now I began to feel desperate. I swiveled back to the writing table and eyed it again, thinking about where I might stash a letter. Perhaps he’d slipped it into one of the books. As I leafed through the second book in the stack, a folded parchment fell out, and I recognized it instantly because of the sealing wax. I grabbed it, returned the volume to its place in the stack, and dashed down the passage to Stephen’s room. I closed the doors at my end while Stephen took care of those at the far end.

  Hiding the letter in the folds of my skirt, I kept my expression flat.

  “God’s breath!” Stephen said. “I guess we should give up. Mayhap it would not have helped anyway.”

  “Ta-da!” I whipped the letter out and held it up.

  He looked shocked at first, but then grinned and said, “You are quite the little thief, mistress.”

  I unfolded the paper and—“Oh, no. It’s in Latin.”

  “Ah. Clever of him. Only a well-educated person would be able to read it, were it discovered.”

  “And that would include you, no doubt,” I said, passing it to him with a smirk.

  I followed Stephen to the settle, where he unfolded the letter and began reading out loud, pausing now and then to sort out the phrasing.

  Good Master Will,

  May God’s mercy and grace be upon you, my friend.

  Please accept this missive as my attempt to guide you in your understanding of my mission here in England. It is easier for me to lay down my thoughts in writing than to explain it in the short periods of time afforded us to speak privately.

  Out of all Europe, the English have retreated farthest from God. Although I have had to live abroad many years, England is my home, and restoring her to the Catholic faith would bring untold honor and glory to the church.

  I come here on no political business, as some believe, but only to hear confessions, say Mass, and preach. In all earthly laws, my obedience is to the queen as my sovereign. But there is only one sovereign of the church, and that is our Lord Jesus Christ.

  “He doth protest too much, methinks,” Stephen said wryly, before going on.

  In my youth, I had the honor of meeting Queen Elizabeth. I much admired her for her great learning, understanding, and godliness. I have since taken a different path from our noble monarch. Would that I could persuade her to cast aside the ways of the reformers and restore her to the one true faith.

  “He met the queen,” Stephen murmured. “Why would Thomas Cook be acquainted with Elizabeth? If that is true, he must be so remarkable a man that she requested an introduction to him.”

  “So? Thomas is remarkable. You’ve said so before.”

  “Exactly. Mayhap too remarkable for an obscure Jesuit.”

  I tried to follow his thread, but couldn’t see where his thoughts were leading. “Read the rest.”

  As long as there are folk who wish to adhere to the old faith, my work here continues. As long as there is one more soul to save, I must keep on. I seek no honor or glory for myself, only for God. May God’s grace be with you always, Will.

  Your humble servant in the Lord,

  Thomas Cook

  “Pretty impressive, Stephen.”

  He waved off my praise. “Schoolboy Latin. ’Tis a very straightforward letter, and for our purposes, disappointing. It tells us nothing we do not already know.” He threw the letter in the air, and it slowly drifted to the floor.

  “I better put it back while I have a chance.”

  “Aye,” Stephen said absentmindedly. He propped his elbows on his knees, hands cupping his face.

  Scooping it off the floor, I glanced at the letter one last time, turning it this way and that, as if I might be able to ferret out some secret it held. My fingers rubbed against the seal. I looked at it closely, and then I stopped in my tracks.

  “Stephen, this seal doesn’t have Thomas’s initials. It says E.C.”

  Stephen bolted to his feet. “Let me see that!”

  I handed it over, watching his face turn pale. “Can it be?” he said. “Edmund Campion?”

  “What are you talking about?” Although the name sounded vaguely familiar, I couldn’t remember in what context. “Please, Stephen, explain!”

  “Edmund Campion, the Jesuit priest. The most wanted man in all of England. Walsingham, the spymaster, would do anything to get his hands on him. Do you not see? Thomas Cook is Edmund Campion.”

  “THE LEADER OF THE JESUITS? The charismatic one?” I asked. “It finally makes sense why Will is so in thrall to him.”

  “Go, quickly, and put the letter back. Then we shall talk.”

  I dashed back down the hall into Will’s room. Just as I reached the writing table, I heard Stephen’s voice.

  “Will! How is the play practice progressing?”

  I jammed the letter back into the book.

  “Very well, I believe,” Will answered, probably wondering why Stephen was shouting.

  “Ah,
I am glad to hear it. Will you perform indoors, in the hall? I was wondering if out-of-doors would be more realistic, such as was done in the old times.”

  I dashed into my room.

  Stephen and I had no further opportunity to talk until late in the day. During lunch I realized I hadn’t even told him about Will’s almost certain decision to join the Jesuits. But I put that out of my mind for now, because I was sitting next to Jennet. This could be a chance to learn something.

  “Are you helping with the pageant, mistress?” Jennet asked me while I nibbled on bread and sipped my ale.

  “Thomas has asked me to be the prompter. Females, as you know, cannot be players.” I rolled my eyes and she laughed. “And you?”

  “Nay, I cannot take part. My father would remove me from here if he got wind of it. Indeed, I will probably have to leave on the day of the performance. When is it to be?”

  “I believe a week from Sunday next.”

  “I shall ask Cousin Alexander to arrange for me to go home the day before.”

  I drank some ale and pasted an innocent look on my face. “Pray, what is the harm in watching such a play?”

  Jennet’s expression sobered. Her eyes slid away from mine and she said, “ ’Tis a practice established by the old faith, regarded as frivolous and heretical by Puritans.” Her cheeks flushed. “Also, my father considers men dressing like women an abomination against God’s laws.”

  “Do you regard it thus?”

  “I have nothing against it. It seems like harmless fun.” She shrugged. “Master Will says ’tis funny.”

  “They are performing the story of Noah and the Flood.”

  “And Will plays Noah’s wife. That would be a sight to see.”

  “Where I come from, ’tis sometimes said of parents that ‘what they do not know cannot hurt them.’ ” I gave her a sly smile.

  “I will think on it. Mayhap my father need not know.”

  “Speaking of your father,” I said, “what news of your betrothal?”

  “None. And that is another good reason not to go home.” We laughed, but I shuddered to think what it would be like to be forced into a marriage with a widower years older, unappealing in every way, and then be expected to sleep with him, raise his children, and nurse him in his old age. Ugh. I couldn’t help feeling sympathetic toward her.

  At the other end of the table, Thomas, Will, and Fulke were entertaining the others with stories about the pageant. “Master Will makes a fine nagging wife for Noah,” Thomas said.

  “And you a most excellent God Almighty,” Will jibed. “Though we all know you fancy yourself thus already.” Thomas took it good-naturedly. Alexander looked as if he thought Will had gone too far, but must have realized it was all in fun since he ended up laughing too.

  Stephen sent me a look, darting his eyes away after a second, and I knew he was wondering the same thing I was. Did Will know Thomas’s true identity? With the initials on the sealing wax—a totally careless act on Thomas’s part to have sealed the letter that way—how could he not? And all the discussions they’d had, probably in private as well as among company. Alexander most likely had known from the start. A devout Catholic, he would have been honored that such a man would want to reside at his home while writing his manifesto, or whatever it was.

  “Olivia?” Jennet poked me in the ribs. “Master Cook is addressing you.”

  So deep in thought I hadn’t even realized anyone was speaking to me, I jerked my head up. “Pray, what did you say?”

  “Can you come to our rehearsal this afternoon? Your job is quite an important one, as you will save us all from the shame of forgotten lines and missed cues,” Thomas said.

  “Oh, aye. I shall be there.” I smiled, as though I had nothing on my mind but an amusing production of the Noah’s ark pageant.

  Stephen and I finally caught up with each other after the evening meal. “Get your cloak and meet me in the rose garden.”

  I rolled my eyes at his bossy tone. “Yes, sir. Will do.” As he hurried up the staircase ahead of me, I took a long look at him. He was always impeccably dressed. Tonight he wore a black doublet with an aubergine-colored lining over a fine linen shirt. Dark velvet Venetians—best described as billowy shorts—stockings, and boots completed the look. He could have been on the cover of a Renaissance edition of GQ. Stop it, Olivia.

  I grabbed my cloak and tugged on the gloves Will had given me. It had rained earlier, and both landscape and buildings were shrouded in mist. The moist grass dampened my slippers and wet the hems of my skirts. While I waited for Stephen in the garden, I tried to identify the birdsongs. My grandmother always said robins sang the day to sleep, but I didn’t know if that was true in the here-and-now. The then-and-now. Whatever.

  A form appeared out of the mist, and I gasped.

  “Did I frighten you?” Stephen asked.

  “It’s just that I couldn’t see you coming.”

  “Let’s find a bench and sit down.” He reached for my hand and led me around blooming crabapple trees and down a path until we reached the bench.

  “I noticed you conversing with Jennet during the meal. Did you learn anything?”

  I wrapped my cloak closer around myself. “Only that she intends to leave the day before the Corpus Christi pageant. Her father wouldn’t approve. I tried to talk her into staying.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Hard to tell. She says she doesn’t want to go home. Her father wants her to marry a much older man who sounds pretty disgusting.”

  “You raised the question earlier, and I cannot but wonder if her father is involved in this. It makes sense that he would be the one aiding the Privy Council.”

  “I keep thinking about that too. If that’s true, he may have enlisted her help.”

  Stephen nodded. “It is beyond belief that Edmund Campion has been in our midst all this time and I’ve been completely unaware. There were signs. I should have guessed.”

  “It explains why Will is so confused. I think he truly is torn, Stephen. When I talked to him today, he seemed so dejected.” I shivered, feeling the mist drifting closer, wrapping us in its dampness. “Is there any doubt in your mind that Shakespeare knows Thomas is really Edmund Campion?”

  “None. ’Tis the reason for his indecision. With such a powerful influence as Campion, Will must feel a great pressure to do his bidding.”

  And then I grabbed Stephen’s arm so hard he flinched.

  “What is it?”

  “I just figured something out!”

  “Soft, sweeting,” he whispered. “Someone could be about.”

  Oh, God. I moved closer, close enough to smell his soap, and wished desperately we were out here for a much different reason than the true one. “Jennet knows. She knows Cook is Campion!”

  “We have no proof of that.”

  “We’ve been wondering what she told Lowry. That’s got to be it.”

  “ ’Tis a big leap. She may have identified Thomas as the Jesuit, but how could she know he’s Campion?”

  “You said last night she could have been tricking us all along, that she may be as good a reader and writer as you or I. If she got her hands on the document he’s been working on, maybe something in it gave away his identity.”

  “We cannot be sure, Olivia.”

  It seemed perfectly obvious to me, but maybe watching all those reruns of Law and Order with my grandparents had skewed my perspective. “Will did have one encouraging bit of news. He said Thomas—Campion—is leaving right after the play. But that also means we only have about a week and a half to make sure Will doesn’t leave with him. What should we do?”

  “Let us agree on one thing first. We should continue to call Campion Thomas. If we start talking and thinking of him as Campion, the name will doubtless slip out when we don’t want it to. Agreed?”

  “Of course.”

  “In answer to your question, we may have to resort to extreme measures to prevent Shakespeare’s leaving with Thomas.”
>
  “Define ‘extreme measures,’ ” I said, slanting my eyes at him.

  “Lock him in one of the rooms on the lower level.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” I said, loud enough that Stephen had to shush me. Again. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “He’d never come along willingly!”

  Frowning, he said, “We wouldn’t keep him locked up for long. Just enough time so that it would be impossible for Will to catch up with Thomas. Then we’d release him. ’Tis not as if he would be our prisoner.”

  “Good luck convincing him of that!”

  “It may be our only hope.”

  I lowered my voice. “I think we should talk to your uncle. If we explain the situation to him, maybe he won’t allow Will to escort Thomas, and then we wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

  “Tell him Thomas wants Will for the brotherhood? I’m not sure it would matter to him. Indeed, he’d probably be pleased.”

  “But surely Shakespeare’s family should have some say. If you had a young man working for you, one as young as Will, wouldn’t you feel obligated to ask his parents before sending him off to become a priest?”

  Stephen exhaled a frustrated breath and his shoulders drooped. “You are right. I will ask to speak with him.”

  “I want to be there too.”

  “Absolutely not. Females are not involved in decisions of this nature.”

  “Please, Stephen. I’m part of this. And I can be persuasive.”

  He grinned. “That you can. Very well. Let’s go in, then. Perhaps I can find him now and arrange a time.” When we reached the outer courtyard, Stephen said, “Go first; I will follow shortly.”

  I nodded. He brought my hand to his lips, brushing them gently across my fingers. Neither of us spoke. I walked toward the door, turning back once. But I couldn’t see him. He was already lost in the mist.