Shakespeare's Rebel

  They went in opposite directions, Burbage for the Whitehall Stairs and a boat, John towards Charing Cross. From the relative peace around the palace, its wider avenues and larger houses, he soon plunged into the narrower Strand and the crowds that were about it. There were still a few hours of Shrove Tuesday feasting left before the Lenten fast began, and people were out celebrating, crowds were within and before every tavern, drinking; or within an ordinary, eating. Thinking that his yawns needed stifling and food might be the answer, he stopped at some carts. But he’d already cracked the coin Will had given him and was sparing with what remained. No meat then, and no white loaf either. Carter’s bread for him, near all rye. He’d spit out the chaff still in it, and the remainder would lie in his gut for a while and give him the illusion of fullness.

  He gave a farthing for a half-loaf of it, but the dryness sucked all moisture from the desert of his mouth, so he parted with a penny for a half-dozen oysters, their juices moistening the bread, making it palatable. Then he bought two onions. The stallholder, a large woman with cross-eyes, peeled and sliced one for him, cackling all the while about how sweet his breath would now be for his love. She won’t let me close enough to sniff it, he thought, pocketing the unpeeled one.

  Fortified, a little more awake, he moved along the Strand, straddling the filthy gutter in its middle where the crowds were less. And as he walked, he considered what lay ahead. Mostly his thoughts came back to a name.

  Hamlet, Will? Truly? Whatever are you up to now?

  XII

  At the Sign of Capricorn

  John could hear it as soon as he turned into Blood Spit Alley. Not unusual in the city, with walls thin and holes in the plaster and loam between the beams. Yet even the thickest walls could scarce have contained the sounds of such vigorous swiving.

  He envied the couple their transcendence. It had been a while – almost a year since Tess had last weakened and allowed him into her bed. Sighing, he halted – for he realised that the lovemaking was within the house he sought. It was night dark but a gated lantern swung above a wooden board covered with pentangles, triangles and symbols. It showed the trade of the man within for those that could not read the single word: Astrologer. Beyond the door, Simon Forman, Magister Astrologae, was carnally entwined.

  John hesitated. Had he missed Will? Or . . . or was he within, witnessing the generation of the sounds? It was possible. Will was a great observer of all aspects of life.

  Then another noise came, a shifting in the doorway behind him. He turned, hand to the dagger haft between his shoulder blades. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried.

  Silence, for a moment. Then a voice, soft, familiar. ‘’Tis I. And that is John, if I am not mistaken?’

  ‘It is.’ He released his dagger’s grip, along with a sigh. ‘Ill met by lamplight, proud player.’

  The playwright enjoyed being quoted to himself. And this was from a play they had performed together, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He chuckled as he stepped out into the faint light spill. ‘Fairies hence,’ he responded. ‘And yet not so . . . it would be a shame to forsake his bed and company just yet.’ He gestured to the door before them. Within, matters were accelerating. ‘They go to it, do they not?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘You know,’ Will said now, ‘that what we are hearing is probably payment in kind.’

  ‘A kind payment indeed. Yet who pays who? ’Tis hard to tell, for both seem to be getting as much from the transaction.’

  Indeed, both man and woman were striving for the same height, in speed, in tone. ‘The woman pays, I suspect. Forman is known for his lechery. And many a maid has saved herself silver by bending.’ Will sucked air between his teeth. ‘Though I’d wager she keeps her eyes shut. The astrologer is faced like the sign of Capricorn itself.’

  Both men laughed. ‘Are you en route to see him, or have you been?’ John asked.

  ‘En route. I did not come straight here from the palace and I was delayed by . . .’ He waved his hand at the door, then turned. ‘And you? Are you after his guidance too?’

  ‘Nay, Will. You know I do not seek much amongst the stars. I am looking for you. Burbage told me where to find you.’

  ‘Did he?’ His friend stared at him. ‘I wonder why. Though I think I know – he would have you work on me. Is it not so?’ But before John could reply, he continued, ‘Ah! And there we have it.’

  If they did not, Forman certainly did, for one goatish grunt came in contrast to a single clear sigh – and one extended giggle. After a few moments’ silence, John gestured to the door. ‘Shall we knock and hasten them?’

  ‘I knocked when I arrived, when the noises were less. They ignored me. Wait.’ Reaching within his cloak, Will pulled from its pockets a tortoiseshell case. Opened, it revealed some wax tablets and a stylus. ‘I would capture her tone,’ he said, scratching. ‘There was a false note to it, did you not think? And then there was . . . what did you say on hearing me first behind you? “Who’s there?” was it not?’

  ‘A challenge by any guard upon any battlement, William. Hardly original.’

  ‘But the way you said it. “Who’s there?” ’ He hissed it. Many forgot the skills of Will the player in the writer. And John heard the echo of two things in the voice – sudden, shrill fear and the slight slur that a month of spirituous liquors had given it. He was proud of neither.

  ‘A good way to start a play, don’t you think?’ said Will, slipping the case back. ‘Simple, immediate. The guard is frightened by his watch. The battlement is . . . haunted.’ He breathed the word out. ‘I have been thinking much of ghosts lately.’ He stepped closer, took an arm. ‘And you, John? You were not wont to startle so easily. Was it me or one of your ghosts you heard stir in the alley this night?’

  They had known each other a long time. Many who’d shared wine with them were worm food. Many who were even closer. John swallowed. ‘You know what they say now, Will. Ghosts are mere superstition. Papist superstition.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’ Shakespeare shook the arm he held. ‘Well, you and I know better, do we not?’

  It was an alley near the Fleet, no one close by. Yet walls thin enough to emit cries of love could take in whispers of heresy. The Church in England had declared that ghosts did not exist. Yet that did not mean that those raised in a different church would stop believing in them.

  ‘Easy, friend,’ Will said. ‘When did you grow so cautious? Is this the warrior who sailed with Drake round the unknown world, then helped destroy the Great Armada? This he who stormed Cadiz beside our hero Essex? This the man who played the bearded Turk in Chipping Sodbury to three blind men and their dogs?’

  He could do it in two sentences, the humour and the horror. ‘I was drunk on two of those occasions.’ John laughed.

  His friend joined him, but stopped first. ‘And are you drunk now, John?’ he asked softly.

  ‘You know I am not.’

  ‘Do I? I thought perhaps with the excuse of young Ned’s blooding this night . . .’

  ‘I need no excuse. I have ended my debauch. That I had reason for it, you know.’ Tess’s face flashed before him, a tangerine-swathed shadow behind her, fat fingers reaching. He swallowed it down. ‘But it is past now.’

  ‘Is it? Oh good.’

  His friend had known him a long time. Had seen him pledge, and abstain, and fall again. Yet the doubt behind the younger man’s words rankled. ‘Forgive me, Master Shakespeare, that like most lesser mortals I do not have your . . . forbearance,’ John snapped. ‘Not all can be as cool in the blood as the scrivener of Stratford.’

  He awaited the return shot. Will could wither with words – John had seen him do it and been reduced more than once himself. Yet now he just shook his head. ‘Cool,’ he murmured. ‘’Tis what I am accused of – by several more than you. Which is why I find myself outside the house of a magus, seeking help in ways no church can understand.’

  John’s anger fled. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured.

  Bo
lts were shot on the door they stood before. ‘Later,’ Will replied, raising his voice, brightening his tone. ‘For behold, since the astrologer has exited, we can enter.’

  Someone else had to exit first, however. Indeed, the door was scarcely ajar before a woman slipped past it, blending into the dark of the alley in a moment, vanishing before they could get more than a glimpse of bedraggled, unbound hair and a thin cloak. An odour lingered behind her, the faint whiff of the rut.

  The two men stepped forward – and were instantly halted again. For a second woman appeared and they blocked her egress. This one was muffled against the night and recognition within a hooded cloak, a woven scarf around her face. Only her dark eyes were revealed, widening as she saw them. She gasped, drew back . . . while at her shoulder a face countered, thrusting forward. Perhaps the recent embracing had brought forth its beastly qualities, for nothing less than a satyr was snarling there. The face contrived to be both long and blunt at the same time, full of strange promontories, with eyebrows like bursts of gorse hanging over twin caves of greenish eyes. Black hair was matted to the head except where it rose in two curving peaks atop the forehead. Teeth glimmered in light spilled from the candlelit room, canines prominent. ‘Ehhhh?’ came the rumble in the throat, an animal caught in an intimate act. The woman, trapped on the doorstep, turned, saw, cried out again.

  John did not blame her. Simon Forman was never going to be handsome. But at least he could contrive to look human.

  Yet this beast could speak. ‘Master Shakespeare,’ he said, thrusting out one hand, ‘an honour as ever. And . . . Master Lawley, is it not? Twice honoured.’

  In attempting to step aside, John had ended up going the same way as the maid. They both stepped the other way, and again he was blocking her. When it happened a third time, it must have appeared as if he were either teasing or attempting to dance. So he halted, she crashed into him, fluttered there like a bird trapped within leaded glass. She . . . crackled, something beneath her cloak. No traces of lovemaking rose, but another scent did. Cloves, a usual ingredient in perfumes. Popular, too; he had smelled it once already that night.

  The maid slipped from arms he hadn’t realised he’d raised and, with a little cry, ran into the gloom.

  ‘Farewell, madam, dear . . . whatshisname,’ Forman called, still grasping Will’s hand and pulling him inside, ‘and mark again, before month’s end, the thrall of Venus.’

  ‘The thrall of Venus, Master Forman?’ Will had allowed himself to be dragged into the room, where a candelabra lit his face and the smile upon it. ‘I would conclude that you are the one under its thrall.’ He glanced around the small room. ‘For were you not . . . entertaining two ladies at once?’

  ‘It may appear so, sir,’ replied Forman, ‘but it was not so.’ He attempted to smooth down the hair horns. ‘The lady came for a consultation. Her maid . . .’ He frowned, gave up his attempt at hairdressing. ‘I am not certain what she came for, except to seduce me.’

  ‘While her mistress . . . enjoyed watching?’ Incredulous, John moved forward.

  ‘It is unusual, sir, but not . . . unheard of. When people consult the stars and the whole magical world, different attitudes are displayed.’ Forman shrugged. ‘And yet I do not know if she took pleasure in the viewing, since I was . . . engaged. And I was unable to ask, as they were startled by your knock with me scarce able to conclude.’ He clapped his hands together, went on in a very different tone as he stepped back, ‘Can I offer you some ale? I can mull it, if you like. Or something stronger, perhaps, for the night is cold, is it not?’

  Shaking his head – he considered himself worldly, but did not believe he would have displayed such disregard if he’d been caught in this situation – John followed his friend in. The phrase ‘something stronger’ paused him as well, as it always did. But he took a breath, then answered, ‘A mulled ale would serve me well.’

  ‘And I,’ said Will, ‘though sitting to enjoy it might prove a problem.’ Indeed, every spare inch of the room appeared to be covered in paper. It filled the chair, covered the stools and the trestle, submerged the table, where sheaves appeared especially flattened.

  ‘Ah yes. Apologies, gentlemen. I have been somewhat busy since the Queen’s rapprochement with the earl, and his acceptance of her majesty’s commission for war.’ He lifted papers, put them aside. ‘Soldiers, soldiers, demanding to know if death or glory awaits them. Or both. Ah!’ Two joint stools had emerged from under mounds of paper that were swiftly perched atop other mounds, slag heaps formed and leaning precariously. ‘Please.’ He gestured, then moved to the fireplace. He shoved a brace of iron pokers into the coals, then pulled two pewter tankards from hooks on the ceiling, filling them from a stone jug.

  ‘And the earl himself is one of your clients, I heard,’ said John, sitting, balancing, as Will did.

  Forman looked up. ‘Ah, you have seen my noble lord? Indeed, he has so honoured me. Knows I am both excellent and discreet. For if he went to the court’s supercilious Dr Dee, he would not only get a vague reading but the results would be broadcast to every ear in Whitehall.’ He pulled one poker from the coals, ran a cloth over it to remove the ash then plunged it into a tankard. It sizzled and steam rose. He handed the mug to William. ‘Good sir.’

  It was true, John thought. Any horoscope, however confidential, would be shown near straight to the Secretary of State. Dog days or Mars ascendant, the crouch-backed spymaster, Robert Cecil, would want to know of it and use it for his purposes.

  Shakespeare sipped. ‘And as to the business, Master Forman? Have you had time to look into my minor matters, with so many weighty ones’ – he glanced at the flattened papers upon the table – ‘to occupy you?’

  ‘I have indeed, sir. And nothing that concerns the welfare of the realm’s foremost playwright can be considered minor.’ He pulled the other poker out, wiped, plunged, then handed John the heated mug. ‘You will excuse us, Master Lawley?’ Forman pulled a stool close to the playwright on his other side.

  As the two of them began to whisper, John swigged; wrinkled his nose. It was not overly hot, but the flavour was harsh. Another import from the Dutch wars, like the pox and . . . and the smell of cloves. The Hollanders brewed their beer with hops to make it last. This made it bitter. It also tasted strong. Double double, perhaps? Though it was not the same as whisky for him, there was danger in the stronger ales too. It was why he always eased off from a debauch with small beer. Drank himself sober, like any martin drunkard.

  Still . . . he took a gulp. The effect was near instant . . . and pleasing. He suddenly felt more awake. His mind expanding again, he could focus on his plan. To help Burbage while helping his friend by dissuading him from revisiting a tired old play and focusing instead on something that suited the martial hour. To watch his son rise, while setting epic fights for Chamberlain’s men. Perhaps to work himself back into a role. Woo Tess anew. And above all, to keep far, far, far from the reach of Robert Devereux!

  He toasted the scheme with a larger gulp. The beer tasted better and he was awake again. Why had he even considered sleep? He looked at the whispering men. Perhaps when their business was concluded he could persuade his old friend Will to accompany him to the Cardinal Cap Inn in Southwark and cheer his boy. He could work upon him along the way. Besides, it wasn’t every day that a Lawley made his debut before the Queen.

  He raised his mug – empty, which was both strange and annoying. Then he saw something that pleased him even less. The magus was passing a bottle to the playwright. It was brown, squat, familiar. It was whisky. And though he had no intention of having even one small sip, it was hard that the rogues did not trust him enough to offer some for him to refuse. Or something. ‘Let’s share that then, if we be friends,’ he found himself saying, as he rose from his stool and stepped in.

  Will placed a palm on his shoulder, holding him off. ‘Good soul,’ he said gently, ‘I know that this is probably your most difficult hour. Yet hold to your resolve. Besides’ – h
e smiled – ‘desperate though you are, I doubt that even you will enjoy the taste of Anne Hathaway’s piss.’

  John sat again. It took him a while to find the words. ‘Forgive, William, the absurdity of the question. I fear I must have misheard you. Did you just say you were holding a bottle filled with your wife’s urine?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Ah.’ John had known Anne Hathaway, a little. A delightful lady, and pretty with it, though the last time he’d seen her, she’d thrown a stool at him. A fair gesture, considering he was waiting at her garden gate to kidnap her husband. The stool, of course, may well have been aimed at the willing abductee. Fortunately it had missed them both, so their brains remained unstoved, their jaws unbroken and they were able to tackle the roles they played for the Admiral’s Men and other companies through that year and the ones that followed, that garden path leading through the byways of England, with some detours on the Continent, eventually to London.

  Will’s confirmation did not truly help him. All he could think was how queer it was that the last time he’d seen her the lady had been hurling furniture at him and now he was staring at a liquid that had once been inside her.

  John shook his head, tried again. ‘Another foolish question, Will, no doubt. But why are you holding a bottle of Mistress Hathaway’s piss?’

  It was Forman who replied. ‘Your friend provided this so I could cast his beloved wife’s horoscope.’

  It was a final nonsense. ‘Eh?’ was all John managed.

  ‘John, even a sceptic like yourself must know that astrologers are often referred to as – forgive me – “piss prophets”.’

  ‘No offence taken.’ The magus bobbed his head. ‘You see, Master Lawley, if I have something of the subject, I can cast their horoscope from it, even if I do not see them. And nothing is better than urine. As long as I know the hour and the place where it was voided, it does not even have to be fresh.’

  ‘And since the roads are winter-poor and Greenaway’s nags slow,’ added Shakespeare, ‘this took ten days to get here from Stratford. Fresh it is not. Sniff . . .’ Laughing, he whipped the cork from the bottle and thrust it towards John, the sharp alkaline savour surging through his head like shot, clearing and nauseating at the same time. There was a collision, liquid slopped, its sour taint filling the room, at last dispelling the rich scent of love’s conjoined juices that had ruled it to that point.