Love Disguised (28 page)

“
Peace, peace
,” she purred, as if imploring the audience. “
But see the baby at my breast, that sucks the nurse asleep. As sweet as balm its bite, as soft as air
—” With all eyes in the theater raised to her, she sank to the platform with her arms dangling over the stage below.

The rumor that a woman was performing at the Theatre proved a boon to business. The Puritans descended to decry bawdiness, gay apparel, and all forms of deceit, but their
preaching and pamphlets only stirred up more interest in the play. The London authorities were powerless to enforce their prohibitions, for the playhouse was beyond the city limits. Nor did the queen show much rigor, for she was said to enjoy plays as much as anyone. Nevertheless a cautious Burbage posted his son at the door to warn him if someone from the Revels Office arrived. He might be a friend wanting to commission a performance or a foe bent on censorship. If the latter, Burbage would replace Meg with one of the other players, and the censor would depart scratching his head.

Between performances and rehearsals, Will and Meg were often in each other's company trying out their new friendship. Gradually their conversation grew easier. Meg told Will about her parents' misfortunes, her exploits with Davy and Peter, and her long-held secret, which had lost its power when she learned the crime was Roger's, not her mother's. Will talked about his family and described Stratford so vividly, Meg felt she knew the town. Once he spoke of the Hathaway sisters and when Meg grew silent, fighting jealousy, he changed the subject.

“Why don't I teach you to write and read?” he offered. “You can be my scribe.”

“I would have to write very fast to pin down your quick words,” said Meg, smiling. But she was delighted to let Will instruct her and enjoyed the hours they spent in the tiring room after everyone had left the Theatre. They bowed their heads together, sharing the candlelight, their ink-stained fingers sometimes touching as Will guided her hand.

Will was amazed. “How quickly you learn! I was right to prize your wit.”

“I can't deceive you, Will! I've been copying letters on my own and teaching myself,” she confessed. “I memorize the parts by listening and later match them to your written pages.”

He drew back in surprise. “You don't need me then.”

“O but I do, because I don't know when I make a mistake.”

“And I need you for the same reason,” he said, sighing.

Meg would put down her pen and listen while ideas sprouted like grass from Will's fertile brain. She watered the good ideas and plucked the weedy ones. This was what it meant to be a muse.

One day while Meg was doing an inventory of costumes, Will looked up from his writing and said out of the blue, “I miss my old friend Mack.” He twirled a man's cap on the tip of his finger. “Do you?”

Meg was a little hurt. Why should Will miss Mack when he had
her?

“No. It was confusing being Mack. I am more useful to you now, aren't I?” Not liking to beg for praise, she quickly added, “Give me that cap. It needs new feathers.”

Will held up two buff jerkins and helmets trimmed with metal.

“Come, let's don this soldier's garb and seek out an adventure to feed my poet's fancy.”

Meg saw the light of mischief in his eyes. She countered by tossing a wig and skirt in his direction. “
You
wear the disguise this time. I'll take you where you shall overhear enough privy news to pen a dozen scenes with Mistress Bicker and Goodwife Tattle.”

Will threw the costume back at Meg. “I've heard women
gossipping all my life in Stratford. I kept a stall in the marketplace.”

“That does not mean you know what it is to be a woman.” Meg pressed the skirt against Will's chest. “I am your muse. I know what is good for you.” She was good-natured but serious. “We'll stroll through Southwark as two doxies, and you shall witness firsthand how women endure men's fleering and abuse.”

“But … but …,” Will stammered.

“Do you disdain to play the part of a woman?” she asked.

“I do not see the purpose in it,” he blurted.

Would he never learn?
“You lately told me I was as good as any man you knew,” she said. “It was being Mack that made me a stronger Meg.”

Will seemed confused. “Therefore I should become a woman to make me a softer Will?”

How could she explain the need? The sexes were not equal. For Meg to behave as a man was brave; Will had admired her for it. But the idea of Will as a woman was simply comical, even to Meg. Still, the reversal was only fair.

“Yes you should,” she said firmly. “There's no harm in it.”

Will only smiled. “Wherefore do I have you, Meg, if not to teach me what women want from us?” he said with such a gentle manner that Meg could not be angry with him.

At every performance of
The Tragedy of Cleopatra
the Theatre was filled. Barely a week after it opened a stroke of good fortune befell Burbage's company, sending Will and Meg to the Boar's Head to celebrate with their old companions. Any
ill feeling over their departure seemed already forgotten. Gwin doted on Ned and Grabwill Junior as she once did Meg and Violetta. Meg cornered young Grabwill and made him understand that if he stole so much as a pie from the oven she would make him regret it. Jane reported that Roger Ruffneck had confessed to killing the priest, and Davy and Peter were still in prison. But Will was past caring about revenge, eager instead to describe the scene of his new triumph.

“Meg was still onstage being applauded, and I was in the tiring room with Burbage when Lord Leicester burst in,” said Will.

“He was at three performances this week. Burbage was on tenterhooks the whole time,” Meg added.

“Leicester demanded a play for the queen on the twelfth night of Christmas. ‘This one is too tragical,' he said, ‘dealing as it does with a defeated queen's suicide. But whoever penned it shall write a new one for me.' ”

Recounting the story made Will flush with pleasure, which in turn made Meg happy.

“Burbage put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Here is the author, my newest player, a very skillful man with words.' ”

Master Overby thumped the table in approval. Will downed the rest of his ale before continuing his tale.

“Then Burbage promised Leicester a comedy of mistaken love and disguising, accompanied with song to delight Her Majesty.”

Meg knew what Burbage was thinking. He had described to her the play he wanted Will to write. The plot would follow their late adventures.

Will winked at Meg and went on. “Burbage told Leicester
he had one who could act the woman's part so well the queen would not know whether to laugh or weep. Leicester nodded and said, ‘He who plays Cleopatra, you mean.' ”

Gwin squealed and pinched Meg's cheek with her fat fingers.

Meg forced herself to smile. Her heart pounded when she thought of performing before the queen.

“Does Leicester know Meg is a woman?” asked Violetta, a crease marring her happy brow.

Meg had asked Burbage the same question, and now she repeated his reply. “It matters not what Leicester knows. All that matters is the queen's pleasure.”

Still, she worried.
And what if the queen is displeased?

Will lunged at the opportunity for renown. But Meg felt turmoil. How could she perform the very deceits she had forsworn? Could she play herself and Mack, reenact her own life? She might as well go naked on the stage and proclaim her true feelings to all the world! But she must do it. She had a contract with Burbage and an obligation to the company. Will was also counting on her.

“You must give the lovers a happy ending like ours, Will,” said Violetta, gazing at Thomas adoringly.

Meg was happy for them yet wistful.
I must think of her as Lady Olivia now
.

“Of course it will end in marriage, being a comedy,” Will said.

He smiled at Meg, giving her a look so full of assurance it made her spirits rise and her cheeks turn pink. She was Will's treasured muse! He would not write a part too difficult or painful for her to play. Moreover he promised a happy
ending to their tale. Meg would act out deceit and loss but also truth and the discovery of love. Who could fail to be overjoyed by the possibilities of art and life conjoined?

“Will, your play shall please the queen and so shall I,” Meg said, reckless with sudden hope. “And if the queen discerns my womanhood, she will be delighted to see one of her own sex on the stage. Is she not also a player? Her stage is the world.”

Gwin nodded in amazement. “I remember when she was crowned. You said a woman could not rule England.” She frowned at her husband.

“Women are capable of anything, my love,” said Overby.

“Huzzah, Long Meg!” shouted Will. “To England's first woman player.”

Why not?
thought Meg. It followed common sense and perfect reason that she, as well as Will, could pursue a life on the stage.

Shoreditch

Will swept clean the desk Tom Makeshift had built for him and moved it closer to the small window to catch the weak November light. He imagined the success that would greet his festive holiday comedy. The queen, Burbage said, loved music, masques, and star-crossed lovers to distract her from the careful business of state. A wise and witty female character was sure to please her as well. Burbage wanted the plot to concern a hero falsely imprisoned and his beloved who disguises herself as a lawyer to obtain his freedom. Will knew he could write such a play, for hadn't he already lived it?

Love's Logical Lawyer
, he wrote at the top of the page.

Would anyone in Stratford believe his newfound fortune? A month ago he had been a penniless youth about to go to prison. Now his
Cleopatra
was pulling hundreds to the playhouse and the Earl of Leicester had commissioned a play. He was like the waxing moon, growing toward the day in January when he would shine full upon the queen herself. What if she rewarded him with a pension? Burbage might invite him to be a shareholder in his company. Fame and
prosperity would overcome his father's disapproval once and for all.

Love's Logical Lawyer
. The title promised dullness. He crossed it out and wrote
Love Disguised
. His pen scratched steadily. Makeshift snored in his bed. A mouse scuttled among the wood shavings, finding stuff for its nest. Will reread his opening scene and with a groan blotted every line. Where should he start then? With a simple ditty.
Lovers know no law/But the rule of love
. An hour passed and he could think of no rhyme but “flaw” and “glove,” which he considered unsuitable.

He wished Meg were beside him. She took seriously her role as a muse—when she was not teasing him. Sometimes he still thought of her as Mack even as he admired her long, golden hair, her ready smile, and the way her lithe figure moved on the stage. From her lips his words fell lightly, like notes from a lute. Hearing them, Will knew what was good and what he needed to revise. Sometimes Meg even suggested a fitter word or rhyme. He had never known such a clever woman. She could now read and write as well as any of Will's peers at Stratford's grammar school.

He had to see her. Quickly he covered the short distance to her cottage. It was almost midnight.

“Meg?” he whispered, tapping at her window. “It's Will.”

He felt foolish standing there in the blackness and cold. This was something a lover unable to bear his solitude might do. His inner voice spoke up.
Well, do you love Meg?
Will shifted from one foot to the other, equivocating with himself. Though he was at Meg's cottage at midnight, his intentions were not what they had been in the Forest of Arden at midnight.
Are you certain?
“Yes,” Will murmured. This was not a woman to be won in the usual way.

“Meg, are you awake?” He held his breath, listening. He thought he heard a stirring within. The shutter was flung outward and a sleep-touseled head appeared.