Shakespeare's Spy (21 page)

• • •

I could not work on the sides for
Sejanus
the next morning; Mr. Shakespeare had kept both the script and the key to his office, as though he no longer trusted me with them. Instead, I helped Sam in the property room. As there had been no performance the night before, there was little for us to do. Nevertheless, in the time-honored tradition of prentices everywhere, we managed to make it look as though we were hard at work.

“It’s a pity Sal Pavy isn’t here,” said Sam. “He’s so good at pretending to be busy. He could give us a few pointers.”

“Ha’ you looked in on him?”

Sam reacted as though I’d asked whether he had looked in on the inmates of Bedlam, the asylum for the insane. “Don’t you know that the grippe may be passed on, like the plague?”

“That may be. But it’s not quite as likely to kill you.”

“I prefer not to take the chance. Besides, he’d only tell us how they never had the grippe at Blackfriars.”

The prentices and hired men gathered for rehearsal, just as though we had every expectation of performing again soon. We were attempting to revive Mr. Shakespeare’s
Much Ado About Nothing
, which had lain buried in the book-keeper’s trunk for at least a year. It was not responding.

As we were making much ado ourselves about who should read Hero’s part in Sal Pavy’s absence, Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Armin appeared and asked to speak to me privately. “Can’t it wait?” asked Mr. Lowin, who was conducting the rehearsal.

“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Armin.

They took me aside, scarcely out of earshot of the other players. Mr. Shakespeare drew two sheets of paper from his wallet and held them up, side by side. “This is the coded message we took from Henslowe. This is a page from
All’s Well
, written in your charactery. We’ve compared them, and find a
number of similarities—too many, in our opinion, to be the result of coincidence.”

I stared at him incredulously. “What are you saying? That I wrote this? That I’m in league wi’ Henslowe?”

“Soft,” said Mr. Armin, “unless you wish the others to hear.”

“Let them! I’ve nothing to hide!”

“We believe you do. How could Henslowe have gotten the key, unless you gave it to him?”

“It’s as I told you—I left it i’ the lock!”

“Deliberately, perhaps.”

“Nay! What would I ha’ to gain from Henslowe stealing the script?”

“Money?” suggested Mr. Shakespeare.

“Money?” I fairly shouted. “For what?”

“For Julia, perhaps. You said yourself that you didn’t think we would help her.”

The rest of the company had given up any pretense of minding their own business and were gaping at the scene unfolding before them, which must have been as compelling as any play ever acted. Tears had sprung to my eyes, and I made no effort to stay them. “I would never do such a thing, so help me God and halidom!” My voice broke like thin ice.

“Not even to save Julia?” said Mr. Shakespeare.

I could not deny that the idea had occurred to me. Though I had not acted upon it, I could hardly blame them for believing that I had, especially in view of my past record as a thief and a liar—and, of course, the even worse record of my father. Still, I was innocent, and I must not let myself appear otherwise. With all the dignity I could muster, I looked Mr. Shakespeare in the eye and said, “An you and the other sharers truly believe
that I would betray you, then I can no longer consider meself a part of this company.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “I think that would be best. But you needn’t give up acting altogether; remember, Henslowe has promised to take you in.”

S
o it was that the thing I had feared the most—more than the death of the queen, more than the plague itself—had come to pass.

We prentices had been taught always to exit the stage as swiftly as possible so as not to draw the audience’s attention away from the next scene. Accordingly, I made my exit from the Cross Keys a quick one, not wishing to be a part of the scene that I knew would follow. I could not bear to face my fellow players and their questions, their disbelief, their doubts, perhaps their derision. I should have known that no matter how nimble I was, I could not escape Sam.

Just as I left the courtyard I heard him calling behind me, “Widge! Wait!” Though I hurried on, heedless, this did not discourage him in the least. He came trotting up alongside me to ask breathlessly, “Where are you going?”

“To see whether the Admiral’s Men ha’ room for another prentice.”

“You can’t!”

“What do you suggest, then? I’m too old for the Chapel Children, and too young to be a hired man wi’ one of the small companies.”

“Come back to the Cross Keys. The sharers will change their minds. The rest of us will stand up for you. No one believes that you’re a traitor. I
know
you’re not.”

Another of La Voisin’s forgotten predictions came bobbing to the surface of my mind.
You will turn traitor
, she had told Sam. “What makes you so certain?”

“Because. I know you.”

“So do the sharers. They ken that I tried to steal a script from them once before. They also ken that me father was a thief—and, as they say, the seedling bears the same fruit as the tree.”

“But perhaps they were just uncertain; perhaps they were testing you, making accusations to see whether you would confess.”

“The way the pursuivants do wi’ the Jesuit priests, you mean? An the sharers would stoop to that, I don’t care to be part of their company.”

Sam scowled. “All right, then. If you’re set on leaving, I’m going, too. Without you there to hold me back, I’m certain to strangle Sal Pavy within a week.”

“Nay, you won’t. Wi’out me there, you two will ha’ to become friends. Besides, Henslowe would never hire you. ‘A would suspect you of being a spy for the Chamberlain’s Men.”

“And what makes you think he won’t suspect you?”

“Why would ‘a, when the Chamberlain’s Men ha’ given me the chuck?”

“How will he know that?”

“The real spy will tell him.”

“If you can get Henslowe to trust you, perhaps he’ll reveal who it is.”

“Oh, aye. And perhaps ‘a will gi’ all of Mr. Alleyn’s roles to me as well.”

This notion was so ludicrous that it drew a halfhearted laugh from Sam. Next to our own Mr. Burbage, Edward Alleyn was the most celebrated player in London. We walked on in silence for a while. Finally Sam said, “How will you break this to Mr. Pope?”

I groaned. “Oh, gis. I dare not tell him at all. It would upset him too much. You’re not to say a word about it, either. Promise me.”

“All right. But he’s sure to find out sooner or later.”

“Let it be later, then.”

Though Sam seemed to have given up on bringing me back, he went on walking with me, all the way across the city and through the wall to the parish of St. Giles Cripplegate, where Henslowe’s theatre lay.

Unlike the Globe, which was eight-sided, the Fortune playhouse had been built in the shape of a square. Each side was eighty or ninety feet in length. On the side that faced Golding Street was an elaborate carving of Dame Fortune, wearing a cloth over her eyes to show that she was blind. She held one hand poised next to a wheel, as though about to give it a spin.

Four small figures rode upon the wheel, like prentices riding the roundabout at Bartholomew Fair, except that not all these fellows looked happy with their lot. The one who sat at the top of the wheel was clearly pleased with himself, and the one who appeared to be on his way up looked hopeful. But the upside-down face of the man on his way down was a mask of dread and
dismay—and small wonder, for the figure below him, at the lowest spot on the wheel, was roasting over carved wooden flames. His mouth was wide open in a soundless scream.

“You see that wight at the bottom?” I said. “I ken how ’a feels.”

Adjacent to the playhouse was a tavern, also owned by Henslowe and also called the Fortune, where the Lord Admiral’s Men played during the coldest months. Now that the weather was becoming more springlike with each day that passed, their company and ours would soon be performing upon our outdoor stages—provided, of course, that we were permitted to perform at all. Once we were deprived of the queen’s influence, we might all find ourselves cast out and falling to the foot of Fortune’s wheel.

Sam surveyed the alehouse, then the playhouse. “Which Fortune will you choose?”

“Neither,” I said. “But as I’ve come this far, I may as well go inside.” Sam turned slowly to face me, a look of astonishment, or perhaps revelation, upon his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You will come into a fortune,” he said.

“What?”

“Madame La Voisin’s prediction: You will come into a
fortune.”
He gestured at the buildings before us.

I made a scoffing sound. “She said
a
fortune, not
the
Fortune.”

“Well, there’s more than one, isn’t there?”

“Oh, gis,” I said. Could she truly have been referring to a tavern or a theatre, and not to a treasure, as I had imagined? Of course she could. She had also predicted that I would make a name for myself, and I had foolishly supposed she was talking
about my reputation, when in fact she was using the phrase in a very literal sense.

“You’re certain I can’t come with you?” said Sam.

“I’m certain.”

He looked down at his feet. “Well, then, I suppose I should get back to the Cross Keys. No doubt I’ll have to pay a fine to Mr. Armin as it is.”

“Aye, go on. You needn’t worry about me.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t see how you can just accept all this so calmly.”

“What choice do I ha’? It’s Fate.” I held out a hand and he grasped it. “We will still see each other, in church and elsewhere.”

“Well,” he said, “perhaps not in church.”

“What do you mean?”

He seemed about to reply, then apparently thought better of it. “Nothing.” He raised a hand in farewell and started off down Golding Lane. But he was not the sort to leave without an exit line, so I waited for it. Sure enough, he turned back and called to me, “Break a limb—preferably one of Henslowe’s.”

I tried the dark parlor of the Fortune tavern first, but saw no one there I recognized. Aside from my painful introduction to Henslowe the night before, I had not met any of the Admiral’s Men in person, but I had seen them all act more than once. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men sometimes sent us prentices here to spy upon the performances of their rivals, particularly when the play they were doing was one of ours, or purported to be. Several of Mr. Shakespeare’s works had been published in the form of playbooks, and any company was free to perform these. But Henslowe had also been known to present his own slip-shod
versions of our more popular plays, or to falsely advertise Mr. Shakespeare as the author of some script composed by one of Henslowe’s own hacks.

Unless you counted
Sejanus
, our sharers did not steal Henslowe’s plays. That would have been like stealing jewelry made of paste or glass when you already owned genuine diamonds and pearls. They were not above copying a good bit of stage business, though, or borrowing an idea and improving upon it. Some said that the story of
Hamlet
was based upon a far inferior script that the Admiral’s Men had presented many years before.

According to the tapster, the company had just finished moving all their properties and costumes from the tavern to the playhouse. I went next door and, finding the main entrance to the theatre open, stepped inside. The interior looked much like the Globe’s, with three covered galleries for those playgoers who could afford them, and an open yard for those who could not.

Their stage was nearly identical to ours—perhaps forty feet square and three feet off the ground. At the moment it was occupied by only one actor, who was performing an odd sort of jig, skipping sideways across the boards, then forward, then back. But it was not one of their clowns rehearsing his dance steps; it was none other than the famous Edward Alleyn, a tall, broad-shouldered wight with rugged features framed by a curly black beard.

When he spotted me, he broke off his curious dance in mid-step and came forward to the brink of the stage. “I was testing the boards,” he explained a bit sheepishly, “to see whether any are rotten. So far the only thing I’ve discovered that’s rotten is my dancing.”

Despite my gloomy mood, I had to laugh. “I must admit, your acting is considerably better.

“You’ve seen me upon the stage, then—other than just now, I mean?” Mr. Alleyn sat on the edge of the platform; his long limbs almost reached the ground.

“Aye. Several times. You’re nearly as good as Mr. Burbage.” I had meant it to be a compliment, but it sounded more as though I were calling him second-rate. “That is—”

“No, no, don’t apologize. I value an honest opinion. So, I take it you’ve seen the Chamberlain’s Men perform as well?”

“I’m a—I
was
a prentice wi’ them … until today.”

“What happened today?”

“They gave me the chuck.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” There was genuine sympathy in his voice. Clearly he understood what a dismal fate it was for a player to lose his position. After years of hearing our company speak badly of the Admiral’s Men, I had expected to find them a rather loathsome lot. But Mr. Alleyn seemed quite amiable. In that respect, at least, he had the advantage of Mr. Burbage, who was aloof and conceited.

“They suspected me of being a spy for you and Mr. Henslowe,” I said.

“Really? You’re not, are you?”

“Nay!”

“Sorry. Philip doesn’t keep me very well informed about his various schemes. I knew he was getting inside information from the Globe, but I had no idea who his source was. So, now that your old company has—what was it? Given you the chuck?—you’ve come to see whether we’ll take you on, is that it?”

“Aye.”

“Can you act?”

“Ha’ you seen any of our—
their
plays?”

“Recently? Only
Hamlet
.”

“I played Ophelia i’ that.”

“That was
you
? Well, that answers my question; you can act, all right.” He held out a hand to me. “Jump up here, and well go talk to Philip about you.” As we headed for the rooms behind the stage, he said, “You haven’t told me your name.”