Shakespeare's Spy

by Gary Blackwood

  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.”

  Out of old habit, I nearly said, “Widge,” but I stopped myself. I had made up my mind to choose a new nam
e, and what better time could there be than now, when I was entering upon a new stage, quite literally, of my career?

  I had never really considered taking Jamie Redshaw’s family name, for I didn’t care to be identified with him. Yet there was no escaping the fact that he was my father. Though he himself had done his best to deny it, in the last moments of his life he had acknowledged it and made certain that I would know. It was his attempt, I supposed, to ensure that someone in this world would remember him when he was gone. Though I did not feel that I owed him much, I could at least see that some small part of him survived, even if no one realized it but me.

  “James,” I said. “It’s James.”

  28

  The area behind the stage was very like that at the Globe, too—so much so that I would not have been surprised had Sam or Mr. Armin emerged from the tiring-room or the property room and greeted me. The Fortune was a good deal newer than our theatre, though, and less worn and weathered. I felt almost as though I had been transported back in time, to the Globe as it was when I first joined the company—before Julia left, before Sander died, before I knew Judith or Jamie Redshaw, before I was so burdened by ambitions and responsibilities, when I was still just Widge.

  The sudden sense of loss that swept over me was so powerful that it staggered me, like an attack of vertigo, and I had to stop and steady myself. “Is anything wrong?” asked Mr. Alleyn.

  “Nay,” I murmured. “Just gi’ me a moment.”

  “You’re feeling a bit homesick for your old company, I expect.”

  I nodded. “Aye.”

  “Perhaps they’d take you back if Philip were to go to them and plead your case, tell them that you’re not his informant.”

  “They’d never believe him. They’d only think ‘a was trying to get me back i’ their good graces so I could resume me spying.”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, much the way Mr. Heminges was accustomed to do, or Mr. Pope. I wished it had been them. “Well, I think you’ll find our company as cordial as the Chamberlain’s Men, once you get to know us.”

  “I’ve not been accepted into it yet.”

  “You will be, though, if I have my way.” He smiled a bit smugly. “And I usually do.”

  We found Henslowe in his office, writing in a bound journal. When he saw me, his bulging eyes fairly started out of his head. “Well, well! When I invited you to come and see me, I never imagined it would be so soon. How’s your belly?” Before I could reply, he addressed Mr. Alleyn. “The lad tried valiantly to keep me from snatching Sejanus, and I was forced to resort to violence.”

  “You have the script, then?” asked Mr. Alleyn.

  Henslowe scowled. “Regrettably, no. I ran into Armin and Shakespeare, who took it from me at the point of a sword, like the pirates that they are.” He glanced at me. “I see you’re not bothering to defend them. Have you some grudge against them, too?”

  “Aye. They’ve cast me out.”

  “Why, the ungrateful wretches! After you practically risked your life trying to save their precious play?”

  “They think I’m i’ league wi’ you—that I told you where to find the script, and gave you the key.”

  Henslowe shook his head. “They’re even bigger fools than I thought. You’re better off without them. I suppose you’ve come to ask me for a position.”

  “You did offer me one.”

  “Now, I didn’t promise anything. I merely said to come and see me. In any case, I didn’t expect you to take me up on it right away. We’ve been shut down, the same as every other company, and without money coming in, we can barely meet the expenses we already have.”

  Mr. Alleyn laughed. “Oh, don’t go playing the pauper, Philip. With all your various enterprises, you have more money than you can count. The boy’s a fine actor; I’ve seen him. He’d be an asset to the company.”

  “That may be. But we don’t need another actor, no matter how good he is, if they won’t let him act.”

  “The theatres will open again eventually.”

  “Then let him come back eventually.”

  “And what do you expect him to do in the meanwhile? Starve?”

  For all his skill as a player, Mr. Alleyn was playing this scene all wrong. I knew that Henslowe cared no more about whether or not I starved than he did about whether or not I could act. He was a man of business and was likely to be swayed only by the promise of a profit.

  Luckily I had kept a trump card in reserve that I might play if the game was not going my way. “Oh, I don’t expect I’ll starve,” I said calmly. “I have more to offer to a company than just me acting ability.”

  “Oh?” said Henslowe. “And what might that be?”

  “Two things, actually. One is me skill at swift writing.” I opened my wallet, drew out a sheaf of papers, and laid it on the desk before him. “This is the other.”

  “A script?” He picked up the first page, read it over rapidly, and gave me an incredulous look. “Unless I miss my guess, this is Shakespeare’s work.”

  I did not reply, only sat there with what I hoped was a mysterious smile on my face.

  Henslowe handed the page to Mr. Alleyn, who, after perusing it hut a moment, said, “If it’s not his, then it’s a very good imitation. Where did you get this?”

  “Mr. Shakespeare gave it to me.” Even though this was perfectly true, I had a notion that it would not sound that way to Henslowe.

  I was right. He smiled skeptically. “Gave it to you, eh?”

  “Aye. ‘A said I might do wi’ it as I wished.”

  At this, Henslowe laughed outright. “Did he, indeed?” He shook his head. “I suspect that you’re a better thief than you are a player, lad. I don’t believe your story for a moment.” He examined several more pages of the script. “So, I’m supposed to want this enough to hire you as a prentice, is that it?”

  “Nay. You’re supposed to want it enough to hire me and to pay me eight pounds for the script.”

  Henslowe’s bulging eyes went wide. “Eight pounds? Are you mad? What’s to prevent me from simply tossing you out on your ear and keeping the script?”

  “Well, for one thing, you wouldn’t be able to read it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He shuffled through the pages until he came upon the scenes that I had written in charactery. “What’s this?”

  “ The swift writing I mentioned.”

  “You transcribed this for Shakespeare, then?” He scowled at the strings of symbols. “You know, this looks very much like the … “ He trailed off.

  “Like the code you and your spy use to communicate,” I finished.

  “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”

  “Nay.”

  Henslowe leaned back in his chair and regarded me with a mixture of amusement and respect. “You’re a clever lad. I believe you’re right, Edward. He would be an asset to the company.” He drummed his fingers together thoughtfully. “I will pay you,” he said finally, “six pounds for the play—three pounds now and three more when you’ve put it into a form we can read.”

  “And you’ll take me on as a prentice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Done,” I said. And, like two merchants concluding a business transaction, we shook hands on it.

  My first task as a member of the Admiral’s Men was agreeable enough: to adjourn to the tavern for dinner. I’d had little to eat that morning and was growing light-headed from hunger, yet I was not at all eager to join the others. In fact, I felt as apprehensive as I did just before a performance.

  Though playgoers might be raucous and hard to please, seldom were they downright hostile, as these wights were sure to be, considering I had come to them from the company that was their fiercest rival. Still, I could not refuse to appear before them, any more than I could refuse to make my entrance in a play.

  To my surprise they welcomed me, as members of a congregation might welcome into their church a convert from some ot
her, less enlightened faith. A few of the faces around the table regarded me with disapproval or suspicion, but those sorts were to be found everywhere, even within the Chamberlain’s Men. For the most part they were, as Mr. Alleyn had promised, a cordial and companionable lot—except when the conversation turned to the Chamberlain’s Men.

  The Admiral’s Men held as low an opinion of my old company as the Chamberlain’s Men did of them. Their ill will was founded upon more than mere jealousy, though. They voiced several complaints that, even had I been in a position to defend my comrades, I would have been hard-pressed to answer satisfactorily.

  They seemed to resent most the fact that Mr. Shakespeare was so closefisted with his plays. Most playwrights, they said, sold their works to a printer after a dozen or so performances so that other companies might have a chance at them. Only a handful of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays were in print, and those were pirated versions, scribbled down during a peformance, or recited, usually inaccurately, by some cast member in exchange for a few shillings.

  They were also out of square over their rivals’ refusal to raise the price of admission. Mr. Henslowe was more than just out of square; he was fairly furious. “The amount we pay for costumes has nearly doubled in the past several years, as has the amount we pay for properties and scripts, and for hired men and musicians, and for meals, and for coal, and for renting rooms. How can we hope to survive, let alone make a profit, if we do not increase our prices as well?”

  • • •

  After dinner, he and Mr. Alleyn escorted me back to the office, where I was to begin writing out in a normal hand the indecipherable passages of my script. “If I were you,” Mr. Alleyn said to me in a stage whisper, “I would not set down a word of it until I’d seen the color of his money.”

  Mr. Henslowe shook a huge fist at him. “I’ve given the boy my word; that should be good enough.”

  “Not quite as good as gold, however,” I said.