Sir Henry gave a bark of frustration. ‘What does Warwickshire matter when England is the stake?’
Lord Hunsdon held up his hand for peace. He leaned forward. ‘Sir Thomas, you are a Justice of the Peace, what sentence for the poacher of –’
‘A deer,’ said Sir Thomas, ignoring Hunt’s mewl of protestation behind him. ‘Whipping.’
‘Then why not both at once?’ Lord Hunsdon turned to Sir Henry. ‘Why not let justice serve your purpose?’
‘How so?’ Sir Henry asked.
‘Is the lad to be trusted, even in the fire? That is what you wish to know, Henry,’ said Lord Hunsdon. ‘Very well then, give him something precious to guard and see if it can be beaten from him.’
Alice clapped her hand to her mouth.
‘A little crude,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Yet to the point,’ Sir Thomas added. ‘Yes, I see the sense in it, Lord Hunsdon. I have no doubt it would satisfy my man here.’
Sir Thomas did not turn to see if Hunt was, indeed, sated by the prospect of a beating for William. His eyes remained on Sir Henry, as did Lord Hunsdon’s. The little man leaned back in his chair, hands steepled in front of his mouth.
‘Hardly justice,’ he muttered behind his fingers.
After a moment he nodded. ‘The greater good needs must give ear to expedient measure.’ He looked up at Hunt. ‘It shall be so.’
Alice backed away from the door. She must warn William. She stumbled into something, turned and saw the face of Watkins, Sir Henry’s servant, behind her. She gave a strangled squeal and fled upstairs to her room. Watkins watched her go.
And, by that destiny, to perform an act
For the second poem William had tried again to find Greene. Two days of hunting led to no more success on this occasion than the first. The absence of information made the writing of the second poem both easier and harder. Easier in that he did not feel himself constrained by too many points of reference. Harder in that there was no obvious starting point. In the end William played with names. ‘Greene’ youth and strongly rooted old oak formed the conceit. William found that the theme, once found, gave birth to imagery with little further effort. A drooping willow’s branches and the upthrust trunk of the oak happily suggested themselves as contrasts, to the praise of Sir Henry’s vigour and the clear slander of Robert Greene’s virility. It was not a subtle piece. William doubted that Sir Henry wanted it so.
‘Delightful ostentation in the imagery, Master Shakespeare,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I congratulate you.’
They were in Sir Henry’s study. Sir Henry held a distract air. His ruff drooped on one side. A half-played game of chess sat upon his desk beside a plate of half-eaten bread. A crumb could be seen poised on his lip. Sir Henry’s eyes did not leave the paper where William’s poem was written, even as he fished about within his doublet and pulled out a small velvet bag that he held out to William. Here was something. More coin for writing even if it came by way of ditties to serve an old man’s lust. William felt the weight of the little bag. This labour was a marked advance on the shovelling of horse manure.
The rummaging process had left Sir Henry’s clothing in still greater disarray. He made no move to straighten it. By his look, William thought, no man would credit Sir Henry as a master of the Court’s intrigues. His speech was another thing entirely.
‘I shall need another, Master Shakespeare, and quickly too,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I leave for Venice in a few days. I wish to secure my position before I depart.’
‘I understand, Sir Henry,’ said William. ‘Your embassy has been spoken of to me. As has your need for players –’
Sir Henry interrupted. ‘Not just any players, Master Shakespeare. I go as representative of England. The task is delicate, the times, the journey, perilous. I would take with me only those I can trust without question. There is the challenge, for who can trust players? It is their business to dissemble.’
‘Some would say it is their business to speak the truth of the part they play,’ said William.
‘Now we depart into matters philosophical when my concerns are practical,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Still, no matter. I shall resolve the problem.’
‘I am certain of it,’ said William, sensing the theme was now closed before, to his frustration, he could plead for his companions’ employment.
Sir Henry pointed to a stiff-backed chair beside the desk and took his own seat in a wing-backed chair ornate with carving. His head sank back into the cushioning and the wings of the chair took his face into shadow.
‘You are a player?’ asked Sir Henry.
‘I am of their company, yes.’ William supposed that he was entitled to make this answer at least.
‘The plays are popular.’
William was not sure if this was a question or a statement. He waited for Sir Henry to come to his point.
‘The players’ companies have the common ear. Matters may be –’ Sir Henry paused to search for the word, ‘– discussed on a stage that would be addressed too directly otherwise. That is why I like them. I go to see them less for the play itself than to hear at which lines the groundlings roar. People give their unguarded opinion at an entertainment, if one pays attention. And you yourself are a playwright?’
‘A beginner only,’ William replied with a nod of the head.
‘What matter do you write of?’
‘Thus far? Love only. The tale of Tristan and Iseult.’
‘Strange to take so ancient a tale when there is so much afoot in the world today.’
‘The past is prologue to the present. By writing of what went before I might understand what happens now.’
‘Such a playwright might prove prognosticator also.’ Sir Henry leaned forward and took two other sheets of paper from the desk. As he spoke he began to fold them and prepare the wax for sealing.
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to do me a further service, Master Shakespeare?’ he asked.
‘Your servant, Sir Henry.’ William bowed his head.
The older man smiled up at William as he folded closed the poem.
‘It would not be seemly for me to be seen to deliver the poem myself,’ Sir Henry said, ‘my servants’ employ is known. Besides which, all are busy with preparation for the embassy. You, however, are a stranger and might, in discretion, deliver the poem you have written.’
‘With pleasure, Sir Henry,’ William said.
Sir Henry nodded benignly. He folded the paper on the table closed and tucked the folded poem inside. He sealed the paper and held it out to William. As William reached for it Sir Henry pulled it back.
‘I can trust your discretion, Master Shakespeare?’
William raised his eyebrows at the question. ‘Of course, Sir Henry.’
The packet was proffered again.
‘I hope so,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Your memory is good?
‘I believe so,’ William replied.
Sir Henry spoke an address. ‘See it in the lady’s hand and none others.’
‘It is done, Sir Henry.’
‘I am grateful,’ Sir Henry said and watched him go.
After a moment a knock came. Sir Henry looked up. ‘All is in readiness?’ he asked the figure who looked in.
‘I have set a man to trail him, Sir Henry.’
‘Call him back. He may make the lad suspect when there is no need. Shakespeare will go by Ludgate. Wait for him there.’
The door closed.
Try what my credit can in Venice do
William pressed himself to the shadows of the stable wall at the Theatre. He had come there straight from Sir Henry’s house. He’d taken the short route through the back garden, and thank God, for it had saved him stumbling on unwelcome company.
In the courtyard of the Theatre William saw Towne, cross-armed and smug. Beside him a man, in garments that had once been rich but were now stained and tattered, prodded Oldcastle in the chest with a finger. Oldcastle, despite his bulk, staggered at each sharp thrust. This was Rob
ert Greene, or William was no judge. Towne must have told him of William’s role in the first of Sir Henry’s poems. An ally for Towne against the vile verses of William’s that plagued them both.
Greene finished Oldcastle off with a final thrust of his finger. Then he threw his cloak about his shoulder with a flourish that belied its ragged edge and stalked away. Towne stumped after, grinning. William waited till he was certain both had gone and then stole into the courtyard.
‘Damnable twice-faced rogue,’ Oldcastle growled. ‘A face so tart it would sour good wine.’
Greene, Oldcastle judged, was safely out of hearing him. He gave full vent.
‘Ah, Will,’ he cried at the sight of William approaching, ‘you have just missed my defence of your honour. That scoundrel Greene was here, searching for you. Brave fortune that he should have found me instead and was outfaced. Turned tail and fled before your return.’
Oldcastle gave a great heaving sigh as if sorely tried by the battle with Greene. He sank to a bench nearby and fanned himself.
‘Greene, Towne and full two others of Towne’s company,’ said Oldcastle, ‘cowards all in the face of my steel.’
‘I saw all, Oldcastle,’ said William.
Oldcastle looked quickly up.
‘I am conscious of your bravery on my behalf,’ said William. ‘You must be parched.’ He took one of the coins Sir Henry had pressed on him and, calling over a stableboy, sent him to fetch a pot of ale.
‘Most kind and most true, Will,’ said Oldcastle, relieved as much that his lie would not be presented to him as for the prospect of the ale to come.
Hemminges approached. ‘Did I see Robert Greene pass? Trailing Towne behind him like a comet of ill omen.’
‘You did,’ said Oldcastle. ‘The surly dog and six or seven knaves wished me to pass a threatening message on to Will.’
‘Six or seven?’ William asked.
‘Seven at least. All demanding that I pass on their threats to William. I declined to do so. It did Greene no honour to speak it and will do me none to repeat it. Besides, William is not one to be frightened by threats from one such as Greene.’
Oldcastle’s own whey complexion suggested that he, on the other hand, might well be.
‘Such a day of messages it has been,’ Oldcastle continued. ‘Not all of them so harshly spoken.’
Oldcastle dug into his doublet and pulled a sealed letter from it. William recognised Constanza Briaga’s hand. William slit the seal. It was an invitation to meet her that same day, at the room above the Star.
‘It’s as well that we will be off to Venice soon,’ said Hemminges, ‘between Sir Henry’s verses and –’ he paused to point at the letter, ‘– other things. If you stay, Will, you’re like to be murdered in your bed.’
‘Me?’ said William. ‘I’m not for Venice.’
‘You think Sir Henry’s interest is only in your poetry?’ said Oldcastle. ‘I’ve read your poems, Will.’
William shook his head. ‘I’m no player and it’s players Sir Henry wants for Venice.’
‘You could be,’ said Hemminges, ‘with work.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Oldcastle. ‘Poor player you may be, yet what might you become? Besides, few players can turn their hand to writing as you can. You are a coin Sir Henry can spend twice.’
‘For certain,’ said Hemminges, ‘if Sir Henry asks for us he will ask for you too.’
‘Venice is very far,’ William said.
‘It is. Venice is the East and mystery and splendour.’ Oldcastle sighed at the promised sights. ‘All men speak of it, of its wealth and wonders. You would think their fascination witch-born so deep it runs.’
‘It’s a kind of madness,’ Hemminges added. ‘You have but to speak the name of Venice and all will stop and listen to you. It’s a wonder every other play, every other book is not set in that city.’
Oldcastle nodded in agreement. ‘What is the latest play? The Venetian Comedy. What that piece had to do with Venice heaven alone knows, or with comedy for that matter. God’s wounds, add the name of Venice to aught and, no matter how dull the matter, the common man will flock to see it: The General of Venice by Robert Greene. There, ’tis done.’
Hemminges joined the game. ‘Duller matter still, Venice and the Turk: a tragedy in five acts; The Tailor of Venice: a comedy.’
Oldcastle slapped his hand on his thigh, his good humour now restored after Greene’s departure, and with this talk of Venice, a great smile spread across his face. ‘And this lustre shall be added to ours on our return,’ he said, ‘no longer Englishmen but Venetians.’
This business at the Theatre had been a distraction. William had a poem to deliver. He was curious to see Sir Henry’s lady. Yet to go by Fleet Street was but a small diversion. He left Hemminges and Oldcastle behind but carried their discussion with him. William wanted none of Venice. He had barely left Stratford. He was already far from family.
One half of Sir Henry’s money was already spent. The other William had sent to Stratford. With it a letter for his mother with news of his patron and none of his work as a groom at the Theatre. His mother had sent two letters to this one of his. The last again spoke of the quiet contentment of his family. His mother had been frank, shorn of his restless presence there was a calm that had not been there before. Was I so full of self-concern that I did not see how my family suffered for it, thought William? He knew the answer and did not like it.
The thought of Venice troubled him. That Sir Henry would ask him to go now seemed to him probable. How else to explain the strange questioning about his Latin when he delivered the first poem? Or Sir Henry seeking to know if he was a player and a playwright when he delivered the second? William turned into Fleet Street, uncertain if to go to Venice was to seize on fortune’s gift or to show himself still restless.
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels
‘If Sir Henry leaves for Venice I shall have no patron anyway,’ said William.
They were again in the small room at the Star. Constanza sat smiling at him. He had made her laugh and she him in turn. The whole course of their meeting had been so fresh and open that William found the burden of his thoughts taken from him and picked over out loud.
‘You will find another,’ said Constanza, ‘talent will out.’
This Constanza of comfort and quiet confidence was a blunt contrast with the manner of his dismissal when last they met. William found her change of mood troubling. He could find no explanation for it.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
William took his hands away from his face where he had pressed them. ‘Just making certain it is the same face I had when last we met,’ he said.
‘Don’t be shrewish,’ Constanza chided, laughing. ‘You have only yourself to blame if on our last meeting I was ill-tempered with you. It does not do to talk of other women, rivals for your affection, in my presence.’
William pressed an astonished hand to his chest. ‘I spoke of no such woman. Sir Henry’s mistress, not my own, was the poem’s subject. My affection, and more, you already have. And if we speak of rivals, what of Greene?’
‘What of him?’ said Constanza. Her fan flicked out and closed again. She stood and walked to the small window, peering through the panes to the street below.
‘Is he my rival as well as Sir Henry’s?’ said William.
‘That depends,’ Constanza answered.
‘On what?’ demanded William, following her to the window.
‘On the role you see yourself in.’
‘A lover’s part.’
He took up her hand and pulled her round to face him.
‘It is the playing of parts that I fear,’ she said.
She did not pull away. He was able to see her closely. Her eyes were so dark as to seem black. She bent up her head to be kissed and her eyes hid themselves as he bent his.
They broke apart. William felt uncertain. A longed-for moment had come and, for all the pleasure of its instant,
something rankled.
‘Why are you here?’ he said.
‘Our embracing was not answer enough?’ she said as she raised her head to his. ‘Then I shall tell you again.’
This time William let thoughts fall behind him. The tolling of the bell brought him back.
‘I must go if I am to deliver this letter,’ he said.
‘Ah yes, Sir Henry’s mistress,’ said Constanza, breaking from his embrace. ‘Where does this paragon reside?’
‘I may not say,’ said William, ‘though I can assure you she has no place in my heart.’
‘Flatterer,’ said Constanza. ‘I take it she is wealthy? Coleman Street, then, or by the Tower?’
‘Truly, I may not say,’ said William. ‘Not even if speaking would buy me a thousand more of your kisses.’
She tossed her head in annoyance, then smiled again. ‘Very well, I would be wiser, I think, to admire your discretion than be piqued by your silence.’
She put her hands up to straighten her hair where his hands had made a happy ruin of its order.
‘You will go by Ludgate?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘From here the fastest way to the City. Then to Cheapside?’
‘And on,’ William said. ‘Your route too? I may escort you home?’
‘No, I go another way,’ Constanza said, ‘by boat to Whitehall.’
William made a face of disappointment. She kissed it quickly.
‘Give me then leave to leave you,’ said William, ‘I have my charge.’
‘Good luck, messenger.’ She pulled him to her and kissed him again.
He reached his arm about her waist to hold her closer but she pulled away. The door shut behind her and William was left in the ungainly pose of a half-completed embrace.
Known but by letter
A light step gave the lover a good pace as he headed east with his charge. The letter was sealed with wax but bore no sign of the sender. To William alone was entrusted the address. He did not recognise it, save that he knew it to be in the City.
The Spy of Venice Page 11
