"Hurry up, hurry up," guards at the gate called. "Get on in, the lot of you." They were a mixed lot, Englishmen and rawboned Irish mercenaries. The Irish soldiers looked achingly eager to kill someone, anyone. Rumor said they ate human flesh. Shakespeare didn't care to find out if rumor were true. Not meeting their fierce, falconlike gazes, he scuttled into the city.
His lodgings were in Bishopsgate Ward, not far from the wall, in a house owned by a widow who made her living by letting out most of the space. He had his own bed, but two others crowded the room where he slept. One of the men who shared the chamber, a glazier named Jack Street, had a snore that sounded like a lion's roar. The other, a lively little fellow called Peter Foster, called himself a tinker. Shakespeare suspected he was a sneakthief. He didn't foul his own nest, though; nothing had ever gone missing at the lodging house.
"You're late today, Master William," said Jane Kendall, Shakespeare's landlady. "By Our Lady, I hope all went well at the Theatre." She made the sign of the cross. From things she'd said over the couple of years he'd lived there, she'd been a Catholic even before the Armada restored England's allegiance to Rome.
"Well enough, I thank you," he replied. "Sometimes, when talking amongst ourselves after the play, we do lose track of time." With so many people living so close together, secrets were hard to keep. Telling a piece of the truth often proved the best way to keep all of it from coming out.
"And the house was full?" Widow Kendall persisted.
"Near enough." Shakespeare smiled and made a leg at her, as if she were a pretty young noblewoman, not a frowzy, gray-haired tallowchandler's widow. "Never fear. I'll have no trouble with the month's rent."
She giggled and simpered like a young girl, too. But when she said, "That I'm glad to hear," her voice held nothing but truth. A lodger without his rent became in short order a former lodger out on the street.
Still, he'd pleased her, for she went on, "There's new-brewed ale in the kitchen. Take a mug, if you care to."
"That I will, and right gladly." Shakespeare fitted action to word. The widow made good ale. Hopped beer, these days, was commoner than the older drink, for it soured much more slowly. He savored the mug, and, when his landlady continued to look benign, took another. Nicely warmed, he said, "Now I'm to the ordinary for supper."
She nodded. "Don't forget the hour and keep scribbling till past curfew," she warned.
"I shan't." I hope I shan't, Shakespeare thought. Or do I? The eatery made a better place to work than the lodging house. On nights when ideas seemed to flow straight from his mind onto the page, he could and sometimes did lose track of time. He'd ducked home past patrols more than once.
From the chest by his bed, he took his second-best spoon-pewter-a couple of quills, a knife to trim them, ink, and three sheets of paper. He sometimes wished he followed a less expensive calling; each sheet cost more than a loaf of bread. He locked the chest once more, then hurried off to the ordinary around the corner. He sat down at the table with the biggest, fattest candle on it: he wanted the best light he could find for writing.
A serving woman came up to him. "Good even, Master Will. What'll you have?"
"Hello, Kate. What's the threepenny tonight?"
"Kidney pie, and monstrous good," she said. He nodded. She brought it to him, with a mug of beer. He dug in with the spoon, eating quickly. When he was through, he spread out his papers and got to work.
Love's Labour's Won wasn't going so well as he wished it would. He couldn't lose himself in it, and had no trouble recalling when curfew neared. After he went back to the lodging house, he got a candle of his own from his trunk-Jack Street was already snoring in the bed next to his-lit it at the hearth, and set it on a table. Then he started writing again, and kept at it till he could hold his eyes open no more. He had his story from Boccaccio, but this labor, won or lost, reminded him of the difference between a story and a finished play.
The next day, he performed again at the Theatre. He almost forgot he had a supper engagement that evening, and had to grab his best spoon-silver-and rush from his lodging house. To his relief, Christopher Marlowe and his mysterious friend hadn't got there yet. Shakespeare ordered a mug of beer and waited for them.
They came in perhaps a quarter of an hour later. The other man was no one Shakespeare had seen before: a skinny little fellow in his forties, with dark blond hair going gray and a lighter beard that didn't cover all his pockmarks. He wore spectacles, but still squinted nearsightedly. Marlowe introduced him as Thomas Phelippes. Shakespeare got up from his stool and bowed. "Your servant, sir."
"No, yours." Phelippes had a high, thin, fussily precise voice.
They all shared a roast capon and bread and butter. Phelippes had little small talk. He seemed content to listen to Shakespeare and Marlowe's theatre gossip. After a while, once no one sat close enough to overhear, Shakespeare spoke directly to him: "Kit says you may have somewhat of business for me. Of what sort is't?"
"Why, the business of England's salvation, of course," Thomas Phelippes told him.
II
"Well, Enrique, what does Captain Guzman want to see me about today?" Lope de Vega asked.
"Ithink it has something to do with your report on If You Like It," Guzman's servant answered. "Just what, though, I cannot tell you. Lo siento mucho." He spread his hands in apology, adding, "Myself, I thought the report very interesting. This Shakespeare is a remarkable man, is he not?"
"No." Lope spoke with a writer's precision. "As a man, he is anything but remarkable. He drinks beer, he makes foolish jokes, he looks at pretty girls-he has a wife out in the provinces somewhere, and children, but I do not think it troubles him much here in London. Ordinary, as I say. But put a pen in his hand, and all at once it is as though God and half the saints were whispering in his ear. As a playwright, remarkable' is too small a word for him."
Guzman's door was open. Enrique went in first, to let him know de Vega had arrived. Lope waited in the hallway till Enrique called, "His Excellency will see you now, Lieutenant."
Lope strode into his superior's office. He and Baltasar Guzman exchanged bows and pleasantries. His report on his latest trip to the Theatre lay on his superior's desk. He saw that Guzman, in the style of King Philip, had written comments in the margins. He gave a small, silent sigh; he enjoyed being edited no more than most writers.
Presently, the captain nodded to Enrique and said, "You may go now. Shut the door on the way out, por favor."
"As you say, your Excellency." Guzman's servant sounded reproachful, which, as usual, did him no good. Lope wondered if he would slam the door to show his annoyance, but Enrique had more subtlety than that. He shut it with exaggerated care, so it made no noise at all.
Captain Guzman noticed that, too. Chuckling, he said, "He's got his nose out of joint again. Because he's clever, he thinks he ought to be important, too."
"Better a clever servant than a dolt like my Diego, who'd forget his own name if people didn't shout it at him all the time," de Vega said.
"Oh, no doubt, no doubt, but Enrique will make too much of himself." Tapping the report with his forefinger, GuzmA?n got down to business: "Overall, this is a good piece of work, Lieutenant. Still, I need to remind you again that you visit the Theatre as his Majesty's spy, not as his drama critic."
"I'm very sorry, your Excellency," Lope lied.
Guzman laughed again. "A likely story. You're a lucky man, to be able to enjoy yourself so much at your work."
"I would enjoy myself even more if the benighted English let women take the stage," Lope said.