Shakespeare's Spy Read Online Free PDF Page B

dark parlor.”
    “Oh, law!” Sam exclaimed in mock dismay. “What have you done now?”
    “Naught that I ken.”
    “I wouldn’t fret,” said Will Sly. “He didn’t seem angry, just out of sorts. Where’s your friend Sal Pavy, by the by? I hear he got his curls cropped.”
    “Sulking somewhere, I expect.” Sam stopped at the door of our makeshift tiring-room. “Ah! I know why Mr. Shakespeare wants you!”
    “Why?”
    “He means to give you that fortune you’ve got coming!” Laughing, Sam ducked inside the room before I could assist him with the sole of my boot.
    I descended to the main room of the inn. Though it was by tradition called the dark parlor, it was in fact well lighted by a bank of windows that looked out upon the street. Along one wall was a row of tables with wooden dividers betweenthem, providing a degree of privacy for those who desired it.
    I discovered Mr. Shakespeare in one of these booths. Before him sat several sheets of paper filled with scribbles. At the moment he was adding nothing to them, only gazing out at the traffic on Gracechurch Street. I stood there, still and silent, for a passing while, unwilling to interrupt his reverie lest I put to flight some idea or snatch of dialogue that he was attempting to lure into the net of his thoughts.
    When two or three minutes went by and he still took no notice of me, I cleared my throat softly. Absently, he lifted his earthernware tankard and set it at the edge of the table, as though to be refilled with ale. “Um,” I said. “You wished to see me?”
    “What?” He turned to me with a puzzled frown. “Oh, it’s you, Widge. I thought you were the tippler.”
    “Nay. But I can fetch you more ale, an you like.”
    “No, no, sit down. I have a more demanding task for you.”
    I noticed that he was rubbing his right forearm, the one that had been cracked by a catchpoll’s club the previous summer. As I had been the one to mend the arm, I took a sort of proprietary interest in it. “It looks as though your arm is paining you.”
    He nodded and flexed his hand. “It doesn’t like the cold, and when I work it for any length of time, it begins to complain. Actually, it reminds me a good deal of my brother Ned.”
    I couldn’t help laughing at the apt comparison, though in truth Ned’s habits were more annoying than amusing. If he had been anyone but Mr. Shakespeare’s brother, the company would surely have given him the chuck long ago. As an actor, he was competent enough, even engaging given the right role; it was the way he acted off the stage that kept him in constant trouble.
    “However,” Mr. Shakespeare went on, “I did not bring you down to listen to me rail about Ned. I’d like your help.”
    I glanced at the papers spread before him. “Transcribing, I wis.”
    “Do you mind? It’ll give my arm a rest.”
    “Nay, I don’t mind.” I pulled the pages to me and peered at his unruly handwriting. “What’s this play about, then?”
    “An excellent question. Would that I had as good an answer for you.”
    “You might reply, ‘Oh, Lord, sir,”’ I suggested. This was an all-purpose answer Mr. Shakespeare had devised for the clown in
All’s Well That Ends Well
.
    He smiled faintly. “Perhaps I should.” He toyed with the ring in his ear. “The truth is, I’m not at all certain what the play is about. So far, it appears to be about a wealthy man who is overly generous with his wealth, and when he loses his money he finds that all the friends he imagined he had are no longer his friends.”
    “Does ‘t ha’ a name? The play, I mean.”
    He gave me a rather peevish glance. “I did not bring you here to ply me with questions.”
    “I’m—I’m sorry. I’ll just … get me pencil, then.” I dug into my wallet for the plumbago pencil I used when I needed to write rapidly.
    Mr. Shakespeare sighed. “You needn’t apologize, Widge. I’m not upset with you, only with the play.”
    “Oh. It’s not going well,