Shakespeare's Spy by Gary Blackwood Page B

“They were here last week as well, for
Romeo and Juliet
. John Lowin had to amend his line about going to confession. No doubt they would have been even happier had we made Friar Laurence an Anglican priest.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “They’ve never bothered us before. Why now? And why would they pick the very plays that happen to have references to Catholic rites in them?”
    “Perhaps because the plays are set in Italy?”
    “Perhaps,” Mr. Armin said. “Or perhaps someone is keeping the Privy Council apprised of everything we do.”
    “You mean …”
    “I mean,” he said, “a spy.”

12
    B y the time I returned home that evening, I was as bone weary as I had ever been, even the previous summer, when we sometimes slogged along a muddy road in the rain from dawn until dusk. Though for a prentice every day is a hectic one, this day had been without equal or precedent, as full of alarums and excursions and general hurly-burly as both parts of
Henry VI
put together.
    As was their custom, the dozen or so orphan boys who lodged with Mr. Pope were waiting to pounce on me the moment I came through the door, yelling like wild Irishmen, rifling my wallet in search of the sweetmeats I sometimes brought them, begging me to play a game of Barley-Break or Rise Pig and Go. But when Goody Willingson saw how haggard I looked, she chased them off to bed and brought me a cup of what she called clary—warm wine with honey, pepper, and ginger—and a bowl of frumety—wheat kernels boiled in milk—which she had kept hot for me on the back of the cast-iron heating stove.
    I was too exhausted to eat more than a few mouthfuls. “Has Mr. Pope retired for the night?” I asked.
    “He’s in the library.”
    I sighed, knowing that he was waiting for me, too—not so that I might play a game, but so that I might tell him all the day’s news. I did not like to disappoint him, for I knew how much he missed being a part of the company, and how eager he was to hear what we were up to.
    In warmer weather, Mr. Pope frequently made the short journey to the Globe, sometimes to watch a performance from behind the stage, sometimes simply to share conversation and a drink with his old comrades. But the combination of cold weather, ill health, and distance kept him from coming to the Cross Keys, so he relied on me to keep him abreast of things. We had a running jest about my being his informant, his spy within the company. Now, in light of Mr. Armin’s deadly serious remark, it did not seem so amusing.
    Mr. Pope had his feet propped up before the fire, a mug of clary in one hand and a woolen blanket draped over his ample belly. “Come in, Widge, come in. Sit down. You look as though you’ve had a long, hard day.”
    “Good. I’m glad I’ve something to show for it.” Like the messenger in a play, who describes for the other characters and for the audience some action that took place off the stage, I proceeded to give him an account of all that had happened that day, in as few words as I reasonably could.
    In truth, I did not include everything. I did not tell of my visit to La Voisin and what she saw in her scrying ball. Nor did I repeat what Mr. Armin had said about a spy, or what Mr. Heminges had said about the company being in difficult circumstances. The physican who attended Mr. Pope had cautionedus that any undue strain or stress could worsen his patient’s condition, and I had no wish to fulfill the cunning woman’s prediction that I would bring about another person’s death, least of all his. I did describe for him the mysterious Mr. Garrett, thinking that they might have crossed paths before. But Mr. Pope had no notion who or what the man might be, or why he would feel compelled to disguise himself.
    When I introduced Judith into my story, I did my best to sound nonchalant, but I was not a good-enough actor to carry it off. Though I confined myself to facts, carefully avoiding any mention of feelings, Mr. Pope was