Will’s play drew so many spectators to the Boar’s Head that Master Overby agreed to pay him a few shillings out of the profits from each performance. The fairgoers were an obstreperous crowd, however, and with Meg on the stage there was no one to keep order among them. One night they began to throw bread crusts and bones on the stage to make the lion roar. When Job flung them back, the audience was provoked to throw more garbage. Someone even tossed Piebald; Meg heard the cat yowling and felt his body thump against her wall. When someone jumped on the stage and stole Overby’s tin crown, the irate king cried, “I do not condone rebellion!” and declared all further performances of Pyramus cancelled.
Now Will sat disconsolate, pondering ideas for a new play. Scraps of paper were spread out on the table before him. He groaned to see Violetta approaching. She seemed to relish distracting him.
“Sad Thisbe greets proud Pyramus this moonlit morn,” she said, planting herself at his elbow. “Are you writing another play? Shall I be in it?”
“Not if you insist upon being Thisbe still,” said Will without looking up. Violetta’s nearness confused him. There was an ardor to her touch that reminded him of Anne and a coyness that recalled Catherine. Had he not left Stratford to forget those sisters? He moved his elbow away from Violetta.
“Can I be a queen? Like Esther from the Bible?”
“And who shall play the traitor Haman and be hanged onstage?”
It was not a biblical drama Will had in mind, but something from ancient history—the ill-fated love of Mark Antony and Cleopatra. Violetta had dark hair and her face could be smudged with coal, but she was too short for a queen of Egypt.
“Can you wear chopines on your feet without falling from them?” he asked.
“I will walk on stilts to please my Pyramus,” said Violetta.
“Stop calling me Pyramus!”
“You would not die for me?”
“Die for you, no. Die on you, maybe.” The bawdy pun slipped from Will but Violetta seemed not to mark it. “Don’t you have some pots or floors to scrub?”
With a sigh she took her vexing presence from him, whereupon Meg appeared. It was like a scene from a play, Will reflected.
“Demigoddess, bring me some ale!” he called, pleased at the sight of her. When she came back with the cup Will asked, “Would you hear my idea for a play?”
Long Meg tilted her head to the side. “Is it about a young man seeking to recover his father’s stolen wealth?”
“No, it is about a Roman general in love with the queen of Egypt,” Will said defensively.
“Who will play in it? You know Dab is unreliable and Job Nockney has sworn never to take the stage again. Violetta’s memory is like a sieve, useless for carrying wit or water.”
Will rubbed his head. “Violetta’s lines will be few and short. I shall write a part for you if you like. And one for Mistress Gwin. And the costermonger’s daughter. Confound the laws, I’ll have a whole company of women players. What a spectacle that would prove! We’ll travel to every shire in England and dare the magistrates to punish us. Do you long to stand in the the pillory?”
Will knew his ranting was beside the point. The few shillings he had saved from playing Pyramus amounted to less than a tenth of what Burbage was owed. The rest he had spent on ink, pen, and notebooks. The court date, October fifteenth, was not three weeks away.
“How will my standing in a pillory enact your revenge against those two thieves?” said Meg, standing with her arms akimbo.
Will groaned. “Your words sting my remembrance.”
“I am sorry,” she said, dropping her arms. “You made a vow that I witnessed. I am only trying to hold you to it.”
Talk of vows made Will feel guilty. He did not want to think of the Hathaway sisters or his promise to his father.
“You tell me, Meg, how shall I find those two shifty rogues in all of London? Can’t you help me? Have you not a single word of encouragement?”
“Yes. Leave!” The sinews in her arm grew taut as she pointed to the door.
Will was stunned. “Are you throwing me out? What have I done?”
“Nothing,” she said, exasperated. “Therein lies the problem. Who ventures to London and is content to see no more of it than the four walls of an inn?”
Someone who wants to hide, thought Will. Someone shirking his duty.
“Go out and find something to write about. You might also find the rogues you seek.”
“I would gladly explore the city to feed my fancy, but I lack a single friend to keep me from the pathways of peril.” He picked up his pen again. “I must write that down.”
The nib of his pen scratched over paper. He looked at what he had written, then blotted it. Drivel! Meg was right; he had nothing to write about.
After what seemed like a long silence Meg said, “You can trust my brother.”
“Your twin! How could I have forgotten?” Will jumped up and gathered his papers together. “Where is he now?”
Meg hesitated. She seemed flustered, glancing overhead as if her brother might be concealed in the rafters. “On Tuesday he has some business at Leadenhall Market,” she finally said. “He will meet you at noon near the well in the courtyard.” She lowered her voice. “Keep this a secret, for no one knows I have a brother.”
Will was puzzled, even suspicious. Why would she hide the fact that she had a brother? But he was afraid to ask, lest she take offense and withdraw her offer.
“How shall I recognize him?” He deemed it safe to ask this much.
Meg raised her eyebrows at him. “He is my twin. If you know me you will know him.”