Will was at Leadenhall Market well before the appointed hour. The place made him uneasy, for it was not far from where Davy Dapper had accosted him. He wished Mack would hurry. He wondered if Long Meg was setting him up to be gulled. But she was so plainspoken, so upright, he did not want to believe she would deceive him.
The market teemed with harvest bounty and buxom wenches who made him think of Anne Hathaway. Despite what she had done he could not banish her from his mind. She was even in his dreams. Or was it Catherine? Her sweet features came to mind, her buttery fingers touching his lips—and the sound of her raillery, her vows of eternal hatred. How had he ever gotten entangled in their witchcraft? Even now he was not free of it.
“I won’t let a woman deceive me again! Or a man for that matter,” he declared, squaring his shoulders and striding back and forth as if daring anyone to try and trick him.
He recognized Long Meg’s twin at once. He was taller than anyone in sight. As he drew near, Will could see that he shared her slender build, her blue eyes, and her curly golden hair, which peeked out from beneath a feathered cap. Of course he was wider in the chest and shoulders, and though he did not have a beard, his upper lip was darkened with fuzz. When he spoke his voice was deeper than Long Meg’s.
“I am Mack de Galle and you had better be Will Shake-beard or Short-beard or whatever you call yourself, for the last two fellows I greeted denied they were and one took offense, for he was a No-beard with not a whisker on his face,” he said in a rush of words.
Will smiled. He liked the fellow’s wit. “I call myself Will Shake-speare, though I have none to shake.” He noticed Mack wore a sword, as did most of the gallants in the streets. Almost no one in Stratford went around so strongly armed.
“If you would be true to your name you must have a spear,” said Mack. “For safety as well as for show.” He unbuckled his sword and secured it around Will’s waist.
Will gulped. “I have no skill with weapons.”
“Wear it. It will make you look dangerous.” Mack lifted the lower edge of his doublet to reveal a sheathed dagger and a pistol tucked between the points of his hose. “Gifts from my sister. Lost or confiscated at the Boar’s Head.” He winked. “I prefer my weapon to be hidden.”
Will chuckled at the bawdy joke but Mack did not smile. So Will converted his laugh to a cough and placed his hand on the sword hilt like a man accustomed to doing so.
“Let us go now to Southwark, for ’tis the last day of the fair,” said Mack.
He led the way past Eastcheap, where the street narrowed and became New Fish Street. Will’s sword bumped against his thigh with every step. He could feel the dampness in the breeze and smell the river at low tide: mud, fish, and offal. A roaring filled his ears, and just ahead he saw the great bridge and the river surging beneath it. As he and Mack crossed the crowded bridge, Will gazed in wonder at the fair shops and dwellings on both sides. At the middle point was an old drawbridge from which Mack pointed out the tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the city’s heart. On the river below, wherries, barges, and boats of all sizes crossed to and fro. In the distance they looked like waterbugs skittering over the surface. Near the bridge the river slowed, waiting to pass through the arches clogged with branches, debris, and dead animals. On the other side the water fell several feet, churning and rushing seaward with the ebbing tide. The sight made Will dizzy.
“I wonder how many debtors and other disconsolate souls have jumped to their deaths here,” he mused.
Mack suddenly strode away and Will wondered how he had offended him. On the other side of the bridge, where the road became a wide thoroughfare, he found Mack waiting for him.
“I hear those cunning foxes are still up to their crimes,” Mack said. “Let’s trap them in their lair before taking our sport at the fair.”
Will’s heart sank. In truth, he never wanted to meet Peter Flick and Davy Dapper again. The first time he had lost only his money. This time there was bound to be a fight, and he might lose an arm or a leg or even his life. No, he wanted only to explore the city in the company of this knowing and friendly Mack.
“Show me the way; I am prepared for some stout action,” said Will, not wanting to appear cowardly.
He followed Mack into Crooked Lane, which indeed had a crook in it, beyond which the lane ended in an alley barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Together they crept down the dirt path flanked by ruined houses and a foul-smelling stable. No sunlight found its way there.
“Call me Will Shake-in-my-boots if you will, but I like not this place,” said Will, striving to sound lighthearted.
“Fear not; we are well armed,” said Mack. “I have it on good intelligence that our two thieves used to resort here.”
Misgivings crowded Will’s mind. Was he being led into a trap? But why would Mack have given him a weapon if he meant to harm him? He gripped the sword and was about to draw it but realized the alley was too narrow for a sword to be of any use. He was sure to lose any fight in this dark byway. His body might never be found. Would death make his father proud of him, or would he berate Will’s cold corpse for losing the twenty-five crowns in the first place?
Mack paused before a weathered sign of a cock over a decrepit door. He put a finger to his lips and drew his pistol. Will’s mouth was dry. He wished he had Mack’s dagger instead of the unwieldy sword.
Mack lifted his knee nearly to his chin and struck the sole of his boot against the door with such force that the door splintered. He fell backward into Will and they both tumbled to the ground. A loud blast sounded and the sign over the door fell with a crash. An acrid smell reached Will’s nose. Mack’s pistol had fired! Will could only lie on the ground wondering if he was still alive.
“Gog’s wounds!” cried Mack, jumping to his feet. “Open up, you base knaves, you creeping caterpillars!”
There was no reply. A furry creature scurried over Will’s hand.
“There goes a rat! Was that you, Davy?” said Mack. “Peter Flick must be inside.” He motioned for Will to rise. “Come, men. Charge the door of this vile den!”
A sudden vigor surged through Will and he leaped up. He would not disappoint Long Meg’s brother. The splintered door hung on a single hinge but seemed to be bolted from within. He drew his sword and hacked at the door until it fell off. His arm was jolted and numb. He stumbled through the opening into a room cluttered with chunks of plaster, dusty planks, moldy clothing, and broken furniture. In the dimness Will could discern not a single thing of value—no hangings or furnishings, no chests that might hold a robber’s booty. There was not so much as a chair to sit on, much less the persons of Davy and Peter.
“This does not look like a thieves’ lair,” said Will.
“Maybe they are hiding in the loft,” whispered Mack.
Will looked up. The ceiling was missing, the rotting rafters visible. “What loft?” he said.
Mack made a surprised sound.
“Perhaps there is a cellar,” Will said, looking at the broken boards under his feet.
Mack shook his head. “There is not.”
“How do you know?” Will asked. “Have you been here before?”
“Yes, but I … was outnumbered, so I went away again.”
“You should have fetched a constable. What use am I to you? Or did you bring me here for some dire purpose contrived by you and Meg?” Will felt his blood rushing in his veins, suspicion making him alert.
Mack looked furious. “Do you doubt my sister, a true and honest woman? Her manner may be rough, but she harms no man unless he deserves it.” He thrust his weapons into Will’s free hand. “Here, take these if you do not trust me.”
Will fumbled with the dagger and pistol. “You burden my two hands with three weapons, knowing I lack the skill to defend myself with any of them. Now will you set your confederates upon me and rob me a second time?”
Mack rolled his eyes. Will had seen Long Meg do the same thing.
“Why should I contrive to rob you, Will Shakespeare? I believe you have no money.”
Will felt his face redden. “I know I have no money. Therein lies all my trouble. Alack, I am Fortune’s victim!” He tossed the sword, the dagger, and the pistol to the floor. They landed with a great clatter, raising a cloud of dust.
In the silence that followed Will heard a tiny sound, something between a whimper and a feeble laugh. “Even the rats mock me!”
But Mack was instantly alert. “Come forth, cowardly varlet,” he said, fumbling in the rubble for the dagger.
Will’s eyes followed the sound to a corner where there seemed to be a pile of filthy cloth. Something stirred there. Was it a dog?
He heard Mack draw in his breath as a skeletal creature crawled out of the darkness and stood up. It was a child with large eyes and lank hair, wearing only a ragged shift.
To Will’s surprise, Mack dropped to his knees and in a soft voice coaxed the child nearer. He murmured and the child nodded.
“She knows our culprits,” said Mack. “They chased her away when she came begging for food.” He swept the child up and strode out of the house, leaving Will to pick up all the weapons. He tucked the pistol and dagger in his belt, sheathed the sword, and clumsily ran after Mack.
“Where are you going?”
“To buy her a meal and take her to the orphan’s hospital. Her plight is now our fault if we do nothing to help her.”
Will observed with what compassion his new friend fed the child and carried her to the nearby hospital, giving the matron four shillings for her care.
“I regret that I ever thought you meant to harm me,” said Will. “You are a better man than I am.”
“We shall see whether that is true,” was Mack’s cryptic reply. He strode ahead, veering into every tavern and alehouse in Southwark. He stayed not to drink but only to search for Davy and Peter, growing grim with his lack of success.
But Will was in the mood for revelry. Pots of bubbling ale and roasted meat beckoned him. Street peddlers hawked trinkets, mountebanks their magic cures, and drabs their darker pleasures. Goodmen strolled arm in arm with their wives and dandies with their doxies. Jugglers, musicians, beggars, and cutpurses with shifty eyes wove through the crowds. But why should Will worry? He had a staunch weapon about him. He was at Southwark Fair, where everything was for sale and promised delights he could no longer resist.
“Pick out a pretty wench and let’s have some ale,” he suggested, hoping to turn Mack from his vain pursuit.
“Mercy, no!” said Mack. “I cannot revel while thieves ply their dishonest trade, Justice closes her eyes, and starving children sleep on rotten blankets.”
“Let wicked souls be heavy with guilt; yours should be light and fly upward. You saved a child’s life today!” said Will. He put his arm around Mack’s shoulder. “Dear friend, we are alive and well. We will find those villains next time. Now let us enjoy the present and one another’s company.”
Mack turned to him and smiled, his sorrowful look fleeing. In that moment he resembled Long Meg so closely that Will was drawn to him like iron to a magnet.