An hour ago Will had written Upon the rack of love I lie, stretched / ’Til my limbs break, my heart wretched—
He stared at the verses until his eyes crossed. How could he use them in a play?
His eyes strayed to the summons on the table that reminded him of the duty he was neglecting. He wished someone would come by and tell him what to do about it. Mack would be just the friend to advise him.
Early in the morning the public room was usually quiet, but today was all commotion. Through the open window he could hear Job Nockney shouting at Dab.
“You’re a wicked boy. That you are my son I have only your mother’s word and she was wicked too.”
Will pitied Dab. Why did Puritans like Job see only evil in the world?
Violetta’s voice issued from the kitchen. “I am not your slave, Gwin Overby! I was not raised to be a base servant, to labor at a common tavern. You forget I am a lady!”
Then came Long Meg’s pleading voice. “She doesn’t mean it, mistress. Do not send her away.”
Piebald jumped on Will’s table and meowed loudly. He stroked the cat’s fur. Mistress Overby tottered through the door with Meg following.
“O Meg, everything is topsy-turvy here! Violetta has turned rebel and cries if you look at her cross-eyed. My husband lords it over me like an Orient king. Ever since that Will fellow came and put everyone in his play! Look at him scribbling his next piece of mischief.”
Will stared at the scrap of poetry. It rebuked him as a failure.
“Next all men will walk on their hands, heels upward, and forswear strong drink. We shall go out of business!”
“Peace, mistress,” said Long Meg. “At least I am not changed, no, not by a hair’s breadth.”
Meg and the hostess burst into laughter. The reason for their sudden glee was a mystery to Will. He would never understand women.
Meg skipped over to his table, her golden hair flying, her expression joyful.
“Good morrow to you, Will Shake-his-beard,” she said, sitting down across from him and planting her hands on the table. “Write this.”
Taken aback by her boldness and high spirits, Will picked up his pen and waited.
“Long Meg I am content to be, as there will be no longer me.”
“Is this a riddle?” he asked, frowning.
“Tut, where is your wit today? I, Long Meg, will be no longer than I am now. I have stopped growing!”
“Aye, that is good,” said Will, smiling at last. “I mean the verse and your news.”
“Both well-measured, you should say,” Meg said with a wink.
“Your brother winks in just such a way,” remarked Will.
“’Twas my affectation first, for I was born before him,” said Meg without hesitating. “Why are you not writing?”
Will sighed and pushed the summons toward Meg. “This writ must be answered on October the fifteenth. I have nine days to find my father’s lawyer.”
“There is a lawsuit?” Meg’s eyes widened. “This matter is more serious than you let on. You could be arrested and put in prison!” With her forearm she swept Piebald to the floor.
“I know. I should have been seeking my father’s lawyer instead of those two slippery thieves.”
“A lawyer is but another kind of thief,” said Meg drily. “Who is this barnacle you seek?”
“Thomas Greene, of Middle Temple.” Will laughed but it came out more like a bark. “What, are lawyers gods that live in temples? Where is this church of litigation?”
“I know not but surely Mack does. He will take you there tomorrow,” Meg promised.
The next morning a grateful Will met Mack at the Ludgate, the city’s westernmost gate. As they passed through it Will noticed a dark house pitched steeply over a foul-smelling ditch. Its closed shutters were barred with iron. It was Fleet Prison, Mack informed him. Will shuddered.
Where Fleet Street met Chancery Lane they came to a gatehouse leading to a fair and stately building. MIDDLE TEMPLE, the sign read. A stream of young men poured from the gate, all clad in black robes and hats shaped like small pies. Will regarded them with some envy. Had he not been forced to leave school to assist his father, he might have been among them, preparing for a profession that would make him rich and well-esteemed. In all the kingdom was there an actor or playwright who was regarded as anything more than a talented vagabond? What made Will think he would be an exception? He wondered if it was too late to change his life’s plan and choose a more conventional path.
“Come, Will!” Mack’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The porter says Thomas Greene is within.”
Passing through a foyer hung with banners and escutcheons, Mack and Will followed the sound of voices to a large common chamber. There an elderly man with a wisp of hair over his bald pate was lecturing to his fellows.
“Let us consider whether in a case of willful manslaughter it is more just and fitting to strike off the felon’s hand at the place of his crime and then proceed to the place of his execution, or to punish and execute him in the same location, to wit, the site of the crime?”
“Shall it be always his right hand that is stricken off?” said a second lawyer. “What if he committed the crime with his left hand?”
“A murder of crows!” whispered Will, viewing the black-robed assembly.
“Pssst! Fetch me Thomas Greene,” Mack whispered, nudging a clerk who picked at the threads of his gown.
Will wanted to hear what the lawyers decided about the felon’s hands, but at that moment the threadbare clerk returned with one who confessed to being Thomas Greene. His eyes were indeed green. He had red hair, a red face, and round, fat fingers. Will thought of a sausage about to burst from its casings.
“D’you know my father, John Shakespeare of Stratford? I am his eldest son, Will.”
Thomas Greene made a move as if to disappear into the flock of lawyers, but Mack gripped his arm and said, “My friend has need of your services.”
Thus compelled, Greene led them to a dingy chamber and sat down at a table littered with parchment, books, candle stubs, and bones from past meals. He shoved aside the mess and waved his hand, urging Will to hurry.
Will handed Greene the writ, the red wax seal dangling like a clot of blood. He watched the lawyer mash his lips together and twitch his nose as he read. Will realized he was nearsighted.
“’Tis too late to plead. The judge at assizes has found for the plaintiff.” Greene shrugged. “It remains but for Westminster to punish the debtor.”
“Punish him?” Will’s voice rose. He cleared his throat. Would they cut off his hand? He hunched over and tucked his hands in his armpits for safekeeping.
“It is your father’s debt, not yours. Why look you so worried?” said Greene.
Mack, standing behind Will, spoke up in his defense. “Because he is the one who must face the judge.”
“Rather you must on my behalf,” Will said to Greene. “Unless we can find Burbage and persuade him to a settlement. Do you perchance know him?”
Greene made a sudden farting sound with his mouth. “Never even heard the name. And he would be either a fool or a saint to forgo a claim on ten pounds.”
“Then draw up a writ to delay this action or appeal the judgment,” Will pleaded.
“Lex dilationes abhorret,” said Greene pompously. “The law abhors delays. Yet there might be extenuating circumstances or irregularities in the judgment.” He picked up a small handbook and began to discourse of arcane subjects: courts of nisi prius; postea, the records of trial; the plea of non est factum, that the deed is not that of the defendant.
Thanks to his grammar school Latin, Will was able to follow Greene’s ramblings. “These writs and subpoenas. How quickly can you prepare them? And what shall be the cost?”
Greene bent over a piece of paper, his nose inches from the desk. He made a list and announced, “Two pounds, ten shillings, and seven pence!”
“Merely to begin a suit with no certainty of success?” Will cried. “I don’t have that much money.”
Greene leaned back in his chair and exhaled like a giant bladder. “Then you waste my valuable time, Will Shakespeare.”
Will slapped his hands on the summons and pocketed it along with the scrap of paper. He dug into his pocket and tossed two shillings on the desk. “Here is recompense for your precious advice, Master Greene.”
“Are you crazy?” said Mack. “You owe him nothing!”
With surprisingly deft fingers Greene pocketed the coins.
Will grabbed Mack’s arm. “Come, let’s leave behind this temple of turpitude.”
When they reached the street Will burst out laughing.
“How can you laugh?” said Mack. “That stuffed gut grows fat with his fees while honest folk starve.”
“I laugh because I have got the best of him. Quick, before he realizes it.”
When they were well mingled with the crowds on Fleet Street, Will drew a small book from his pocket and tapped its cover. “The School for Lawyers,” he read.
Mack’s mouth fell open. “Did you nip that from Greene?”
“No. I purchased it with my two shillings.”
“What! Who will be your lawyer now? Zounds, what if he sues you?”
“Peace, Mack. I don’t need a lawyer.” He held out the book. “Study this. With a little Latin and some logic you shall be my lawyer.”
Mack stepped back, holding up his hands in refusal.
“Come, I shall countersue Burbage, outwit his lawyer, and share my gains with you,” said Will. “Think of the sport to be had!”
“There is no sport in prison if you lose,” said Mack. “I won’t be a party to such folly.”
Sudden worry gripped Will’s guts. Mack was right. He was acting foolishly and without regard for the consequences. He was expecting too much of Mack.
“I am sorry I asked for your help,” Will said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“No, Will, I am sorry.” Mack sounded sad too. “I am ashamed.”
“Why?” Will laughed bitterly. “You are not the hapless and penniless son of a man who shirks his debts.”
“What I mean is that I regret I cannot help you, my friend,” said Mack. He fiddled with the braid on his doublet and avoided looking at Will.
Will did not understand Mack’s reluctance. He tried again, holding out the book and speaking with softer persuasion. “I ask only that you study a little with me and play the lawyer for one hour in court.” He paused. “Pray tell me, how hard can that be?”
Mack stared at the book, then into Will’s eyes. He let out all his breath at once.
“Damned hard, Will Shakespeare, for I cannot read!”