The name that so surprised Will also dispelled Meg’s uncertain mood. She knew that Burbage was the one to whom the Shakespeares owed money. She welcomed the opportunity to visit the playhouse, for it was a diversion with larger purpose. She had not been so excited since she was a child and her parents took her to St. Bartholomew Fair to see the morris dancers with bells on their feet. She had never been to a proper play. Overby had explained that noblemen went to the queen’s palace or Blackfriars, where the actors were boys and the Master of Revels decided what could be performed. But the idea of a playhouse that would admit anyone, rich or poor, was new. Two such places stood in Shoreditch, which was beyond the reach of the London authorities. Petty criminals abounded there and Meg felt it her duty to safeguard her companions, Overby, Violetta, and Will. Job would as soon go to hell as to a playhouse, and he made Dab stay at the inn with him.
Meg knew she would have to watch herself, measure her every movement. As Meg she hardly knew how to behave outside the walls of the Boar’s Head. She must not slip into Mack’s voice and manner and thereby betray herself to Will. During the rehearsal she had been certain he was playing cat-and-mouse with her. Saying it would be no use to put her in man’s clothing because the audience would still recognize her. Giving her a page to read and pretending to be disconcerted that she could not do so. She must give him no cause for suspicion on this outing. She would watch Violetta to learn how a lady should conduct herself.
Meg peered in the glass as she tried to plait her hair and weave in a green ribbon. Her face was flushed with the effort.
“Why, you look uncommonly pretty, Meg,” said Gwin. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear you are sweet on that madman Shakespeare.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “It is Violetta who loves Will,” she said. “Therefore tease her.”
But she had a doubt about the ribbon. Was it a good idea to encourage Will to look closely at her?
“I dare not, for she will start leaking tears like a cracked pot,” murmured Gwin.
For the moment Violetta looked happy enough. She was wearing the blue damask skirt and the fine cloak, long since cleaned, in which she had arrived at the Boar’s Head. She had gone nowhere since then for fear of being seen by her father or Thomas Valentine. Why was she now so eager to go to the playhouse? And why in their rehearsal had she spoken Cleopatra’s lines like a wooden fencepost? Meg wondered how a man could tolerate any creature so inconstant and inscrutable as Violetta, however beautiful she was.
On the other hand everyone knew what to expect of her, Long Meg. She was not changeable since she had stopped growing. But did she not spend some days masquerading as a man, changing her clothing and her manner and deceiving everyone about her? The more she persisted in her disguise, the more perilous it became and the more complicated was her life. How long could she keep it up?
And—she dared to ask herself—why must she?
But now was not the time for questions. She tossed a cloak borrowed from Gwin over her shoulders, fastened it with a brass brooch, and declared herself ready to go to the playhouse.
From Whitechapel the foursome passed by St. Botolph’s outside Aldgate and the gun foundry. They followed the lane where a row of narrow houses faced the foul-smelling Houndsditch. Eager Will was in the lead; Meg and Violetta hurried after; and Overby lagged behind. Outside Bishopsgate they turned north toward Shoreditch. They passed Bethlehem Hospital, where the poor and those distracted from their wits lived. Houses grew more scattered, and between them Meg glimpsed fields crisscrossed by paths where walkers hastened, their heads bent against the wind.
Will paused to lift Violetta over a large puddle in the road. He took Meg’s hand and she jumped across, feeling an energy from his grip the way lightning sometimes caused her skin to tingle. She thought he held her hand a moment longer than necessary.
“I wish your brother were along,” said Will.
“Am I such unpleasant company?” Meg realized her reply sounded coy. She was never coy. It must be the hair ribbon and the brooch that made her feel so different.
“I only meant that if I should encounter William Burbage, I need my lawyer to help me deal with him.”
“That may be unwise, if you mean ‘deal with him’ the way my brother dealt with Roger Ruffneck—” Meg caught herself, remembering that Will had not seen her get the best of Roger in the cloisters. She contrived a small lie. “Jane told me that Mack robbed her lying husband and his lawyer and gave her all their money and jewels.”
“Zounds, what a hero your brother is! Did he spare me twenty-five crowns of it? That would solve all my troubles.”
“For shame, Will Shakespeare,” said Meg. “That was all Jane’s fortune and none of your deserving.” She added, for she wanted to tell of Mack’s triumph to someone, “Ask my brother to tell you the story when you see him again.”
“Aye, and in turn he shall hear how I almost shot a carter with that loose pistol he lent me! We were lucky to keep our souls in our bodies.”
Meg sighed. “Promise me you won’t assault Burbage until later, for I do not wish to be run out of the house at the point of a sword before I have even seen the play.”
Will laughed. “I promise, dear Mistress Meg, for I long to see the play as much as you do.” He took her hand again, though the puddle in the road was behind them.
Dear Mistress Meg? What words to savor! She let her hand rest in Will’s. It would be rude to withdraw it. But if Violetta turned around and saw them she might fly into a jealous passion. Had Will purposely fallen behind and taken her hand? What nonsense her brain was capable of. And why must her face betray her by turning scarlet? She withdrew her hand.
“I hope the company is in need of another player,” Will was saying. “I shall be content to perform any part, be it the hero’s or the clown’s, so long as I am in a real company.”
“Would you leave the Boar’s Head?” Meg could not keep the disappointment from her voice. “And your play of Cleopatra undone?”
“No, I shall finish it and see it performed in a theater so full of people it will seem an entire world.” Will spread out his arms as if trying to embrace something vast that only he could see.
Meg had not realized the greatness of Will’s ambition. It seemed to expand, filling the openness and heating the air between them like a flame. Meg relished the warmth. She loved the way Will’s words made her feel as she held them in her mind. She did not want him to leave the Boar’s Head.
The playhouse was easy to find. A colorful flag fluttered from a staff atop the thatched roof. The three-story timbered building, not quite square but not quite round either, was situated where the road and the paths through the fields converged. A painted signboard proclaimed it to be simply THE THEATRE.
“Keep your purses close,” warned Meg as she spotted a pickpocket. She intercepted his fleeting gaze, scowled, and squared her shoulders. He moved away. Meg reminded herself that she was not Mack, once a thief and lately Will’s rowdy companion, nor was she Long Meg, keeper of order at the Boar’s Head. She was just Meg going to a playhouse with her friends, and she must behave as such. She was not sure how to be simply herself.
With the others she paid her penny and entered the playhouse. The interior was a large yard strewn with sawdust and open to the sky. A thatched roof covered the galleries and the stage, which was built at the level of a man’s chest, enclosed beneath, and curtained at the back. It was a far cry from the stage at the Boar’s Head that had been put up and taken down so many times it wobbled dangerously. A trio of musicians played the pipe, tabor, and drum. The firstcomers had already taken their places before the stage, planting their elbows on it as a mark of possession and beating time to the music.
The playgoers were as diverse a collection of humanity as Meg had ever seen in one place, including St. Paul’s. There were housewives and gentlemen, shopkeepers, servants, apprentices, schoolboys, trulls and thieves, sturdy yeomen, merchants and men of fashion, and nobles in velvet and fur who made their way through the baser sort to the galleries above.
“Look, Meg,” said Will. “There is one of those foppish men I heard the preacher condemn. He called them ‘more fit for the playhouse than God’s house.’ ”
Meg followed his gaze to see a slender gallant with big-buckled boots. Lace cascaded from his doublet like a bush of full-blown roses, and a plume stirred in his cap like ripe grain in a field.
“He aims to outdo his mother, Dame Nature,” Meg said with a wry laugh.
“He?” said Will. “I think this hybrid creature is a woman who wishes herself a man. Are the features not soft and the shoulders slim?”
Meg was alarmed. Had Will ever stared at Mack with such suspicions?
“Does the chest show signs of a woman’s twin wonders?” Will continued. “Which we men long to have, and that is why we constantly stare at women’s bosoms.”
More amused than offended, Meg laughed. But she was eager to end this dangerous conversation. “It is certainly a young man, for the shadow over his lip is proof of a mustache,” she said, though she knew a smudge of ash could produce the same effect. She also wondered if this person was a woman, why she would dress to attract notice.
“Whether a man or woman, it is as eager to see a play as we are,” said Will. “Come, here is a good place to stand.”
The house was now almost full. Hawkers pressed their way through the crowd selling roasted nuts, fruits, and pomanders. These fragrances mingled with the earthier smells of sweat, wool, and dung trailed in from the streets. Meg was grateful to be so tall, for she could see over the heads of the other playgoers. Tiny Violetta, however, was at a disadvantage.
“I can’t see anyone!” she wailed. “Even standing on my toes.” She seemed almost desperate. “Please, Master Overby, may we sit in the gallery?”
To Meg’s surprise Overby dug in his purse again and paid a burly fellow for access to the gallery stairs. Moments later Meg found herself seated between Violetta and Will, overlooking the yard.
“I hope that was not Burbage,” said Will. “He did not look forgiving.”
Meg for her part was wondering about Violetta’s strange behavior. She did not attempt to change seats with Meg so she could sit beside Will. And instead of being pleased with her clear view of the stage, she commenced leaning forward and backward, craning her neck to see into the opposite galleries, even bending over the railing to peer among the groundlings.
“Do you have a burr in your bodice?” whispered Meg. “Something surely is pricking you.”
Violetta subsided onto the bench, but Meg could see her eyes still darting about as if she was looking for someone. Whom could she possibly know in all of London?
Will had bought an orange and as he peeled it, the scent reminded Meg of the night she had gone to the Boar’s Head with Davy and Peter and a woman had offered her a bite of an orange. The same longing stirred in her again: the desire for a home, for sweetness on her tongue and laughter in her ears. She felt a nudge. Will held out a piece of the fruit. Meg could only stare at it and wonder how Will had known what she was dreaming of.
“Wake up. Take it,” he said, lifting her hand from her lap and placing the pungent fruit on her palm.
She brought the orange to her lips and bit it. Nothing had ever tasted so good. She licked her fingers and murmured with pleasure.
A fanfare sounded. Sweetness and joyful noise! A man came onstage and shouted what Meg guessed was the prologue. The audience quieted and the play began. It was about a goodwife named Gammer Gurton who lost her one and only needle while mending a pair of breeches for her servant Hodge. She drew the entire village into the trouble of finding it, and such slapping, tumbling, and rudeness ensued that the audience hooted with laughter.
“I cannot hear. What did he say?” Meg whispered to Will.
Will waved his hand. “No matter. The words are slight. The actions are what gives delight. I will have clowns in all my plays.”
But Meg could not laugh at the foolishness. It left her strangely saddened.
Will turned to her. “Don’t you like Diccon the beggar?” he asked. “He is the cause of all the trouble, yet even he grins.”
Meg stared at the ragged player. “My father became a beggar,” she said softly. “And that was the beginning of all our troubles.” The words came to her lips and she made no attempt to hold them back. She didn’t care if Will heard them.
In the next scene a drunken parson was mistaken for a thief and beaten bloody with a stick. The audience roared its approval and Will whistled through his fingers. Meg could not even smile.
“Come now,” Will said. “This is no tragedy.”
“Oh, but it is!” said Meg, blinking back tears. “Such a priest abused my mother. He was killed, as he deserved to be.” She could not admit that her mother was the killer. “And my father did not thrive by wickedness, like Diccon, but died despite his goodness.”
She closed her eyes. Sounds came to her as if from a great distance: Gammer Gurton’s high, false voice, the stamping of feet in the galleries, Violetta giggling beside her. What had caused her to reveal her secret sorrow now—in the middle of a play—to Will Shakespeare of all people? Next would she throw off every stitch of clothing and confess to Will that she was her brother, Mack?
No. She would pretend she had said nothing. She opened her eyes again. “I like your plays much better, Will.”
He ignored the compliment. “Could you but laugh, would it heal the hurt?”
So he had heard every word! She felt herself redden, knowing his eyes were on her.
“I don’t think so.”
“I bid you try it,” he said.
He looked so earnest and yet so lively, his face divided in halves, that Meg could not help smiling. It was not hard.
The servant was now running about the stage making farting sounds. Meg did not suppress a giggle.
“Eww!” said Violetta, grimacing.
“It’s nothing but air!” Will said. “He has a bladder in his sleeve.”
Finally the lost needle was found in the very breeches Gammer Gurton had been sewing. When the constable slapped Hodge on his rump, driving the needle into his buttocks, and Hodge shot upward, cursing inventively, Meg truly laughed. She drew in her breath and released it into the air, where it dispersed like her secret, a brief story no more terrible than Gammer Gurton’s lost needle.
She felt herself glowing with inner warmth. This was happiness. To be free of sorrow and secrets. To sit in a theater beside her friend Will Shakespeare, laughing together.