When the play ended Overby stood up and let out a loud, long fart. “Henceforth call me Hodge,” he said. Laughing, Will stumbled down the gallery stairs.
Violetta was not so amused or appreciative. “How will this teach me to play Cleopatra? There were no lovers and no one died.”
Will remembered the reason he had brought them and sighed. Indeed, what could such a light play, so lacking in poetry, teach them?
“It was almost a tragedy,” said Meg. “For the silly needle occasioned as much woe as a lost kingdom.”
“Almost a tragedy, yes,” said Will, gratefully seizing on her words. “A comedy is a tragedy averted by unexpected good fortune. That is our lesson.”
It was more complicated than that, Will knew. While watching Meg he had been surprised at how the simple matter of the play moved her. Was it possible that comedy as well as tragedy could touch the heart? That it could have a purpose beyond inducing laughter? Perhaps despite its exaggeration, a comic tale could hit the truth like a hammer on the head of a nail. For this slight comedy had uncovered a part of Meg’s soul, the sight of which affected Will also. A tender feeling mingled with his merriment, confusing him.
Overby was poking Will in the chest. “You must put a mad beggar and a farting clown in your Cleopatra play. Too much dying makes me melancholy.”
Will could barely hide his annoyance. “I will, and you shall play them both,” he said, though he had no intention of adding such ridiculous characters to his play. If he were around to finish it.
Mirth departed and dread settled over him. “I have some business and will return to the inn anon,” he said. “Come with me, Meg.”
Meg stepped to his side and Will felt a surge of confidence. There was no one—not even Mack—he would rather have with him for this meeting. Was it because she really was striking to behold?
“Sirrah!” he called to the burly fellow heading toward the stage. “Will you take me to Mr. Burbage?”
He nodded and Will and Meg followed him through a small door behind the stage. There the players were putting costumes and props into trunks. The boy who played Gammer Gurton doffed a nethergarment stuffed with bombast that gave him a woman’s shape. Will wanted to linger and talk to him. More than that, he wanted to pull aside the curtain and stand on the stage and imagine what it would be like to perform there.
“Do you have business with me?” The peremptory voice startled Will. A man with a graying beard stood with one foot on a bench, leaning on his knee. “I am James Burbage. I built this theater and manage this company.”
How like a god he looks! Creator of his own world, thought Will.
“I commend the skill of your players and their pleasing performance,” he said, aware of sounding like a flatterer. “I am William Shakespeare, formerly of Stratford, now staging my own plays at the Boar’s Head Inn.” This was an exaggeration, for Will knew that once he refused to put a madman and a clown in his new play he would be out of a job. “It is my ambition to be in a company such as yours.”
“You are the third fellow this week to ask me for work. The first one is sweeping garbage from the galleries and the other two I sent away.” Burbage brushed something from his knee.
“Tell him your true purpose before he is out of patience,” Meg whispered.
Will said that he was looking for William Burbage. He fully expected to be directed elsewhere when James replied, “He is my brother and a shareholder in this enterprise. William!”
Will fought the urge to run. Meg’s hand on his arm restrained him.
A bald-pated man reeking of wine sauntered into the room. Will saw with relief that he was an ordinary sot, not the bugbear he had feared. Now was the moment to reason with him, to appeal for mercy and thereby avoid the dreaded sentencing. And yet he was loath to discuss his father’s debt before James Burbage, the one man in London he wished to impress.
As soon as Will identified himself, William Burbage began to abuse the name of Shakespeare, calling Will’s father a crooked cheater and a villainous varlet.
Will grew hot. His neck and forehead throbbed.
“He is as dangerous as a rabid dog,” Meg murmured, stiffening.
“Hold your peace, for this is not the Boar’s Head,” Will whispered back.
“My father, like all men, has his faults,” said Will, striving to be conciliatory. He explained that his father had dispatched him with enough money to settle half the debt, but it had been stolen from him and he was unable to recover it. “Will you accept payment as I earn it?”
“I’ll have the entire ten pounds now,” William Burbage barked.
“I am all but penniless,” Will said in a low voice.
“Then I’ll see you at Westminster and to prison after.”
Will summoned all his courage and said with a bravado he scarcely felt, “My lawyer has grounds on which to challenge the debt. He shall present a witness and ask the judge to void the prior judgment. You shall get nothing.” Will was pleased with this hasty invention but it only enraged William Burbage.
“I’ll smoke your skin, Will Shakespeare. Roast your ribs for every farthing your miserable father owes me,” he said, advancing toward Will.
James Burbage stepped in front of his brother and said, “Go home; you’re soused.”
“Let’s away, Mistress Meg,” said Will. “All is lost. ’Tis time for me to fall on my sword like a good Roman.”
“Wait! Will you savor humiliation or turn it to victory?” said Meg, seizing his sleeve. She turned to James Burbage and intoned, “O the crown of the earth does melt, and there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.”
Will stared at her in stark surprise. Meg drew a deep breath and went on.
“Good sirs, take heart,
We’ll bury Antonio, and then what’s brave,
what’s noble,
Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us. Come away,
This case of his huge spirit now is cold.”
One of the players began to applaud. Will swelled with pride.
“What is that speech?” said James Burbage, looking at Meg in amazement.
Meg nodded toward Will.
“Queen Cleopatra beholding the deceased Mark Antony,” said Will. It was no surprise to him that Meg had committed Cleopatra’s entire speech to memory. But what moved her to speak it now?
Meg nodded toward the player. “You should hear Will Shakespeare as the Roman general. His dying would move a stone to weep.”
“Is that Kyd’s work?” asked James Burbage. “The tragedian Thomas Kyd,” he explained, seeing Will’s blank expression.
Will drew himself up to his full height. “No, it is mine. You would honor me by attending its performance at the Boar’s Head in Whitechapel.”
“Now hear Cleopatra as Antony is borne away,” said Meg, and her clear voice rang out again. “Come, we have no friend but resolution and the briefest end.”
Meg beckoned to Will and with long strides swept across the backstage. She was a galleon sailing through the waves! Will bowed, exulting in Burbage’s astonished expression. He turned to follow Meg, a proud Mark Antony trailing after his brave and beautiful queen of Egypt.