In the churchyard of St. Botolph, one gravestone stood for the judge and another for the plaintiff as Will instructed Mack in the proceedings of a courtroom. All Will’s knowledge was gleaned from the lawyer’s manual he had taken from Thomas Greene.
“Look at the writs in your hand before you speak. Gesture thus as you deny the basis of the judgment,” he advised.
Mack easily grasped the arguments Will had written, but he struggled when it came to learning the Latin phrases meant to buttress them.
Will repeated them again and again. “Non est factum. It is not his deed. Debita sequuntur personam debitoria. Debts follow the person of the debtor.”
Mack threw up his hands. “Take your nonfacts, your debits and debitors, your sequent persons, and hang them all on Tower Hill!”
Will burst out laughing. “I must remember that line for a play. You shall join my players and perform it.”
“You forget I am barred from the Boar’s Head,” said Mack.
“I can persuade Overby to overlook your old slight to his wife. He is ambitious to compete with the new playhouses. Say you will consider it.”
Mack’s reply came slowly. “Once the case is settled and everything else is sorted out, perhaps.”
It was not a refusal. Encouraged, Will said, “You are even fair enough for the woman’s part. Speak with a trill for me.”
“No!” Mack smacked the writs against the stones. “I’ll take my leave of you right now if you do not heed this grave matter.”
“O excellent pun!” Will suppressed a laugh, for he was afraid of Mack’s threat.
The fifteenth of October dawned with auspicious sunshine, but Will arose with a cloud of foreboding over his head. It followed him darkly as he dressed and ate a breakfast of cold mutton. He still had not found in the handbook any cause for a counterclaim. He must depend on the judge’s mercy, which in turn depended upon Mack’s powers of persuasion. Then again, he reflected, probably Burbage could afford to purchase whatever outcome he desired.
Will’s dire meditations were interrupted by the sight of his friend waiting for him at the Cornhill, where they had first met only weeks before.
“Good day, Matthew Mandamus!” Will hailed Mack by the name they had agreed upon and gave him a black robe dearly purchased for the occasion.
“Don’t lose this; it will make a handy costume someday. Your present cap will do. I have all the documents.” Will patted his pocket for the dozenth time.
On Mack’s advice they hired a wherry for quicker passage to Westminster, which was a mile west of London. The thick-armed boatman rowed against the river’s current with ease, pointing out landmarks that included Bridewell Prison.
“You don’t want to end up there. The prisoners walk on treadmills to grind flour for bread. ’Tis said the kitchens are a very inferno,” he said darkly.
Will shuddered. He watched the city slip by: warehouses, walled gardens, myriad rooftops, and with them his dreams of being a renowned actor.
The pier at Westminster was so crowded they had to wait in a line to disembark. The buildings with their battlements and high gates projected wealth and importance. The people on the streets moved with greater haste and purpose than their counterparts in London. Who among them, Will wondered, would care about the case of a poor Stratford glover or the fate of his son? What stood between him and prison but his new friend Mack, now whispering Latin phrases and glancing about uneasily?
They located Westminster Hall by the lawyers and clerks entering and exiting, distinguished from one another only by the cut of their black robes and the hats that sat on their heads like overturned porringers.
The hall was more spacious inside than any building Will had ever seen. Trees could have grown there and spread their branches unimpeded. Birds flew around and settled on the high rafters. Their calls and shrieks mingled with the clamor of voices and the clatter of footsteps. Will heard the strains of hautboys and recorders and the beat of a drum.
“What are musicians doing in the hall of justice?” he said.
Mack shook his head slowly, as full of awe as Will himself.
They quickly determined there were three courts in session, and for every fearful defendant and belligerent plaintiff, a dozen or more officials. Will had studied their duties in his handbook but could by no means discern a clerk from a cursitor or a filazer from a prothonotary.
Mack, so confident in the streets, was timid in this new place. “You are better spoken than I am, Will. Why not argue your own case?”
Will held Mack’s sleeve. “Be steadfast for me. The judge must respect the defendant who can afford a lawyer.”
Will forged a path through the throng of noblemen, merchants, shopkeepers, farmers, and foreigners. He could identify the French by their nasal tones and fashionable dress, the Dutch by their thick speech and dirty boots.
“The whole world is at Westminster!” he mused aloud.
Finally he located the Queen’s Bench, where his case was to be heard. His fingers fumbled through the handbook. “Remember, Mack, quid pro quo. This for that,” he murmured. “The settlement I offered Burbage. A fair judge will accept it.”
“He must,” said Mack. “How do you say in Latin, ‘One cannot squeeze blood from a stone’?”
“I don’t know, but say it in English and he will see the point.”
The court’s business moved quickly. Some cases took only minutes. The judge’s eyebrows formed a long black caterpillar as he interrupted the lawyers and questioned the witnesses himself. The jurymen shrugged as they pronounced their verdicts; some even slept. Will trembled to think of his fate resting in their careless hands.
“This judge behaves like a king,” said Mack. “He tells the jury how to rule and they obey him.”
“Everyone has been found guilty. I shall find no mercy here,” Will said, dismayed.
“Burbage versus Shakespeare!” cried out a clerk with a red badge on his robe.
“Remember to speak in a low and manly voice,” Will reminded Mack. “Otherwise you betray your youth.”
Will stepped up to the bench with Mack at his elbow. He saw Burbage across from them with his arms folded, sneering. The judge snatched a document from the clerk.
“Are you the defendant, John Shakespeare?”
“No, I appear in my father’s stead,” Will replied. “I am—”
“Another damnable debtor!” said the judge. “Have you the money upon you?”
Will motioned to Mack. “Speak!” he hissed.
“No, Your Majesty—I mean, Your Honor,” began Mack. “My client proposes a quod pro qua—I mean, a prid quid quo—something for something!”
Will grimaced. He saw the sweat beading Mack’s brow.
“What my lawyer means—” he began.
“Does not matter!” roared the judge. “Lex remedium dabit. The law gives a remedy. Shakespeare, I sentence you to Bridewell. Learn to work like an honest man.”
Bridewell? Will saw himself tied to a harness like an ox and straining against a heavy millstone.
“Your Honor! Hear me,” cried Mack.
Will’s heart sank. He had made a terrible mistake in trying to teach Mack too quickly! He should have devoted all his time to this Burbage matter, not to writing verses.
“You may not punish my client, William Shakespeare, in lieu of his father, John Shakespeare, for debita sequuntur personam debitoria; debts follow the debtor,” said Mack with perfect clarity. “Not the debtor’s kin.”
“Well spoken, Mack!” Will cried, hope rising in him.
The judge, however, was deaf to all pleas. He thrust a document at his clerk, who passed it to a marshal, who seized Will roughly. Too stunned to protest, Will let himself be led away.
“Here is no justice!” Mack was shouting now. “This is cruel rigor. Per vinculum ad venitum et rigor mortis.”
Will knew the phrase was nonsense invented on the spot by Mack. His friend’s voice rose in pitch. He pounded the bar. Will feared he would soon commit mayhem. God forbid they should both be arrested! Who would help them then?
“I came to the Queen’s Bench for mercy. For equity!” Will cried over his shoulder. “Will no one hear me? I am not John Shakespeare!” He struggled against the marshal, who only tightened his grip and pushed him onward. Through the sea of startled faces eager for new sensation and relishing this tragedy.
To Bridewell.
Will ducked his head. A tide of shame surged in him and he saw his every hope and ambition washed away.