Thomas Valentine had traversed the length and breadth of London searching for the lady he longed to marry. His hopes never faltered, for he was of a sanguine nature. Sir Percival, to the contrary, had an excess of black bile that made him choleric. Every day Thomas was forced to listen to the same complaint: “O a serpent’s tooth is not so sharp as a daughter’s ingratitude!”
At first Thomas believed Olivia had run away to escape her father, who kept her like a bird in a cage. But if Olivia wanted to fly away, why did she not fly to him, her betrothed? Every day after finishing his studies, he would bring her a posy of sweet flowers and describe to her the wonders of the heart, the liver, and the blood. She would close her eyes and bury her nose in the bouquet.
One day he considered that perhaps Olivia had fled from him. The thought caused a pang like a surgeon’s knife nicking his heart. He understood the body’s humors and the causes of fever better than he understood how Olivia could disdain his love. He held her always in his mind’s eye. She was his star by night—but which one among the distant, shimmering multitude? By day she was the invisible moon. Where among the earthly multitude of this mazelike city had she concealed herself?
Thomas wandered that mid-October day as dusk drew on. The ailing Sir Percival lay in his bed at the Red Lion Inn with a mustard poultice on his chest. The doctor stroked his beard, a new feature of his appearance. He reasoned that since Olivia was fleeing him, he might have better luck catching her if she did not recognize him. Finding himself near Aldgate, he remembered the day he had arrived in London and bandaged the head of a young man. Will was his name and he had been writing a play. Was not the fellow lodging at a nearby inn? He had not yet inquired there for Olivia, an oversight he decided to remedy.
Just at the city gate he was knocked to his knees by someone in a great hurry.
“Pardon me,” the fellow said and paused to help him up. “Are you the doctor? By your beard I hardly know you. Have you found your love yet?”
“How can this be? I was just thinking of you,” Thomas said. “If I could conjure my beloved with my thoughts, there would be a thousand Olivias before me, but there is not one.”
Will Shakespeare—for that was his name, as Thomas recalled—said, “What does she look like? Maybe I have seen her.”
Thomas frowned to aid his thinking. “Her eyes are evenly spaced, her flesh as white as bone, and her hair falls about her shoulders. In brief, she is the most proper size and proportion for a woman such as herself.”
“She beggars all description,” said Will with great seriousness. “If I see her I will say that you seek her.” He touched his cap in farewell.
Thomas did not want to be alone. Nor did he want to return to the sickroom of Sir Percival. “Shall we sup together at your lodging?”
Will groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. “I cannot eat or sleep tonight—”
“Your head! Does it still hurt you?”
“No, but I must be up all night with my law book, good doctor. For the ruffian who beat me up now sues my dearest friend for beating him up. I have just got out of prison, but my friend is locked up and I must contrive a way to free him by morning.”
Thomas drew back, wary of being mixed up with people who were always being assaulted, sued, and jailed. Perhaps Sir Percival was right that Will was bad company.
“I shall take no more of your time tonight, Will Shakespeare. Good luck against your foe. He did seem a ruthless one.”
“Wait!” Will laid a hand on his arm. “You saw my assailant that night, did you not?”
Thomas could not deny it, for he was an honest man. And before he knew it he had been persuaded to appear as a witness against Roger Ruffneck, who, by the deeds Will described, was undoubtedly a villain. He had no choice now but to trust Will, for without bleeding him and analyzing his humors he had no way to judge his nature.
“When this mistaken affair is ended, Thomas, I shall be forever your debtor.”
“I want no money, only my Olivia,” said Thomas with a sigh. “I will meet you tomorrow at the guildhall.”
Thomas went back to the inn and tended Sir Percival’s rheumy chest. He did not tell him about his appointment the next day, knowing the old man would try to dissuade him from it. As the night wore on, doubt and hope battled within him. He was a man of reason who did not easily comprehend strong feeling, much less succumb to it. But he almost believed his meeting with Will Shakespeare was preordained and that an event of great moment would soon occur to change his destiny.
He heard Sir Percival grinding his teeth and murmuring in his sleep, “Olivia, Olivia, ungrateful daughter!”
Thomas could not rest. He rose from his bed and leaned on the windowsill, gazing up at the winking stars.