As the play ended, Will took Lucy’s hand and kissed it. ‘Are those real tears? You do me too much honour. It is barely my play at all, though the original had Cordelia survive. This ending is better, I believe, with her death. Though it may be more poignant if the old king should die too. I shall rewrite it later. When I have time.’
‘It is perfect,’ she whispered.
He smiled, but shook his head. ‘A rackety old thing, cobbled together like a bad shoe. It will take a few years to make it right. It lacks … I don’t know what it lacks, but one day I will find it. More men, perhaps. There are altogether too many women in the piece. For now, the crowd are happy and that’s all that matters. That, and my fee.’
‘Don’t try to pretend it’s all about the money,’ she told him, but let him pull her to her feet. The fine ladies and their servants in the galleries and private boxes had already left the theatre, so she felt safe enough in unfastening her mask. ‘I should get back. Cathy is alone with her son.’
‘Another hour, my black beauty,’ he promised, and pulled her close, his arm about her waist.
Oh, but this was dangerous. Lucy looked into his face, aware of the groundlings still milling about below them, and the handful of players already clearing the stage for the next day’s performance. ‘I loved the play, Will,’ she murmured, then unhooked his false beard and dropped it to the stage. ‘But I do not love this.’
‘Then I shall only wear it when I wish to frighten you,’ he replied, and kissed her on the lips.
One of the players made a vile remark as he swept the stage behind them, but Lucy closed her ears to it and let Will kiss her.
She was hardly able to believe that this coarse young man could have brought all those hundreds of people in the theatre to such heights of joy and despair for the past few hours. It was almost as if there were two Will Shakespeares. The one whose soul bled on to the paper in the likeness of a poet, and the other a wicked creature whose hands strayed about her body until she had forgotten all her protests.
‘Two hours at the most,’ Will continued persuasively. He helped her jump down from the high stage. ‘Players and playwrights must always visit a tavern after the play, did you not know that? It is an old English custom – as old as Morris dancers, or plum pudding at Yuletide. No, I insist that you come too. The playwright and his lovely muse. Where would I be without you?’
Entering the crowded tavern in his wake, Lucy was relieved to see other women there. Though it was not much of a comfort to realize that most were whores, for some were sitting on the men’s knees with their skirts drawn up, while two or three were openly allowing themselves to be fondled, breasts spilling from low-bodiced gowns as they kissed and drank liberally from the jugs of ale on every table.
‘Kit!’ Will cried, and held out his hand to a young man lounging at the bar. ‘Still writing?’
‘Still rewriting, Will?’
Will laughed and shook the young man’s hand, but Lucy guessed he was not amused by the jibe. ‘We have just come from
King Lear
at the Curtain.’ He pulled Lucy forward, ignoring her protest. ‘Look what I’ve found. This is my muse, Kit. Isn’t she lovely?’
The young man met Lucy’s embarrassed glance with a steady gaze of his own, and bowed. ‘Undoubtedly a jewel among the Ethiopians. Does your black muse have a name?’
‘Lucy,’ Will told him, and smiled back at her lazily. ‘Her name is Mistress Lucy Morgan. She is lately come from court, where she had the run of the palaces and served the Queen herself.’
‘A lady of the court? I didn’t know you moved in such exalted circles.’ Kit Marlowe’s voice was oddly sharp. Lucy looked at Will questioningly. But he just raised Lucy’s hand to his lips and kissed it, smiling again.
‘Lucy, this is Kit Marlowe. Don’t trust him, and do not believe a word he says. He is a disreputable playwright, just as I am.’
‘No, Will,’ Kit corrected him softly, ‘you are a player who tinkers with old plays to make them better. I am the only disreputable playwright here.’
Now there was no mistake. Will’s face stiffened with anger. What to do now? She dreaded a quarrel between these two men that might draw even more attention. ‘My love,’ she whispered in Will’s ear, rubbing against him, ‘can you find me a place to sit by the door? This room is so hot, I can hardly breathe.’
Will turned to look at her. His fists were clenched, his eyes glazed with fury. She guessed why. His pride as a playwright had been hurt, and in front of a woman too. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth and he seemed to recall where he was.
‘A seat by the door,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Of course I can find you one. Are you faint with the heat, sweet Lucy? I’m not surprised.’
Steering her towards the door, he inclined his head stiffly to Kit Marlowe. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Kit.’
The door to the tavern had been propped open. Men had already spilt out into the street with their flagons of ale, some singing drunkenly. One collapsed in the doorway as they approached, sprawled on the dirt, and Will swung Lucy into his arms, lifting her high over the man’s prone body.
‘Drunken sot.’ He laughed, and set her down on the low wall outside. She saw several men glance in her direction, and kept her gaze fixed on Will’s face. He smiled, kissing her mouth hotly, then her throat. ‘Dearest Lucy. I am so glad to have found you again.’
She cupped his face in her hands. ‘And I you,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry about Marlowe,’ he muttered. ‘That young whoreson bastard thinks himself too good for the rest of us, with his Cambridge education and his political plays. He loves to insult other playwrights. If you had not been there, I would have punched him in the face. Still might, if he gives me provocation. He cannot keep a civil tongue in his head.’
‘But that would make me unhappy,’ she told him. ‘You could be arrested for brawling. Put in the stocks.’
‘For you, anything.’
He closed his eyes against the bright sunshine, tracing her mouth
and
chin with his fingers like a blind man. She had seen him do that before, almost as though he were learning the contours of her face. Like his kisses, it seemed too intimate a gesture for such a public place, and she stirred, drawing back a little.
‘I am thirsty,’ she said plaintively.
Will laughed. ‘Then I shall be your servant and fetch you refreshment, Mistress Morgan. Will you share a flagon of English ale with me?’ He made a face. ‘But I’m forgetting you were a queen’s lady. Would you prefer a cup of wine? I don’t know if they serve any wine in this godforsaken establishment, but I can ask.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Ale is good.’
He looked about, then hailed a grey-haired man by the door who was deep in conversation with a band of players, some still in costume. She recognized the man as one of Goodluck’s friends from the theatre, a James Burbage, who had once or twice been kind to her when she’d been a curious child, peeping round the curtain into the tiring-room – where the actors disrobed after each performance – while Goodluck was on stage.
‘Burbage! Will you look after my lady here while I fetch her ale? There’s a cup in it for you, too, if you keep her safe from molestation.’
James Burbage extricated himself from the group and hurried over, his gaze full of frank admiration. ‘Such a dusky beauty, Will. I congratulate you on your taste. My lovely wanton, if you ever drop Shakespeare, may I be considered next in line for your bed?’
‘I … I think we know each other, Master Burbage,’ she managed, a little hot-cheeked at his impudence. ‘You were friends with my guardian, Master Goodluck.’
Burbage looked at her more closely. She saw recognition in his face, then a look that might have been guilt. He bowed over her hand. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Morgan. I am a drunken oaf and should have my tongue cut out. How could I have forgotten Goodluck’s lovely ward?’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘I was sorry to hear of his death.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘So you keep company with young Shakespeare now?’ he remarked, and again she was surprised at that strange look on his face when she nodded.
What was it? How had she upset him? Was this embarrassment
that
she was Shakespeare’s mistress? Master Burbage had no reason to think ill of her for such a choice; they loved each other and that was all that mattered. Perhaps it was guilt that he had not offered to help when her guardian died? Yet that was hardly his office, even as an old friend of Goodluck’s.
Besides, she was no whore, whatever Burbage or any other man here might think, hanging about the theatres in hope of trade. She still had Goodluck’s house and she was looking after herself well enough. Soon Will would look after her too. Once they were married.
Another man had joined them, smiling and bowing. He was tall and slim-hipped, built like one of the male dancers at Queen Elizabeth’s court. Under his feathered cap, his hair was slicked back. He reminded her of those courtiers who desperately sought to rise in the Queen’s favour, yet had neither money nor rank to recommend them.
‘But you must be the infamous, dark-eyed Mistress Morgan,’ the young man exclaimed. He looked her up and down, one hand resting lightly on his hip. ‘And now I see why Will made you the subject of so many lovelorn sonnets. You are a beautiful creature indeed.’
Will introduced them with obvious reluctance. ‘Lucy, this is a friend and neighbour of mine. His name is Jack Parker, but I beg you to forget it at once. He is the greatest knave that ever—’
‘Pax!’ Jack Parker held up his hand. ‘I shall say nothing more of your sonnets.’
Lucy smiled back at Jack, whom she could not help but like instinctively. He had such an engaging smile, though his admiration seemed a little mocking. But that was the way of all Will’s friends in the theatre.
‘Sir,’ she murmured, curtsying, ‘I share your dismay at Master Shakespeare’s sonnets. Yet I cannot seem to stop him writing them.’
Laughing and exasperated, Will left her with Burbage and Parker, and went inside in search of ale. Burbage was soon joined by his other friends, some of whom Lucy also remembered from her childhood – those wonderful, unconventional days spent sitting backstage with her horn book or rag dolls while Goodluck rehearsed or performed – and talk rapidly turned back to the theatre.
This
was something she could understand, and so did not have to stand with her head lowered, unable to take an interest or discuss her thoughts, as at court when politics or intrigue had become the topic of conversation between courtiers. It was not dangerous here to venture an opinion, whereas a word in the wrong ear at court might leave you isolated overnight and in peril of your life.
Will returned with two brimming flagons of strong ale for them all to share, and bought an ounce of tobacco from a passing street trader. With a grin, he settled on the wall beside Lucy to smoke, pressing a few pinches of dried tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe. Its delicately fragrant smoke mingled with the smells of hot roast pig and pickled herrings as an array of trenchers were brought out to the hungry players, who ate standing up, licking their fingers between courses in the absence of a water bowl or cloth.
The afternoon drifted almost unnoticed into evening, the sun still warm on their faces as they drank, smoked and conversed. It was the first time since leaving Goodluck’s care at the age of fourteen to join the court that Lucy had felt truly free; free to drink in this rough company of men, to laugh and speak her mind without fear of censure or ridicule. Early on, she had become used to the company of men, as she had run and played among Goodluck’s theatricals, their wit and coarse ribaldry sailing over her head. Now that she was a woman, and more aware of the arts of love, she allowed herself to laugh with them as the ale lifted her mood, not caring what any man might think, seeing her so unrestrained.
Will passed her the pipe and laughed when she drew on it curiously, exploding in a fit of coughing.
‘Not so deep!’ he advised her, and showed Lucy how the pipe should be smoked. ‘Try again, and breathe shallow this time. It is good for the heart. Small puffs; you will soon feel its benefits.’
As they were leaving, Lucy unsteady on her feet, Will’s arm tight about her waist, one of the older men swaggered forward to stop them. He wore a pearl earring in one ear, and was more richly dressed than most of the theatricals who frequented the tavern. His face and nose were a blotchy red, though, and not merely from the sun, for she could smell the beer on his breath. Lucy supposed he must be one of the theatre share owners, not a mere player, and lowered her gaze before his bold glance.
‘Whither are you bound, young Shakespeare? Back to your flea-ridden lodgings and a straw pallet on the floor?’ The man laughed carelessly. ‘Come back to my place instead. I’ve a bed, and we can share your black whore more comfortably there.’
The other men with him were grinning. Will’s friends stepped forward, shadowing him. The narrow backstreet – so bright before – seemed to darken, a gloomy dusk coming upon them almost by stealth, the overhanging houses looming above them; even the discordant music from a beggar’s whistle echoing round the walls suddenly sounded menacing.
The man shook his head at Will’s instinctive gesture towards his dagger, tucked discreetly into his belt at the back. ‘Now, sir, don’t put that frowning face on. I’ve had a skinful and I know it. But let us not quarrel over trifles. I’ve ten shillings in my fat purse says your whore can pleasure us both tonight.’
‘Don’t,’ she muttered, reading the anger in Will’s face and fearing what might follow.
A dark flush on his cheeks, Will shrugged off the hand she placed warningly on his arm.
‘You are mistaken, Carter. This lady is no whore,’ he bit out, drawing his dagger, ‘and I shall prove that on your dead body.’
The approaching men stopped, instantly wary. The blade was eight inches long, no boy’s plaything but a sturdy weapon. Will held the dagger out towards the man, his gaze unwavering.
‘Take back your words, sirrah. I will not stand to hear this lady insulted.’
‘Lady!’ Carter laughed again, but less comfortably. He took a step back and drew his own dagger, a thick-bladed poignard, passing it from hand to hand. ‘But if that is how the wind blows, I’d as soon fight as fuck.’