License to Quill (5 page)

“Lady Percy.” The bard smiled.

It had been more than three years since the two had last seen each other.

As was custom for the time, Shakespeare took the lady by the arm and moved in to kiss her, but Penny was not going to have any of that. She threw her arms around the playwright and passionately attacked his handsome face. “Penny!” He tried to speak, but the sound was smothered against the woman's lips. Only once Penny ran her fingers down Shakespeare's back did the bard manage to free himself from her embrace. The man was flushed, and the woman delighted. “Lady Percy,” he repeated, reddened and winded.

“Still so formal.” Penny smiled as she artfully blocked the entrance with her body. “Oh, Will, if only you knew how long I've been waiting to find you knocking on my doors.”

“I hope the wait hasn't been too painful,” the bard teased while straightening his shirt.

“Oh, no. Believe me, Will, you don't know what pain is.” Penny stepped aside from the open doorway. “Won't you come in?” The playwright entered and Penny shut the door behind him so suddenly that it bumped into his buttocks and knocked his sword a few inches out of its sheath. “Please wait here while I make sure you two are not disturbed.” Shakespeare smiled uneasily while Penny sashayed in her silk gown across the hall into her study.

And so, in the regal foyer of Walsingham Mansion, the bard waited. And waited. And waited, until Penny emerged from her room with a long line of stern-looking men behind her. They marched straight toward the playwright, who out of instinct opened the door beside him. Shakespeare bowed his head like a footman while absorbing angry glares from, one by one, the secretary of state, the lord high chancellor, the master-general of the ordnance, the sheriff of London, a trine of astrologers, and every other government official whose meeting the bard had unexpectedly interrupted. Shakespeare imagined the astrologers were particularly affronted for failing to see this coming. Penny watched from her study with satisfaction as her gentleman caller was subjected to this irate parade of politicians. Once the humiliation was over, Shakespeare shoved the mansion's doors shut and threw his back against them. The playwright was sweating, and the lady secretary was beaming.

“You may come in now.” Penny beckoned with a gentle wave of her middle finger.

The bard exhaled and walked into Lady Percy's chambers. The lady sat down at her desk with a quill, and Shakespeare passed through a crimson door into Thomas Walsingham's office.

“Master W,” spoke the bard.

“Master Shakespeare,” the spy-chief acknowledged from behind his desk.

While Walsingham's attention was absorbed by a parchment in his hand, the standing playwright saw no harm in letting his eyes wander a bit. The ornate office appeared precisely as Shakespeare remembered it: an oaken fortress with armored walls that encased a vast archive of state secrets. Countless reports from cover agents throughout the Continent cluttered the room. Empty wineglasses adorned its tables atop encoded letters and cipher keys. An unusual brass device soon to be known as a telescope stood on a desk to Shakespeare's left. Large maps of the Netherlands and Spain festooned its walls, as did an unfinished, ever-changing map of the New World. A busy cloud of tobacco smoke hung in the air and descended in a silver string to a pipe on W's desk. A framed portrait of the late Sir Francis Walsingham by John de Critz loomed on the wall behind Thomas as an unspoken reminder of his family legacy in espionage. And on the wall to Shakespeare's right, a massive painting of the late spymaster's greatest achievement: the spectacular defeat of the Spanish Armada by English warships in 1588. It was a room with no windows, yet it offered a clear view to an empire. A British empire.

After this long silence, Thomas Walsingham at last lifted his eyes from his document. “You look the same,” he observed.

“As do you,” the bard replied with a soft smile.

Thomas sized Shakespeare down and up, then up some more. “I see you're still losing your hair.”

The bard's smile faded.

“Take a seat,” Walsingham ordered, and the playwright obeyed. “So, what's so important that it had to interrupt a private briefing?” The spy-chief set down his parchment and picked up his pipe. To Shakespeare's surprise, the document Walsingham had been poring over appeared to be nothing more than a drawing of a comet.

“Master W—” began the bard.

“Just call me W,” Walsingham interrupted. “It will save us some time.”

Shakespeare's jaw clenched. “Very well. W, about an hour ago a gentleman solicited me to write a play for Thomas Percy. Do you know him?”

“I'd be out of a job if I didn't,” Walsingham scoffed with a snort of smoke. “He hails from one of the finest households in England, and my lady secretary is his distant cousin.”

Very distant
, Penny mused as she took notes in her adjoining office.

“There are several peculiarities about this commission that trouble me,” the bard continued. “The representative employed an alias, John Johnson, but I know his name is Fawkes. Guy Fawkes.”

Walsingham did not appear troubled by this information, but he did not appear disinterested either. “Continue,” he commanded.

“The gentleman requested a play that I have no doubt would draw your ire. He wants a political play set in Scotland that dabbles in the occult.”

Shakespeare expected the spy-chief to jump upon hearing this. Instead, W continued to puff his pipe. “Is that everything?” he asked.

The bard cleared his throat. “Actually, there was one last thing this man mentioned. Something he threatened me with.” Shakespeare took a moment to choose his words carefully. “I think he knows about my lineage.”

Walsingham's posture shifted. “So, he knows you're Catholic?”

The playwright scowled at the spymaster. “No. I think he harbors misconceptions about my family's religious history that could … potentially harm me and my loved ones.”

“And your wife?” Walsingham prodded. The man knew all about Shakespeare's Catholic wedding to Anne Hathaway twenty-two years earlier, and how the ceremony had been “expedited” due to the significantly older bride's unexpected pregnancy.
*

Shakespeare's eyes narrowed.

“So, you're afraid that someone threatened you, your loved ones, and your wife. Honestly, Will, I'm disappointed you came to me with this. It's not your style. You're an actor! Couldn't you at least pretend not to sound so pathetic? You're too old and bald for me to be fighting your battles for you.”

The bard leaned forward, ignoring the spymaster's taunts. “W, does not this whole affair sound disturbingly similar to when I was approached by men from the Earl of Essex?”

This time, it was Thomas Walsingham's gray eyes that narrowed.

Three years earlier, Shakespeare's playing company was approached by representatives of Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, to stage a one-time-only performance of
Richard II
at the Globe. The actors were offered an extra forty shillings for their labors under one condition: the play had to include a scene previously censored by the English government—a scene henceforth known as “the deposition scene.”
*
Ultimately, Shakespeare let his personal politics cloud his judgment since he was bitter at Thomas Walsingham at the time. The bard believed the scene never should have been censored since his role as a government informant freed him from editorial oversight. As far as Shakespeare was concerned, Thomas betrayed their prior agreement by secretly monitoring his work. The bard agreed to perform the play as requested, uncensored, and without reporting it to “Master W,” as was his duty.

The show was staged on February 7, 1601. The next morning, the Earl of Essex and his allies launched an unsuccessful uprising against the ailing Queen Elizabeth.

Although the rebellion was crushed and the guilty parties arrested, the conspirators revealed under torture how they plotted to use
Richard II
and its deposition scene to turn the public against the Crown. Since Shakespeare was Walsingham's chief informant in London's theatrical circles, his decision to stage the play meant the English government had inadvertently financed and participated in an coup attempt against their own queen. The disaster may have unmasked the Earl of Essex as a traitor, but that did not absolve Shakespeare or his actors from the parts they played in this drama. The bard was immediately stripped of his status as an informant, his stipend was revoked, and for four terrible nights, he and all his actors were taken to the Tower of London for questioning.

Although everyone at the Globe Theatre was cleared of wrongdoing, the bard's error proved fatal for his relationship with Thomas Walsingham. The two had not seen each other since February 24, 1601: the night before the Earl of Essex was beheaded for treason. As a final punishment for their unique role in the coup, Queen Elizabeth ordered Shakespeare and his troupe to perform
Richard II
in a private show for her, in its entirety, including its infamous deposition scene. It was a terrifying experience, a sick charade concocted by shadowy figures like Walsingham and acted out by trembling players convinced they might be killed where they stood. When the accursed exhibit was over, the ailing Elizabeth rose from her royal chair, declared, “I am Richard II. Know ye not that?” and sent the men on their way. As Shakespeare locked eyes with his former friend and master, two of his actors fainted from the ordeal.

That was three years ago. Three years later in this darkened room on Seething Lane, Thomas had the same look on his face as he shook his head at the playwright. “Do you honestly think you can come back here and use a chance encounter as your redemption?”

“I am not seeking a reward,” Shakespeare clarified in an angered tone.

“Yes, you are. I know you well enough to know your motives, Will, and whatever brought you here today was most certainly
not
love of country.”

“The Globe Theatre is my country,” the bard affirmed. “And my fellow actors are my countrymen. I will defend them with my life.”

“As passionately as you defend your work?” Walsingham pointed with his pipe. “As passionately as your pride nearly destroyed this whole kingdom, including you, me, and all your precious actors? I doubt it. Much as I doubt your beloved ‘countrymen' share the same love for you after your arrogance nearly resulted in their incarceration and execution for high treason. Was that truly noble of you? Was it worth risking their lives without their consent or knowledge just so you could preserve a few extra lines in some silly play?”

The bard was silent.

Walsingham rose from his desk and marched straight up to Shakespeare. “In all my years of service, I've never encountered an enigma as impossible as you are. You possess such remarkable faculties for understanding history's greatest villains, yet you are wholly incompetent at understanding your own allies. What do you think keeps these unruly isles afloat, William? Our king? You know better than most people how easily kings and queens can be deposed. Our faith? As far as I'm concerned, all the gods, new and old, are as dead as King Henry's six wives. Nay, William. The only thing keeping this kingdom together is what goes on in this room: everything my late cousin started and everything men like you and I have continued. You know the types of reports I receive every day.” The spy-chief seized a fistful of letters and crumpled them in Shakespeare's face. “Every Catholic kingdom in Europe is plotting this country's demise! You and I are standing at the brink of oblivion in this office. Whether this kingdom lives to see a new century or whether it gets murdered in its sleep could come down to one missing letter, or a mistranslated word, or the unbelievable presumptuousness of one unthinking, unruly, uncontrollable playwright!” Walsingham threw his pages in a fury that blanketed the room. “You nearly destroyed us, William, and all those who would've ruled over our ashes would have heralded our downfall as God's own will!”

The bard kept his chin down but locked his eyes on his former master. “I am aware of my failings, and I like to think I paid for them. But while I admire your ‘religious' zeal for your work, I am sorry that that same passion forced us to part ways.”

“Who says it has? The door wasn't locked when you reported in today, Master Shakespeare.”

The playwright paused and lifted his head with surprise. He squared shoulders with Thomas Walsingham, whose posture exuded nothing but confidence after that last remark. “Is that what this is?”

“Only if you're willing to go once more unto the breach,” the spymaster replied, borrowing from one of Shakespeare's plays.

The bard narrowed his eyes but then smiled. As did Penny in the next room.

“Just because we monitor your work,” Walsingham continued, “does not mean we are incapable of admiring it.”

The playwright's smile dimmed slightly. “And what will it take for you to trust me with my work once more?”

“Only your trust in return.”

The bard nodded, and W accepted.

“Very good. Welcome back, master bard.”

Shakespeare offered a handshake, but Walsingham had already turned his back and returned to his desk. “The world is right where you left it. Make sure you don't keep any secrets from me this time around. If your suspicions are correct about your new employers, the only way we'll know the full extent of their plans is if you help them on their efforts.”

“So, I should accept the commission?”

“More than that. I want you to find out everything there is to know about them: who they are, where they meet, and what their plans are for this play.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Also…” Walsingham began to write a small letter. “Since you've been away for a while, pay Bacon a visit before you go home.”