Mr. Shakespeare's Bastard (25 page)

Scarfe frowned. “It seems an odd choice for a dying woman. Those on their last legs usually like psalms and sermons to ease them out of life. Why would your mother want a story about fairies and silly lovers running around the forest? I allow there is drollery in parts, but it’s mostly foolishness.”

I told him that foolishness is sometimes what we are most in need of, and then, as if I had known him all my life, I began to talk about my mother and her strange ways: her
store of whimsy and odd beliefs in wood creatures and the spirit world, her pleasure in the company of an old woman who many accounted a witch; I told him of walking with Mam in the woods and how she talked to birds and flowers and didn’t mind if I laughed at her. I spoke of her innocent nature and how she lay in the woods with a young man who couldn’t speak, and for that was exiled to London. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell Scarfe that Mam had met the poet Shakespeare when he was only an apprentice player, and that I was probably conceived not all that far from where we sat. It seemed too outlandish and I feared his disbelief and laughter.

Then, as though reading my very thoughts, he asked, “And how came you into the world, then? Were you born under a toadstool in those woods near your village?”

“No,” I laughed. “Mam returned to Worsley and married a man named Wilkes, who died before I was born.” So Wilkes proved more useful in death than ever he was in life, his character, more malleable now in my imagination, returning in my account not as the rogue he was, but as a poor honest fellow unlucky enough to be kicked by a horse while Mam was carrying me.

Scarfe had nearly finished the second bottle, and again he was at that bag. To my relief he didn’t have another bottle, but drew from it a copy of
A Midsummer-Night’s Dream
and handed it to me, saying, “Read me something from the
forest and the fields. As you say, we often need foolishness in our lives.” With that he lay on his back and closed his eyes. “Something now to put me in good spirit, Miss Ward. Your Mr. Shakespeare has a ready wit when he’s a mind to use it. Read some of the lines he gave the mechanicals. One of them was a weaver, was he not? An idiot, but comical. As I remember, he plays Pyramus, who believes his beloved This be has been devoured by a lion and so decides to join her in death. But he takes his time about it, does he not?”

I was a little heady myself from the wine, and on a whim leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll do better,” I said. “I’ll play the scene for you as though you were in a playhouse.”

Opening his eyes, he sat up blinking. “Will you now, by God? A performance for me alone here on Finsbury’s grass?”

“Yes,” I said, grasping one of the empty bottles and getting to my feet. “And this will do for Bottom’s dagger.”

“That would serve better as truncheon,” said Scarfe.

“It will have to do. It cannot be a truncheon, for Pyramus cannot hit himself upon the head. He must plunge the dagger into his breast. The scene demands it.”

“Very well, then,” said Scarfe, leaning back on his elbows. “A fat dagger, but yet a dagger. Play on. Let the commotion commence and continue. Declaim, child.”

The wine fumes must surely have been in my head, for I cried loud enough to confound an elderly man who had
stopped to watch. Beside him, a small dog began to bark, which seemed apt enough for my foolishness and anyway I didn’t care.

How Scarfe laughed! Beside himself with mirth and perhaps I too had seldom been so happy. I could hear the distant church bells of London on a Sunday morning, and I was with a boy in Finsbury Fields and was making him laugh.

“I love that line,” Scarfe said.
“Where heart doth hop.
The weaver is an excellent clown.”

“Be quiet,” I said. “I haven’t finished.” The dog was barking frantically now and the old man looked merely baffled. Holding the bottle by its neck, I stabbed myself in the chest.

“A tongue with eyes,” Scarfe cried. “Jesu, I had forgot that.”

“Moon, take thy flight!”

“Away, moon,” said Scarfe.

“Now die, die, die, die, die.”

Staggering back and beating the bottle against my chest, I collapsed finally to the grass while the maddened dog circled us barking. I lay there in laughter and tears, pleased that I had banished Scarfe’s brooding humour, remembering too how Mam had so enjoyed that passage.

After a moment he said, “You’re good company for your age, Miss Ward.”

“Not all that younger than you,” I said, wishing he would call me Aerlene, though he never did; I was always Miss Ward and he would always be Scarfe in the days ahead, and after a while I didn’t mind. These were the roles we had cast for ourselves.

We parted that day by Crosby Hall, but before leaving he said he had been making inquiries of stationers and booksellers. “I was told Shakespeare lives over the river in Bankside near the new playhouse. They say he’s a shareholder in Burbage’s company, so he is doing well enough for himself, and you can see it in the cut of his clothes. That cloak of his would cost a barrister’s fee and no mistake. You told me yesterday you wanted to see Finsbury
and the playhouses. Well, you’ve seen the former, so now for the latter. I’ll take you over the river next Wednesday afternoon if you can get free. Meet me by St. Magnus at one o’clock. Do you know it?”

“Yes, my uncle and I have walked to St. Magnus Corner.”

The wine was wearing off, and I sensed that Scarfe was again growing sullen.

“I’m grateful to you for the day,” I said.

“I enjoyed it myself,” he muttered as he hurried away down Bishopsgate Street.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, then,” I called after him, but he didn’t look back, only lifted an arm to acknowledge me.

When I returned to Threadneedle Street, it was mid-afternoon and I worried that my absence would be remarked upon with a flood of questions to follow. But it had not been noticed at all because there was drama enough in the family parlour with a quarrel involving mother, father and daughter. Jenny was listening at the door but when she saw me went quickly upstairs. At once I took her place, grateful for this timely distraction. Aunt Eliza’s voice was raised in anger and I heard sobbing from Marion. The argument concerned a suitor who, it seemed, was not a boy in accord with Marion’s age, but a man some eight years older—her dancing master, in fact,
a Frenchman named Couric. For Aunt Eliza, the arrangement was unsuitable and must stop. Poor Marion pleaded on behalf of her heart.

“But I love him. Can’t you understand?”

It was pitiful to hear, in a way.

From time to time I heard Boyer’s voice, quieter and more reasonable, though he too was not in favour of his daughter’s alliance with the dancing master. Good businessman that he was, his reason was more practical. Couric, he said, was known around town as a flagrant debtor.

“He owes money in half the shops at the Exchange,” said Boyer, a hint of impatience in his voice. “You are only sixteen, Marion. You cannot align yourself to a man with such debts. I intend to speak to Couric.”

Another burst of weeping from Marion.

I crept upstairs away from it all, wondering how her business with the dancing master had been discovered and whether Marion had already offered herself to him. What a nice predicament if she found herself with child! How would her sanctimonious mother deal with that? But it was an ill-bred thought and I chastened myself for its malice. Lying down, I began to count the hours until one o’clock on Wednesday, hoping that Scarfe would keep his word.

That Wednesday, I was early at St. Magnus Corner and stood watching the people as they crossed the bridge towards Southwark, some going, I guessed, to the playhouses or bear
pits, others perhaps leaving London altogether, returning to towns and villages to start again, for a goodly number of them bore sacks or pushed small carts. I thought of Mam standing at that very corner waiting for Mary Pinder. I seemed to be following in her footsteps.

Scarfe was late by two quarter chimes of the St. Magnus bell, but appeared in a new doublet and hose, smelling of drink. I wondered if he had filched more books and resold them.

“And here is Miss Ward, waiting as I knew she would,” he said. “And I am late again. I can only plead that I had business to attend. My apologies.”

“Think nothing of it, Scarfe,” I said. “I’m growing accustomed to your ways.”

He took my arm. “We’ll get away from this press and go by Old Swan stairs and get a wherry. It’s only a few minutes.”

I had been looking forward to crossing the bridge, but Scarfe was resolute and so we walked along Thames Street and followed others down an alley to the stairs. An overcast day, but mild; autumn was still lingering. A queue of sorts at the jetty with people waving for boats—playgoers fearful of being late, I imagined. The boatmen seemed to favour the well-dressed, and though Scarfe was in new clothes there was about him—I had to admit it myself—an unfinished look; despite the clothes he still had an air of the saucy
apprentice, and his waving arm was overlooked until others had boarded. Finally a boat edged its way to the dock and we climbed in. Scarfe was clearly angered by the slighting he’d suffered, and as we were rowed across, he looked sulkily upriver muttering about the manners of watermen. I wished he would leave off, since I was enjoying the boatride.

The wherryman was amused by Scarfe’s grumbling and said, “What’s that you say, young master? Have you a complaint to lodge against our trade?”

Scarfe turned to look at the grinning man as he pulled on his oars. “Yes, I have,” he said. “When trade is good, you fellows don’t mind choosing your favourites. It’s a matter of the gratuity, I suppose.”

“It could well be, young master,” said the wherryman.

Looking westward again Scarfe muttered, “It’s not right. People shouldn’t be kept waiting over their dress.”

“What’s that, young master?” said the man. “I didn’t catch the words. I hope you’re not being uncivil to my fellow watermen.”

The man was used to all sorts of trade—that was clear enough—and he knew how to mock if the occasion demanded it. His even-tempered but insolent manner had put Scarfe off balance. After we docked on Bankside, the man was elaborate in his praise of the two pennies Scarfe gave him.

“Thank you, young master. We’ll dine well tonight, me and the missus and all nine whelps.”

Scarfe muttered, “Bastard,” as we joined the crowd headed for the bear pits and playhouses. The word always rankled, but I was too busy looking at everything to care, watching the ladies on the arms of their gallants, apprentices taking the afternoon off, apple and hazelnut sellers—it was all there in front of me.

It was said that my father lived somewhere in this neighbourhood, and I was both surprised and disappointed; if he was now successful, why would he choose a place so crowded and noisome? When I said as much to Scarfe, he only shrugged.

“Close to his work, I suppose, or perhaps he likes the bawds. There’s enough of them about. I need a drop of wine, and no mistake. That wherryman put me out of spirit.”

In a tavern called the Antelope, he ordered wine, but I wanted nothing but a clear head. The wine soon improved Scarfe’s outlook, however, and he said, “The performance will be on now at the new playhouse, so it will be quiet by the door. Let’s see if anyone knows where your Mr. Shakespeare lives.”

He was right. The performance had started at the Globe and we could hear laughter now and then. A handbill on a post announced the play, but since it was not by my father, I took no account of the author or title. A man in mouse-coloured livery stood by the entrance cleaning his nails with a penknife.

“A good day to you, sir,” said Scarfe. The doorman nodded and went back to his nail cleaning. “I wonder,” said Scarfe, “if you would be good enough to tell us where we might find Mr. Shakespeare?”

The man looked at us in an unfriendly manner. “Why would you want to find Mr. Shakespeare?” he asked.

“As it happens,” said Scarfe, “this young lady is his cousin from Warwickshire. Just arrived in the city and staying with her aunt and uncle on Threadneedle Street at the sign of the yellow hat. Very fine premises indeed. She’d like to pass on good wishes to her cousin.”

Scarfe’s lie made me nervous, and the doorman’s close examination of me didn’t help. But perhaps he surmised that I
was
newly arrived and therefore ill at ease.

“Haven’t seen him about lately,” he said. “But he has lodgings at the Elephant on Clink Street by Horseshoe Alley. Down that way,” he said, “where you came from.”

“The Elephant, you say,” said Scarfe. “I think I saw its board. Thank you, sir.”

And off we went. “There now,” he said to me, “we’re on our way to finding the man. I wouldn’t mind a word with him myself.”

I couldn’t believe how easily Scarfe had lied. And it worked, though I wasn’t easy with the deception.

“I’ll tell him how much I enjoyed his
Hamlet,”
said Scarfe. “A very fine piece of work. Poets enjoy such praise.”

At the bar in the nearly empty tavern, he told the same story to the tap man. I was Shakespeare’s young cousin from the country, eager to make his acquaintance. The tap man didn’t even bother to look at me, but spoke directly to Scarfe.

“You missed him by a few days,” he said. “Saturday last, maybe Sunday, he left for lodgings in the city. Somewhere in Cripplegate, I was told. Too bad. A gentleman, Mr. Shakespeare, and a good customer.”

Scarfe was pleased with the results of his inquiries. “I have missed my calling, Miss Ward,” he said as we left the Elephant. “I might have done excellent service as a bailiff. I’ve tracked our man now to Cripplegate and I know that neighbourhood well. Why, Scriveners’ Hall is on Noble Street, and when I was a boy, Pa used to take me to the Christmas revels there. I’ll ask around.”