Shakespeare's Rebel (17 page)

John did not blame her. Simon Forman was never going to be handsome. But at least he could contrive to look human.

Yet this beast could speak. ‘Master Shakespeare,’ he said, thrusting out one hand, ‘an honour as ever. And . . . Master Lawley, is it not? Twice honoured.’

In attempting to step aside, John had ended up going the same way as the maid. They both stepped the other way, and again he was blocking her. When it happened a third time, it must have appeared as if he were either teasing or attempting to dance. So he halted, she crashed into him, fluttered there like a bird trapped within leaded glass. She . . . crackled, something beneath her cloak. No traces of lovemaking rose, but another scent did. Cloves, a usual ingredient in perfumes. Popular, too; he had smelled it once already that night.

The maid slipped from arms he hadn’t realised he’d raised and, with a little cry, ran into the gloom.

‘Farewell, madam, dear . . . whatshisname,’ Forman called, still grasping Will’s hand and pulling him inside, ‘and mark again, before month’s end, the thrall of Venus.’

‘The thrall of Venus, Master Forman?’ Will had allowed himself to be dragged into the room, where a candelabra lit his face and the smile upon it. ‘I would conclude that you are the one under its thrall.’ He glanced around the small room. ‘For were you not . . .
entertaining
two ladies at once?’

‘It may appear so, sir,’ replied Forman, ‘but it was not so.’ He attempted to smooth down the hair horns. ‘The lady came for a consultation. Her maid . . .’ He frowned, gave up his attempt at hairdressing. ‘I am not certain what she came for, except to seduce me.’

‘While her mistress . . . enjoyed watching?’ Incredulous, John moved forward.

‘It is unusual, sir, but not . . . unheard of. When people consult the stars and the whole magical world, different attitudes are displayed.’ Forman shrugged. ‘And yet I do not know if she took pleasure in the viewing, since I was . . . engaged. And I was unable to ask, as they were startled by your knock with me scarce able to conclude.’ He clapped his hands together, went on in a very different tone as he stepped back, ‘Can I offer you some ale? I can mull it, if you like. Or something stronger, perhaps, for the night is cold, is it not?’

Shaking his head – he considered himself worldly, but did not believe he would have displayed such disregard if he’d been caught in this situation – John followed his friend in. The phrase ‘something stronger’ paused him as well, as it always did. But he took a breath, then answered, ‘A mulled ale would serve me well.’

‘And I,’ said Will, ‘though sitting to enjoy it might prove a problem.’ Indeed, every spare inch of the room appeared to be covered in paper. It filled the chair, covered the stools and the trestle, submerged the table, where sheaves appeared especially flattened.

‘Ah yes. Apologies, gentlemen. I have been somewhat busy since the Queen’s rapprochement with the earl, and his acceptance of her majesty’s commission for war.’ He lifted papers, put them aside. ‘Soldiers, soldiers, demanding to know if death or glory awaits them. Or both. Ah!’ Two joint stools had emerged from under mounds of paper that were swiftly perched atop other mounds, slag heaps formed and leaning precariously. ‘Please.’ He gestured, then moved to the fireplace. He shoved a brace of iron pokers into the coals, then pulled two pewter tankards from hooks on the ceiling, filling them from a stone jug.

‘And the earl himself is one of your clients, I heard,’ said John, sitting, balancing, as Will did.

Forman looked up. ‘Ah, you have seen my noble lord? Indeed, he has so honoured me. Knows I am both excellent and discreet. For if he went to the court’s supercilious Dr Dee, he would not only get a vague reading but the results would be broadcast to every ear in Whitehall.’ He pulled one poker from the coals, ran a cloth over it to remove the ash then plunged it into a tankard. It sizzled and steam rose. He handed the mug to William. ‘Good sir.’

It was true, John thought. Any horoscope, however confidential, would be shown near straight to the Secretary of State. Dog days or Mars ascendant, the crouch-backed spymaster, Robert Cecil, would want to know of it and use it for his purposes.

Shakespeare sipped. ‘And as to the business, Master Forman? Have you had time to look into my minor matters, with so many weighty ones’ – he glanced at the flattened papers upon the table – ‘to occupy you?’

‘I have indeed, sir. And nothing that concerns the welfare of the realm’s foremost playwright can be considered minor.’ He pulled the other poker out, wiped, plunged, then handed John the heated mug. ‘You will excuse us, Master Lawley?’ Forman pulled a stool close to the playwright on his other side.

As the two of them began to whisper, John swigged; wrinkled his nose. It was not overly hot, but the flavour was harsh. Another import from the Dutch wars, like the pox and . . . and the smell of cloves. The Hollanders brewed their beer with hops to make it last. This made it bitter. It also tasted strong. Double double, perhaps? Though it was not the same as whisky for him, there was danger in the stronger ales too. It was why he always eased off from a debauch with small beer. Drank himself sober, like any martin drunkard.

Still . . . he took a gulp. The effect was near instant . . . and pleasing. He suddenly felt more awake. His mind expanding again, he could focus on his plan. To help Burbage while helping his friend by dissuading him from revisiting a tired old play and focusing instead on something that suited the martial hour. To watch his son rise, while setting epic fights for Chamberlain’s men. Perhaps to work himself back into a role. Woo Tess anew. And above all, to keep far, far, far from the reach of Robert Devereux!

He toasted the scheme with a larger gulp. The beer tasted better and he was awake again. Why had he even considered sleep? He looked at the whispering men. Perhaps when their business was concluded he could persuade his old friend Will to accompany him to the Cardinal Cap Inn in Southwark and cheer his boy. He could work upon him along the way. Besides, it wasn’t every day that a Lawley made his debut before the Queen.

He raised his mug – empty, which was both strange and annoying. Then he saw something that pleased him even less. The magus was passing a bottle to the playwright. It was brown, squat, familiar. It was whisky. And though he had no intention of having even one small sip, it was hard that the rogues did not trust him enough to offer some for him to refuse. Or something. ‘Let’s share that then, if we be friends,’ he found himself saying, as he rose from his stool and stepped in.

Will placed a palm on his shoulder, holding him off. ‘Good soul,’ he said gently, ‘I know that this is probably your most difficult hour. Yet hold to your resolve. Besides’ – he smiled – ‘desperate though you are, I doubt that even you will enjoy the taste of Anne Hathaway’s piss.’

John sat again. It took him a while to find the words. ‘Forgive, William, the absurdity of the question. I fear I must have misheard you. Did you just say you were holding a bottle filled with your wife’s urine?’

‘I did.’

‘Ah.’ John had known Anne Hathaway, a little. A delightful lady, and pretty with it, though the last time he’d seen her, she’d thrown a stool at him. A fair gesture, considering he was waiting at her garden gate to kidnap her husband. The stool, of course, may well have been aimed at the willing abductee. Fortunately it had missed them both, so their brains remained unstoved, their jaws unbroken and they were able to tackle the roles they played for the Admiral’s Men and other companies through that year and the ones that followed, that garden path leading through the byways of England, with some detours on the Continent, eventually to London.

Will’s confirmation did not truly help him. All he could think was how queer it was that the last time he’d seen her the lady had been hurling furniture at him and now he was staring at a liquid that had once been inside her.

John shook his head, tried again. ‘Another foolish question, Will, no doubt. But why are you holding a bottle of Mistress Hathaway’s piss?’

It was Forman who replied. ‘Your friend provided this so I could cast his beloved wife’s horoscope.’

It was a final nonsense. ‘Eh?’ was all John managed.

‘John, even a sceptic like yourself must know that astrologers are often referred to as – forgive me – “piss prophets”.’

‘No offence taken.’ The magus bobbed his head. ‘You see, Master Lawley, if I have something of the subject, I can cast their horoscope from it, even if I do not see them. And nothing is better than urine. As long as I know the hour and the place where it was voided, it does not even have to be fresh.’

‘And since the roads are winter-poor and Greenaway’s nags slow,’ added Shakespeare, ‘this took ten days to get here from Stratford. Fresh it is not. Sniff . . .’ Laughing, he whipped the cork from the bottle and thrust it towards John, the sharp alkaline savour surging through his head like shot, clearing and nauseating at the same time. There was a collision, liquid slopped, its sour taint filling the room, at last dispelling the rich scent of love’s conjoined juices that had ruled it to that point.

‘And why . . . why, by cock and pie, William, are you casting her horoscope? Is it a gift for her?’

‘No.’ Will’s laugh died. ‘I will tell you, for our long friendship. But let it not go beyond this room.’ He sighed. ‘I would know this: if my wife can still bear me a child. A son to . . .’ He paused. ‘Another son.’

John tipped his head. ‘She’s not young, William. And yet . . . some do give birth older than she.’

‘Some do,’ Will replied, as quietly, ‘but according to Forman’s ’scope, my sweet Anne will not be numbered amongst them.’

‘Alack, sir, Venus is retrograde in her chart,’ added the astrologer, opening a sheet of parchment towards them. ‘See how it wanes?’

John did not look there, but at his friend. This could not have been a surprise, her tale in the stars. Anne was older than her husband by some seven years. They’d had a son. He’d died. It was not something Will would ever talk about.

Nor would he now. He nodded once, then stood. ‘Come then, John. I have my answer. And we must leave Master Forman to his work.’ He turned at the door. ‘Do you need to share my bed this night?’

‘No, I must go collect Ned and return him to his.’

‘Then we will walk a little way together.’

As John rose, a memory came. ‘You spoke of soldiers’ fortunes, did you not, sir?’

‘I did.’ Forman was restacking sheaves of paper. ‘Men who go to war are most keen to know what the heavenly spheres foretell.’

He did not want to ask. He would never seek his own fate in the stars. And yet? ‘And did you also say that you had been consulted by the Earl of Essex?’

‘I did.’ The goatish face was split by a satisfied smile.

Though avoiding him was John’s plan, he could not help his question. ‘Since I am also, in some ways, my lord of Essex’s man, might I at least hear something of his . . . fortune?’

The goat face folded into its lines, closing itself off. ‘I would not be as near to him as I am if I were to part with information only he should know,’ Forman replied, his tone icy.

John nodded, turned to the door. But it was Will who spoke again. ‘Of course we would not seek to violate the . . . seal of this confessional,’ he said, nodding at the room. ‘Yet Master Lawley has been . . . “enticed” might be the term . . . to war before by the noble earl. I think he would like to know that if this enticement were to reoccur, should he seek to avoid it?’ As Forman still glared, Will stepped back, spoke softer. ‘I would consider it a personal favour, Master Forman. With our new planet rising in Southwark, I am sure we will have need of many pronouncements upon our fortunes there. And I will have many opportunities to return any kindnesses.’

‘You understand I cannot show you his horoscope?’ Forman gestured behind him to a stack of papers.

‘Indeed,’ said Will. ‘As I am sure we would not understand it if you did. That is your genius, sir.’ As Forman’s chest swelled, he added, ‘A simple answer to a simple question would surely suffice.’

The magus inclined his head. ‘What question?’

The playwright’s lips moved before he spoke. ‘Should the querent accompany the Earl of Essex to Ireland, to the glory of her majesty and the smiting of her foes?’

Forman stared at the two men before him for a long while. Both could see the candlelight playing in his eyes, and John, looking hard, could swear that their centres changed, from human orbs to goatish rectangles. At last the man turned, bent, began to search a stack of papers, slowly at first, then ever more swiftly.

‘Strange,’ he muttered, ‘it was just here.’ After a few further moments shuffling, he stood straight, turned back. ‘It matters not. I will find it anon. While its import is burned upon my brain.’ He tapped his head, closed his eyes. ‘I see only this end for my lord of Essex’s journey – hunger, sickness, failure. And on his return, treachery, harming him . . . and those near him.’ He opened his strange eyes again. ‘So, the answer to your question, querent, is plain: lie low and let the storm pass you by.’

It was ever his intent. So it was not the advice that made John gasp, but the doom that the astrologer had pronounced. ‘Do you intend to tell the earl this?’ he asked.

Forman shook his head. ‘People do not pay well for the direst prognostications. And there is enough leeway in any aspects to leave . . . perhaps a little hope?’ He shook his head. ‘Yet even if certain death lay in my conjunctions – which it does not – the earl is bound to Ireland, and can do no other. So I will cheer him as I can, warn him as I must – and solicit God’s mercy upon him whenever I am able.’

‘Amen,’ said both the other men.

They all looked at each other for a moment. Then Will said softly, ‘I nearly forgot,’ and returned to pick up the bottle. ‘I bid you good night, Master Forman, and I thank you again for your advice. This, I believe, will settle our account.’

He handed across a small purse. Forman, all smiles now, took the money and immediately moved past him. ‘I would delay you longer, sir, for I always take such delight in your company.’ He opened the door. ‘Alas, another appointment – two serving wenches have mislaid some of their mistress’s fine crockery. They think it stolen. I will tell them where to seek it and of whom, the sweet young things.’ He was again attempting to smooth down his hair horns as the two men paused beyond the threshold. ‘I wish you joy for your rising planet, the Globe.’ He smiled. ‘I will straightway draw up a chart to show when its opening would be propitious.’ He bowed to them. ‘Good e’en, gentles both.’