License to Quill (13 page)

And worst of all, during all these tormenting years trapped in England, Bianca was smothered in the growing fame of her primary offenders. She saw Marlowe conquer London with the same theatrics that won him the Vatican. She lived through his successes, his excesses, and, after his “death,” his eclipse. She watched Marlowe's partner outshine his predecessor and just as quickly rule the Globe. All of London knew his name. Everyone who she worked with admired his plays. His renown was enough for the Earl of Essex to recruit him for rebellion, for Guy Fawkes to attempt the same, and for Thomas Walsingham, England's nearest spymaster, to make sure that the bard completed his task.

Yes, even if it meant sending his secretary to reopen every wound in Bianca's heart by giving her a secret mission involving the man who had wronged her so many years ago. The bard who, wrought with guilt, filled page after page of poetry in memory of the love they lost. The playwright who named more than one character in his plays after her. The man whom Bianca was staring at right now.

She, the Dark Lady, disguised as a man in black, seated by herself in the darkened corner of a Westminster tavern. Her eyes and ears were focused on William Shakespeare, a man she had not seen for fifteen years.

Understandably, she was not smiling.

 

Chapter XIV

Reunion at the Duck and Drake

Within the Duck and Drake Inn on the Strand, between Covent Garden and where the Thames bends into Westminster, five friends who had not seen one another in many months were reunited where it all began. It was a cold February evening and fresh snowflakes filled the windows, but the cozy inn had a fire going and, quite appropriately, a large pot of duck soup cooking—even though the soup contained no duck at all.

As one surreptitious figure monitored the scene from her dark corner, the boisterous group that met at this same spot on May 20 the previous year exchanged their blessings.

“Guido!”

“Robert…”

The man who Shakespeare now knew well enough to no longer call “John Johnson” threw his arms around Robert Catesby, the leader of the gang and its current master of ceremonies. He was a tall, gentlemanly-looking fellow in his early thirties, just like Fawkes, only with longer hair and a more pointed beard. Both Robert and Fawkes were dressed alike in thick cloaks and large hats, except Catesby wore a shiny metal breastplate over his doublet. Due to the nature of their meeting, the bard surmised, Robert had deemed it necessary to travel in armor.

“All God's blessings upon you, Guido.” Guy Fawkes then shook hands with Tom Wintour. He was Robert's financial expert, a well-connected lawyer, and cousin to the dashing swordfighter rising from his seat.

“Jack,” Tom added. “You're looking sharp this evening.”

“As are you, brother.” Jack Wright, one of the best swordsmen in England and Guy Fawkes's former schoolmate, threw an arm around his cousin while keeping a tight fist on his rapier.

“Master Percy.” Robert bowed. “You have my deepest thanks for these arrangements.”

“Appreciated,” a seated Thomas Percy replied with a modest nod. He was a more serious man than Catesby, prematurely gray and afflicted with a hideous skin condition that made physical contact painful and most clothing uncomfortable for him to wear. He was an angry, unpredictable man quick to quarrel and criticize, but the bard nevertheless found something eye-catching about him: despite his distance from the fireplace, Thomas Percy's doublet was already soaked through with sweat. However, Shakespeare knew this was on account of the man's malady and not the matter of the hour. Beneath his unpleasant exterior, the sweaty Thomas Percy was dangerously fearless.

With all blessings exchanged, Robert Catesby turned to the gentleman who everyone braved cold and curfew to meet. “And
this
must be our playwright!”

The bard bowed his head.

“Master Catesby…” Guy Fawkes announced, “I give you William Shakespeare!”

“Will,” the playwright offered.

Robert shook the bard's gloved hand tightly and pulled him closer.
“Will,”
he purred. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person!”

“The pleasure is mine as well.”

Robert grinned wide with triumph. “I understand you have something you'd like to share with us this evening?”

“I do, sir.”

“In due time,” Fawkes interrupted. “Make yourselves warm! Enjoy yourselves some food and beer!”

As the six sat at their table and made their merry over double beer and tavern fare, their dark observer disappeared from their periphery and left the inn without anyone noticing. Not even Shakespeare.

“You know, my father was friends with your father,” Robert Catesby waxed with nostalgic eyes.

“A good friend,” Shakespeare confirmed. “I also know that your father shared some writing with him.”

Robert's eyes sparkled. “Did he?”

“Indeed. It was Cardinal Borromeo's
Contract and Testament of the Soule
.”

Guy Fawkes narrowed his eyes with satisfaction as the conversation treaded into forbidden waters.

“Ah yes!” Robert chuckled. “The Borromeo testament. I remember my father reading that booklet to me.”

“As do I. My father transcribed your father's copy.” The dramatist spoke in a caring, almost gracious tone. “I was just a boy at the time, but I was old enough to know the risk involved.” Shakespeare paused to let the sentiment sink in with the other men at the table. “Robert, your father made my father the hero he was to my family.”

Robert leaned forward in his chair, flush with confidence. “Do you … still have your father's copy of the testament?”

Shakespeare considered sharing that the pages were at his home in Stratford, a lie, but he just as quickly realized that it would be best to keep his loved ones and his wife out of the discussion. Instead, the bard looked straight at Robert and affirmed: “It's somewhere safe.”

Robert smiled and nodded. Tom Wintour scratched his beard. Guy Fawkes was grinning, Percy silent, and Jack Wright slouched deeper into his old wooden chair. Although these last three men had already heard Shakespeare share this story, it was nevertheless bold of the bard to broach it once more. His words were tantamount to a confession that he, just like everyone at the table, was a covert Catholic living in Protestant England. And thus, a criminal.

“Edmund Campion gave his life to spread Borromeo's word throughout the country,” Robert told the assembled. “He died a traitor, but not to God. Not to the church. He was a saint who martyred himself for our souls.”

“To Campion,” Fawkes toasted, raising his beer.

“And … the rest,” Jack added, raising his.

“Amen.” The men bowed their heads and drank. However, Percy refused to take his eyes off the playwright.

“So, how much has Guido told you of our plans?” Robert Catesby put to Shakespeare.

“He's not a dullard,” Percy interrupted. “The playwright knows his job is to write our play.”

“Ah yes. The Scottish play!” Robert's eyes shifted from Thomas back to the bard. “Is it finished?”

“Not yet,” Shakespeare acknowledged. In truth, he had not even started it. “But I promise you it will be the greatest work I have ever written.”

Robert beamed with delight. “Wonderful! What can you tell us about it? Does it have a title yet?”

“Well…” the bard fumbled.

“Is there a swordfight in it?” asked Jack while surreptitiously admiring the playwright's rapier.

“Yes, there are several swordfights in it,” Shakespeare answered. He then dropped his coat over his specially modified weapon.

“Several swordfights!” Guy Fawkes gasped. “You never shared that much with me.”

“Yes, he never tells us anything,” Percy grumbled. “Master Shakespeare, when do you think we will actually see this play?”

“When it is performed, of course.” The bard replied somewhat curtly.

“You've had more than six months to write it,” Percy prodded, “and so far, we have not seen a single page for our investment.”

“Tom,” Robert scoffed, “there is no reason for you—”

The bard raised his hand. “Master Catesby, please. Master Percy…” Shakespeare turned his chair to face the sweaty skeptic. “As you know, I had been working with a February deadline. Also as you know, all the theaters in the city are closed due to the plague. The Revels Office, which reviews my plays, is closed. The Globe Theatre,
my
theater, is closed. I am unable to meet with my actors and read through what I have written, never mind acquire the necessary props, costumes, and decorations for us to stage the drama. And even if we somehow performed it, the entire city would be barred from seeing it.” Shakespeare's tone was polite but affirmative. He needed everyone at the table to take him seriously, even though he was actually improvising. “I have been writing this play with all my energies and improving it with each passing day, but I am not a Johannes factotum—a ‘Johnny Do-It-All.' Until this plague passes, we must all be patient and maintain our senses.”

“Hear, hear!” Robert cheered, raising his cup while motioning Fawkes and Wintour to do the same. “This is why we hired you, Will! We knew you would be professional.”

The bard bowed his head. “My many thanks, Master Catesby.” The situation appeared to be diffused.

However, the more combative side of Thomas Percy was unconvinced. “Those were some mightily perfumed words, Master Shakespeare. But how do we know you will have this play we paid for ready when we need it?”

“Well, when do you need it?” the playwright countered.

“As soon as possible.” A drop of sweat flew off Percy's upper lip and landed on Shakespeare's gloves.

“‘As soon as possible' is not a date on the calendar,” the bard chided, noticeably shaking the droplet from his leather.

“Will, how much more time do you need?” Robert inquired.

Shakespeare thought on this, but mainly just to look like he was thinking. “Master Catesby, due to the issues raised by the plague, I think it would be more helpful if I knew what date you desire to see the play premiere.”

Robert turned to Fawkes. “When is Parliament scheduled to reconvene?”

“The third of October.”

Dismayed but optimistic, Robert Catesby looked back at Shakespeare. “I trust that will give you plenty of time to finish your writing, rehearse the drama, and stage it? Preferably … on the day before Parliament reassembles?”

“Without a doubt,” the bard promised. “Until then, if I can be of any other assistance, brother, please let me know.”

The men at the table exchanged glances. Robert and Fawkes were smiling while Thomas Percy remained incredulous. Tom Wintour looked like he had no opinion, and Jack Wright was picking his fingernails with a table knife. “For the time being,” Robert appraised, “the best thing you can do for us is focus on the play. Make it the greatest drama this city has ever seen! Make it something special, Master Shakespeare.”

“I will,” Shakespeare promised with a faux smile. Beneath the mask, the bard was disappointed. He had hoped to learn so much more from this encounter. However, beyond the play and Shakespeare's father, Robert Catesby remained wisely silent. The bard looked at Fawkes, but he only simpered with satisfaction. Wintour was useless. Jack Wright was beginning to get under the playwright's skin. And as for the man with the blotchy, unhealthy flesh, Shakespeare did not even bother looking back at Thomas Percy. The man had sweat dripping off his nose and onto his food. The bard knew Percy did not trust him, and it was beginning to obstruct his mission.

There were still so many questions Walsingham needed answered without Shakespeare asking: Who else were these men working with? Did they have allies abroad? Was Spain, France, and/or Rome somehow supporting their efforts? Why were these men determined to have the play premiere when Parliament opened even if it meant delaying their plans for nearly a year? A revolution could be launched at any time. Why wait? Why Parliament? And again, why witches? The bard had nothing but his own uncertainties to work with, and it was beginning to look like his welcome at the Duck and Drake was expiring. If he was to learn anything more about these men and their motives, he had to ask them. And fast.

However, with a nod from Robert Catesby to Guy Fawkes, the bard realized that his time was up. “Well,” Robert opted, folding his hands, “I guess that's all we have to discuss! Thank you for your time, Will. If we need you within the next few months—”

“Just a moment,” Percy interrupted. The scabby man locked eyes with the unproductive playwright. “Master Shakespeare, when you performed that play for Essex's men, did you know what they were up to?”

The bard swallowed.

This time, a drop of sweat began to trickle down Shakespeare's back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jack Wright sit up in his chair and move his hand under his cloak. “Are you referring to his rebellion?” the bard asked.

“What else would I be referring to?”

“Tom—” Guy Fawkes pleaded.

“Silence!” Percy spat. “Master Shakespeare, tell us what you knew.”

“That's enough, Tom!” Robert reprimanded. “Will, please accept my apologies. Master Percy had a lot to drink, and—”

Percy snapped his sweaty fingers. Jack Wright drew a dagger and stabbed it into the table, silencing everyone. The situation became crystal clear to Shakespeare: he was not leaving the Duck and Drake until he answered Percy's question.

“That won't be necessary,” the playwright explained while looking at the dagger, and then at Percy.

“Who're you to tell me anything?” Jack growled menacingly. The swordsman popped his rapier an inch out of its sheath hoping Shakespeare would do the same.