License to Quill (3 page)

And then the poet turned to his killer.

The two fell into each other like brothers and shared a long, silent embrace. Their speechlessness spoke volumes about the times they had shared: every subject they studied, every song and sonnet they swapped, all the ideas they exchanged, and all the hopes they once harbored. All their love's labors, lost.

It was the end of a friendship, an apprenticeship, and a partnership for the ages.

“I don't know where to begin,” choked the dead man.

His killer smiled. “No matter where you go, I hope you find a happy ending.”

Marlowe beamed brightly at his successor. “To be continued!” he promised as he danced up the ship's plank. Without a moment to lose, Thomas signaled the skipper and sent the vessel into the Thames to begin its race against the daybreak. Fortunately, the winds favored the men and their mission, and the ship drifted east until it was swallowed by the glowing horizon. The boat disappeared from all record, taking Christopher Marlowe with it, while Thomas Walsingham and Marlowe's patient killer observed from the dock.

“You will receive a stipend,” began Walsingham to the silent assassin. “And the necessary license to write and perform your works free from censors. In return, you will report any activity you encounter of concern to the Crown. Failure to do so will result in your immediate termination. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Walsingham.”

“‘Master W' will suffice,” Thomas puffed as he lit himself a pipe. “Marlowe said you have a publication pending. I assume this is for income until the plague passes?”

“It is,” confirmed the killer, who had a wife and family to provide for in Stratford.

“What's the title?”

“
Venus and Adonis
.”

Walsingham nodded as the conversation became shrouded in smoke. “I assume the Stationers' Company has it?”

“They do.”

“And is your name attached to it?”

“No, Master W.”

Walsingham smiled. The young man was behaving precisely as he had been instructed. It was a welcome change from Marlowe. “It is now, master bard.”

“Thank you,” the assassin replied while masking his excitement.

“How do I spell your name again?” asked Thomas as he returned to his pipe.

The man who killed Christopher Marlowe handed Walsingham a small piece of parchment. The spy-chief looked down at the signature scrawled on it.

“William Shakespeare,” he read.

 

Act II

1604

 

Chapter II

The Players

BRUTUS

Let's kill him Boldly, but not Wrathfully:

Let's carue him, as a Dish fit for the Gods,

Not hew him as a Carkasse fit for Hounds:

The bard nodded.

And let our Hearts, as subtle Masters do,

Stirre vp their Seruants to an acte of Rage,

And after seeme to chide 'em. This shall make

Our purpose Necessary, and not Enuious.

Which so appearing to the common eyes,

We shall be call'd Purgers, not Murderers.

And for
Marke Antony
, thinke not of him:

For he can do no more then
Cæsars
Arme,

When
Cæsars
head is off.

The bard stroked his short beard as he turned his gray eyes to Cassius.

CASSIUS

Yet I feare him,

For in the ingrafted loue he beares to
Cæsar
.

BRUTUS

Alas, good
Cassius
, do not thinke of him:

If he loue
Cæsar
, all that he can do

Is to himselfe; take thought, and dye for
Cæsar …

Despite his best efforts, the playwright sighed softly. Those last few lines exhumed some old memories he preferred to keep buried. His thoughts turned to Italy and to his friend cast away there, but only for a moment. Nothing more than a brief blink in his mind's eye:
Is he still writing? Is he still laughing? Is he even still breathing? Surely he's alive. Surely! But that was over a decade ago.…

The bard shook the thoughts from his head and returned to the matters in Rome.

TREBONIUS

There is no feare in him; let him not dye,

For he will liue, and laugh at this heereafter.

Offstage, the young apprentice James Sands hit a frying pan with a mallet. It did not sound much like a clock's chimes, but for the time being, it worked.

BRUTUS

Peace! count the—

“Be still a second,” Cassius interrupted, raising his hand.

Brutus froze.

The soldiers and senators waited for the conspirator to continue, but instead, Cassius stared at his scroll in confusion. Young Sands struck his pan two more times. Once again, there was no response from the ancient assassin.

“The clock?” Brutus offered.

Cassius shook his head and turned to the lone man in the gallery. “Master Shakespeare?” he called.

The bard glanced at the empty seats to his right and his left. “Are you expecting me to throw something at you?”

“No.”

“Good,” replied Shakespeare. “There will be plenty of people to do that if you lose your place in front of a full house.”

The players snickered as ancient Rome reverted back to the Globe Theatre during the summer of 1604. William Sly, who several seconds ago had been Roman senator Cassius, lowered the long, narrow scroll containing his stage cues and dialogue. “There is something wrong with this scene,” he started.

“I agree,” observed Shakespeare. “And I am looking at it.”

An affronted Sly grimaced as the laughter around him intensified. “Will, it's the lines.”

“There's nothing wrong with my loins,” Shakespeare assured while crossing his legs, for in those days, the word “lines” was pronounced the same way as “loins.” The playwright liked puns.

“Master Shakespeare…” Sly seethed. “You made an error. The script says a clock strikes.”

Several actors checked their scrolls, but the bard did not need to consult his prompt book. He knew what he scrawled in there five years ago, so he simply stared at the dramatist. “Does that offend you for some reason?”

“Not at all,” replied Sly. “But unless I am lost, clocks did not exist during the days of Julius Caesar.”

In an instant, the snickering around William Sly stopped. None of the other players had considered this detail during prior performances or rehearsals. All eyes turned to Shakespeare, who went back to stroking his beard. “Is that a problem?” he inquired.

“In sooth?” asked the actor.

“By all means, please soothsay away!” The bard welcomed the challenge with an expertly feigned grin on his face.

Sly bowed his head. “Many thanks. William, you must admit this line sounds a bit out of place for that century. It'd be as if Caesar ordered his soldiers to ready their cannons and muskets.”

Shakespeare meditated on this. “I see your point, Master Sly. Fortunately, I have a simple solution. A remedy that should help you throughout your career.”

Sly raised his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“It's called ‘acting.'”

An enraged Sly spit from the stage while the rest of the King's Men laughed. “You're a cheeky arse, Shakespeare!”

“And you used to be a fine actor!” The bard smiled. “What happened?”

“William!” Sly protested. “Do you not realize this error shatters the illusion of your play? As one actor to another, I must say that I find it distracting.”

The bard looked at the empty theater around them. “Does this look like ancient Rome to you?”

“My dear sirs,” leading man Richard Burbage interjected. “I believe our good friend, and
fellow shareholder
in this company, I might add…” Sly grinned. “I believe the pest does raise a fair point. I, for one, always wondered why we don cloaks and sabers for this play. Why not dress appropriately? We have ample bedsheets for togas.”

Amused, William Shakespeare shook his head and simpered. “
Et tu, Brute?
My dear Richard, we have known each other for many years. This is the first time you have ever questioned my methods.”

“Ah! And does that offend
you
for some reason?” the veteran player challenged.

“Oh, not at all,” replied Shakespeare. “However, since it is too late for us to uncrack this egg, I think it is only fair that I address your misgivings. Master Sly, I put clocks in the play because it is the only reasonable way to denote the passage of time. Sundials do not toll at the top of the hour. And to the great Master Burbage, I truly am sorry to say this, but most of our regulars have no idea what togas are. If we dressed historically appropriate for this play, too many people would mistake us for ghosts. That would complicate things for Master Heminges over there, since he appears as Caesar's ghost in act four.”

“Well, that still doesn't explain our choice of language,” John Heminges countered. “Master Shakespeare, we have performed this play so many times in the king's speech. Why not perform it in Latin for once? It might make a fine novelty.”

“Or a fine mess,” the bard quipped. “I think we can all agree that more people believe in ghosts than speak Latin these days. While it would be interesting to explore the latter, it would ultimately alienate audiences we otherwise could attract. Besides, the bitter truth is that the Latin tongue from Caesar's day is extinct. Even if we tested your offer, it would still be built upon fantasy. Historical accuracy is simply impossible in this play. Artistic licenses must be taken, and since we are all licensed artists, I suggest we choose the route that entertains the most audiences. They are the ones who make our plays possible after all. I say we owe it to them, even if just as a return investment.”

The amused players smiled in agreement, but William Sly was not ready to forfeit.
“Et tu, Brute!”
he challenged, taking a step forward. “If you're so timid of Latin, Master Shakespeare, then why use it in your play?”

The bard rolled his eyes. “Because it's
the-a-ter
!” he stressed. “At this very moment, every one of us is competing with every performer, peddler, and prostitute in London for our patrons' last pennies. And that's without bringing churches, public executions, or bear-baiting into the picture. Within this wooden O, you men are magicians and wizards armed with only your mouths! As long as my powers allow it, I will continue to write you only the very best spells.”

“O, buzz, buzz!” Sly scoffed. “Why are we even rehearsing this play? It's not billed for performance!”

“That is true,” Shakespeare acknowledged. “But at the moment, I am drafting a new play. Since it is a return to ancient Rome, I thought a quick reading of this one would prove helpful.”

“Wait.… This is for your amusement?”

“No, it's for research.”

William Sly's eyes widened. “Are we getting paid for this?”

The bard thought for a minute, and then offered the actor a bag of hazelnuts by his seat. “You're welcome to have some before you go.”

An incensed Sly threw his scroll to the floor. “Blessed fig's end! I'm leaving! If anyone needs me, I'll be at the Cardinal's Hat!” The actor shoved his way off the stage.

“Master
Sly
,” Shakespeare stressed, “just read the lines.”

“Read
these
lines!” Sly shouted, grabbing his loins. The player slammed through the Tiring House and stomped onto Horseshoe Alley toward his favorite brothel in Southwark.

“Such a shame,” the playwright sighed to the remaining King's Men. “He would have made a grand Cleopatra.”

The players laughed as church bells tolled the hour throughout the city. “Master Shakespeare,” his assistant Lawrence Fletcher entered. “You have an appointment this afternoon.”

“Hmm? Oh yes.” The bard stood up and clapped his hands. “I think we've caused enough trouble today.” The actors retired to the Tiring House while Shakespeare turned back to Fletcher. “Whom am I meeting again?”

“John Johnson was his name.”

Shakespeare's face twisted. “John Johnson?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. Do you know him?”

The bard could not help but chuckle. “No, but that's the most made-up-sounding name I ever heard in my life.”

 

Chapter III

The Play

A little less than half an hour's stroll from the Globe Theatre was a popular tavern on the opposite side of the Thames. Located on Cheapside between Bread Street and Friday, there was not a playwright in town who didn't frequent the place. The den was the prized pearl of the fishmongers' guild and served as proud home to the finest intellectual circles in England. Everyone knew everyone there, and no subject was too bold for discussion. The severed heads Shakespeare passed on his way across London Bridge served as stern reminders of this. Many of them lost their lives for schemes they plotted in the same fine establishment. To be counted among those severed heads was a statement as much to good taste as to treason, for never had there been a cavern quite like the great Mermaid Tavern.

Shakespeare smiled as he passed under the siren hanging over its door.

“Good greetings, Master Shakespeare!” called the barkeep, William Johnson.

“All of God's greetings upon you. How goes things, my friend?”

“All is well.” Johnson smiled. “What can I get you, Will?”

“There should be a man waiting for me: a John Johnson. Do you know where he is?”

The barkeep's bright grin dimmed and his posture stiffened. “Oh yes. I know that one. He's upstairs. A large man with red hair. You won't miss him.”

“Many thanks.” Shakespeare nodded as he turned toward the stairs.