Read Online Shakespeare's Spy by Gary Blackwood - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary Blackwood
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favor.”
“Gladly. What is’t?”
“I want you to escort my daughter to my lodgings. You know where I live?”
“Aye. The corner of Silver and Monkswell Street in Cripplegate.”
“I’ve sent her trunk on ahead, along with a note to the—” Mr. Shakespeare broke off as someone approached the booth. The scent of cloves infused the air around us.
Judith slid in next to me. I kept my eyes on the table, certain that the expression on my face must be a foolish one. “You were saying, Father?” she prompted.
“I was saying that I’ve sent your trunk to my lodgings, along with a note to Madam Mountjoy, asking if she will kindly put you up for a few days.”
“I would rather you had said a few weeks.” Judith picked up his tankard and peered into it to see whether any ale remained. I snatched up the mug that had held the horse urine, lest she decide to examine it, too. “In fact,” she said, “I’m not at all sure that I won’t decide to stay in London indefinitely.”
Mr. Shakespeare appeared alarmed by this prospect. “Oh? Have you discussed this with your mother?”
“Of course not. She’d have had a seizure.” Judith gave a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Father, you know what Stratford is like. Aside from mother, there’s absolutely no one and nothing there that holds the slightest interest for me.” She gave an impish smile. “And, honestly, sometimes even Mother can be a bit tiresome.”
Mr. Shakespeare did his best not to look amused. “All the same, I don’t think it would be wise to stay in London. What would you do with yourself?”
“I don’t know. Be a gatherer for the Globe, perhaps. I’m good at managing money. On what you send us, I’ve had to be.”
“That’s enough of that!” Mr. Shakespeare snapped. Judith’s smile faded and she looked down at her lap as though a trifleashamed of her impudence—but only a trifle. “Now,” her father continued, “I’ve asked Widge to accompany you to the Mountjoys’.”
Judith’s gaze met his again, and it seemed puzzled, reproachful. “You’ve asked Widge? I thought that
you
would …”
Now Mr. Shakespeare was the one to look away. “I’m sorry. As I’ve told you, I’m very busy just now. We have a sharers’ meeting shortly. We must come to a decison on whether or not to raise the admission price of the plays.”
“Oh. Well. I can see how that would be more important than squiring me about.” She slid from the booth and held out a hand to me. “Come, then, Widge. You’ll no doubt be better company, anyway.”
Though Mr. Shakespeare pretended to ignore his daughter’s barbed remark, I could tell from the way he stiffened slightly that it had struck its mark. As I got to my feet, Judith said to her father in a voice as cool as a cowcumber, “I trust you were able to make some arrangements for Mr… . Garrett?”
“Yes. Ben Jonson has volunteered to take him in.”
“Good.” She slipped her arm through mine. “I suppose I’ll see you after the performance this evening, Father?”
“Yes. You needn’t wait up for me, though. I may be late.”
“Of course.” She swept out of the parlor, hauling me with her. After fetching our cloaks, we passed through the courtyard and onto Fenchurch Street. Judith drew in a deep breath of the cold air and put on the semblance of a smile. “Parents can be so vexing. Particularly fathers. Don’t you agree?”
“I … I wouldn’t ken,” I murmered.
“What do you mean?”
I was not anxious to reveal how little I knew of my mother and father and their station in life. Mistress MacGregor, whoran the orphanage where I grew up, had given me a crucifix my mother once wore, inscribed with the name Sarah. Jamie Redshaw had told me a few more things about my mother, but whether or not any of them were true I could not say, any more than I could say whether anything he had said about himself was true.
Judith peered into my downturned face, making me so flustered that I missed
“Gladly. What is’t?”
“I want you to escort my daughter to my lodgings. You know where I live?”
“Aye. The corner of Silver and Monkswell Street in Cripplegate.”
“I’ve sent her trunk on ahead, along with a note to the—” Mr. Shakespeare broke off as someone approached the booth. The scent of cloves infused the air around us.
Judith slid in next to me. I kept my eyes on the table, certain that the expression on my face must be a foolish one. “You were saying, Father?” she prompted.
“I was saying that I’ve sent your trunk to my lodgings, along with a note to Madam Mountjoy, asking if she will kindly put you up for a few days.”
“I would rather you had said a few weeks.” Judith picked up his tankard and peered into it to see whether any ale remained. I snatched up the mug that had held the horse urine, lest she decide to examine it, too. “In fact,” she said, “I’m not at all sure that I won’t decide to stay in London indefinitely.”
Mr. Shakespeare appeared alarmed by this prospect. “Oh? Have you discussed this with your mother?”
“Of course not. She’d have had a seizure.” Judith gave a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Father, you know what Stratford is like. Aside from mother, there’s absolutely no one and nothing there that holds the slightest interest for me.” She gave an impish smile. “And, honestly, sometimes even Mother can be a bit tiresome.”
Mr. Shakespeare did his best not to look amused. “All the same, I don’t think it would be wise to stay in London. What would you do with yourself?”
“I don’t know. Be a gatherer for the Globe, perhaps. I’m good at managing money. On what you send us, I’ve had to be.”
“That’s enough of that!” Mr. Shakespeare snapped. Judith’s smile faded and she looked down at her lap as though a trifleashamed of her impudence—but only a trifle. “Now,” her father continued, “I’ve asked Widge to accompany you to the Mountjoys’.”
Judith’s gaze met his again, and it seemed puzzled, reproachful. “You’ve asked Widge? I thought that
you
would …”
Now Mr. Shakespeare was the one to look away. “I’m sorry. As I’ve told you, I’m very busy just now. We have a sharers’ meeting shortly. We must come to a decison on whether or not to raise the admission price of the plays.”
“Oh. Well. I can see how that would be more important than squiring me about.” She slid from the booth and held out a hand to me. “Come, then, Widge. You’ll no doubt be better company, anyway.”
Though Mr. Shakespeare pretended to ignore his daughter’s barbed remark, I could tell from the way he stiffened slightly that it had struck its mark. As I got to my feet, Judith said to her father in a voice as cool as a cowcumber, “I trust you were able to make some arrangements for Mr… . Garrett?”
“Yes. Ben Jonson has volunteered to take him in.”
“Good.” She slipped her arm through mine. “I suppose I’ll see you after the performance this evening, Father?”
“Yes. You needn’t wait up for me, though. I may be late.”
“Of course.” She swept out of the parlor, hauling me with her. After fetching our cloaks, we passed through the courtyard and onto Fenchurch Street. Judith drew in a deep breath of the cold air and put on the semblance of a smile. “Parents can be so vexing. Particularly fathers. Don’t you agree?”
“I … I wouldn’t ken,” I murmered.
“What do you mean?”
I was not anxious to reveal how little I knew of my mother and father and their station in life. Mistress MacGregor, whoran the orphanage where I grew up, had given me a crucifix my mother once wore, inscribed with the name Sarah. Jamie Redshaw had told me a few more things about my mother, but whether or not any of them were true I could not say, any more than I could say whether anything he had said about himself was true.
Judith peered into my downturned face, making me so flustered that I missed
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