Ink and Steel

Will stopped, brushing the nub of vane that lingered on his quill against his upper lip. He glanced at the stack of pages beside his elbow, the ink on Kit’s manuscript so black it gleamed, and frowned.

‘ Have a care not to be associated too plainly with Hunsdon, Burghley, Oxford &’ Kit, how do I write to tell thee that lord Hunsdon has claimed Burbage, Kemp and I withal into a playing company, now that Strange is dead? That we are become the lord Chamberlain’s Men?

He ran a hand through his hair, streaking it for once with lemon juice instead of ink. And then he pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself, and wrote ‘Dearest Annie’ instead.

Three days later, Will and Burbage trudged through a cloying summer rain to the Spread Eagle, a tavern near the bear baiting pits that could be forgiven a certain lack of charm for the virtue of its pies, although for safety’s sake Will wouldn’t drink anything weaker than ale. A filthy floor and walls dark with smoke and grease did nothing to brighten its face, but Will had forgotten to eat through the afternoon, and his stomach grumbled painfully when the wench—another attraction of the Eagle—slid his supper under his nose. Burbage looked up at the sound and laughed, pushing bread through bloody juices, then stuffing the soaked sops into his mouth.

“You’ll waste away to a ghost,” he said. Will broke the pie open and scooped aromatic meat and onions to his mouth. Gravy trickled into his beard; he wiped it on the back of his hand.

“Oxford’s help isn’t help,” he said in a low voice. “If I suspected he were competent, I’d believe he meant to impede rather than assist. At least Jew and Merchant are showing a success, for all I’m hard-put to believe we staged them so swiftly as we did.”

“Has there been word of Lopez?”

Burbage, chewing thoughtfully, only turned his head from side to side. “He’ll hang, for all Burghley can do. We may be lucky enough that our work will fend off riots and worse, however. And the hunt is on for Papists. I marked adozen recusants in stocks today. Tis a time to keep your hand in your sleeve, methinks.”

“Mayhap.” Will busied himself with pie and ale, unwilling to meet Burbage seye.

Rain still rattled the shutters, and all London smelled of damp. All summer, the rain had barely lifted long enough for a man to wring the water from his cloak before descending again.

“I’ve a play in mind that might catch Her Majesty’s fancy. A tale of two warring houses. Another tragedy.”

“We could use a comedy for the Theatre. Now that the plague has lifted, that we’ve lifted the plague, aye, well, yes. People want happy things. Can you write me a comedy by All Saint’s Day, Will?”

“I wot.”

A shadow fell across the table as a stocky figure, cloak dripping rain, passed between Will and Burbage and the light.

“William Shakespeare.” A sonorous voice spoke in educated tones. “You re going bald on top, Will.”

“The heat of a well-used brain,” Will replied. “I see you have experienced the like.”

“Not I, Burbage interjected. I keep mine too well greased with ale to rub and burn. Sit down, George. Since you’ve invited.”

The poet George Chapman unwound his cloak from under his beard. Will shuffled the bench away from the trestle, and Chapman sat heavily.

“I’ve a letter from Spenser.” Chapman slapped the table to draw the wench’s attention. “He’s back in County Cork, would you believe it? Master of the Queen’s Justice, in Ireland. Sad days when the greatest poet in a generation must politic for his bread.”

Will choked on piecrust and reached for his ale, spilling half of it acros shis lap when Chapman thumped him between the shoulders. Burbage glared, lips compressed, though Will thought he had recovered nicely. He pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his breeches.

“He’s completed his Faerie Queene?”

“A canto or two.”

The girl came over; Chapman refused ale or wine and ordered instead small beer and stew. Will wondered if his famous temperance was distaste for drunkenness, some Puritan bent, or merely the caution of a man with no head for liquor.

“Will you grace us with another play this summer, Will?”

“One or two.” Will wrung his sopping kerchief onto the boards and spread it across the trestle to dry. “A tragedy first, and Dick Burbage wants a comedy to warm a heart or two. I may write him half a dozen this year, if he stays unwary. I’ve been reading the Italians, and my lord Southampton wishes me to come spend some weeks in residence with him before the summer’s out, and write him poetry”

“May God ha mercy on this house,” Chapman said. “A plague upon you, then,” Will answered with rare good humor, considering his breeches were sticking to his hose. “And yourself, George? What have you been working at?”