nights of the year, and claims to be the mother of my children. That is all.’
Burbage threw Will a cloth to dry himself. His face unreadable, the old theatrical watched him from under thick brows. ‘I am sorry to hear it, Will. Yet she is still your wife in the eyes of the law.’
‘I know that only too well,’ Will replied drily, rubbing at his wet hair with the cloth. ‘Nor am I likely to forget it.’
Music swelled through the theatre, signalling the end of the play. A jig was played and some of the players danced, their heavy steps thudding and creaking against wood to the rhythmic clapping of the groundlings. Then they heard an excited hubbub of voices and a sound like distant thunder as the crowd moved as one, heading for the doors out into the yard where the stallholders and the whores awaited their arrival, and thence into the busy street.
‘I should go to the gate, check that our noble patrons had all they desired today,’ Burbage muttered, tidying away the last of the armour in the properties chest.
Just as Will was reaching for his plain brown doublet and hose, the doors to the tiring-room were flung open. In poured the rest of the players, sweaty-faced, tugging at their too-warm costumes and laughing at some joke. With them came a tide of other folk, more tiring-men to assist the noisy players off with their costumes, a woman bearing a tray of ale and roast nuts, and the irascible stage-keeper with his book and broom, complaining about the untidy state of the theatre.
‘How now, Burbage? Did you receive my message?’
Will turned, dressed in nothing but his shirt, surprised to hear such a refined voice in the coarse hubbub and banter of the tiring-room. The owner of the voice was a young man with a weary look on his face, his beard fashionably pointed, his eyes heavy-lidded. By his rich doublet and cloak, the soft kid boots on his feet and the large pearl earring he wore, he proclaimed himself a wealthy man.
It was the Earl of Southampton, the young lord who had discovered him with Lucy at court.
Behind the youth stood an older man, wearing livery and with a stout dagger at his belt. A fine cloak was draped over his arm. Presumably his servant.
The Earl of Southampton looked across at Burbage commandingly.
‘This is the very man you seek, my lord,’ Burbage told him, and pushed Will forward.
The nobleman turned to survey Will, examining him from head to toe. An unexpected enthusiasm crept into his expression.
‘William Shakespeare?’
Will bowed respectfully, still dressed in nothing but his shirt.
‘You probably do not recall the occasion, but we met briefly at court once. My name is Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.’
The young man’s eyes, oddly intense, never left Will’s as he spoke. He did not mention Lucy, but Will felt her unspoken name weigh heavily in the silence between them.
He hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord, I remember.’
‘I left word with Master Burbage here that I wished to speak with you. I take great pleasure in attending your plays, Master Shakespeare, and wish to encourage you in your work, for I have some knowledge of the theatre myself.’
Will was surprised. ‘You write too?’
The earl shrugged, a look of boyish disdain on his face. ‘A few little things, mostly to be performed before my friends at university. Nothing of worth.’
The players around them disrobed in near silence, watching the newcomer and listening with unabashed curiosity, for although the nobility sometimes passed backstage on their way up to the gallery – to avoid rubbing shoulders with commoners in the narrow corridors – they did not often welcome noblemen to the tiring-room after a performance.
The earl glanced about himself with interest, seeming to enjoy his visit backstage. Burbage had stopped to help one of the apprentices who was struggling with his queenly gown. The rags stuffed in the lad’s bodice had made convincing breasts, and now he stripped off to reveal
Burbage threw Will a cloth to dry himself. His face unreadable, the old theatrical watched him from under thick brows. ‘I am sorry to hear it, Will. Yet she is still your wife in the eyes of the law.’
‘I know that only too well,’ Will replied drily, rubbing at his wet hair with the cloth. ‘Nor am I likely to forget it.’
Music swelled through the theatre, signalling the end of the play. A jig was played and some of the players danced, their heavy steps thudding and creaking against wood to the rhythmic clapping of the groundlings. Then they heard an excited hubbub of voices and a sound like distant thunder as the crowd moved as one, heading for the doors out into the yard where the stallholders and the whores awaited their arrival, and thence into the busy street.
‘I should go to the gate, check that our noble patrons had all they desired today,’ Burbage muttered, tidying away the last of the armour in the properties chest.
Just as Will was reaching for his plain brown doublet and hose, the doors to the tiring-room were flung open. In poured the rest of the players, sweaty-faced, tugging at their too-warm costumes and laughing at some joke. With them came a tide of other folk, more tiring-men to assist the noisy players off with their costumes, a woman bearing a tray of ale and roast nuts, and the irascible stage-keeper with his book and broom, complaining about the untidy state of the theatre.
‘How now, Burbage? Did you receive my message?’
Will turned, dressed in nothing but his shirt, surprised to hear such a refined voice in the coarse hubbub and banter of the tiring-room. The owner of the voice was a young man with a weary look on his face, his beard fashionably pointed, his eyes heavy-lidded. By his rich doublet and cloak, the soft kid boots on his feet and the large pearl earring he wore, he proclaimed himself a wealthy man.
It was the Earl of Southampton, the young lord who had discovered him with Lucy at court.
Behind the youth stood an older man, wearing livery and with a stout dagger at his belt. A fine cloak was draped over his arm. Presumably his servant.
The Earl of Southampton looked across at Burbage commandingly.
‘This is the very man you seek, my lord,’ Burbage told him, and pushed Will forward.
The nobleman turned to survey Will, examining him from head to toe. An unexpected enthusiasm crept into his expression.
‘William Shakespeare?’
Will bowed respectfully, still dressed in nothing but his shirt.
‘You probably do not recall the occasion, but we met briefly at court once. My name is Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.’
The young man’s eyes, oddly intense, never left Will’s as he spoke. He did not mention Lucy, but Will felt her unspoken name weigh heavily in the silence between them.
He hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord, I remember.’
‘I left word with Master Burbage here that I wished to speak with you. I take great pleasure in attending your plays, Master Shakespeare, and wish to encourage you in your work, for I have some knowledge of the theatre myself.’
Will was surprised. ‘You write too?’
The earl shrugged, a look of boyish disdain on his face. ‘A few little things, mostly to be performed before my friends at university. Nothing of worth.’
The players around them disrobed in near silence, watching the newcomer and listening with unabashed curiosity, for although the nobility sometimes passed backstage on their way up to the gallery – to avoid rubbing shoulders with commoners in the narrow corridors – they did not often welcome noblemen to the tiring-room after a performance.
The earl glanced about himself with interest, seeming to enjoy his visit backstage. Burbage had stopped to help one of the apprentices who was struggling with his queenly gown. The rags stuffed in the lad’s bodice had made convincing breasts, and now he stripped off to reveal
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