Free The Bookman's Tale by Charlie Lovett

around the edges, for he had pulled it off his shelf many times when sleep would not come to him late on a winter’s night. He laid the book on the table. “It’s by Robert Greene,” he said.
    â€œGreene,” said Shakespeare with a laugh. “He was a friend of yours, was he not?”
    â€œHe was,” said Bartholomew.
    â€œA friend who once called me an upstart crow, as I remember it.”
    â€œAnd what better revenge,” said Bartholomew, leaning forward, “than to use his story for your next play. A story no one reads anymore becomes a play everyone in London flocks to see. The upstart crow has the last word.”
    â€œWhat’s it about?” Shakespeare asked.
    Bartholomew picked up the book, opened to the first page, and read. “‘Among all the passions wherewith human minds are perplexed, there is none that so galleth with restless despight, as the infectious sore of jealousy.’”
    â€œI’ve written a play about jealousy,” said Shakespeare. “Burbage proposes a revival for next season.”
    â€œThis one is different,” said Bartholomew, who wasn’t sure it was that different. After all, just like Desdemona, the main character’s wife in Greene’s
Pandosto
dies in the end. Still Bartholomew pressed his case. “Besides, you can change it. You could make it a comedy. The wife is restored and all are happy.”
    â€œYou are a bit of a rogue, are you not, Harbottle?”
    â€œI enjoy my drink and my visits to the upper floors of this fine establishment, though not as often as in my youth, but I am a businessman.”
    â€œThe greatest rogue of all,” said Shakespeare, laughing. “I have heard of your adventures in Winchester Cathedral.”
    â€œA story which no doubt grows in the retelling.”
    â€œAnd now you wish to sell me this book so I can have my revenge on poor forgotten Robert Greene. Perhaps I should put you in the play. A thief, a rogue, but a likeable man. A comic rogue, if you will. Not quite a clown—darker than a clown—and a schemer. A salesman.”
    â€œYou do me honor, sir, though I doubt that I am all that.”
    â€œThe stage makes us all what we are not,” said Shakespeare. The two men took deep drafts of ale as this proclamation hung in the air. Finally Bartholomew pushed the book across the table.
    â€œYour revenge will be all the sweeter knowing this,” he said. “Greene himself gave me this copy of
Pandosto
the night before he died.”
    Shakespeare picked up the volume and let it fall open on the table. “And you expect me to buy it?” he said.
    â€œYou misunderstand,” said Bartholomew. “I do not wish to sell you this book. I wish to lend it to you for as long as you require.”
    â€œBut you are a bookseller.”
    â€œMost days I am. Today I am merely a member of the audience who will delight in a new play by William Shakespeare.”
    â€œThat and a sycophant.” Shakespeare laughed.
    â€œGranted,” said Bartholomew.
    â€œVery well,” said Shakespeare, closing the book and pulling it toward him. “I shall read what your friend Mr. Greene had to say. But I warn you, if I decide to make this story into a play, I may have to mark up your book a bit.”
    â€œBy all means,” said Bartholomew, “mark it up as much as you require.”
    â€œ
Pandosto
is not a name for a play,” said Shakespeare.
    â€œI always read it in the winter,” said Bartholomew. “Why not
A Midwinter’s Tale
? To go with
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”
    Shakespeare tucked the book under his arm and drained his mug of ale. Standing, he winked at Bartholomew and said, “I’d stick to bookselling if I were you.”
    Bartholomew sat back and smiled after Shakespeare had left the