Free The Bookman's Tale by Charlie Lovett Page A

room. For the bookseller was indeed a scheming rogue, and proud to know so, and he was laying deeper plans than just the writing of another play by the upstart crow.
    â€”
    T he street outside the Globe roiled with humanity. No plague, perfect weather, and a new play by Shakespeare had drawn enough Londoners across the bridge to fill the playhouse to its capacity of three thousand. Bartholomew Harbottle feared that if his companion did not arrive soon, there would be no space for them in the galleries, and he could not imagine that Robert Cotton would be willing to stand with the groundlings for three hours.
    It had taken Bartholomew weeks to persuade Cotton to make this outing to the Globe, and only the collector’s affection for the Winchester Psalter and Bartholomew’s intimation that another grand acquisition might be on the horizon had convinced him to make the journey from his home in Westminster. The clattering of hooves and rattling of coaches occasionally rose above the din of the crowd as some noble or other was disgorged near the theater’s entrance, but Bartholomew’s eyes were trained toward the river. From Westminster, surely Cotton would make the trip by boat. It was nearly two o’clock when Bartholomew finally glimpsed the familiar doublet of blue and gold glinting in the sunshine as Cotton strolled toward the theater in no hurry, it seemed, to arrive betimes. Bartholomew fumbled in his purse for the four pennies that admitted himself and his guest to the galleries, and the two had just squeezed into the end of a row when a trumpet sounded, the roar of the crowd lowered to a murmur that would underscore the entire performance, and two men, exquisitely attired in richly embroidered garments, stepped onto the stage.
    â€œWhat does he call it?” asked Cotton.
    â€œIt’s called
A Winter’s Tale
,” said Bartholomew, and Cotton settled back on the bench and watched the play unfold without further comment.
    Bartholomew did not mention his own part in the genesis of the play, though he did mark how closely it followed the story of
Pandosto
. He had not spoken to Shakespeare since that day almost three years ago when he had suggested Greene’s romance as a source. He had heard that a new play, presented at court last November, was titled
A Winter’s Tale
, and he had some hope, the title being so similar to what he had suggested, that Shakespeare had taken the bait. Not until April had he known for sure. On a cold and dank day, a messenger brought a package to his shop in Paternoster Row. Inside, Bartholomew found the copy of
Pandosto
he had loaned Shakespeare and a short letter.
    Harbottle,
    Pardon the messenger, but I have business in Stratford. I think you will find something of yourself in
A Winter’s Tale
. I beg forgiveness for defacing your
Pandosto
, but return it herewith with my thanks.
    W. Shakespeare
    Bartholomew opened the book and turned rapidly through several pages. The margins were filled with the scrawled notes of the playwright. That very afternoon he set off to Westminster to pay a visit to Robert Cotton.
    Bartholomew almost forgot Cotton as he watched
A Winter’s Tale
. The story of King Leontes, who falsely accuses his wife, Hermione, of adultery, imprisons her, and banishes her presumably bastard child Perdita, kept most of the audience attentive, though there was an occasional scuffle or outburst from the yard. When, in the waning stages of the third act, news came first of the death of Leontes’s young son Mamillius and then of Queen Hermione herself, Bartholomew saw tears glisten on many faces, and even heard cries of woe from one or two of the groundlings. He began to wonder if Shakespeare had taken his advice about changing the ending, for the story had all the marks of a tragedy. Nor had Bartholomew seen any character fashioned in his own image. Still, these matters were trifles. Shakespeare had