Free The Bookman's Tale by Charlie Lovett Page B

written the play, and Bartholomew now had everything he needed to secure his fortune.
    Lost in his thoughts, Bartholomew did not at first notice a new character appear onstage early in the fourth act, singing. When Autolycus, the traveling merchant, called himself a “snapper-up of unconsidered trifles” and bragged how he made his living by cheating the foolish, Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Cotton would not recognize his companion the bookseller on the stage. “A thief, a rogue, but a likeable man. A comic rogue, if you will,” Shakespeare had said. Bartholomew forgot for a moment all his well-laid plans, and imagined only an audience, years hence, watching this play and seeing a thinly disguised Bartholomew Harbottle tread the boards, laughing, singing, and thieving.
    As the last two acts unfolded, Bartholomew watched in awe as he, so it seemed, took over the play in the character of Autolycus. This rogue did not sell books, but he did sell ballads. Bartholomew at first took some slight offense when Autolycus, deciding not to help out young Perdita and her beloved, said, “If I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t. I hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein I am constant to my profession.” Was knavery really Bartholomew’s profession? Surely the proudest moments of his career did not drip with honesty, but Bartholomew did not believe he had ever done anyone real harm, nor, he was glad to see as the play raced toward its conclusion, did Autolycus. As Perdita was restored to her father and Hermione brought back to life to give the play the happy ending Bartholomew had suggested, the schemings of Autolycus ultimately contributed to the happiness of the characters.
    As the crowd surged into the street after the performance, Bartholomew pulled Cotton toward the George and Dragon. Most of the playgoers were heading back toward the bridge, but enough spilled into the taverns of Southwark that Bartholomew was glad he had made arrangements in advance with the barman for a private nook to await him. A mug of ale for himself and a cup of wine for Cotton stood on the table as the two men took their seats.
    â€œDid you hear that crowd’s roar of approval?” said Bartholomew.
    â€œHardly a surprise,” said Cotton. “Shakespeare is popular. But you still haven’t told me what this afternoon is all about. I enjoy a good play as much as the next man, but you led me to believe there was an acquisition in the offing.”
    â€œAnd so there is, but patience, good friend. Now tell me, will you grant that Will Shakespeare is the greatest playwright of our time?”
    â€œI would not argue the point,” said Cotton.
    â€œI would say he is the greatest playwright of any age,” said Bartholomew, “and that he is likely to remain so.” He could imagine the laughter of his old friend Robert Greene if he had heard such a claim, but Greene had not lived to see the meteoric rise of the upstart crow.
    â€œI have some medieval manuscripts of the Greek dramatists that might belie that assertion,” said Cotton. “But I will grant you he is an important writer. Though I do not think today’s effort was his best.”
    â€œThere’s a reason for that,” said Bartholomew, sensing his opening. “The word among the players is that Shakespeare is ill. He plans to retire to Stratford at the end of the season and is not likely to survive the winter.” Bartholomew had heard no such rumor, though it occurred to him that it might be useful to start one.
    â€œI am sorry to hear that,” said Cotton. “He used my library once, years ago. I believe he was working on
Henry V
. One of his best, I thought. Stirring. He was a quiet man—not taken to drunken carousing and immoral behavior like so many of these theater folk.”
    Bartholomew