Free License to Quill by Jacopo della Quercia Page A

are nothing. This is nothing. This afternoon never happened. Do you understand me?” Bacon filled the playwright’s hands with more meat, and the conspiracy engulfed them once more.
    Shakespeare nodded. “It’s a secret to everybody.”

 
    Chapter VIII
    The Mating Call
    It was dark outside when Shakespeare finally reached his apartment; too dark for him to notice the raven following him home or the other, more ravenous bird waiting for him by his window.
    The bard’s London lodgings in 1604 was a three-story town house on the northeast corner of Silver Street and Muggle. It was a large, spacious building in the affluent neighborhood between Cheapside and Cripplegate within the northwestern edge of London Wall. As with most homes on Silver Street, this one was oak-framed with gray timbers on beige loam—not exactly colorful, but quaint nonetheless. The bard’s lords were the Mountjoys, a prosperous Huguenot family whose downstairs business supplied the Globe Theatre with fine wigs and headdresses. Their storefront and workshop filled the ground floor of this building, their apprentices and servants the top floor, and the Mountjoys enjoyed the middle—save for when Madame Mountjoy sneaked to Swan Alley for her affairs with “Mr. Wood.” Shakespeare’s apartment was a single room on the same floor as the family, which was where the playwright found his landlord anxiously pacing the halls this evening.
    â€œMaster Mountjoy?” asked the bard as he crept up the stairs.
    Christopher Mountjoy jumped. “Master Shakespeare! Thank heavens you’re here!”
    â€œI’m sorry I startled you. Is something wrong?”
    â€œWilliam, there’s a man here for you!”
    The playwright went rigid. His thoughts immediately returned to Guy Fawkes. “Is it a great man with red hair?”
    â€œNo. This one’s a small fellow with white hair. Very nice hair! It would make a fine wig.” The dimly lit Mountjoy seemed to stare off for a moment, but then remembered: “He says he’s from the government.”
    The bard groaned.
    â€œWilliam, what have you gotten us into! If this has anything to do with my daughter—”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with your daughter,” assured Shakespeare, who had recently agreed to nudge one of the upstairs apprentices into marrying Mary Mountjoy, for a fee. * “The gentleman is here for a private matter regarding one of my plays. It is of no concern, Master Mountjoy. You can go to sleep. All is well.”
    â€œDo you swear it?”
    â€œI swear on Madame Mountjoy’s good name,” the bard promised, his tongue firmly in cheek.
    The naive landlord exhaled. “Whew! What a relief! Have a good night, William.”
    â€œI will.…” Shakespeare sighed with less confidence. Once the dunce Mountjoy exited the scene, the bard drew his new rapier and rushed into his bedroom. “Who’s in here!” he whispered with his tempered blade raised.
    A white raven was perched on the bard’s windowsill. It turned from its view of St. Olave’s across the street and stared straight at the playwright. All of Shakespeare’s candles were lit, which baffled him since the room had appeared dark from outside. Someone must have lit them only seconds ago, and said someone was seated beside the raven at the bard’s writing desk.
    Shakespeare took a step forward. “Those candles cost money,” he said in a firm tone. “Put them out!”
    â€œI want to see your handsome face,” the figure replied in a feminine voice. She stood up and removed her hat, sending long, shining locks of silver hair cascading onto her shoulders.
    The bard lowered his rapier. “Penny?”
    â€œYou said you would be seeing more of me, Will. Here I am!” She playfully curtsied in her men’s clothing, bowing low with her shirt open.
    The bard was petrified.
    â€œWhat?