Mudd felt in his other pocket for the pint of spirits. A necessity—a goodly bribe that caused the head of the watchman to turn in the other direction. Whittled cows, the watchmen were—all of them. In case the booze was less than persuasive, the dagger hidden in the waistband of his galley slops would convince the most mulish of constables to get him hence.
Walking a few more blocks, Mudd heard raucous laughter coming from the inside of another alehouse—the Greenhouse Inn. He stopped. Hidden by shadows, he peered through the red lattice of the inn’s window. Twas a bonny tavern that would serve his purposes well, populated with a merry crowd sated to the gills. It wouldn’t take long before another coney was caught. Aye, lots of money to be made this night. Mudd leaned against the building, a smirk on his lips.
And he waited.
The stink of tallow.
Shakespeare’s head felt leaden, his body thick with sleep. Unsure of the hour, he wondered if dawn had awakened from her cyclical slumber. Was he dreaming?
He drifted back into sleep, dreamt of demons prancing around the maypole. They had piggish bodies, forked tails, black eyes, and wore black hoods. Fire sparked from their mouths and nostrils as they hissed like snakes.
But Mayday had passed a week ago with no such demons at all. Bonfires all night. London’s revels lasting until dawn.
No black demons.
Or had they been there without him noticing?
Again the stench of burning fat assaulted Shakespeare’s nostrils.
He opened his eyes.
Dark, damp, and cold.
Slumped over his writing table, his folded arms a pillow for his cheeks, he realized he had fallen asleep while working, as he had so many times in the past. Had he been asleep for a minute? An hour?
He raised his head, saw sparkling points of golden light. He stared at the flickering wick, at the shadows leaping off of the walls as if engaged in his dream’s ritual maypole dance. Nocturnal creatures. His quill lay atop the foul papers of his latest playbook, bleeding ink over the stage directions.
Damn his carelessness! Now he’d have to rewrite the page.
The garlic mutton he’d eaten for supper that night lay like stone in his stomach. His mouth felt dry and numb. He ran his tongue over his lips and stared at the goblet of sack resting a foot away from his hand. Slowly, he extended his arm and clasped the stem of the cup. Raising his lips to the edge of the vessel, he took a small sip; the act of drinking seemed to tire him further. He lowered his head back into the cradle of his arms, but kept his eyes open.
The room suddenly became dark. But not dark.
Shakespeare felt his heart beat rapidly, his body wet with icy sweat.
Another shadow—much bigger and darker. It seemed to blacken the room. It loomed over him, then was silhouetted by the glow of candlelight in witches’ colors.
Shakespeare’s mind was a swarm of loose thoughts.
Black and orange. Orange and black.
Incarnate of evil from doggish pack.
What wolfish scheme hast thou conspired
that pricks my skin and sets it afire?
“Who are you?” he asked.
No answer.
“Are you touchable?” He extended his hand outward and sliced through air. “Surely I am dreaming. My eyes deceive my wits.”
“We have met,” said a voice. Deep, guttural. A voice like none he’d ever heard. Or had he?
Shakespeare began to tremble.
“I ask you again, sir. Who are you?”
The voice answered:
“The specter that is to thee nearest
is one thou holds so very dearest.
He comes to give thee counsel wise
to rid thee of the filthy lies
that thou hast heard with thine own ears,
inflicting wounds unto thy peer.”
“Harry?” Shakespeare asked in a whisper.
The apparition said:
“My love for thee was never ending,
not as a sapling, ever bending
in a tempest of rumors thick and deep
that makest me moan, alas, cry and weep.”
“Harry,” Shakespeare repeated. “Thou art an illusion. I hear, yet I hear nothing. Thou art whirls of imagination brought upon by overwrought nights of too much toil.”
“Nay, tis not so,” the voice protested. “I am the ghost of thy mentor—thy fellow—Harry Whitman.”
Shakespeare shook fiercely.
“Tis true,” the apparition insisted.
Shakespeare shivered violently. His closet had turned so cold. He asked, “What counsel doth thou offer me?”
“Let the buried rest in peace.”
“My inquiries into thy death—”
“They are false! Lies! They cut me savagely!”
“The innkeeper Chambers spake that—”
“Chambers! A sinner! A cozener! A rogue! Believe him not.”
“Dear Harry,” Shakespeare said. “If thou desireth me to stop my inquiries, thou must confess to me. Who murdered thee? And why?”
The voice answered:
“It matters not the way I leave,
tis ’nough that thy pure heart doth grieve
for a hapless life ended, etched in blood.
And chewed and spat like vomitous cud.
Be kind, dear Will, spare me sorrow,
Erase thy revenge come the morrow.”
