around London and the surrounding towns. The war was nearly over, and dark Puritanism had been the law of the land long enough that some had become accustomed to life under Cromwell. Most, though, found ways to circumvent the new laws. Or they ignored them completely. Men who dressed in Puritan black, who professed morality and purity of thought and body, nevertheless took mistresses they hid much as children would hide forbidden sweets. Musicians and tumblers performed in closes and alleys. To some it was a form of polite protest, but for people like Suzanne it was simple survival and an inability to be anything other than what God had made them.
Suzanne, wanting a better life for Piers than that offered in a bawd house, ran off from Maddie’s brothel on Bank Side with a man everyone called “Horatio.” He told it around he called himself that because “Horatiois a friend of Hamlet,” and for him the world revolved around William Shakespeare. Nobody knew his real name, and some wondered whether he remembered it himself. He had certainly not forgotten life before Cromwell, and had dedicated his life to living the way he always had, with the joy of the theatre as practiced by Shakespeare.
Suzanne first met Horatio as a client. He’d frequented Maddie’s for some months, and she’d seen him sitting in the public room on the ground floor once or twice. He was a large man, and his wig was nearly always slightly askew, which happened often with men who were entirely bald and had nothing to keep a wig from skidding. His voice was as large and impressive as his form, and whenever Horatio spoke, the entire room stopped to listen. Even when he whispered it was with a force and authority that commanded attention. He always sat quietly and patiently, waiting for his favorite girl, Betsy. She was an older whore, nearly thirty. He liked to talk, and she had a talent for listening.
“Strange one, that Horatio,” Betsy would say at supper with the other girls. “Always wantin’ to talk.” She shredded her meat and let it fall to the plate as she chewed. Then she picked up a shred to fold it into her mouth in between sentences as she talked.
Suzanne nodded. “Right. I’ve several who never do anything but talk. Mostly they complain about their wives or their mothers. Sometimes about the Lord Protector, but those are rare.”
“But never so much talk as to be treasonous, and don’t you never say anything suchlike in return,” said Maddie.
“Yes, Maddie,” Suzanne allowed. “Wouldn’t want the Roundheads battering the door to round up us rabble-rousing tarts.”
A general snicker rounded the table, and even Maddie had to chuckle.
Betsy said, “Well, this one does his business all right, doesn’t dawdle none and never takes but a minute or so, and before and after he’s talking on and on about his acting troupe. And that Shakespeare fellow from a hundred years ago.”
Another girl asked, “Who’s that, then?”
Betsy shrugged. “Some old play writer. Back when Elizabeth was busy bein’ all virginal and such.”
Everyone snickered again at that. Betsy continued, “I seen one of his plays once. Before they shut down the Globe.”
“Was it good?” asked Suzanne.
“It made me laugh. It wasn’t boring. I like a good play, and I wish they’d kept the theatres open. Crying shame they’ve been closed.”
“A good play is worth a penny, I suppose.”
Betsy leaned her head back, dropped a long sliver of beef into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully on it. She said, “Yeah, that Horatio is an odd sort.”
So when Betsy died of a cough that winter and Horatio was orphaned as a client, on his next visit Suzanne stepped forward to offer her services in Betsy’s place. She liked the idea of having a regular client who didn’t take long with his business and liked to talk instead. As soon as he walked into the public room downstairs she went to him and offered her condolences at the loss of Betsy.
His
Suzanne, wanting a better life for Piers than that offered in a bawd house, ran off from Maddie’s brothel on Bank Side with a man everyone called “Horatio.” He told it around he called himself that because “Horatiois a friend of Hamlet,” and for him the world revolved around William Shakespeare. Nobody knew his real name, and some wondered whether he remembered it himself. He had certainly not forgotten life before Cromwell, and had dedicated his life to living the way he always had, with the joy of the theatre as practiced by Shakespeare.
Suzanne first met Horatio as a client. He’d frequented Maddie’s for some months, and she’d seen him sitting in the public room on the ground floor once or twice. He was a large man, and his wig was nearly always slightly askew, which happened often with men who were entirely bald and had nothing to keep a wig from skidding. His voice was as large and impressive as his form, and whenever Horatio spoke, the entire room stopped to listen. Even when he whispered it was with a force and authority that commanded attention. He always sat quietly and patiently, waiting for his favorite girl, Betsy. She was an older whore, nearly thirty. He liked to talk, and she had a talent for listening.
“Strange one, that Horatio,” Betsy would say at supper with the other girls. “Always wantin’ to talk.” She shredded her meat and let it fall to the plate as she chewed. Then she picked up a shred to fold it into her mouth in between sentences as she talked.
Suzanne nodded. “Right. I’ve several who never do anything but talk. Mostly they complain about their wives or their mothers. Sometimes about the Lord Protector, but those are rare.”
“But never so much talk as to be treasonous, and don’t you never say anything suchlike in return,” said Maddie.
“Yes, Maddie,” Suzanne allowed. “Wouldn’t want the Roundheads battering the door to round up us rabble-rousing tarts.”
A general snicker rounded the table, and even Maddie had to chuckle.
Betsy said, “Well, this one does his business all right, doesn’t dawdle none and never takes but a minute or so, and before and after he’s talking on and on about his acting troupe. And that Shakespeare fellow from a hundred years ago.”
Another girl asked, “Who’s that, then?”
Betsy shrugged. “Some old play writer. Back when Elizabeth was busy bein’ all virginal and such.”
Everyone snickered again at that. Betsy continued, “I seen one of his plays once. Before they shut down the Globe.”
“Was it good?” asked Suzanne.
“It made me laugh. It wasn’t boring. I like a good play, and I wish they’d kept the theatres open. Crying shame they’ve been closed.”
“A good play is worth a penny, I suppose.”
Betsy leaned her head back, dropped a long sliver of beef into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully on it. She said, “Yeah, that Horatio is an odd sort.”
So when Betsy died of a cough that winter and Horatio was orphaned as a client, on his next visit Suzanne stepped forward to offer her services in Betsy’s place. She liked the idea of having a regular client who didn’t take long with his business and liked to talk instead. As soon as he walked into the public room downstairs she went to him and offered her condolences at the loss of Betsy.
His
Similar Books
