The Secret Life of William Shakespeare by Jude Morgan

fellow fastened on me at Banbury – Sudbury – some pisshole – and consigned me to his hell because I was an invitation to sodomy. I could only answer that it was not an invitation I would ever extend to him.’ He laughed loudly, but the sound was anger diverted. ‘Well, you surely don’t think it wrong, or you wouldn’t be keeping company with us.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Will said. ‘I don’t know what I think.’ He meant it as a general statement. He spent most of his time thinking, but thought was a current on which he drifted: he didn’t steer.
    ‘You’re scared of your honest alderman father, no doubt,’ Towne said, yawning. ‘God’s blood, Will, only look at those great baboons.’ Across the tap-room two of the players, Knell the king-player and a red-haired gangler, who was drinking sack by the pint, had drawn their swords and were lumbering at each other. ‘It’s play, good sir, only play,’ he called out to the innkeeper, who came sweating and muttering. ‘They’re running over the last scene of Alphonsus of Lincoln. Every stroke planned, sir, like the steps of a galliard. Or should be,’ he added to Will. ‘Knell is so very apt to forget himself.’
    ‘A most desirable thing,’ Will said, feeling the drink quicken and sorrow him all at once.
    ‘But there you have it,’ Towne said excitedly, ‘exactly what your virtuous, godly citizens do not see. Oh, it’s wrong to be a player, they declare. But what do they do when they wake up in the morning? Straight be themselves? No: they remind themselves who they are. They have to. Ah, yes, let me see, I am Goodman Bollockchops, esteemed burgher of Hole-in-the-Road, and yonder lies my wife, whom I choose not to see is faithless, and though I have just dreamed of running naked in the fields with a set of wild lads and lasses, I would see all whores and gypsies and players whipped at the cart-tail and I am grave, deep … They have to, because otherwise they’re walking on ice and it’s cracking. Ever been to London? Well, to be sure, no.’ The pitying look was meant, no doubt, to be kind. ‘Some winters the Thames freezes clean over. River turns to road. Everyone goes on it – they set up a fair on it and roast chestnuts and tell fortunes, all pretending they’re not walking on water—’
    ‘Dear God, don’t.’
    ‘Ah, there, you’ve broken my image. It was about to be mighty profound, I think. I’m drunk, though.’ He emptied his tankard, then leaned on Will’s shoulder. His breath was unnervingly sweet, like a child’s. ‘Got a yearning for London, hey? Well, I can understand it. I’ll tell you what it is, Will, it’s the worst place to starve in. Hereabouts you can lay your bones down by a stream and drink the clear water and, I don’t know, perhaps catch a coney, or the old goodwife who’s known you since you were a tacker will help you. London, no such matter.’ He touched Will’s cheek with a gentle, even timid finger. ‘What are you looking for, then? It helps if you know where it’s to be found first of all.’
    ‘I – I don’t know if it’s been made yet.’
    Behind him a dropped sword skittered on the flagstones. Knell heaped curses on his weak wrist. Towne sat up and raised his tankard to him, catching Knell’s eye with a smile that seemed prepared: unpacked from a box.
    ‘Now watch him bluster,’ he said, between his teeth.
    Knell stalked over. ‘Well, now, Master Will, what tales has this stripling been telling you? All lies, whatever they are.’
    ‘We’re players,’ Towne said, wagging his empty tankard. ‘Lies are our business.’
    ‘Another pint? That means he’ll be singing “Willow, willow” next. Then declaring his love for all the world. Then challenging all the world to a fight. Then he weeps and sleeps together. All pat without a prompt, for once.’
    ‘Chatter on, old man, while you’ve still got the teeth for it,’ Towne said amiably. ‘Will’s in love, you know. But the