(The following you can 'credit' to Gareth Michael Skarka and Gloriana.
)
Vignette the First, An Ordinary Meeting.
Will leaned back against the wall, holding the page before his eyes. What with the splotches and all even he was having trouble reading his crabbed hand. The quill had certainly seen its last days. But, the Globe needed work, the costumes were wearing out, and the make-up was running out. Further more, the crowds were just not coming out for anything; not even a play by Ben Jonson, usually a reliable draw. So he drew forth his pen knife and with it managed to make a passable writing tool of the quill again.
As he set pen to paper once more the door to the ordinary flew open, revealing Christopher Marlowe, already staggering drunk and with a lad in tow.
“Shakespeare!” the worthy bellowed as he tottered the playwright’s way, “Been cuckolding bishops again I hear!”
Except for Will and a new fellow everybody else in the establishment ignored the besotted wit. The new man watched with interest, while Shakespeare did his best to meld with the plaster on the wall behind him. Undetered by the look he was getting from the latter, Marlowe made his way over and plopped down on an empty stool.
“Folks a lookin’ for you, Master Will. Nasty types they are, and possessed of a certain homicidal spirit if I know my villains and vagabonds.” he confided conspiritorially in a voice that carried across the room.
“And what spirits have the spirits roused in your pickled mind?”
It took Chris a moment to puzzle out the word play, and a moment more to run it ragged through his head. Much to his amusement.
With a smile he replied, “Fellow’s been asking around for the playwright from Stratford. Since you’re the only Stratfordian wordsmith I know of—and we are a small fraternity, we—I thought of you. I know me not of what he wot, but you may wish to visit Anne again. I’m sure she’d enjoy a visit from her loving husband and her growing son.”
Shakespeare kept his temper in check, though it was a struggle. With a pleasant voice he said, “I should thank you to tread carefully ‘round the subject of Anne and I. Now, what did the fellow say of me?”
With a shrug the other answered with, “I wot not. Only that he has business of a Stratfordian, one who pens plays, poems, and other fancies.”
Moving with a badly studied grace Marlowe rose to his feet and turned to go. As he left he parted with, “A round on Master Shakespeare!”
Except for the newcomer, who was soon dissuaded of his aim to benefit at Will’s expense, nobody took Chris up on the offer. They knew him too well.
As the man left William Shakespeare could not lose the image of Christopher Marlowe with the head of an ass.
)Vignette the First, An Ordinary Meeting.
Will leaned back against the wall, holding the page before his eyes. What with the splotches and all even he was having trouble reading his crabbed hand. The quill had certainly seen its last days. But, the Globe needed work, the costumes were wearing out, and the make-up was running out. Further more, the crowds were just not coming out for anything; not even a play by Ben Jonson, usually a reliable draw. So he drew forth his pen knife and with it managed to make a passable writing tool of the quill again.
As he set pen to paper once more the door to the ordinary flew open, revealing Christopher Marlowe, already staggering drunk and with a lad in tow.
“Shakespeare!” the worthy bellowed as he tottered the playwright’s way, “Been cuckolding bishops again I hear!”
Except for Will and a new fellow everybody else in the establishment ignored the besotted wit. The new man watched with interest, while Shakespeare did his best to meld with the plaster on the wall behind him. Undetered by the look he was getting from the latter, Marlowe made his way over and plopped down on an empty stool.
“Folks a lookin’ for you, Master Will. Nasty types they are, and possessed of a certain homicidal spirit if I know my villains and vagabonds.” he confided conspiritorially in a voice that carried across the room.
“And what spirits have the spirits roused in your pickled mind?”
It took Chris a moment to puzzle out the word play, and a moment more to run it ragged through his head. Much to his amusement.
With a smile he replied, “Fellow’s been asking around for the playwright from Stratford. Since you’re the only Stratfordian wordsmith I know of—and we are a small fraternity, we—I thought of you. I know me not of what he wot, but you may wish to visit Anne again. I’m sure she’d enjoy a visit from her loving husband and her growing son.”
Shakespeare kept his temper in check, though it was a struggle. With a pleasant voice he said, “I should thank you to tread carefully ‘round the subject of Anne and I. Now, what did the fellow say of me?”
With a shrug the other answered with, “I wot not. Only that he has business of a Stratfordian, one who pens plays, poems, and other fancies.”
Moving with a badly studied grace Marlowe rose to his feet and turned to go. As he left he parted with, “A round on Master Shakespeare!”
Except for the newcomer, who was soon dissuaded of his aim to benefit at Will’s expense, nobody took Chris up on the offer. They knew him too well.
As the man left William Shakespeare could not lose the image of Christopher Marlowe with the head of an ass.
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