Love's Will Page 10

  “So all you need do is make the beds. Gil and I will bring all these goods in. Look, Mistress Burbage sent a basket of wafers, and these flowers, to welcome you, and she’ll call tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to settle in. Dick Field’s wife, too, and Ned Alleyn’s. You won’t be without friends here, Anne.”

  “How kind,” Anne said dazedly. The scrub-woman had missed a few cobwebs high up, she noted, but it would be churlish to mention it. The children thundered back down the stairs and out through the kitchen, Judith screeching about the garden.

  “They’re happy. Come, let’s have a glass of wine to christen the house.”

  “No cups till we unpack.”

  “Damn. Then come on, brother, let’s to it.”

  That night Anne lay wakeful beside her snoring husband, listening to London. At Stratford a fox barking in the distance was a din; here, despite the curfew, people never seemed to go to bed. A horse clopped past, a cat yowled the agonies of love, two people across the way started a violent argument. Hamnet stirred in his sleep, whimpering with a dream. Anne tried to ease her body, aching from the journey and the rush of unpacking. She felt deadly tired yet wide awake.

  She tried planning the things needed in the house: the kitchen walls washing, shelves to be put up for William’s books and her pieces of pewter and glass. Another clothes chest for the twins’ room. And really they were too old now to share a bed. Judith must be made to move to Susanna’s room. Where are the best shops and who are the reliable tradesmen? Put up that extra hanging in here, although it was a good room, high and wide, with a really handsome bed. Some new curtains wouldn’t hurt. Speak to William about money and get a household allowance. Get Gilbert to nail down some squeaky floorboards; he was good with his hands. Plant out winter vegetables.

  In everything, it was a new life. And William would not have wanted her to come to London if there was anything… anyone...

  4.

  Another new play, and Anne was going to the theatre. Hamnet was at school, Susanna and Judith spending the day with the family of one of the other players. For any housewife with children, a day to herself was a holiday, and Anne sang under her breath as she dressed. In Stratford a woman who used face-paint was rated as a whore, but in London a touch of rouge and black on the eyelashes was permissible. At thirty-six she had some fine lines around her eyes, but her skin was clear and soft, she had no need of the white-lead pastes and vivid stains of city women. On the whole, she thought as she peered at her reflection in William’s small mirror, not too bad for a middle-aged woman. A dab of scent behind the ears, and she was ready.

  Hearing the knock on the door she pulled on her new green coat and hat and hurried down the stairs. One thing London was not, was a place where a woman could safely go about alone, and William paid one of the theatre boys, a Cockney hanger-on who did rather well out of holding horses and running messages, to escort her to the playhouse. She liked this boy, whose only name seemed to be Nol, and he was a good escort, although she would not have cared to translate some of his advice to people who jostled her.

  When first she came to the capital she had expected shining white towers and a silken ribbon of blue for a river, people in bright clothes, scented air. What she had found was a tangle of little streets under a haze of smoke; mud and middens; coarse-voiced people drably dressed; and the chance of losing your purse or your life if you didn’t look lively. It was filthy and stinking, a hotbed of vice and crime, and at first she had hated it. But soon the city had won her round. It had life. Only in London could you find such shops and grand palaces among the warrens, or see ships in from Venice, Spain, Turkey. Only here could you take a boat idly on the river to see the sights, and find yourself waving to the Queen as her barge passed on a wave of music and scent. Only here could you rub elbows with the men whose names rang around England: Raleigh, Drake, Howard, Essex, Cecil, Walsingham. And only here were the playhouses.

  At The Theatre, Nol saw her to her seat, paid the extra penny for a cushion, bought her a poke of hazelnuts and a mug of ale and gave a little more advice to a man who thought a woman coming alone to the playhouse must be plying for trade.

  “Better sit wiv you, Mrs S, keep fellows like that away.” His eyes shone with longing as he looked at the stage, and solemnly Anne agreed that would be best.

  “Have you seen this play, Nol?”

  “Richard Free? Only in rehearsal, like. It’s Master Will’s best, they say. ’E packs ’em in, does Master Will. they take more money off of ’is plays than all the rest. Nor it ain’t just the take. ’e’s good.”

  In his way this boy was a connoisseur: he’d been hanging around playhouses since he was old enough to pick a pocket. He must have seen every play put on in London in his lifetime.

  “He is good,” Anne agreed, and companionably they shared the hazelnuts. “Not a bad house. Nearly full.”

  “They’ll pack a few more in. Oi, Kit Marlowe’s in.”

  “Wants to find out how it’s done, no doubt. Where? I don’t see him.”

  “Down the front. See?”

  Anne peered, and located Christopher Marlowe by his bobbing black head. He was talking (but when was he not?) to someone, his hands flying as he rattled earnestly on. Anne caught his eye and waved. He blew her a kiss, and indicated by a complex gesture that the playhouse was too full for him to join her. “See you afterwards?” she made out, and nodded.

  She liked Kit Marlowe; impossible not to, for all he was the most notorious bugger in London and almost certainly one of Walsingham’s spies. He had been kind to Will when he first came to London, reading his work and approving it, and he showed commendably little resentment that his one-time protégé was rapidly overtaking him in fame. He had charm, that was the thing. He flirted outrageously with Anne, which she enjoyed because it was safe, but under the flirting and the loudly paraded atheism and love of boys he had a keen mind and a surprising gentleness. William trusted him and was his friend, which was good enough for Anne, even if she hadn’t liked him for his own sake.

  Nol tugged at her sleeve. “There’s a feller over there wavin’ at you, Mrs S. Shall I go an’ give ’im what for?”

  “No,” Anne said hastily. “I know him.” She waved back to Sir George Carewe; he was one of the richest men from Stratford way, he had married a Clopton heiress. Bowing, he beckoned to her: come join me. There was just time before the play started. With Nol clearing a way for her, Anne threaded through the crowded galleries, clutching her penny cushion, and sat down beside Sir George.

  “My dear Mistress Anne, how pleasant to see you.” He leaned forward a little to speak to the lady on his other side. “Your ladyship, your lordship, may I present to you Mrs Shakspere?” The blue hat with the fantastically long, curving feathers turned, revealing a tired, pretty, face. Without much interest, but willing to be pleasant, the lady nodded to Anne. Beside her a very young man whose auburn hair fell to his shoulders, turned also. Anne bowed. “Her ladyship the Dowager Countess of Southampton,” said Sir George, “and her son the Lord Southampton.” Astounded, Anne bowed again, more deeply, murmuring a greeting.

  “Shakspere?” said the young man, and his cornflower eyes sparked. “Are you related to the playwright?”

  “I am his wife, my lord.”

  “Then it is an honour to meet you. I greatly admire your husband’s work. I’ve seen all his plays. I think him a good actor, too.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Yes,” said the Countess, “his plays always entertain. We have thought of asking this company to enact a play for us, privately. I believe they do that. In private houses.”

  “Indeed they do, my lady.”

  “Then we shall see to it. But hush, it’s starting.”

  Expectation fell over the audience. Anne knew William came on early in the play, and she knew he would be waiting behind the curtains, trying to calm the stage-fright that still came over him. Other actors, Anne knew, needed a drink or a pipe of tobacco –
or other things – before they went on; William’s stage-fright took the form of intense sleepiness. It vanished the moment he went on stage, but between his scenes he had to fight to stay awake.

  Outside a clock chimed the hour. The trumpets blew. The audience rustled into silence, then gasped as an evil, black, hunchbacked creature lurched onto the stage:

  “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this Sun of York, and all the clouds that lour’d upon our house are in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”

  Anne almost forgot to look for William, realised he was playing Clarence, shoved her knuckles in her mouth when the guards hauled him away to prison and death. Then the wooing scene took her breath away, even if she’d laughed when William read her the scene: what woman, she had mocked, could fall so instantly in love with the man who’d killed her family? William had sulked. And he’d been right, for the scene worked on stage. It worked superbly.

  The play sped on, the bottled spider dominating every scene and making the audience like him for all his wickedness. Yes, Anne thought, this is good, it’s his best, it will live and live. William was back as Tyrell, then as a soldier in the final battle, and then it was over. On her feet with the rest, applauding, shouting, Anne knew she had seen a great play, a superb play, a play for all time. And that word-struck boy I loved in Stratford wrote it. The man capable of writing this play married me, Anne Hathaway the farmer’s daughter. I was right to send him away. For all it cost me, I was right. And had I not encouraged him, would he still be making gloves in Stratford, a bitter man with failed longing in his eyes?

  “Mrs S?” Nol gingerly touched her elbow. “Mrs S? You want to go backstage? I’ll take you.”

  “Yes. Yes, Nol, I do. It was good, wasn’t it?

  “It’s ’is best. See Buckin’am forget ’is lines? I thought Master Will’d belt ’im one in the chops.”

  “No, I didn’t notice. It was wonderful. Come, then, let’s go behind. Lady Southampton, Lord Southampton, it was my great honour to meet you. Good day to you. And to you, Sir George. Perhaps we will meet again while I’m here.” With a final bow she gathered up her skirts to leave.

  “Mistress Anne,” Sir George’s voice halted her. “If you go behind scenes, would you be so kind as to allow his lordship to accompany you? I will see her ladyship home, but Lord Southampton has the fancy to pay his compliments to the players.”

  If the Earl of Southampton had not been so young, Anne would have felt overwhelmed; nervous, too, lest she commit some dreadful faux pas that would disgrace her husband. But he was young, just a boy, and so clearly eager to be pleased. Hamnet looked so like that when offered a treat that it was impossible for Anne be shy. Curtsying again she said, “Of course, sir. My lord, they will be delighted and honoured. But if you’ve not been back-stage before, be prepared, it can be noisy. You will think them all mad.”

  People knew Southampton and there was no need to clear the way for him. But at the bottom of the steps Christopher Marlowe waited, so that Anne walked almost into his arms.

  “Your lordship,” she turned to Southampton, “are you acquainted with Master Marlowe?”

  With a shy smile the young earl said, “We have met, yes. Do you also go behind scenes, Master Marlowe?”

  “Indeed I do, my lord. Anne, my lovely girl, light of my life, come kiss your humble servant.”

  “The day Kit Marlow’s humble we can look for a hot January.” She kissed him.

  “And Chaucer tells us January ran hot for a lovesome maid.”

  “But I’m no maid.”

  “But as lovely as May. Excellent play, isn’t it. That husband of yours is good. Some people even speak of him as a second Marlowe. Did you see that clodhopper playing Lady Anne get his dress stuck in his bum-crack? Come along, we’ll go behind and I’ll compliment your husband; through clenched teeth.” Serious for a moment he said, “He is good, Anne.”

  “Better than you?” she teased.

  Still serious, he said, “One day he will be. I’d better kill him, I think.”

  “Would you widow me, Christopher?”

  “Only if you would then marry me and bring me Will’s luck. Oh dear, oh dear, such fun we have back-stage.”

  Southampton looked taken aback, as well he might. A stranger might have thought the company all at odds, might have expected drawn swords and sent for the Watch. Anne knew it was only the euphoria and irresponsible high spirits of the good performance of a successful play, and here and there the free and frank exchange of views, meaning nothing but given meaning by the actors being still in their stage voices.

  The ’tire-master was shrieking to have a care of the costumes as people jostled, the stage manager was counting the props back into the hamper, the actors congratulating themselves and each other, visitors trying to throng into the cramped confines back-stage. Cries rang in Anne’s ears: Well done, a perfect play. I look hideous in this dress. He missed my cue again, Will. Did you see that girl in the front, the one with the tits? Will, we must talk. Nearly ten pounds we took today. Early call tomorrow, gentlemen, to rehearse the new piece. I say well done, absolutely superb. It’s too long, Will, we have to cut it.

  That last caught William’s attention. “Cut it? Never.”

  “But Will...”

  “Cut a play by William Shakspere? Think what you say!”

  “But Will...”

  “Go.” William had seen his wife. “Anne, my dear. What did you think?”

  “It was good, Will.”

  “Well of course it was. I wrote it.”

  “Yes, and it is truly good. I’m proud of you. And you were right about the wooing scene.”

  “I’m always right, I’m Shakspere. Yes, Kit, what is it? Don’t pluck my sleeve like that.”

  “No, don’t, Master Marlowe,” said the passing ’tire-master. “It’s costume. Give it back, Will, before it’s damaged.”

  Ignoring him, Kit said, “We bring you an admirer, Will. My lord, William Shakspere, author of this piece. William, His Worship the Lord Southampton.”

  That brought a silence as perhaps nothing else could have done just then. Into the silence the Earl’s soft voice spoke. “I do not mean to intrude upon you, gentlemen. I wish to present my compliments. A wonderful play, wonderfully acted, and written by a master.”

  William smiled. Christopher Marlowe did not.

  “I have to thank you,” Southampton continued, “for three hours’ delight. And more than three hours, in the past, and I hope more than three hours again. A brilliant play.”

  William bowed his thanks, staring at the Earl. As well he might, thought Anne, for Southampton was very, very beautiful. Close-to like this, one saw the face of a very young man – eighteen? less? – still with the epicene beauty of adolescence; but for all that it was a man’s face. He was tall and slim in the way that said he hadn’t finished growing. The long hair falling over his shoulders was a gleaming auburn gold, his eyes the colour of cornflowers, thickly, silkily lashed. His clothes were dove-grey and tawny velvet, studded with jewels and laced with gold no brighter than his hair. A pearl and gold brooch starred his hat and a pearl drop hung in his ear. He smelt of sandalwood and chypre, and when he smiled, as he did now at William, his teeth showed white and even as more pearls.

  “Will, get that costume off,” said Dick Burbage Then, “Oh, my Lord Southampton. My pardon, I did not see you at first. Good day to Your Worship.” True actor, he added, “You saw our play today? Did you enjoy it?”

  “Greatly, Master Burbage. Your performance was beyond praise. They say King Richard was a wicked man but tell me, do you believe a hunchback could ride into battle and fight as manfully as the records tell us he did?”

  “My lord, speaking after three hours laced into that hunchback costume, I doubt it. But then, I doubt he really was a hunchback. People still remember him, you know. Perhaps Will should give him some different deformity to prove his mind’s wickedness?”

  “What do you wan
t of me, Dick? A good play or a history lesson?

  “A good play every time, Will; drama. And that costume, thank you.” Grumpily William peeled it off and stuffed it into Burbage’s arms. Anne handed him his own shirt. Someone shouted to Burbage to hurry up, the alehouse would be drunk dry by the time they got there.

  “Are you,” Southampton wistfully asked, “going to the tavern?”

  “Yes?”

  “Then may I come too?”

  Flabbergasted, William said, “But my lord, we go to a common place. It’s all players and common folk. It’s not fit for you.”

  “I’ve been in taverns before. I’m not a schoolboy. I would like it.”

  And now, thought Anne, who had smacked just such lordly sulks out of Hamnet, you’ll stamp your foot and shout that you will have your way.

  Caught between caution and the need to please a nobleman William said, “My lord, you are Lord Burghley’s ward, and I have my way to make. I don’t want to explain to the most powerful man in England that I let his ward be robbed or murdered in a London alehouse.”

  “When I went before I did have my tutor – my secretary – with me,” Southampton admitted, the sulks clearing, “and he soon took me away. I should not have asked you, should I? You’ll want to be alone with your fellows.”

  He looked so downcast that William said, “You are most welcome to bear us company. But not to the tavern, I think. My lodgings are humble, but I would be honoured to receive you there.”

  Southampton blushed. “If you mean it, the honour is mine.”

  “Then come along.” But William dropped back to murmur to Anne, “Is the place tidy enough?”

  Somehow regaining her breath she said, “It is, but Will, how can you invite the Earl of Southampton there? Think who he is!”

  “He’s a boy, and stage-struck, and he admires my work. A possible patron, Anne. God knows I could do with one.”

  “Ah,” said Anne, and snapped her fingers to the boy Nol, silently trailing them. “Here’s some money; go buy good ale and the best wine you can, Malmsey or Canary wine, French claret; no rot-gut, mind, his lordship is used to the best. And some Ginevers and brandy.”