Love's Will Page 9

  “See Daddy juggle?” Hamnet asked.

  “Not in the play, darling. Will Kemp attends to the funny business.”

  “Juggle now, then. You said.”

  “You did, Will,” Anne reminded him.

  “I’m not very good at it. I can only manage three.” Instantly the children pressed apples upon him. And he juggled. More than adequately, it seemed to Anne as she choked with laughter and applauded. He ended by bouncing an apple into each child’s lap. “There, that’s all for now. I must go soon to help set up for the play. Who’s coming?”

  “Me for one,” said Gilbert.

  “And I,” said Joan. “A shame Richard and Edmund are in school; perhaps they can play truant and come to the play tomorrow.”

  “We-ell…” His parents consulted with a glance, then to Anne’s surprise said yes, they would come. They’d always gone to the travelling companies’ performances in the past, especially when John Shakspere was Bailiff, but the theatre had taken on the evil glimmer of Sodom and Gomorrah, luring their eldest son away. It was hard for them to hold up their heads when everyone knew their boy was a common hired player. They blamed themselves. But now, Anne noted, they were oddly, shyly proud of William. London fame meant little in Stratford, but hard cash was different. So yes, they said, they would go to the play.

  “Then I’ll see you all there.” William kissed the children. “Ugh, wash your hands and faces first.” Kissing Anne, he whispered in her ear, “I have a thing for you.”

  She glanced up through her lashes. “I certainly hope so.”

  “No, you shameless woman, not that. Well, that too. A thing at the theatre. You’ll see.”

  They were in good time, it lacked half an hour to three when the Shaksperes filed into the Guildhall. Clutching the twins’ hands Anne asked her mother-in-law to take a playbill; whether or not it listed William’s name among the players, it would be something to put away and keep, a memory.

  “Anne?” An uncertain reader, Mrs Shakspere turned a bewildered face on her. “Anne, can this be right?”

  “Can what be right?”

  “Well, look. Judith, give me your hand, let your mother see.” She thrust the paper at Anne. Anne read it, and her jaw dropped.

  “Lord Strange’s Men present… under James Burbage… The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Look, O, look – A play by William Shakspere. Why didn’t he say? A surprise, he said.”

  Gently her mother-in-law said, “My dear, he meant it as a compliment to you. After all, you believed in him all those years.”

  “You didn’t want me to encourage him.”

  “No I did not, for it’s not what we ever wanted for one of our children, but here he is with money in his purse and the good will of his fellows; and he is happy. It’s given to few enough of us to be happy.” She took the play-bill back from Anne and read it through again. “And after all, they could hardly come to Stratford with a play by John Shakspere’s son and not perform it. And,” she said confidently, “I am sure it is very good. Come along, children.”

  There was a painted backcloth and they had rigged some curtains at the sides to hide the actors’ comings and goings. Wings, William had told her they were called. It was a shabby little makeshift arrangement, yet it held a magic. The audience hummed with anticipation. Sharp as the market clock struck three, a fanfare sounded and James Burbage strode onto the stage. Everyone clapped. He bowed his thanks then spread his hands.

  “Gentles all,” he flattered, “today we are honoured to play this gracious town of Stratford.” (More applause.) “And it is meet that here we present a play by one of your own. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, Lord Strange’s Men present a new work: The Two Gentlemen of Verona, by your own William Shakspere.”

  “My daddy!” Hamnet yelled then ducked into Anne’s lap when everyone turned to look.

  “Indeed.” Burbage bowed to William’s family, and again especially to Anne. “And now let us take you to Verona.”

  As writers say, as the most forward bud is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit is turn’d to folly, blasting in the bud. Anne glanced at her mother-in-law’s rapt face, saw the same enchantment on all the other faces. They weren’t in Stratford any more, they were in Verona, and glovers had become lovers, hatters had become wits, solid matrons pretty girls.

  Then Anne forgot who and where she was and let the play transport her.

  “Was it good?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I meant the play.”

  “So did I.”

  “Ha!” William turned over, pulling Anne into his arms. He kissed her breast. “So you no longer call my loving wonderful? Yet I made you moan. Was I good?”

  “In bed and on the stage, you were wonderful. But different, Will. It seems you’ve learned more in London than how to shape a play.”

  “Ah.” She felt his lashes flutter in a guilty blink. “It’s been two years, Anne, and I am a man.”

  “That excuses anything?”

  “No. But explains it. I haven’t taken a mistress, Anne, there’s no one who holds my heart. You’re my wife. When I can bear it no longer alone, yes, I lie with others.”

  “And bring what they teach you home to me.”

  Angrily he said, “I wanted to give you pleasure. There’s more to this business than four bare legs in a bed, much more than I ever knew here in Stratford. You always pleased me, Anne, but I’ve learnt more. I wanted to give you pleasure,” he repeated.

  “Well, you did. Yes. And you’re a man. Yes. Just don’t tell me anything of who else you take to bed.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  But after a moment’s stolid silence she said, “Are there many other women?”

  “No. Leave it at that, Anne. You’re my wife and dear to me.”

  Wisely she did leave it at that. They lay, still embraced, saying nothing. She thought he was nearly asleep when he said, “Anne, is my father still deep in the old religion?”

  “He doesn’t speak of it to me for he knows I don’t approve. But yes. Is it dangerous, Will? He’s been fined for not attending church, but is it worse than that?”

  “Yes,” he said soberly. “It’s very dangerous. God knows there are plenty of recusants all over the country, but most of them have the sense to show outward conformity. The Queen prefers tolerance, but her patience has its limits and there are men in her government who aren’t minded to be tolerant or patient. I hear a lot in London, Anne. Some of it is gossip and silly rumour, some’s spite; but the Catholics are active and running into danger. It’s worse since Mary of Scotland died. God’s nails, between the Puritans and the Catholics a man doesn’t know what innocent remark might run him into trouble. The Puritans spend their entire time trying to close the playhouses, afraid people might enjoy themselves. But dabbling in the old religion is as dangerous as witchcraft, Anne. Many people see no difference between the two.”

  Curiously, because they’d never much discussed these matters, Anne asked, “And what are your beliefs, Will, deep in your secret heart?”

  “I wish people could be left alone to worship as they like. What does it matter, when you come down to it?”

  “The Queen is head of the English church, so it matters. It’s close to treason not to follow the Anglican way.”

  “But in the end, if one’s a Christian, what does the form matter? It’s all a way for the government to hold people in control.”

  “I hope you don’t go around London saying that.”

  “Oh no. I go to church on Sunday, I take my communion three times a year; we theatre people come under enough suspicion as it is. Conformity is all. Queen Elizabeth is God’s Anointed and Head of the Church. Once we die, the rest is silence. But I must warn my father not to meddle openly with Catholicism. Thanks be, we’ll never have the Inquisition in England and Bloody Mary’s days won’t come back, but between the government men looking for sedition and the Puritans and the other fanatics, even a Stratford glove
r must be careful.”

  “Tell him so.”

  “Aye, I will. And Anne, make sure no-one can reproach you with lack of conformity. Obey the law. Go to church, praise God and the Queen, see the children learn their Catechism, speak openly against the old religion. Do the children know their Catechism?”

  “Of course, do you take me for a fool? Church twice on Sunday, all the proper teachings. Hamnet starts next year at the petty school, remember.”

  “Oh God do I remember. ABCs and horn books, letters in the cross-row, why don’t you know your lesson, William, over the bench with you, here’s a way to make you learn. And then on to the upper school and rhetoric and bloody logic and bloody Latin and here’s a thrashing for you, boy, and conjugate the verb, and why are we muffing our construe, Master William, over the bench for a reminder of the ablative bloody absolute, and spare the rod and spoil the child, let’s hear the Catechism… You’re lucky you didn’t go to school.”

  “So it seems. Bartholomew was very gentle in teaching me to read. Did you thrash the boys you taught?”

  “Only if they gave me cheek. And then I chastised their cheeks. I’d better write some more plays, for if I ever have to go back to being an usher in a school I’ll hang myself. I still need a patron, Anne, some nobleman who’ll let me use his name and who’ll accept my poems. And, it’s to be hoped, pay me well.”

  “Would Lord Strange do it? Have you met him again?”

  Yawning, William said, “Yes, briefly. Yes, he might. But he’s in bad odour with the government at present.” He yawned again, and slid his arms out from around Anne to turn over.

  Snuggling against his back, wrapping her feet around his, she said, “Why is he?”

  “Suspected of Catholic sympathies. And he’s got a claim to the throne, which under a Tudor monarch means you’re for the block.”

  Nearly asleep Anne said, “What claim? How?”

  “His mother was a Clifford. Descended from Henry the Seventh, I think. Perhaps even worse, from the Plantagenets. Can’t remember. A distant claim, but enough in the Queen’s eyes. He’s suspect. The Tudors like to get rid of anyone with the shadow of a claim; wonder he’s left alive. And the Stanleys are famous for turning their coats. The Queen won’t believe he’s loyal just because he says so. Though I think he is. He’s not stupid. A pleasant man. Might ask him, be my patron, poems. G’night, my love.”

  “Goodnight, my dear.” As she slid over the edge into sleep she thought, that’s only about the second time he’s ever called me ‘my love’.

  2.

  The children had misunderstood; they had thought their father back for good. Susanna’s eyes, William’s eyes, were huge in her stricken face as she cried, “But I don’t want you to go away! I love you, Daddy.”

  William squatted down and put his hands on her shoulders. “Sweetheart, I love you too, of course I do. But I must go. I never meant to stay; I cannot. Child, I explained this when first I went to London. This is how I earn my living. I have to go on touring, then back to London. And now, I can come home more often, and perhaps your mother will bring you to London.”

  “I want you to stay. Now. Don’t go.”

  Straightening up he said, “I must, Susanna. Be brave, be good. Needs must. And I must go today, with the players.”

  “I hate them. Stay. Please!”

  “I cannot.”

  “But I want you to.”

  “Then want must be your master, Susanna.”

  He had never spoken to her so harshly. Mama and Grandam were the ones for firmness and discipline, her father the one for indulgence. She had always been his pet, and thought she could do as she liked with him.

  “I hate you,” she said, and stamped her foot. William looked coolly down at her.

  “Never say that, Susanna. I love you very much. But I must go. And I don’t want to take away the memory of a spoiled and insolent child. Come now, love, you’re seven, you can read, you’re a clever girl. Be a good one too, and sensible. I have to go and there’s an end to it.”

  No colour in her face she stared for a moment then spun around and raced off up the stairs. William sighed and looked at Anne. “I thought she understood.”

  “She didn’t want to. She loves you so dearly, Will. They all do.”

  “And I love them, but love won’t pay the bills.”

  “I know.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. She turned away.

  “What, Anne?”

  “What do you think!” she cried, shaking off his hand. “Susanna said it for all of us. You have to go, yes, but let us come too!”

  “But...”

  “Oh, but me no buts, William. Don’t you know, can’t you imagine, how boring my life is here? How much I miss you? How sick I am of lodging in your parents’ house? How much I want a change and some fun? And do you know, do you care, that your only son never quite believes you exist because he couldn’t remember you? And now you are a god to him, he adores you, and you are going to go away and leave me to explain to him why you’re no longer here. Hamnet is four and a half years old, William, and you are about to break his heart.”

  Again his hand fell on her shoulder, hard this time, gripping, turning her about to face him. “Lovely speech. Thank you. I love my children.”

  “I know, but – ”

  “You said it: but me no buts. Have you thought, Anne, of what it would be like to live in London?”

  “Of nothing else. You fool.”

  “How dirty it is, how unwholesome the air, how bad for children, how expensive, how you’d know no one there?”

  “Yet it’s full of families. Other players’ wives and children live there.”

  “I’m on the road half the year.”

  “Half a loaf’s better than no bread.”

  “God save me from platitudes!”

  “We could come home when you went on tour. We could manage. Will, please. Or by God you will go and tell your son goodbye for another two years, you will explain it to him as you did, so charmingly, to poor Susanna. You will be the one who hurts them and I, for once, will be the one who blames you.”

  His mouth twisted as he thought it over. “You strike a hard bargain.”

  “Perhaps it is about time I did.”

  “You really want this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. When the summer’s over. I’ll see about a lodging.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yes, my dear, I do. And to prove it I’ll go tell the children.”

  3.

  Six weeks later William wrote that he had found a house. It was in Shoreditch, near the playhouses, with open fields at its back. A kitchen and two rooms downstairs, three rooms upstairs, a privy in the garden and a wash-house at the back. It had some furniture, he wrote, beds and tables, but Anne must bring all her household stuff.

  Household stuff, she thought; did she have enough? She routed out her trousseau goods, most of which had lain untouched in boxes in the attic all these years. Cooking pans, pewter and earthenware plates and cups, towels, two precious crystal glasses, some cushions and, most special of all, a tapestry. Little enough. The blankets and bed curtains, the painted wall-hanging and the rug which she had brought to her marriage had seen hard wear. Ruthlessly she threw out anything too shabby and bought new, spending some of the extra money William had sent with his letter. It meant paying for carriage to London, but that was better than arriving in the city, with winter coming on, without enough warm blankets and curtains. Her stepmother combed Hewlands Farm for goods and sent in a wagon loaded with three chairs, a table, a court cupboard, a hamper of hangings and a carpet, a lot of bottled fruit, some excellent copper pans, a ham and two hard cheeses. Mrs Shakspere and Joan worked day and night with Anne, washing and polishing, and sewing new clothes for the children and the only new dress Anne had had since her wedding.

  At the middle of October they set out. Held down to the slow pace of the wagon, they were lucky to make ten or t
welve miles a day; a good thing, Anne believed, that they were travelling before the worst of winter made the roads into quagmires. She spared a thought for William and the other players who did this sort of journey year in, year out, in the heat of summer or through the worst weather, trudging beside their carts from one country town to another, lucky to find a decent inn at the end of the day.

  The children soon grew bored with travelling and squabbled endlessly over who was to ride on the cart and who up behind Anne or their uncle Gilbert (Mr Shakspere would not hear of a woman and children travelling alone, not these days, you never knew). Anne made them walk most of the time it wasn’t raining, because it left them too tired at nightfall to quarrel.

  Ten days on the road, then they saw London ahead.

  The children had envisaged an instant visit to the menagerie in the Tower, and they were disappointed to enter from the north by the road which, through the wall of the City proper, became Bishopsgate Street. William’s letter had given careful directions but still Anne couldn’t believe this was the right house. It was almost new, not more than fifty years old. And fine. Too fine. Newly whitewashed, the windows gleaming; more broad windows upstairs. But there was William lounging through the front door, a smug smile on his face.

  “Welcome home, Mrs Shakspere. Will it do?”

  “Do? Oh, Will. Can we afford it?”

  “Yes,” he said negligently. “It’s been empty some time and the landlord was glad to let it. Hello, my darlings, like your new home?” They did. Pausing only to hug William, they raced inside to explore, their shoes echoing on the floors and stairs. “You look tired,” William told Anne, giving her a kiss. “A hard journey?”

  “Tiresome more than hard. It’s good to see you. Well, let’s see this house.”

  It was splendid. Two spacious rooms downstairs and a kitchen with a clear-burning hearth; upstairs, a big room overlooking the street and two smaller rooms for the children. Up in the roof were another two tiny rooms for servants. William had had a woman come in to scrub, he proudly told Anne, and the maid was at the market even as they spoke.