by Alexa Schnee
“Sir,” I said, “is William Shakespeare here?”
“Ah, you’re the lady he brought here the day Henry the Fourth, Part One premiered.” He smiled, twisting his beard with his fingers. He looked the same, an expensive ring on each finger and a polished cane in his right hand. “And why would you need him?”
He suddenly looked as suspicious as my widow neighbor. I wondered how many women had been in my position before.
“I need to find him,” I simply replied.
He nodded. It amazed me to find that I did not care whether or not he admired me for what I was doing. For, surely, reconciling with a lover would be the only reason for a young lady to walk the crime-ridden streets of London alone.
“One always wants to find Shakespeare.” He spoke as if he himself had attempted it once. “If you are the one who can, then I will tell you.”
“You see it too?” I asked, surprised. “I thought only I could.”
He laughed and sighed at the same time, a strange but fitting sound of hopelessness.
“That is my point. I can’t. But if you can…” He trailed off and it was a moment before he resumed. “Then you are no ordinary musician’s wife.”
So he knew. He knew who I was. I wondered if William had told him or if it was now common knowledge. I should turn back to my house, take Henry back and put him to bed, and recognize that my life was the way it was. But I couldn’t do it.
“He lives not far from here, about two or three miles west and south,” he answered. “Would you like me to come? It is not right for a woman to be walking by herself.”
When I realized how close he lived to the theatre, I remembered the day he came to my door after the explosion. Truly, he had come to see me that day. Why else would he cross London when he lived so close?
“No. This is something that can only be accomplished by one.”
“If you need me, I will be here. I am Henry Wriothesley, his benefactor, and I would be happy to assist you.”
“Thank you.”
“He is a good man with a good heart.”
I set off in the direction he indicated. Was I the only person in this world who could feel Shakespeare’s frustrations? Was I the only one that understood his pain?
I dodged around several carts and looked ahead to see where I was going. London was all around me, yet I had not even noticed. I felt as I had when I saw William Shakespeare for the first time—excitement, surprise, and anger because my emotions controlled me so greatly.
I stopped in front of the house where Henry Wriothesley had directed me. It stood solid on a narrow street. It had been well kept. There was no dirt or mud on the exterior, and dark green shutters hung on either side of his front window. The house was small but just right for one person. A second of doubt crept into my mind like a dark shadow.
My feet urged me to run back to my home, but my heart had other plans. I allowed it to take me a step closer, and another, and another, up the steps, until I waited at the looming door. My knuckles tapped the wood five times.
There was silence, and my mind raced. Did he know it was me? And if he did, was that why I heard nothing on the other side of the door? Was he gone? Had I come at the wrong moment?
Then the door opened and there he was. His eyes met mine; his hand gripped the latch tightly. His face was blank. It was as if I were looking into a mirror at myself, with my mind far, far away.
And then he started to smile.
THE MOONLIGHT POURED THROUGH the window that night like milk from a pitcher. It covered his whole chest and my face, and I could almost taste its silkiness. I had never noticed it before that night—how easy the moonlight was to taste. It was creamy, delicious.
I thought of Henry and how he would be sound asleep inside the old woman’s home. He would be curled up in warm blankets—ignorant of what his mother had done.
William’s bed was smaller than the one Alfonso and I shared. I was closer to him. This was the way it should be. His house was smaller than mine but better kept. There were hardly any lines on the ceiling.
I watched his breaths rise and fall and his lips quiver in deep sleep. I watched the way he always moved toward me when he rolled over; I could see his face, touch it. I noted how his hand would twitch a tiny bit. Even in his sleep, all he could think about was creating new lands and characters.
His eyes opened. He wasn’t asleep after all.
“Did we ever have a choice, William?” I asked him.
He closed and opened his eyes again, still trying to wake up. I shouldn’t have asked that, for I knew the answer.
“A choice of what?” He kissed my cheek, still lost in his dreams.
“A choice to wait until we knew”—the words floated from my mouth—“knew that we had found each other? The people we wanted to be with.”
He observed me for a time, and then he sat up slowly and placed his head in his hands. The covers formed a soft pool around him, and it was as if I wasn’t in the bed with him. He was thinking about something else.
“What about your wife?” My lips touched the painful subject like it was burning, but I felt it was fair to ask.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” I exclaimed.
He cocked his smile sideways, as though what he had to say about her could only hurt me. I knew it would, but I needed to understand. I needed to know why he never saw her…and why I was here.
“It was an accident,” he said. “Anne said she loved me. I admired the idea of falling in love. I wanted to be a writer and an actor, and I wanted to know what love felt like….”
He sighed. As he ran a hand through his hair, I noticed a tear forming in his eyes. It was like a piece of glass reflecting the moonlight. I gave him a moment, and he began again.
“She became pregnant. I did the honorable thing and married her. For a while I was angry and resentful. She wanted me to stay home, become a glove maker like my father. She wanted me give up all my hopes, my dreams. I didn’t.”
He stopped for a moment and smoothed out the thin bedsheets with his hand. He was having difficulty telling these things to me. I wanted to say he could be finished if he wanted, but I was also curious.
“I would say I loved her. Then I would leave for the theatre and I would act so I could leave that town, so I could leave Anne. I would come home at nights, and she would tell me that I was a fool. That what I was doing was hurting her. I didn’t care. She couldn’t see beyond what was right in front of her,” he continued. He looked at me, his small smile cocked to the side.
“When she looked into my eyes, she didn’t see anything but a glover. All she saw was a man she’d tricked, a man who wasn’t worth her time. One day I got an opportunity to leave Stratford, and I went to tell her, praying that she would be happy for me. I would be making more than a glove maker ever could, and that was what she worried about most—money.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder. I felt the presence of his wife among us, though she was miles away.
“She glared at me. And then she said something that I will never forget. She said, ‘William, God knows who you are, and God knows you are nothing more than a glove maker’s son who was crude enough to put me in such a position. God knows you can pretend to be an actor, use fancy words, leave your wife, and think you are great, but you will never be anything more than what you are right now.’ ”
The moonlight grew sour in my mouth. I had never met Anne, but somehow I could see her standing in the corner of the room, observing and judging us.
“And?” I asked. I stood up and wrapped a blanket around me before walking over to the window. I needed some distance. I needed to hide from his wife’s eyes.
There was no one outside. The streets were bathed in soft light. Only the moon looked at me, with its round, quiet face. I fingered the rough blanket with my free fingers.
“I left. I go back once in a while and stay for a week or two. Then I come back here.”
“How ma
ny children do you have?” I asked.
“Three. The firstborn, Susanna, is like her mother but wiser. Then there are the twins, a boy and a girl.”
“Does Anne love you now?”
He shrugged. “I could not say, but I could not really say from the beginning, either. She says she does, but words are just words. A person can say fine words and mean them, but love is not love unless it’s shown.”
“She probably means well. She probably wants you home.”
“What about me?” His eyes darted to my face. “Maybe I want to live. Maybe I want to fall in love on purpose. She deceived me.”
I sighed and pulled the blanket tighter around me. It was suddenly cold, and my body trembled.
He watched me shiver and smiled sadly at me. He patted the bed for me to rejoin him. After I sat back down, the bed sinking under my weight, he placed an arm around me, and it provided some warmth. I was sorrier than he for asking such questions, but I had needed to know.
“Are you sorry you came?” he asked, his voice lower.
I shook my head, but in reality I wasn’t sure. What we had done was wrong, but just as I couldn’t go back and change that day when we were alone in my house, I couldn’t change what I had done now. It was there forever, like a scar, and I wasn’t sure I would change it if I could.
“I love you, William.”
“And I, you. Are you worried what people will say?”
I shook my head again, but I was. There was so much more to it than just love. Lovers were foolish. William and I weren’t. We wanted each other, but we also understood that there were so many things at risk. The world around us judged, and I could not separate myself from that. Perhaps it was partly the way I was raised, but it was more than that. It was this desire I had. I wanted to please everyone. I wanted to please God, the queen, Margaret, and even Alfonso. I hated the widow’s disapproving stares. All I knew was that I gave all that up to get what I wanted. I had William Shakespeare.
“What if we just left?” I said. “What if we went to France or Spain? I’ve always longed to go to France. We could run away—”
“Emilia, oh, Emilia.” William chuckled sadly. He took my face between his hands and kissed me gently. “What would that accomplish?”
“I don’t want to be here.” A tear rolled down my face. “I want to be alone with you and get away from here. I want to see the court of France and be with you. I want to go to Spain and be with you. I’ll go to Rome with you. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”
He took me in his arms and held me not like a lover, but like a brother. My tears flowed freely, and I found myself choking and sobbing. It had been some time since I had cried, and the hurt that was bottled up now released. It was not only the pain from the last few weeks that came out; it was also all that I had hidden from Alfonso during those endless days of matrimony. It was missing Margaret. It was not being who I wanted to be. It was being lonely and finally finding someone who understood me and knowing that it could never result in anything more than what we were doing right here and now.
“Would you really leave your only son in the hands of your husband? Would you leave the Countess of Cumberland? Could you actually leave the queen?”
I did not answer. I just continued to weep. His arms fit so nicely around my shoulders. His face went into my hair, and I could feel his breath on my bare skin.
“I just want to hide.”
“Why?”
“I worry about when Alfonso comes home and finds out what we have done. I worry for your safety as well as my own.”
“He does not need to know.”
“How could he not?” I exclaimed. “The man at the theatre knew. The lady who now holds my son in her arms knows. How could he not learn?”
“He will not harm you.”
I laughed through my tears. “You don’t know what he’s like.”
“If he touches you for what you did tonight, whether he finds it out from you or me or the lady next door, I will protect you. I promise.”
He kissed my forehead, and then my eyes, and then my nowhealed nose. I tried to lose myself in the touch of his skin, but I could not.
THE NEXT DAY, WE strode hand in hand around London. His hand in mine felt so different this time. Before, it had been like energy surging through my hand and into my arm. Now it was a more familiar feeling, a sort of security. We wandered through the heart of the busy city, and my steps grew heavier on the cobblestones the closer we got to my home. I did not wish to resume my life. I wanted to be able to love William all the time.
This part of London wasn’t as neglected as the section where I lived. Freshly watered flowers poked their heads out of boxes by the windows. Thoroughly swept steps led the way to polished front doors. I enjoyed seeing men in vividly colored doublets and women in furs and silks getting into carriages and speaking in hushed tones. Jewels and gold winked at me from their caps, and I was reminded of life in court. William had done better than my husband.
He wrapped an arm around my waist and pointed to the different theatres along the streets. The Curtain. The Red Lion. They were tall and proud, and brightly colored flags waved from their tops, reds and blues and greens.
“And there”—he pointed—“that is the Swan.” The paint on the sides was clean and white. “She should be ready for business fairly soon.”
“Will they perform one of your works there?” I admired the theatre. I could tell it was almost completed; it looked as though it had a similar structure to the Rose. I heard hammers, and the smell of hay wafted toward us as workers thatched the roof from tall ladders. They waved to William as we passed.
“Perhaps.” He smiled. “If I actually finish what I am writing.”
I smiled in turn. He kissed me on the cheek as we walked.
As we made it farther into the city, the sounds of horses’ hooves faded into the distance. Instead of the light, timely carriages, we heard the plodding of the wooden carts. The whispering of the aristocracy turned into the shouts of vendors.
“You see?” William pointed to a dirtied, slight urchin, who snatched a roll from the baker’s stand. “Does that not remind you of the fairies you write about?”
I laughed. I had never thought of it in that way before.
“And there.” He pointed again to a reluctant donkey burdened with a heavy load. An impatient farmer pulled at his lead. “I see a dawdling husband whose wife only wishes him to carry more of her purchases. Seems as though it’s a heavy burden, no?”
When we reached my house, we stood outside—much as I had the day before, in front of his door. He crossed his arms and stared, waiting for me to speak.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
He tapped his foot lightly.
“Wait.”
“For how long?”
“Until he leaves.”
I looked toward the door. That time would be so empty, so lonely. I was afraid I could barely stand it.
“Then,” he added, “we can be together again.”
I kissed him and patted his forearm. He stroked my hair. We both knew we couldn’t be together again until Alfonso was traveling once more.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, William.”
I gave him one last painful smile as he turned to leave me behind. I would see him again soon, only it would be with his friend, my husband. I would be nothing to him.
I went up to the widow’s door and took Henry into my arms. His soft arms curled around my neck.
“Momma go?” he asked.
I smiled. “Yes, Momma went.”
“Where?”
I closed my door behind me and placed Henry on the floor, where he stood uneasily. What should I tell the child? He was too young to understand.
“Momma went to the market.”
ALFONSO CAME HOME A few days later. He strode in with no greeting and immediately demanded a drink. I obeyed, choosing the finest glass I could find in our meager collection of dishes.
Alfonso had a dark beard now, which looked awkward on his face…almost as if he had glued it on. But he treated Henry with a kindness that surprised me. He patted his head and called him his son. If Henry was a good boy, Alfonso picked him up and placed him on his knee.
His first night back, Alfonso was in a better mood than when he left.
“Here,” he said, using a tone I had never heard before. Though it was a command, he spoke it softly and gently passed me the bundle in his arms. “Take my clothes and wash them. I will need them for when the queen calls me back.”
I took them from him—an obedient spouse. This was a part I played well. I had spent so many years as Henry Carey’s mistress. If Alfonso noticed that my actions were not sincere, he didn’t say anything. When he was home, he either spent his time hiding in the bedroom or in front of our hearth. He was quiet.
“Do you want anything?” I asked him before quitting to bed one evening.
He sat in the same chair as usual. From behind, I could see only his hands poking out from either side. He gripped the arms tightly, and his knuckles were almost white in the firelight.
“No,” he replied.
I wondered what he was thinking. It was hard for me to imagine Alfonso thinking about anything, but perhaps I was wrong. Maybe William was right and there was more to him than there seemed.
Alfonso and William soon worked side by side. Alfonso played the music for the actors, while William either performed or observed. Shakespeare had invited him to work at the Rose. I couldn’t help but wonder whether William had used this opportunity to see me more. I hoped he had.
One night, I had just put Henry to bed and was expecting Alfonso to come home with some members of his troupe. I cleaned the house until it was spotless and made sure that our stock of wine was full. I had swept under the table in the dining room. The oak chairs were starting to warp and were becoming rough and uncomfortable to sit on. I dusted the table and set a vase of flowers on it. The room looked much better with the wood floors swept and the cobwebs cleaned out of the corners.