Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  “And you will write? Write to me, I mean?”

  “Be sure of it.”

  He left next morning in the misty dawn. He kissed his father, who wept and tried to hide it. Kissed his mother, who turned her angry face away. Kissed his sister, who wept and blessed him through the tears. Kissed his brothers, who enviously hugged him.

  “Mother…”

  “Let her be,” his father said, watching his wife flounce away inside. “Now, William, it’s as well she’s not looking, for I have this for you.” It was a purse of money, pressed furtively into his hand. “I’ve saved a little for all you children and you might as well have this now. But spend it wisely, my boy.”

  “I will, Father. Thank you.”

  “And, William, remember London folk are not like us. Be careful. Give your trust sparingly and your friendship wisely, but work to keep the friends you have. Don’t let yourself be drawn into quarrels; but if you must be, let people know where you stand and what your principles are. And never borrow money; nor lend it, for that makes as many troubles as debt. Let’s see, what else? Curb your tongue; sometimes you talk too freely in exercising your wit. Listen more than you speak. And mind you keep up a good appearance; people judge by appearances. Dress well, but according to your station, avoid vulgarity and seeming to ape your betters. And, William, be true to yourself and then you’ll be false to no one. And God save you, my son. God speed.”

  “God save you, Father.” William hugged the old man. “Thank you.” He kissed Anne and rubbed her cheek with the back of his fingers. They said nothing; their farewells were already done. The sleepy twins clung to him, kissing him sweetly. Susanna hung back, but at the last moment, as he shouldered his pack, she ran and flung her arms around him. She was crying, but she managed to say God speed.

  Then he was gone, and the morning mist hid him from sight before he had reached the end of the street.

  My dear wife:

  This tells you I am safe in London. Dick Field gives me a bed in his lodging and I am comfortable. I have seen the Tower of London and the beasts in the menagerie in Lion Tower, and London Bridge. Also I have been to St Paul’s, where all of London does its business, and where in Paul’s Yard I fear I will spend too much on books.

  I have seen my Lord Southampton’s house, and Lord Essex’s and Lord Leicester’s, and Whitehall Palace and Westminster. I called on Master Alleyn the player. I have seen six plays. I went to Master Burbage, who had spoken to Mr Alleyn and Mr Henslowe of me, and he read my plays and liked them, and he has taken me on as dogsbody and sometime writer. I prompt the players, sort the properties and count the costumes. I am happy. Kiss my children for me.

  My dearest wife:

  Today I acted in a play, taking the part of a soldier who speaks no lines. I have met Christopher Marlowe, the playwright, and we talked together. He is of my age and from Kent. Tomorrow we play his Tamburlaine, and Kit has given me an idea for a new play about a Roman, Titus Andronicus. The Londoners like gore and tragedy, it seems, or a good comedy with clowns. Have you heard that the Queen had her cousin Mary of Scotland put to death at Fotheringhay Castle? London buzzes with talk of a Catholic uprising, but I think it will come to nothing. I enclose three pounds.

  Kiss my children.

  My dear Anne:

  All London is a-buzz with the fright of the Armada. It truly seemed these Spanish swine would take our fleet and invade England, but Drake and Howard and their fellows were too cunning for them and the danger is past. My Roman play is finished, and Mr Burbage is pleased with it, but when it will go into our repertoire I have no idea. I send twenty marks with this.

  Dear Anne:

  Today we leave London to tour the country. We go North first…

  Part Three

  1589-1593

  1.

  Susanna ran shrieking through the front door, sending her little brother flying. Ignoring his wail, she grabbed her mother’s arm. “Mama, there’s a troupe of players come. It’s Daddy! The players have come!” On her last words she turned and ran out as tempestuously as she had entered, knocking Hamnet down again.

  “Susanna, wait,” Anne called, then faute de mieux ran after her. “Wait for me! Susanna, it might not be your father.” Too late. She seized the twins’ hands and pelted after the child.

  The rattle of drums. The blare of trumpets. The clatter of the wagons. The voices, singing and crying their arrival. Come see the play. In the Guildhall. Three o’clock in the afternoon this day. The players are here! Her heart thudding, Anne shaded her eyes to look. The players were bright in some great lord’s livery, but the jackets weren’t scarlet and the badges weren’t the Bear and Ragged Staff of Lord Leicester.

  “Susanna, love, I’m sorry, but it’s not Daddy, it’s not Lord Leicester’s Men. Susanna!”

  The little girl was running desperately, straight for one of the players. A man with a tanned face, curled hair, an earring in one ear. And he was leaping down from the cart, running to catch Susanna in his arms.

  “Daddy! Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”

  “Sweetheart, yes it’s me, Susanna my love.” He swept her up and covered her face with kisses. “Susanna, yes it’s truly me, but where are my twins? Where’s your mother?”

  Slowly, Anne stepped forward from the gathering crowd. Her eyes met her husband’s, and a smile of extraordinary intimacy broke across his face. He said, “Anne, my dear,” and, interested, the players and half of Stratford watched a long and passionate kiss. The players gave them a round of applause.

  “Oh, Will,” Anne whispered, “why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I’ve missed you, my dear.”

  “And I’ve missed you. Anne, I’ve so much to tell you. Are these the twins? Judith, Hamnet, do you remember me? Come and kiss me.” Susanna was still clinging like grim death, her legs around his waist and her arms tight around his neck. Awkwardly he hunkered down and held out his free arm to the twins. Not remembering him well, or not as this gay and buccaneering figure, they were more interested in the white-faced clown in motley, capering around them and playing a flute.

  “I take it this is your family, Will?” said a new voice.

  William stood up. “James, yes. My wife, my daughter Susanna, my twins, Judith and Hamnet. Anne, this is Master Burbage, the leader of our troupe.”

  With a flourish James Burbage bowed to Anne. “Madam, your most humble servant. Will is a lucky man.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. The twins giggled. Anne curtsied back, smiling up at this glamorous man.

  “I am honoured, Master Burbage. May I bid you welcome to Stratford?”

  “Indeed you may, Mistress Shakspere. A fine town it is. Now, I must wait upon your Mayor – Bailiff, is it here? Will, you are exempted from helping with the setting-up, go greet your family. Be back by two at latest or pay your two shillings fine.” He clapped William’s shoulder and turned back to his troupe, urging them on like sheep, bawling did they think they were here to make holiday, get on, they had to be on the boards by three of the clock. Smugly William watched them scamper. One, a pretty boy in his teens, made a vulgar gesture. William bowed delightfully.

  “But he makes a lovely girl,” said William. “Put him in a dress and he’ll break your heart. Well, wife... home?”

  But his mother barred his way. “Well, son? Am I not worth a greeting?”

  “Mother, forgive me, my mind was on the children. Good-day; God save you.” He kissed her, and her face softened.

  “It’s good to have you back. You look well. Is this the fashion in London, for men to wear an earring?”

  “It has been for some time. Yes, Hamnet, what is it?”

  “I said, who’s the man with the white face?”

  “William Kemp, our clown; a fellow of infinite jest. Wait till you see him juggle.”

  “What’s juggle?”

  “He throws things up and catches them. Lots of things, knives and oranges, anything to hand, and keeps them spinning. I can do it too, a little. I’ll show yo
u at home. Oh, look, there are the Sadlers. Judith, Hamnet, bid them good day.”

  Many other neighbours had been lured out by the news of the players and were staying to greet this unfamiliar native son. By the door of the Henley Street house stood a knot of people, staring in disbelief, and William’s sister Joan broke free and ran to hug him.

  “Will, you’re home! We didn’t dare hope, they said Lord Strange’s Men, not Lord Leicester’s, but it’s you, it’s really you.”

  “Yes, it’s me. It’s good to see you, Joan. Father…” Hesitantly they embraced. “Father, you’re well?”

  “All the better for seeing you. Gilbert, run and fetch up the best wine. Let’s celebrate.”

  “When I’ve greeted my brother.” Gilbert grinned and threw a quick arm round William’s neck. “So, William Shakspere the player. Can London spare you?”

  “With embarrassing ease. Wine, yes please, Gil, and Anne, Mother, is there any food? We’ve been on the road since five.”

  Gilbert fetched the wine, Mrs Shakspere went to hurry dinner forward. They finally prised Susanna off her father, though she sat pressed close against him. Cramming down bread and cheese, William tried to answer all their questions.

  “Lord Leicester died last year. You heard, of course?” His father nodded, crossing himself. At the gesture, William’s eyes flicked up to Anne’s, then blandly away. “They say the Queen was sorely grieved. They’d been friends since their youth, some say she wanted to marry him. And, through friends, our troupe passed to Lord Strange. D’you know who I mean? Ferdinando Stanley, the Earl of Derby’s son, and so we wear his livery.” He touched the eagle’s foot badge on his jacket. “And we play under his name. This is excellent cheese, we get none so good in London. Yes please, that was a way of asking for more. That’s the thing about touring, it gets us out of the city into the clean air and the sun, and we get good food.”

  “You look thin,” his mother said.

  “Oh, d’you think so? No, I’m well.”

  “But London is unhealthy. And where do you lodge, son? I don’t like the sound of it at all.”

  “The playhouse is outside the city, Mother, in one of the Liberties. Out past Bishopsgate, in Shoreditch. My lodgings are none so bad, Burbage lives nearby in Holywell Street. Half the company do. The landlady is clean; and yes, she feeds me well.” His mother’s mouth turned down dubiously. Hastily Anne asked what the troupe had played.

  “At the Theatre, oh, everything. I could recite you the bloody Spanish Tragedy in my sleep. I probably will.” Under the table he took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly into hers. She returned the squeeze, trying not to blush. They’d sleep together tonight. Sleep, and more besides, with luck. “And, oh, works by Greene and Nashe, and by Kit Marlowe, of course. No-one can get enough of him. Old stuff and new, whatever pays best.”

  “Do you get any pay?” his mother asked, and once again Anne rushed into the breach.

  “Madam, you know he does, I told you how much he sent me with his letters. It seems,” she couldn’t resist adding, “that the theatre is a paying concern.”

  William put his hand on her arm, hushing her. His eyes never leaving his mother’s face, he took his purse from his belt and spilt its contents across the table. In reverent, astonished silence his family looked at the pile of coins. Gold coins. More money, in cash, than most of them had ever seen.

  “There’s eleven pounds and a bit more there,” William said evenly. “Made from playing and writing and patching up other men’s plays. I can, at last, provide properly for my wife and children.” He lifted Anne’s hand and piled the coins one by one into her palm. “It’s yours, love. I’ve enough for the rest of the tour, and there’s a bit more in London.” Neatly he folded her fingers down over the money. “You see, we common players share the groundlings’ gate. That’s the money paid by the people who stand in the space before the stage. Penny a head, and we cram ’em in. Burbage and his partner in the Theatre share the takings from the galleries. It’s tuppence up there and an extra penny for a cushion if your bum can’t stand bare wood. Yes, it pays. Enough for now.”

  “So it seems. And what parts have you played?”

  “A bit of everything. Well, not the leads, I’m too junior yet. Got to work my way up. Spear carrier. Deathless lines like ‘Here comes the King of France.’ Funny how there’s always a king of somewhere. I’ve fought for every nation on the earth, often, mutatis mutantur, for two different sides in the same piece. I’ve murdered and lied, poured wine, carried letters, been a Jew, a Spaniard, once a king myself – oh, and the loveliest girl.”

  “I noticed the beard had gone,” Anne said drily.

  “It’ll be back again. I’m too old to play girls now. That’s what the boys are for. With a wimple I can play a nurse. Or a mother. Or a queen.”

  “Surely it would be simpler just to allow women to play?”

  “Anne!” said her father-in-law, truly shocked. “It’s against the law, and for another thing, not even the lewdest woman would think of treading the stage.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Quite right,” William said straight-faced. “Think of the havoc women would cause in a company. And we’re such a sober, God-fearing lot, we actors. We have women seamstresses to make our costumes, but that’s a different kettle of fish. Speaking of fish…”

  “Yes, dinner is ready. Come to table. William, you’ll say the blessing?”

  Listening to him, Anne thought how he’d changed in voice as well as in appearance. Some of the Warwickshire burr had gone, he turned some words in what she guessed was the London way, but most of all he spoke more clearly, deliberately and with a deeper tone. If this was what he could do with a simple meal-blessing, he was probably a good actor. Which was a relief. He had a mannered, fluid way of moving, and his gestures were controlled. It was all art, now, whatever the matter. He was brisk and confident and polished, much different from the provincial boy she’d sent away two years ago. You’d take him for a courtier today.

  Out of that thought she said, “Will, have you seen the Queen?”

  “Once, in the distance. It’s the Queen’s Men who get the commands to play the Palace. I saw her once, on the river, in her barge.”

  “Tell us.”

  “Well, gorgeously dressed, of course, ablaze with diamonds and rubies. A silver gown with lace and gauze, a high-standing ruff behind her head like a frame. It was after Armada time and she had Drake and Howard, Essex and Raleigh, all of them, with her in her boat. Laughing, and music was playing. She’s an old woman now, close to sixty. She wears a lot of face-paint, very white with rouge on her cheeks and lips, and her gowns are low-cut and show her bosom.” His mother tsked with shock. “She is a law unto herself, Mother. Gorgeous, and every inch a prince.”

  “Yet she put her cousin Mary of Scotland to death two years ago.” Again John Shakspere made the sign of the Cross. William studied him for a moment, then turned away and cut another slice of pie.

  “Yes, she did. It was put about that her secretary tricked her into signing the execution warrant. I don’t know the truth, of course. But they say Mary was involved in plots, neck-deep in treason against our Queen and the peace of our realm.”

  “Faked evidence, an excuse to do her to death.”

  “Perhaps, Father. Or perhaps it’s the truth. But her death has made her a martyr and the centre for Catholic sedition.” For a long moment his eyes held his father’s, whether in query or warning Anne wasn’t sure. Then he said, lightly, “But I didn’t finish telling you of my glories in the theatre. All London rings with my fame as a prompter, giving the actors their cues. Not to mention my way with managing the props and counting the cash. And, Father, when the costume gloves need mending or Master Burbage is going out in style, no one else will do.”

  “And do you write, Will? Do they act your work?”

  “Sometimes. Audiences like works by names they know, and bums on seats is what matters in the theatre. In the T
heatre. Perceive the difference the capital makes, Anne, for Burbage calls his theatre the Theatre.”

  “I perceive that the capital has made a vast difference, Will. But I hope your work is acted soon. Do you still write?” Thinking of all those nights when, however tired he was, he would find an hour or two to write; how often had she fallen asleep to the scratch of his pen, and woken to hear it still and see the candles guttered.

  “Oh yes. And in the intervals I press my work on Burbage and Henslowe. If Marlowe can do it, so can I. But he, of course, is a Master of Arts from Cambridge and, therefore, taken seriously.”

  “A man of birth?” Anne had thought it was the ordinary sort who wrote for the stage.

  “No, his father’s a shoemaker, I think; he had a scholarship to university. Between us, if we can’t furnish out the stage with plays, we could furnish out the players with shoes and gloves.” Broodingly he said, “He’s good, is Kit. His Tamburlaine is the most popular play in London. But yes, Anne, I go on writing when I can. And I know what plays, you see, I know what people like and what works on stage. Not everyone has that in their quiver. My stuff would do for the ordinary people, but the intellectuals want their plays written by one of the university wits to flatter themselves.”

  “You’ll succeed yet, my dear.”

  “I daresay.” Again that almost shifty look passed across his face. “Are you all coming to the play this afternoon? Oh, God’s wounds, what’s the time?”

  “Not two yet.”

  “Oh, good.” He settled back into his chair but shook his head when Gilbert made to fill his cup again. “So, are you coming to the play?”

  “Can the children come?”

  “If they’re quiet. Which you will be, won’t you, my loves? Good and quiet in the Guildhall to see your father act? Though you can cry bravo all you like, and clap, and boo the villain.”