Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  “If you’re in bed by the time I’ve finished my wine,” said William, “I’ll come and tell you a story. Kiss your mother goodnight, she’s for her bed.”

  Transformed into angels, the children filed away upstairs. Anne said her goodnights and went thoughtfully up to her room. There she washed, brushed out her hair, put rosewater on her wrists and throat. She heard William bidding his family goodnight, then his voice falling into story-telling rhythm in the twins’ room. Susanna shared her aunt Joan’s room, and Judith should by rights have joined her while Hamnet moved up to a bed in his uncles’ room, but the twins had refused to be parted. Saying they were as stubborn as their father, Mrs Shakspere had given them a little room at the back of the house. Susanna would be there, perched on the end of their bed, watching her father like a starving man given food, listening to the story to keep herself awake.

  Anne heard William go through to Joan’s room, speak to his sister. "Fast asleep for all she could do...” Joan laughed and murmured goodnight. A candle briefly flared, then William lowered himself into bed with a sigh.

  “Awake, love?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned over, put his arm around her waist. “The children are asleep. It’s good to be home. This bed's begun to creak. Let’s have a new one.”

  “But I like this one. Remember how we could afford almost nothing but we wanted a new bed? We spent our wedding night in it, I birthed the children in it. I like it. But I admit it could do with new curtains. And if you tighten the ropes under the mattress it won't creak.”

  “All right. And buy new curtains, get the best. And here’s an idea; while I’m here, let us look about for a house. We need not commit ourselves at once but we can make enquiries, look about.”

  “Do you mean, to live here and not in London any longer?”

  “I mean nothing in particular, not yet. Just looking ahead. Making plans.” His voice had begun to trail away. “Tired. Good to be home. Goodnight, Anne. Sleep well.”

  “And you.” So there was to be no homecoming lovemaking. Disappointed, Anne snuggled back against him, and let sleep claim her.

  William had meant it about house-hunting. His first day in Stratford they pottered about the town, greeting friends, listening to gossip, but always with an eye out for suitable houses. Joan shared the secret, though William had warned her to say nothing to the rest of the family yet. He enjoyed planning, but he wasn’t a man to spend money until it was in his hand. Nor did he care to figure in Stratford gossip as the man who came home from London full of high talk and empty promises. Still, he was right: one could plan. Or dream. University for Hamnet, yes, for the boy was clever. Dowries for the girls, yes, that too, for they were pretty, and with a little money they would make good matches.

  Watching them as they walked ahead, clutching William’s hands, Anne noticed how unusually talkative Judith was in his company. She was an odd little girl, quite unlike her sister or brother. Not stupid, not at all, but entirely uninterested in learning to write more than her name, and she could read only by following the words with her finger and speaking them aloud; often she muddled the letters. She liked stories and plays but she had no faculty of imagination, none at all. Perhaps, Anne mused, if Judith saw more of her father she would learn, to please him.

  She was good at figuring, which was rare in a girl, and she had learnt scraps of Latin by hearing Hamnet repeat his lessons, but being pushed to learn more turned her mulish and sulky. Housewifery was her pleasure. She delighted to help in the house, and at seven she was a more than passable cook and deft with a needle. Her greatest delight was to go to Anne’s stepmother at Hewlands Farm and help with the harvest, joining the local children in following the reapers, stooking the corn and gleaning, or picking fruit and vegetables and helping to salt or bottle them. She was a dab hand with the animals, nursing orphaned lambs, following the stockmen until she knew how to doctor sick beasts.

  In fact, Anne thought, watching the child’s bobbing fair curls as she turned her face up to William to chatter, Judith was a sweet, good-natured little girl who took after her yeoman and artisan grandparents more than her parents. She would make a good wife. She would have a little money from her grandparents, in time, and if William prospered as he hoped, both Judith and Susanna could marry well. Very well indeed. And if John Shakspere renewed his request for a coat of arms… John Shakspere, gentleman. Mister Shakspere. Mister William Shakspere, gentleman. Sir William Shakspere, with the two handsome daughters and the son, M.A., from Cambridge (though Oxford was nearer to home), a writer like his father as well as a Privy Councillor – Lord Chancellor – Lord Treasurer – Lord Shakspere, the Queen’s favourite. (Or the King’s, a thought not to be spoken for fear of a treason indictment.) The Right Honourable Hamnet Shakspere, Earl of Stratford…

  “Anne? What are you staring at?”

  “You’re standing there like a block, Mama, we had to come back for you.”

  “Oh, I was thinking.”

  “And how do you like it so far?” said the wittiest poet in England. Ignoring him, Anne with dignity gathered up her skirts and moved on. Not far, because they were stopped in front of a corner house.

  “This is one I’ve always liked,” said William, taking Anne’s arm to make amends.

  “New Place? It’s the biggest house in Stratford.”

  “And I like it.”

  “It’s changed hands often. They say it’s an unlucky house.”

  “Fiddlesticks. A handsome place.”

  “And how many poems would it take to pay for it?”

  “Many. Many. But a man can dream. If I can make enough money to buy a share in a theatre… Well, one day, perhaps. Let’s look further before it rains, then it’s dinner with Hamnet and Judith Sadler, remember.”

  “Will,” Anne said that night when the bed curtains were drawn, “you talk of buying New Place. Just how much money do you expect to make? I think you’re living in a fool’s paradise. We can’t afford a house like that.”

  “Why not? Lord Burghley has given me twenty pounds for the poems I’ve written.”

  “Twenty pounds won’t buy a house. Or, at least, not New Place.”

  “I know, but that’s only the start.”

  “Why? Have you persuaded Lord Southampton to wed Lady Elizabeth Vere?”

  “Not yet.”

  “No, I daresay not.” She had meant to speak calmly, but even to herself her voice was sharp with malice.

  “What does that mean?” William asked dangerously.

  “I mean that you love that boy yourself.”

  There was a brittle silence before William said, “Of course I love him. We are friends. I love my friends.”

  “Like Christopher Marlowe?”

  “Of course I love Kit.” He turned over, wrapping a skein of Anne’s hair round his hand. Painfully. “But if you mean I’m a boy-lover like Kit, madam, let me tell you: no such thing.”

  “I’d almost rather you were.”

  “Anne!”

  “If you were like Kit and went around sodomising every pretty face you saw...” She heard his gasping intake of breath, and said through her teeth, “Don’t laugh. I warn you. Make a joke of me, William, and I will divorce you. I mean it.”

  Weakly he said, “A decent woman shouldn’t even know of such things.”

  “Oh, moralising now, is it? Well, ten years ago I knew nothing of ‘such things’, but you took an ignorant farmer’s daughter and made her into something of a woman of the world. A player’s wife, a poet’s wife. Aye, I know about such things and not only from Kit Marlowe. And I know you love Harry Southampton and want him for yourself. It shines out of you every time you say his name, every time you touch that pearl earring he gave you or that gold ring on your hand, when you tell your brothers about the horse he lent you, when you talk about Titchfield. You want him and you’re taking money from him. You whore, William. You whore.”

  He tightened his hand in her hair, dragging her bodily acr
oss the bed against him. “Take that back. Bitch. Take that back.”

  “Why should I?” She kicked him, hard.

  “Because he’s not my lover.”

  “But you wish he were.”

  William didn’t answer. Held against him, unable to move for his grip in her hair and on her arm, Anne listened to that silence and felt the tears start to her eyes. She also, for some reason, felt aroused. William also. She felt it. She heard his quickened breathing.

  “You brown-haired witch,” he said against her mouth. “Yes, I wish it.”

  “And I would rather you took him to bed than loved him.” She bit his lower lip, viciously.

  “Ouch. You bitch.” Keeping his hand in her hair he let go of her arm to reach under her night-gown, at the same time pulling her on top of him. “Why?”

  “Because I love you and if I lose you I’ll die.”

  “You’ll die and right now. Come, Anne.” He touched her intimately, laughing at her squirming gasp. “Die, Anne. Come and die for me. I love you. I love Harry. You’re my wife.” He’d come naked to bed, there was no clothing in the way of her hands.

  “Not that I can blame you.”

  “Gently! Not blame me for what?”

  “Loving that beautiful boy. After all, I fell in love with him too.” He gasped in pure shock. “What is it? Words failing William Shakspere for once? Shocked that I dare love your lovely boy? That your wife dares love another man?”

  “Both. Neither. Did you...”

  “Bed him? Chance would be a fine thing. A boy like that and a woman like me? But had he asked, for all I love you…” He bucked under her grasping, stroking hands; his turn to be held helpless. “You whore, William. You might not sell your body, but you sell what’s dearer to you. Your words.”

  “Not selling. Giving. Out of love.”

  “Then do it thoroughly. Bring me the money and bring me home enough of your love.”

  “I do. Oh Christ. You love him?”

  “Fell in love with him. There’s a difference. A fine difference. Words matter.”

  “Aye, they do, and I will attend to the words, fine or otherwise. Use your mouth for other things, Anne.”

  “As you would Harry did?”

  “As you would Harry did. Let me at you. Oh God you bitch, you whore, you witch...”

  “...your wife. Touch me there. As you can’t with Harry. And there.”

  “And there. Anne. Oh, Anne. Oh God. Jesus. Take another man and I’ll kill you.”

  “Take another woman and I’ll kill you.”

  “Not with you in my bed, like this. Do it. Do it, Anne. Do everything.”

  “Like this? And this?”

  “And this, and this, and this. You bitch, I love you.”

  A long time later, she said, “You’re right, this bed does creak.”

  “Under that treatment, you’re surprised? Jesus, Anne. Ten years married.”

  “Jealousy makes a good spice.” She turned on her back, stretching, trying to pull up the tangled sheets. William flapped a moment, dragging the blankets up, throwing her pillow up from the centre of the bed.

  “Did you really fall in love with Harry?”

  “Did you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “Then I think I’ll leave you wondering.” Neatly she turned on her side, her back to him. “Goodnight, husband.”

  “Goodnight,” said William.

  11.

  Only a fool would travel in winter unless by dire necessity. So William told himself through the miserable days of his journey from London. The roads were foul, the weather worse. Often he could see only a few paces ahead through the flurries of snow. Once he lost the road entirely and wasted half a day. The inns he stayed at were dirty, cold and crammed with travellers in as bad a case as he. Despite his leather jerkin and oiled-wool cloak he was wet and chilled to the bone by the time he reached Titchfield, and was wondering why he’d come.

  But he was taken inside at once, an honoured guest, and in the hall a huge fire blazed, and there was Harry, kissing his cheek and thrusting a mug of hot spiced wine into his hand.

  “A bad journey?” he said sympathetically.

  “Beyond telling.” William’s teeth chattered so much that he could hardly say the words. He downed his wine in two gulps and held his tankard out for more. Only then did he notice the other people in the hall. Most of them were unknown to him, or no more than vaguely familiar. He bowed, generally, as Harry mentioned his name, and heard some offensively warm, clean gallant say, “Oh, yes, the play-writing fellow,” and laugh and turn away to nudge the Earl of Essex.

  “Would you like a hot bath?” Harry asked quietly. William nodded. Harry murmured to a servant. “Come,” he said to William. “The least I can do is thaw you out.”

  The organisation of great households like this was an awesome thing. How much money did it cost, William wondered, and how many servants, to keep rooms ready for guests who might arrive this week, next week, never? For his room was all prepared for him, the bed made and turned down, the fire alight, a jug of wine to hand. Above all, it was warm. Before he’d properly toasted his hands at the fire, servants were bringing in a bathtub and copper jugs of hot water.

  Soaking, feeling the chill leave his bones, William so nearly fell asleep that he had to ask Harry to repeat something he had said.

  “Christopher Marlowe has been here, and is expected again soon.” Harry turned away as he said this.

  “Oh?”

  “He said he would come. Nashe too, perhaps.”

  “A plethora of poets.”

  “None so good as you. And also we have that strange Spaniard Essex thinks so well of. Perez or some such name.” Placatingly, Harry took the sponge and began to wash William’s back. “Did you have a merry Christmas?”

  “Merry enough, and a pleasant time at home. You?”

  “Yes, but it was dull without you. Did your family like the gifts I sent?” He was after all, very young.

  “Yes,” William said gently. “They liked them very much. It was a kindly thought, Harry.”

  Harry had sent silver lockets for the little girls, with a flower and their initials in enamel; also a dress length of velvet each, blue for Judith, green for Susanna, and nothing would do but that Anne and William’s mother immediately begin to make the material up. For Hamnet, who liked animals, a Bestiary and a sheathed dagger sworn to have been captured from a Spaniard. Hamnet had been enchanted. For Anne there had been a bolt of kingfisher-coloured changeable silk and a pair of Turkish slippers with curling toes. She had been moderately charmed, given the source of the gift.

  Remembering that, and Anne stitching at her daughters’ new dresses, William said, “I brought you a gift, Harry.”

  “You needn’t have. What is it?”

  “In my bag, on top of my clothes.” Craning around he saw that the valet had finished unpacking, and the gift lay on the table. “In the muslin, there.”

  Eager as a child Harry unwrapped it. “Oh, Will. Gloves. How beautiful.” He turned them over, admiring the fine cheveril leather and the quilted, scented satin lining, the cuffs embroidered in gold.

  Watching him, William said, “Remember we spoke of my boyhood and I said I could still make you a pair of gloves? Well, so I did.” With it in mind, he had carefully measured Harry’s hand against his own before he left. Harry’s hand was narrower than his own, with very long thin fingers. “Not that I would rush to tell your friends I made them myself. It’s enough they’re forced to mix with a hireling player, let alone an artisan smelling of his father’s workshop.”

  “But the gloves are beautiful. Finer than any I’ve ever seen. And you truly made them yourself?”

  “With my own fair hands. In between making you a fine new play and more sonnets.”

  “A play? And more poems? Will, how can I thank you? And for the gloves, which I will wear with pride and tell everyone to shop for their gloves in Stratford.”

  “Be specific
. Tell them, John Shakspere’s shop. You can thank me by handing me a towel, I must get out.” But Harry held the towel out wide and as William left the tub he wrapped it around him, thus holding him imprisoned in his arms. Very lightly he kissed the corner of William’s mouth. They stared for a long moment into each other’s eyes. Then William bowed his head onto Harry’s shoulder. “I had forgotten how much I love you.”

  “I had not. But I have been so very alone all these weeks.”

  “Alone? With your mother and sister, with Lord Essex, with all your friends?”

  “It is different. I thought – I feared – you might not love me anymore.”

  “You need not have. For I do love you, Harry.”

  “And I you.”

  A bell rang, severing the moment. “Supper,” said Harry, annoyed.

  William glanced, up, laughing. “I need it. I’ve been on the road since first light. I’ve a dim memory of an equally dim pork pie at noon.”

  “Then dress, quickly, and come have your supper. And during it you’ll tell us of this new play. Please.”

  “It’s of some gentlemen,” William said along the table as the servants brought the second course. “Gentlemen who foreswear the company of women for a year while they study.”

  “No women in it?” someone asked. “Sounds dull.”

  “Ah, but they cannot keep their oath.” Boiled mutton, William saw, with caper sauce, and boiled fowls, pies, baked fish, blancmanges and creams, fritters. Excellent. “I call it Love’s Labour's Lost.”

  “Good title,” said the critic.

  “There’s a room,” Harry excitedly interrupted, “by the front door, facing the front of the house. I’ve ordered it cleaned and readied, it will be excellent for playing.”

  “When do the players arrive?”

  “Soon. February.”

  “And are we merely to watch or can we take part?”

  Harry knew Will’s views on amateurs and studiously refrained from catching his eye. “We shall see,” he said. “To amuse ourselves we could perform one of Will’s old pieces. The Shrew, perhaps.”