Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  Afterwards she curled up in the sheet again, cuddling the pillow under her head like a sleepy child. Dressing, he watched her. She might have been alone for all the notice she took of him.

  “I’m going now.”

  She nodded.

  “I leave on tour. I told you. Months.”

  “Then give me a kiss goodbye.” She lifted her head, her hair streaming back. With distaste he put a kiss on her puckered lips. Even that touch affronted him now. “I shall miss you, William. Enjoy your tour.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  “Mmm, goodbye.” She was turning back to snuggle into the pillow as she spoke, and he thought she was asleep before he had left the room.

  At home he shouted to the maid for hot water, and standing up before the basin he washed himself all over; he wanted a bath but it would take too long. Then he dressed in clean clothes, gave those he’d been wearing to the maid to give away, packed his belongings. Every clean, ironed shirt, every darned stocking, every polished boot was a reproach, because Anne had left all these things ready for him, laying them away in the clothes chests with herbs to keep the bugs at bay. He packed the books he couldn’t be without, paper, pens, his travelling ink-stand. The presents for Anne and the children. His cash. Ran downstairs, gave the maid money and instructions. Paid a neighbour’s boy a penny to go to the livery stable to hire a horse. Threw on his cloak and hat and sword. Scribbled a note to James Burbage saying he would meet the company at their first stop outside London on Monday, sent the neighbour’s boy, with another penny, to deliver it.

  An hour after he had left his mistress he was riding out of London.

  3.

  By September the company was in Oxford and almost at the end of their summer’s touring. It had been a good tour, profitable and successful. William was back among his fellows, his substitute family, and he was William again, the rutting animal had been left behind in London. Had it all been a dream? He was writing dreams into his play. Perhaps the play had come first, bringing the dreams. A man bewitched by a love-potion, a woman similarly beguiled and, waking, looking with horror at the man she thought she had loved. Yes, a dream. Or nightmare. He was William the player, William the theatre-owner, William the playwright, William the married man.

  In Oxford they took an evening in the inn to plan the next leg of the tour. Stratford, why not, a sizeable town and hospitable to players. Then on to –

  “Stratford-upon-Avon?” said a man at the next table. “You’ll get no good takings there. Man, didn’t you know? There’s been a fire in Stratford. My auntie comes from there and she says half the town’s been destroyed. Hundreds dead, she told me.”

  William rode flat-out, all through the dying of the day. Richard Burbage rode with him, because the players were his family and would not let him go alone.

  The sun had set before they reached Stratford, but enough light was left to show the devastation. William cried out when he saw that half of Henley Street had gone. Here and there a chimney stack still stood, a roof tree or part of a wall. Some of the owners had managed to save something from the ashy rubble; a thick oak door, scorched but whole, a pile of bricks, some furniture. William saw the corpse of a dog, charred and shrivelled, in what had been a front garden. His friends the Sadlers’ house had gone.

  They rode on, at no more than walking pace now, afraid of what they might find. And the fire had gone almost to the Shaksperes’ house – only three houses away what had been an inside wall showed where the flames had licked it. A girder, broken bricks, stood out as if a malign giant had reached out and torn half the house away.

  His own house was dark and silent. No sign of life.

  “Steady on, lad,” said Burbage, clutching William as he tumbled down from his horse. “They’re all a-bed, that’s all. It’s past ten, and this isn’t London, Will.”

  “Yes. A-bed.” William tried the front door. Locked. He swung dementedly on the knocker. Shouted. After what seemed an age a window opened and a night-capped head peered out.

  “Who’s that making all that noise?”

  “Richard, it’s me, Will. I heard of the fire. Is everyone safe?”

  “Will? Is it really you? We didn’t expect you.”

  “I know. Richard, the fire. Are my children safe? Is Anne safe?”

  “Oh yes, quite safe. Wait and I’ll let you in.” His head withdrew and they saw a flare of light as he lit a candle. Richard fumbled the door open and lit the way into the parlour.

  “Where’s Anne sleeping?” William demanded. “And the children? Richard, are you sure they’re safe?”

  Gangling and harmless, Richard turned around from lighting the candles and said, “Of course they’re safe. God save us, man, d’you think that if they’d been hurt we’d not’ve scoured all England for you? A playing troupe’s not that hard to find. God save the mark! They’re asleep.”

  The twins were cuddled up together like puppies, the fair hair and the dark mingling on the pillow. They didn’t stir as William kissed them. Their breath smelt pure and milky. “I love you,” William whispered. “I love you more than you will ever know.” He tucked the blankets more tightly around them, disturbing the tabby cat asleep at the foot of the bed.

  Susanna slept sprawled on her back, her arms flung up beside her head. They’d years ago given up trying to tuck her in or change her position. She had grown again, just in these few weeks – eleven was an age for shooting-up. She sighed in her sleep and tossed her head as if aware of William’s gaze. Very gently he touched her cheek then kissed her brow. She wrinkled her nose as if about to sneeze then murmured something, but she was fast asleep.

  So was Anne. The moonlight showed her lying on her side, one hand tucked between her knees. The other, thickly bandaged, lay on the pillow. Her forehead showed the red mark of a burn. Her hair was braided back in its usual night plait and shorter than usual. A herbal, winey smell hung about her. William recognised the potion his mother used when anyone was ill.

  He undressed and slid silently into the bed. He turned on his side towards Anne and she opened her eyes, sat bolt upright, and screamed.

  “Shh, darling, it’s me.” He pulled her down, cradling her against his shoulder. “It’s me, it’s Will. I’ve come home.”

  “You frightened me!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said humbly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Someone rapped sharply on the door, his mother called a worried question. “It’s all right,” Anne said. “I didn’t know Will was here, he startled me. Goodnight. Will, what are you doing here?”

  “Heard about the fire. Came. Darling, your hand. Are you much hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. I’ve done worse on the cooking pots.” Abruptly, she fell asleep.

  William held her for a long time before he too could sleep. It wasn’t the reunion he had pictured, not that he was sure what he had imagined. Passionate words of relief and love, whispered into Anne’s ear? That would only make her suspicious. More burblings of punishment? Because that was what he had thought when he heard: he had broken his marriage vows in the worst possible way, so he had to be punished by losing his wife and children. Foolish, mawkish stuff he’d never dare put in a play, but so horribly real for those few hours it took to come here. On the verge of sleep he realised that the desperate journey was his punishment. Not an innocent woman and children horribly dead, but his fear and its offspring, the knowledge of how much he needed and loved them.

  4.

  He could stay only that night and a day. He came back, however, when the end of summer meant the end of the players’ touring season and Anne was eager to return to London.

  “Perhaps by next summer we’ll have our own house here,” she said wistfully as she packed their last belongings.

  “I hope so.” It had been disconcerting to realise he was now the richest person in the family, so much had his father’s income and investments dwindled. Flattering, of course, to be looked up to and relied upon, but h
e feared his family thought money grew on trees in London. It seemed that all he heard was, Will, we need money to repair the shop; your mother should have another maid; what about Joan’s dowry; what about the boys’ future?

  He was thirty and head of the family in all but name. Of a family of three children of his own, of four siblings, a few ne’er-do-well cousins and uncles and a father who retreated more and more into a private world of Catholic dogma. Of Catholic practice? William could only hope, and hint, not. An edifice of responsibility built on his power to go on acting six days a week and writing plays that kept the money rolling in. If he lost his gift, or his mind, or his power to go on working, it would be the poorhouse for the lot of them.

  And now, it seemed, another responsibility. His youngest brother Edmund wanted to be an actor.

  “Why?” William asked when the boy came stammering and blushing to ask him.

  “B-because it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ever since I saw that first play of yours. I see them all, Will, every time the players come to Stratford or anywhere nearby. I know all your plays by heart. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and I’m not bookish enough for university even if Father could afford it.”

  “Can you act?” William asked.

  “I’m sure I could.”

  “Show me.”

  “What, here and now?” Edmund looked pathetically at Anne. She hardened her heart and nodded. After Joan, Edmund was her favourite of William’s family. He was the children’s favourite uncle, being not three years older than Susannah and five more than the twins. He was growing very like William to look at, and she remembered another russet-haired boy whose hazel eyes had shone with longing as he confided his dream. But Edmund wasn’t yet fifteen and it would mean their housing him in London and, doubtless, paying his way. Had he any idea what he was in for?

  But when he looked so helplessly at her she said, “Yes, here and now. You said you know all Will’s plays, so give us whatever speech you think best.”

  Twisting his bony hands before him Edmund said, “I-I can do some from Two Gentlemen.”

  “Then favour us with that,” said William, and lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. So pale all the faint freckles stood out like birthmarks, Edmund stumbled through a speech. William nodded judicially. “But you’re fourteen and you’d play girls’ parts. Give us a girl’s speech.”

  “I know Lady Anne from Richard the Third.”

  “Go ahead.” With a little more confidence, Edmund obeyed. He wasn’t very good, but nor was he irretrievably bad.

  “Yes,” said William, “but remember your husband and father have just been killed. Try to seem at least a little upset. Do it again.” Edmund did it again. “Not so bad. But I doubt I can simply get you into the Lord Chamberlain’s Men for the asking.”

  “Oh no, I didn’t expect that.” But he clearly had. “I could start by running messages and helping and, perhaps, playing pages and soldiers, that sort of thing?”

  “We’ve got a dogsbody boy. Called Nol. Tread warily with him, by the way. He’s your age in years but centuries old in worldly vice. Do our parents know of this ambition of yours?”

  “Oh yes, and they said it’s up to you.”

  William and Anne exchanged a glance. Of course. “Well, why don’t we give you a trial period, say until next summer? That’s if Burbage and the others agree. You won’t be paid, of course. Later, if it works, you can be apprenticed. Here.” He tossed over a bundle of papers he’d been about to pack. “My new play. Lose it and you die. Learn Juliet’s part by tomorrow. You won’t play it for ages, if ever, but you have to learn to get a part by heart in a day or two. Tomorrow I’ll hear you in it. I’ll play the other parts and give you your prompts, see how you go.”

  “Oh thank you, Will!” Edmund rushed at his brother, caught him in a violent hug, blushed again, and raced out of the room flapping the pages. Then he raced straight back in again. “You’ll tell Mother and Father? And I’ll come with you when you leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes. So go and pack. And learn that part.” Off he flapped, and Anne and William looked at each other. “He can’t go into lodgings, not a boy of fourteen who doesn’t know London.”

  “No,” Anne sighed. She liked having her little family to herself. “He must have a truckle bed in the twins’ room. And it’s a good time to part them and make Judith sleep with Susanna. I suppose he’ll need clothes, and he eats like a horse.”

  “Doubtless. If you’re against it, Anne...”

  “Oh, no. He’s a dear boy. As long as he helps me in the house a little. Will he make an actor?”

  “I’ve seen worse, first time of asking. We’ve plenty of boy players already, experienced ones. But he deserves his chance if he wants it as badly as he says. But, oh, if I’d had my chance at his age…”

  “You’d never have met me,” Anne said curiously.

  “I wouldn’t. And that would have grieved me.” He took her hand, turned it over and kissed the palm.

  “No, for you’d never have known it.” Looking down at his bent head Anne said, “You know, Will, you seem different lately. I thought so when you came home after the fire. And, again, now.”

  “How, different?” With a light little laugh he dropped her hand and went to put clothes into his travelling bags.

  “I’m not sure. Older? Gentler? More… I can’t explain it.”

  “Probably it’s just the weight of responsibility of owning theatres and sponsoring brothers. And it’s been a tiring summer.”

  “Perhaps that’s all it is.” Watching him, Anne noted, and almost said aloud, that his hair was starting to recede at the front. She knew he knew about that. She’d caught him at the looking-glass, twisting and turning and fiddling with his hair like a girl going to her first party. It wasn’t the sort of thing men liked mention of. She held her tongue.

  Part Six

  1595

  1.

  William and Harry Southampton were playing chess. Expecting the coup de grace any moment, for he was not a good player, William sat back and watched Harry pondering his move. “You won’t be going to the wedding, I daresay?”

  Harry took his time with both move and reply. “Checkmate. Ah, but I will be going.” The amusement in his eyes was at odds with his pious expression as he said, “How could you doubt that both bride and groom have my very best wishes for their happiness together?” They both laughed. It was a good joke, if an ironic one. Lord Burghley had at last accepted that Harry’s ‘No’ meant ‘No’ and had brokered a marriage between his granddaughter, Lady Elizabeth de Vere, and the Earl of Derby. The latter was the brother of Ferdinando, who had been patron of William’s old playing company. Ferdinando had died the previous year, to William’s grief. He didn’t much care for the new Earl, but a commission was a commission and he thought Ferdinando’s shade would be pleased at his players performing for his brother’s wedding.

  “I never bore Lady Liz any ill-will,” Harry went on, “even if it did cost me five thousand pounds not to marry her.”

  “That was unfair,” William said hotly. “No one ever thought Burghley would insist on that fine. And as for demanding it all in a lump, not giving you time to pay, that was vindictive.”

  “He can be vindictive. A good man in so many ways, but mean, and unforgiving. Don’t repeat this, Will, but I went to the Queen about it, asked her to intercede and get Burghley at least to let me pay the fine in yearly instalments. No luck. I am well out of favour there.” Suddenly he swept William’s queen from the board and held the piece in his clenched fist. “The most powerful piece on the board. So much for the queen.” He dropped the piece to the side of the table.

  “Oh Harry, my dear,” said William, “have a care what you do, and say.”

  “The Queen can’t live forever.”

  “Harry, Harry, Harry. With all your gifts, you can be such a fool. Stay out of plots. Be careful.”

  “I shall.” Harry touched one finger to the back of William’s han
d. “I love your care for me, but don’t worry about me.”

  “Can’t help it. Love is like that.”

  “Yes.” For a moment it seemed he would say something more of that, but then he leaned back in his chair and said with apparently intense interest, “Tell me of this play your company is to do for the Derby wedding. A comedy?”

  “Yes, one I’ve had in my mind for some time and suitable for a wedding.”

  “About?”

  “A royal wedding. Theseus of Athens and Hippolyta, as in Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale. Other lovers. A girl who loves a man who doesn’t love her. People who refuse to marry where their guardians insist they do.” Harry raised an eyebrow, his mouth stretching into a sweet, wry smile. “A happy ending, of course, after complications. It’s Midsummer’s Night. I call it A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the fairies are about. The King and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania, are at odds. Robin Goodfellow, the puck, has a love-juice which, squeezed on the eyes of a sleeper, will make him or her fall in love with the first person he or she sees upon waking.”

  “And things go wrong?”

  “And things go wrong. I’ve written some comic rustics, artisans, who put on a play for the royal wedding. They get caught up in the fairies’ and lovers’ action.”

  “It sounds enchanting.” They both grinned at the pun.

  “It’s good. And my brother Edmund is to play one of the fairies.”

  “Your brother? Oh, yes, you told me of him. Is he making a success?”

  “Dick Burbage isn’t having any sleepless nights. No, the boy’s competent enough. And keen.”

  “A poet, like his brother?”