Kissing Shakespeare

by Pamela Mingle

  Stunned, I couldn’t think of a sensible reply. Stephen had courted someone who died? Maybe that explained the sadness that sometimes showed in his eyes. The vulnerability.

  “Nay, he has not had the heart for it.” I had no idea, of course, but I suspected I was right.

  Before leaving, I glanced at my reflection in the glass. My hair looked pretty with the braid. I was beginning to resemble, if not quite feel, like a girl of this century.

  Let the games begin, I muttered to myself as I hurried outside.

  At first, I felt like I was at a Renaissance fair. The grassy area out back had been transformed, and a crowd was already gathering. Canopies covered tables of refreshments, and playing fields had been marked off with stakes. I noticed several boys and men heading toward the archery range with bows and quivers of arrows. An uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach reminded me I was supposed to find a way to spend some one-on-one time with Shakespeare. I was committed to it, though, so I’d have to get control of my jitters.

  I wandered around and watched the various competitions. A game a lot like soccer was in progress, except there didn’t seem to be any rules. I noticed Stephen in the thick of it, doublet and hose covered with mud and sweat dripping off his face. The most important part of the game seemed to be subtly tripping members of the opposing team. I waved to Stephen, but he didn’t see me.

  I drifted on, threading my way through merrymakers, strolling musicians, and servants carrying food and drink. At last I found Will and Fulke playing a game that looked like bocce, but I knew was called bowls. It involved throwing balls at a target, with the goal of having your ball end up closest. If I walked over to the refreshment tables right now, I could be waiting with something for Will to drink when the game was over. Arriving back at the bowls area just as Will and Fulke’s match was ending, I held out two tankards of ale and smiled.

  “Ah, mistress, you are an angel,” Fulke proclaimed. He drank his ale in one long gulp and excused himself. “I’m off to the archery butts.”

  Will looked at me and offered his arm. “Come. Let’s stroll awhile. I see the football is done.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a common pastime in Stratford, where I grew up, when there is free time to be had.”

  Stephen and one of the other footballers rushed up. “Are you ready for barley-break?” I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to play something else, since he was still breathless from the football game. He eyed Will and me with a mischievous grin. “The two of you can be the couple in hell.”

  Will snorted, and I pretended to know what Stephen was talking about. I gave a feeble laugh. Couple in hell? How appropriate.

  “Over here. The court is already staked.” Stephen motioned and we followed. “Wait while Henry and I find partners.”

  “Barley-break is a good excuse for hand holding,” Will said, grinning. He grabbed mine and led me to the square in the middle, which I guessed must be “hell.” Two long rectangles led off from either side of the square.

  “Aye. But I don’t mind.” I tried to look modest but tempting, and figured I was probably succeeding in looking like a moron.

  Stephen and Henry returned, each with a girl in tow, and joined hands with their respective partners. Each couple stood in one of the rectangles. For the next half hour or so, Will and I, without letting go of each other’s hands, tried to tag the other couples as they ran through the center square. They were allowed to drop hands when necessary to get away, but we were not. It took forever for us to finally tag someone, one of the girls.

  What had started as a game with six people morphed into something else. By the end, lots of couples had joined in, and the rules had seemed to change. When someone was tagged they joined the end of the line in the center square, which had taken on a life of its own. Those who hadn’t been tagged still had more freedom, but the long line of people could swing around and trap them. It was a little like playing crack the whip. This was the most fun I’d had since my enforced stay in this era began, and I couldn’t stop giggling. I sneaked glances at Will whenever I had the chance, and when he looked back at me, his eyes glowed good-naturedly. The game grew more physical as we tried to catch the two remaining players, Stephen being one of them.

  When the great long line swung around to capture them, I felt a ripple of overpowering momentum. I was thrown to the ground, piling on top of the heap of bodies already there. I knew somewhere at the bottom, Stephen had been caught at last.

  Someone fell on me, and then grasped me around the waist and flung me over. It was Will, and his face was only inches away. His lips brushed mine for just a second, and I thought I should take advantage of the opportunity. I grabbed him and pulled him closer, putting everything I had into the kiss. His lips were soft and sweet, and the kiss lingering. My pulse raced when I realized I was kissing Will Shakespeare, the man I idolized. When we finally split apart, he looked surprised, but then smiled. I glimpsed other couples stealing kisses and figured this must be the traditional ending of the game.

  When at last we’d all rolled off of Stephen, he lay there, eyes closed, not moving. A tremor raced through me. “Stephen?” I said, shaking him. “Are you all right?” He burst out laughing.

  Will leaned over and locked wrists with him, pulling him to his feet. “In truth,” Stephen said. “I feared you would crush me.”

  The games were ending, and exhausted competitors were now making their way to the food and drink tables. I wandered over with Stephen.

  “Well?” he said, latching on to my arm. “Anything to report?”

  His words, his tone of voice, made me unaccountably and irrationally angry. I said nothing.

  “Olivia? Did anything happen?”

  I fingered back a few stray locks of hair and pretended to think. “Let’s see,” I said, “we held sweaty hands for what seemed like hours during that stupid barley game, and at the end, we all fell on top of each other. Are you satisfied?” I hurried off ahead of him.

  Stephen caught up with me, grabbed my arm, and spun me around. “Something’s amiss. Tell me.” His eyes looked confused, and his words seemed sincere. But I was still ticked off.

  “Nothing. I’m going in. Have a pleasant evening.” I turned and stalked off toward the house.

  “Olivia!”

  I kept walking, hoping he’d be distracted by the food and drink. Which I guessed he was, since he didn’t come after me or call out again. If I could find Bess, I’d ask her if I could have some extra basins of water brought in. Apparently actual bathtubs hadn’t been invented yet, or else people of this time didn’t care about smelling bad, because lots of them did. After running around, I was hot and sweaty and really wanted to bathe.

  In the upstairs hall, I looked for Bess. I’d noticed her outside a few times during the games, but she must have come in by now. She’d probably enter through the servants’ door soon. Meanwhile, I sprawled on my bed and thought about why I was so angry with Stephen. Instead of this stressed-out feeling, with my guts churning, I should be feeling ecstatic. I’d kissed Shakespeare. It was the second time we’d had a fairly intimate encounter, which was what this little trip to the past was all about.

  Deep down, though, I knew why I was upset. Stephen still thought I was promiscuous, and that really got under my skin. He considered me a wanton. That whole conversation we’d had yesterday, about sex and nearly naked girls and horny guys … he’d never talk that way to an Elizabethan girl. To the girl he was mourning, Mary what’s-her-name. It totally pissed me off that he didn’t care if he was using me, or if I got hurt in the process.

  And yet, sometimes he showed genuine concern for me. He’d proved that by the way he acted after the burning in Preston—insisting I ride with him, and then holding me close the whole way home. Checking on me that evening to make sure I was all right, and explaining everything to me. Yesterday, when I’d cried, he very tenderly brushed my tears away.

  But the reality was, Stephen was so focus
ed on this job of ours he was prickly with me more often than he was tender. Saving Shakespeare. That was what I was here to do, and I’d just have to get on with it so I could go home. I couldn’t worry about what Stephen thought of me. What did it matter? Good girl, Olivia. Stick to your guns. Oh my God. Now I was talking to myself using my new name, as though I’d actually become Olivia. In some ways, I guessed I had.

  I rolled over and right onto a folded piece of paper. It was cream colored, like the coverlet, so I hadn’t noticed it before. I unfolded it and read the one line written there:

  I know you are not who you say you are.

  I had to really concentrate to decipher the strange writing, but I finally got it. The message was curt and its meaning unmistakable.

  A shiver of fear unfurled inside, like a wisp of smoke. Bess knocked and came in, and I jumped.

  “Pardon me, mistress. Did I frighten you?”

  “Nay.” I looked at the words once more before I threw the paper aside. “Would it be possible for me to have some extra water brought in?” I asked.

  Later, I heard Stephen in his room. After giving him a few minutes, I hurried over and rapped on our adjoining door. When he hollered “Enter!” I opened it and found him standing right inside as though he’d been waiting for me.

  “What ails you, mistress?” he asked, looking irritated. “Why so peevish this afternoon?”

  I didn’t answer, only held the note out. He quickly read it. “God’s breath! Where did you find this?”

  “It was on my bed when I came in from the games.”

  “Who could have done this? And what does it mean?”

  I shrugged. “Anyone could have written it. During the games, someone could have sneaked inside, thrown it on the bed, and run back out. We wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Or someone who didn’t attend the games.” I stood there stiffly. “Be seated,” he said, gesturing toward the settle by the fireplace.

  I sank down, glad my back was to him. In a minute, I heard him pouring water into the basin, and then some energetic splashing. I risked a glance and saw that he’d stripped to the waist. Whoa! Stephen was the owner of an amazing set of pecs. He looked like a modern guy who was into some serious lifting, but I was pretty sure his lifting was confined to things like saddles, farm implements, and hay bales. As though he felt my eyes on him, he turned his head to the side and looked right at me. Oh, shit! My cheeks burned, and I spun back around.

  After another minute, Stephen sauntered over and plopped down beside me, still wiping off with the towel. He had put on a clean, sleeveless doublet. “Whoever left the note cannot know the truth about your … origins. I think we may assume that much. So what, then, does it mean?”

  “I have no idea.” I stared at the fire, resisting the powerful urge to gaze at him straight on.

  “You are still in a foul mood, I see. Will you not even look at me? In truth, I know not what I did wrong.”

  Should I tell him? Would he even understand or care? I sucked in a breath. “I don’t like that you’re using me. Even though I agreed to it, it still feels wrong.” And then I did look at him directly. “It really irritates me that despite my telling you over and over I’m a virgin, you still think I sleep around.”

  “Well,” he said. “Well.” The second “well” came out more softly than the first. He looked stunned, and after a minute he rose and paced around the room. “Pray forgive me, Olivia,” he said, circling back to face me. “You are a maid, then, and must lose your maidenhead to Shakespeare in this scheme. No wonder you are angry.”

  “Well, now you know. So let me do this in my own time and in my own way. Don’t ask me every five minutes what happened between Will and me. I’m committed to this; in a weird sort of way I’m even looking forward to it—sleeping with the greatest writer of all time—but I don’t want you to hassle me about it.”

  “Hassle. I am not familiar with that word, although I take your meaning. But we do not have forever.” He said it kindly, so I couldn’t be too annoyed.

  “Also”—he grimaced when he realized I wasn’t done—“I’d appreciate it if you treated me with a little respect. Like you might treat an Elizabethan girl of your class.”

  “What brought this on?”

  “Our conversation yesterday. Would you have said those things to a girl of this time and place? And just now, would you have been over there half-naked and washing in front of, say, your betrothed?”

  If the reference to his dead fiancée pained him, he hid it well. “Most assuredly not. My betrothed would not be in my chamber. But you are different. You are more worldly—”

  “Stephen!”

  He plunked back down beside me. “Sorry. ’Tis hard to think of you as belonging to this time. I will, starting now, treat you with the respect you deserve. But we must sometimes speak of the seduction, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  He eyed me, almost as though he was seeing me in a new light.

  “You look passing lovely with your hair arranged thus.”

  Oh, puh-leeze. Was this what he thought I wanted? Phony compliments? I jerked my eyes away from him. “The note. Someone thinks I’m not Olivia Langford. Why do they think so, and what do they intend to do about it?”

  “ ’Tis a threat of some kind. But do they mean to expose you?” He leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair. “Who here could mean you harm?”

  “My guess would be Jennet. She’s jealous of me and Will. Not that she has anything to be jealous of—yet—but that’s probably not the way she sees it.”

  “Isn’t she away at present?”

  “She may have returned; we were outside at the games, so how would we have known? But she can’t read, so she couldn’t have written the note, anyway.” We went through the list of other possibilities, but nothing made sense. “Maybe it’s someone we don’t know. A spy,” I said.

  “If there is a spy about, he would be after Thomas Cook, not you.”

  After tossing ideas around for a few more minutes, we gave up.

  “I’ll think on it,” Stephen said, “and you do the same. And be watchful. We may discover something.”

  I nodded. “I’ll hide the note somewhere in my room.”

  “Nay, we must burn it. Someone else could find it.” He thrust it into the fire and we watched as the flames devoured it.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said, rising. “Oh, just so you know: Will kissed me. And I kissed him back.”

  “And was it so bad, kissing Master Will?”

  “Not at all.” I headed for the door, but Stephen grabbed my hand.

  “So you enjoyed it, then?”

  I shrugged. “He’s a good kisser.”

  Stephen dropped my hand, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Then mayhap seducing him will not be so difficult.”

  What could I say to that? Before he had time to utter another word, I fled into the passage, toward the safety of my room.

  THE WEEK AFTER EASTER, everyone resumed their usual routines. Will spent his time in the classroom. Jennet returned from her visit home and continued learning how to manage a staff. Occasionally I spotted her trailing through the house in Elizabeth’s wake. From conversations with her at meals, I knew she was also studying the ancient arts of spinning, dyeing, and herbal healing.

  Although Stephen and I had been ill at ease with each other since Sunday, he had quit pestering me about how I was getting on with Will. He spent most days with his uncle, riding out to survey fields and learn about enclosure and drainage systems. Sometimes, he went hunting or hawking with the other men, and I wished he’d take me along. Hadn’t Anne Boleyn accompanied King Henry when he’d hunted and hawked? I was sure I remembered that from a movie or a miniseries. I blamed Stephen for my boredom.

  So one afternoon I sneaked into Alexander’s library. Thomas studied there every morning, but I knew he took a break after the midday meal. After a few moments of browsing, I discovered that I needed a lesson in reading the pri
nt. I could make sense of some of the words, but others completely tripped me up. It might as well have been written in code. Giving up in frustration, I grabbed a translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses—at least, that was what I thought it was—to take back to my room. It looked like several volumes from the Ovid section were missing. Probably Thomas or Will had them.

  I couldn’t resist looking for the love poetry, even though I wouldn’t be able to read it. I was sure Will would approve if he caught me reading one of the ancient poets. Leaning in as close as I could, I tried to decipher the writing on the spines of the books.

  “Ahem.”

  Busted! I spun around fast, making myself dizzy. It was only Will, standing there watching me. Thank God it wasn’t Thomas Cook or, worse yet, Alexander. “Good day to you, Master Will,” I said.

  “Well met, Mistress Olivia. You are borrowing a book, I see.”

  “Aye. Am I allowed … that is, would my uncle approve?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I’ve a whole stack of them in my chamber. What have you chosen?” He walked toward me, holding out his hand, and I passed the book to him. Before I could answer, he said, “Ovid! My favorite poet.”

  “Then I chose well.”

  “The Metamorphoses. Have you read the stories?”

  “Nay. I was hoping you might have time to help me with them.”

  “My students are dismissed for the day,” he said. “If you can spare the time, why not begin now?”

  “Aye, I do have time.” You have no idea how much.

  He motioned to a long oak table. It reminded me of the tables in some of our modern libraries, except it had benches instead of chairs. I thought Will would sit across from me, but instead, he plunked down beside me. “What do you know of our esteemed poet?”

  “Very little. That is why I need your guidance.”