Love's Will (12 page)

“So
Will may find in Southampton the patron he wants?”

“Yes
he may. Anne, does Will’s father still practice the old religion?”

He
had slid that question very deftly into the sleepy, slow companionship. Startled, as he no doubt intended, Anne kept her wits about her.

“Still?
I didn’t know he ever had. I live in his house, Kit, and I have never seen anything but the observances of the established Church. Why do you do it, Kit?”

“Do
what?”

“Don’t
fence with me. Why do you spy for Walsingham? Why do you persecute Catholics? The man who said ‘I count religion but a childish toy and hold there is no sin but ignorance’, the man who proudly proclaims his atheism and love of tobacco and boys and upholds freedom of thought is surely not the man to believe in religious persecution.”

“But
Catholics are traitors. They plot against our lawful monarch Queen Elizabeth.”

“I
daresay some do, but a government man whose life and reputation depends on discovering Catholic plots is bound to discover them, isn’t he? Or to manufacture them.”

“Dangerous
talk, Anne. What if I went straight to Walsingham with that remark?”

“I’d
be in the Tower, being tortured. But you won’t carry tales to Walsingham, will you? Not of me, or Will?”

“Are
there tales to carry?”

“No,
as you know well. We’re no Papists. Nor are we traitors, although a jesting remark such as I made just now can be twisted into a case against an innocent person. Why do you do it, Kit? Do you like the danger? Are you playing both sides against each other? An atheistical sodomite is flirting with danger by his mere existence. Why add to it? Or do you protect yourself by working for Walsingham?”

“Perhaps.
And you, Anne Shakspere, are not supposed to know I work for Walsingham. Did Will tell you?”

“The
entire country knows it,” she said scornfully. “Well, all of London, at least. And I wonder why you, a brilliant man, our friend, a good man in so many ways, spy and help harass people who are innocent of treason and want nothing but to worship as they believe. Didn’t the Queen herself once say that she has no window to see into people’s hearts and if they are loyal to her, she cares not how they worship?”

“Will
talks too much.”

“After
ten years of marriage I often agree, but not in the way you mean.” With growing anger she went on, “You, Christopher Marlowe, you who never venture outside London or Cambridge unless it’s to go overseas on these spying missions, you don’t know what ordinary people think and feel and believe. Ordinary people – the Marlowes in Canterbury, the Shaksperes in Stratford, the cordwainers and glovers, the labourers, the burghers, the merchants and shopkeepers, the women, the shepherds – these people love the Queen, they admire her, they think of her with almost religious awe; at worst they believe she’s a good monarch and they are loyal to her, even if they follow the old religion.”

“Yet
Catholics,” Kit flashed back at her, “take their orders from the Pope and from the Catholic monarchs of Catholic countries. If the Pope says, as he does, that our Queen is a bastard and a usurper and that to disobey her laws or work to overthrow her is no crime, then that is what they believe. What they do.”

“Not
all of them.”

“So
you say. But enough of them. We spoke of Harry Southampton – his father was rabidly Catholic, his mother’s the same. His father was involved in plots against the Queen. He was arrested for taking counsel from a Catholic priest who told him he need not obey the Queen. That’s why his family’s so eager to keep in favour with Burghley by marrying the boy off to his granddaughter. And that is just the sort of person Spain, to take but one example, uses. Wouldn’t Spain love to overthrow – by which of course I mean assassinate – our Queen and install a Catholic monarch on her throne? A puppet monarch, of course. Lord Strange, say, or another of the Plantagenet pretenders if one can be found; or Mary of Scotland.”

“Who’s
been dead five years. And her son is Protestant.”

“There
are always candidates. Would you see England Catholic again?”

“Bloody
Mary’s long dead too, Kit, and England will have no more of her kind, no more martyrdoms or burnings. Queen Elizabeth has been our Queen for thirty-four years because she is tolerant and wants her people’s love. And I don’t think you believe a word of what you’re saying.”

Kit
threw back his head and laughed. “Whether I do or don’t is not for you to know, Anne. Perhaps, though, I like the danger. The intellectual challenge.”

“Playing
with people’s lives? When a man, or even a woman, goes to the torture chambers because of you? How can you do it?”

“Perhaps,”
Kit spoke very softly, “I have no choice.”

“Ah.
And your conscience is your own?”

“Precisely.
But be warned, Anne, Will’s father is listed as a recusant. He does not attend church, he is known to be in sympathy, at the least, with the Papist cause. Where does all his money go, Anne? For years he’s been running into debt, selling off land, trying to raise mortgages. Yet he should be a rich man. Is he keeping a priest?”

“No.
And I would know, Kit.”

“Sending
money to priests in hiding? Sending money overseas to Catholic supporters?”

“No.
I think he’s simply not very good at handling money. Or… well, you probably know more of this than I do: he supported his wife’s family, the great and glorious Ardens – not that his wife is very closely connected to them – in their quarrels with some important people, the late Lord Leicester for one. And those important people ruined him financially. The little illegalities that are winked at in others with more influence, like wool and malt dealing and usury, were used to ruin him.” She leaned forward, holding Kit’s green eyes with her own. “Go tell your spymaster and his nephew who gossip says is your lover, that John Shakspere is no Papist. Nor is William Shakspere, nor his wife or children. Remind the Walsinghams and whoever else must be told that John Shakspere’s ancestor fought for Henry Tudor at Bosworth Field under Lord Derby.”

“I
shall. And in return, you tell your father-in-law that he is under suspicion and to mind what he does.”

“I’ll
pass the message on, though he does nothing to earn suspicion. Have you ever tried to recruit Will into your unpleasant little gang?”

“Dropped
a hint, once,” Kit admitted. “He laughed in my face. And I’ve never quite managed to find out what he believes.”

“He
believes in England, in our queen, in love, in loyalty, in charity.”

“Yes,”
agreed Kit. “Depressing, isn’t it, in such a clever man.”

Anne
laughed, and through her laughter heard the sound of feet on the stairs. “Here comes the clever man. Will, my dear, come to the fire, you look cold.”

“I
am. A horrible night.” He threw down his cloak and came to hold his hands out to the fire.

“And,
judging from the shiny, dreamy smile,” said Kit, “you’ve found your patron?”

“Yes.
I have. I’ve promised him a poem, dedicated to him as my patron.”

“You’ll
be trampled to death in the crowd,” warned Kit. “That boy’s already had more works dedicated to him than you can shake a stick at. All by people wanting him for their patron. He is, after all, the Earl of Southampton.”

“But
the difference is, “said Will, “that I am William Shakspere.”

“All the same,” he said to Anne later that night, in bed, “I’m going to be busy, aren’t I. Harry has invited me to Titchfield in the summer when they have a party of guests. His mother would like the company to do a new play, a comedy. A comedy for Lady Southampton, a poem for Harry, and Burbage is nagging me for a new play to go into repertoire as soon as can be done, acting six days a week…”

“Will
he pay you?” Harry, she thought, as if that boy were just anyone.

“Reluctantly.”

“Not Burbage; Lord Southampton, I mean. For this poem singing his praises.”

William
rolled over and gave her a reproachful look. “The poem doesn’t have to sing his praises. No. The dedication, the fact that I write it for him, in his honour, does that. I like him, Anne.”

“So
do I. But will he do what he promises? Might he not lose interest? People like that are fickle.”

“Oh,
not Harry, I think. He admires me. And yes, he’ll pay me. Perhaps even enough to buy a share in the playing company. A hired player no longer, Anne, nor a jobbing playwright – a stakeholder in a playing company, part-owner of a theatre, that company’s permanent writer. It’s the start I’ve wanted, love. It’s what we waited and planned and worked for all those dreary Stratford years. I’m becoming famous for my plays, but this new chance means money. And reputation. It means being established, no longer living hand-to-mouth. We can buy our own house in a year or two.”

“In
London?” It crossed her mind that they would have had much more money had she not insisted on living here. London was expensive and, at home, they lived free. But at home the children would have seen their father for perhaps four weeks a year. Also, somehow, she had never quite thought of London as home.

“No,
lodgings are enough. Unless you want a London house. No, a place in Stratford.”

“But
you love London!”

“I
enjoy it. I don’t love it. Stratford’s home. I’ll buy you a house, Anne, one suitable for you and the children. Something grand.”

“Then
you’d better get busy writing.”

“Mmm,
yes.”

Anne
would have liked to make love again, but when she moved against him and touched him, all she got was her hand held, and a rough draft of his dedication to Southampton.

5.

Two
days later Anne heard a peremptory knocking on the front door of the house. Intent on mending the lace collar on her husband’s best shirt, she paid no particular attention; William paid it none at all, he probably didn’t hear it. He was writing and lost in the world he was creating. Then feet clomped up the stairs and the parlour door shook under the hammering.

William’s
friends usually breezed straight in. Half-afraid, Anne put down her sewing. She looked at William as the hammering came again, and this time a cry of “Open in the Queen’s name!” Even William heard that. He threw down his pen and signed to Anne to open the door.

Three
men stood there. A messenger and two men who were unmistakably guards. Armed.

“William
Shakspere?”

“I
am he.” William put Anne behind him. “What do you want of me?”

“You
are bidden to Lord Burghley.”

“Burghley?
Why?”

“At
once. Is this woman your wife?”

Even
in that moment of fear Anne noted that you could actually see someone’s hackles rise. Silently she begged her husband to be careful. He said, quietly enough, “This lady is my wife, yes.”

“She
too is bidden to Lord Burghley.”

“But...”

“At once.”

“Are
we under arrest?” William asked.

“Not
yet,” the messenger said. “You may fetch your cloaks.”

“Our
children?”

“Tell
your maid to watch them.”

There
was no time, or safety, for them to talk. Anne’s conversation with Kit Marlowe was burning in her. But if it was some such matter, it would have been Walsingham’s men who came for them, wouldn’t it? And their destination would be the Tower. Or perhaps it still was. Her hands shook so much she couldn’t fasten her cloak. William did it for her, and kissed her as he draped the cloak around her. She mouthed, “Kit?” and he shook his head. “It’s all a mistake, darling. Any imagined fault must be mine alone. Tell the truth.” Swinging his own cloak around him, he led her back to the outer room. “Are you sure,” he asked the messenger, “that my wife is sent for?”

“His
lordship’s instructions were quite clear. Both of you. Come.”

They
were marched, ignominiously under guard, through London. Word of this would get around within the hour, Anne knew. By dinner time Burbage would have William’s understudy ready for the afternoon’s performance. By supper time the landlady, weeping behind closed doors when they left, would have re-let William’s rooms and put the children onto the street. Anne glimpsed the lad Nol lurking in the crowd and mouthed “Burghley” at him. Let him make of that what he would.

They
were going westward. Not to the Tower, then. Away from London Bridge, where the severed head of William’s maternal ancestor Edward Arden had rotted for years, the treatment meted out to traitors. Perhaps William’s head would soon be there. A shame, people would say for a day or two, he showed promise. Then they’d tear up his plays and forget him. What a world we live in, Anne thought, where innocent people can be arrested without explanation and a case trumped up against them. Or perhaps it’s merely that something in one of William’s plays displeased the Queen and he is to receive an official reproof. But in that case, why send for me? O God, my children.

But
at Whitehall they were shown into a small ante-room and left alone. No thumbscrews, no rack. Yet. No torture but the silent waiting to play on their nerves.

After
almost half an hour, a quietly dressed man came in, said, “Master and Mistress Shakspere?” and directed them into another room. It was a pin-neat mirror of William’s room with books crowding the walls, orderly piles of papers on the writing table, a rich carpet, good chairs. It smelt of old leather, beeswax polish and lavender.

Rising
from the table, coming to greet them, was the Father of England. The Queen’s Right Hand. The Lord Treasurer of England. William Cecil, Lord Burghley, was white-bearded, not tall, well but plainly dressed in a long robe. He looked tired and rather ill, but his eyes were bright with intelligence and a sharp and not unkindly interest.

Anne
curtsied as she would to the Queen. William bowed.

“Master
Shakspere. Mrs Shakspere. I am sorry to have to meet you here in my business apartments and not at Cecil House, but needs must when business presses. Pray take a seat. May I present my son Robert Cecil?”

The
dark, small young man bowed as well as he could with his twisted body and hunched back. His eyes too shone with interest, and gave them a small, charming smile. “I saw one of your plays once, Master Shakspere.” He sounded surprised at himself. “I enjoyed it.”

William
bowed, for once bereft of words.

“May
I offer you wine?” Lord Burghley said, and when they nodded dumbly a pageboy handed them fine crystal glasses of ruby wine.

“Are
we then not under arrest?” William asked.

“Arrest?
Of course not. What made you think so?” Lord Burghley sat down wrapping the skirts of his robe cosily over his knees.

“With
respect, your lordship, when a messenger comes with two armed guards and conducts one without explanation, in haste, to you, even the easiest conscience must feel unease.”

“Yes,
I see. But my intention was not to frighten you. On the contrary. Master Shakspere, my ward the Earl of Southampton tells me he has met you and your wife.”

Burghley
paused to sip his wine. Anne suspected it was a deliberate pause, as practised as any actor’s, for effect. Most people would rush into speech in the face of that pause, in the face of what had just been said. But William said nothing, studying this famous statesman; perhaps one day a version of him would appear in one of his plays.

“Yes,”
Burghley continued, “Lord Southampton told me of his visit to you. He has rarely mixed with ordinary people, and it was a pleasant time for him. He enjoys plays. He has a great love of literature as well.”

“So
I understand, my lord. He spoke of his time at your Cecil House school, of the fine education he received there, and of his time at Cambridge.”

“Ah,
yes. Yes, I have been at pains to give all my wards the best education. Lord Southampton is young, of course, and not yet wise in the ways of the world, but he feels some friendship for you.”

“You
object to that, your lordship?”

“Not
in the slightest now that I have met you and your wife.”

Well,
of course Burghley didn’t have to strike bargains with common people, but there was more to this than inspecting his ward’s friends. For a moment a glint of humour, or appreciation, showed in his faded eyes, and at his nod his son refilled their glasses.

“You
have been married some ten years, I believe?” he asked, glancing at Anne, who had the passing thought that he knew to the hour when they’d married.

“Ten
years in November, My Lord. We have three children,” she added when his look of gentle enquiry became a surprisingly warm smile. “A girl of nine, twins of seven.”

“And
you are often in London, Mistress Shakspere?”

“For
much of the year, yes. In summer I take the children home to Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Because
in summer the players go on tour, I believe?”

“Yes,
my lord.”

“But
you have a son at school, I believe? Does your arrangement not interfere with his education?”

Oh
yes, this is normal, thought Anne, discussing education with the Queen’s chief minister. “He is a clever boy, Lord Burghley, and does well at his books, and we believe that a boy should not grow up with only one parent. That outweighs the week or two of school he misses when we move.”

With
another smile Burghley turned back to William. “I have heard your mother is an Arden, is that correct? An old family.”

“Quite
correct, and yes, an old family. The Ardens were lords of Warwickshire before the Conquest.”

“Indeed.
Now, pleasant though it is to sit and talk, I’m sure you are a busy man, as am I, so I will be frank with you. You have the reputation, Mister Shakspere, of a clever man. Are you a discreet one?”

“I
can keep a secret apart from the rest of the world.”

The
dark Cecil son laughed. His father was a moment behind him in seeing the joke.

“Ah,
yes, a pun. Discreet, discrete. Words are your business, of course. So let us come to business. I feel great affection for my Lord Southampton and it grieves me that he has stubbornly turned his face against marriage. I gather he touched on the matter when he visited you. It seems you spoke so warmly of marriage and fatherhood that he came home with his mind somewhat changed; something neither his mother nor I have achieved.” Pulling his robe closer over his knees the old man said, almost petulantly, “It’s the boy’s duty to marry. And so, Mister Shakspere, I have a commission for you.”

“Poems.” William said. He flung himself down into the chair before the fire and started to laugh. “Poems! To convince that boy to marry.” He reached for Anne’s hand, and together they gave themselves up to laughter. There was a wild edge to it that had nothing to do with amusement; they had been too much frightened. “After all that, being hauled to Lord Burghley, fearing for our lives, he wants nothing but poems.”

“And
offers the favour of the most powerful man in England, remember.”

“Oh
yes, yes. Yes, the entrée to the world of Court favour, of the aristocracy. And money. I was going to write Harry Southampton a poem that would live forever and make us both immortal, and now I’m a paid hack again, writing poems to make Burghley’s granddaughter a countess.” He broke into an excellent mimicry of Lord Burghley’s precise, pedantic tones. “‘The boy is susceptible to flattery, Master Shakspere and, straight talk of duty and honour having failed, we are disposed to try a more – ah – honeyed route. Lord Southampton likes and admires you, Master S, so let us see if your honeyed words cannot convince him to do his duty.’ Ha!”

“You’ll
have to do it, though.”

“Yes,
of course I will. I can’t afford to be in disfavour with Burghley. I’d bet that in that tidy desk of his he had a dossier about us. He probably he knows what we had for breakfast this morning. He might have turned to threats – cunningly veiled ones, of course – had he not summed us up and decided frankness was the better way. Yes, he decided not to mention that my father’s under some suspicion of recusancy or that he could ruin me with a word. Close down the theatres, disband the playing companies, forbid me London; whatever he chose. So yes, I’ll write his poems.”

“And
the one you planned for Lord Southampton.”

“That
will come all the sweeter for being entirely my own. Oh, I want his patronage, and some money would be welcome, but it’s not the same as this… commission.”

“Your
poems will be just as good.”

“Probably.
But it’s like being back at school, doing set work. Yes, they’ll be good. Won’t change Harry Southampton’s mind, of course.”

“Lord
Burghley doesn’t expect a miracle, Will.”

“Just
as well.” He rose and pottered over to his writing table. Staring down at the papers there he said, “After Kit read us his
Hero and Leander
the other night, I had an idea. A theme of
Venus and Adonis
.” Absently he reached for a pen and paper.

“Not
now, Will. Not if you’re to play this afternoon.”

“What?
God’s teeth, what’s the time? I’ll be late, Burbage will fine me. Anne, you’ll come? We’re playing Marlowe today.” In a whirl he seized cloak and hat, bustled Anne about, clapped her hat on her head and led her out the door. When she protested she’d eaten nothing since breakfast he said, nor had he, and welcome to the life of a jobbing actor. “I’ll buy you a pie at the cook shop.”

“Better
have one yourself or Kit’s finest lines will be drowned by your stomach rumbling.”

“It’d
be an improvement. Hurry, Anne. O for time; time to write, to think, to read.”

At
the playhouse Burbage, in a fine old frenzy, grabbed William and thrust his costume into his arms. “You’re late.”

“Not
my fault.”

“Never
mind that. Hurry. And make it good, Will. This could be our last performance for a time. I’ve heard there’s plague in the eastern parts of the city.”

“Plague,”
Anne whispered in fear. The great killer, the terror. It travelled on the breath, doctors said. You could even carry it on your clothes. If she took it home to her children… This was why she refused to live year-round in the capital, why she timed her visits here with care. Plague was usually at a different time of year, though it knew no rules.