Love's Will (14 page)

8.

But
at first the poem made slow progress. What Harry was giving William, and a greater gift than he knew, was leisure. The first carefree time of his life. The first holiday. From habit he woke early, before six, but now he could go back to sleep or lie in the drowsy pleasure of having no duties, no calls on his time. No school to teach, no plays to write against the clock, no rehearsals or performances. No travelling. Quiet and peace. And Harry.

Harry
Wriothesley could be childish, selfish, capricious and stubborn. He was in many ways unworldly; sheltered. He could be as easily amused as William’s son Hamnet by a play on words, a bawdy song, a story. He could also be sophisticated and subtle, a clever disputant, an erudite listener. He was also kind, generous and sweet-natured, with the makings of a good man. In those first few days, and before they knew it, those first few weeks, they rode out every day, they went to the sea-shore, played tennis and bowls, walked for hours. Autumn it might be, yet it seemed the sun always shone, the sky was always an azure bowl flecked with scribbles of fluffy cloud, the sea always calm. Both fair-skinned men with auburn hair, they grew red from sun, then gently brown.

Despite
possessing countless houses all over England Harry was a London boy, a city child whose nose had been kept to the grindstone of learning. He had never, until now, gone out on foot in the woods, had never run through the early dew on the grass, had never set a snare for a rabbit. He knew the sea as something to comment upon in terza rima or to sail across, not as something to plunge into, naked, in the warmth of noon. What hunting he’d done had been the formal affair, with other courtiers all with an eye to ritual and who had the best horse, not the exhilarating scramble on foot or, as the whim took him, on horseback. He had never watched harvesters at work or plucked fruit straight from the tree or bush and eaten it in the open air, washed down with ale bought in a village.

“How
do you know all these things?” he asked one day, lying back in the grass in his shirtsleeves, the juice from an apple running down his face.

“I
was a boy in the country. An ordinary boy.”

“And
free.”

“Free
to play truant from school sometimes or to go out poaching with my friends if I could get away with it.”

“And
chasing girls?”

“Sometimes.”
William rolled over onto his front, propping his chin on his hands. “But I never knew the freedom of money or of university life. I had to leave school at sixteen and work for my father.”

“In
the glover’s shop.”

“And
as a tutor and schoolmaster. I could still make you a fine pair of gloves, Harry.” Harry looked struck by this; as well he might, a man who’d never so much as dressed himself. “We’re very different, my dear. You grew up to inherit this...” He waved a hand, taking in the great house in the distance, all the lands it surmounted, “... and I in a glover’s and wool-dealer’s house in a provincial town. A tradesman’s son. Nearly a tradesman myself.”

“But
you are not.”

“Play-writing
is a trade. So is playing. Six performances a week, week in, week out. Writing when I can snatch a moment, usually at the cost of sleep. Touring in the summers. And what I could tell you of the roads in England, and the lodgings! Why can’t we have better roads, Harry? When you take your seat in Parliament, bring a Bill to improve the roads.”

“I
shall. Though you’ll have to wait two years till I’m of age.” Harry moved to rest his head in the small of William’s back. “I grew up knowing I would inherit all this, yes, but I never knew a happy family life. My parents quarrelled, they parted, they used me as go-between. My father kept me and my sister from our mother. And living with my father was no holiday. Fanatical Catholic, did you know? Narrow and righteous, involved in plots and treason. A foolish man. And spiteful. Also under the thumb of his servant – for which you may read his lover – Dymock, who had to be obeyed in everything. He was king in the Southampton houses. I never heard my mother spoken of but as an adulterous whore. And my father left me little but debts.”

“But
you love your mother?” William rather liked the Countess. She was, although a silly, tactless woman, kind-hearted.

“I
suppose I do. One does, after all. She irritates me, often. She’s discontented, not that I can blame her after the life my father gave her. My grandfather was the point of security to me when I was a child; he was a good man. My mother fancies herself in love with Sir Thomas Heneage. Perhaps they’ll marry. Although she’s old to marry, in her thirties.”

Amused,
William said, “So is my wife.”

“So
much? She doesn’t look it. Then she’s older than you?”

“Nearly
seven years older.”

“Why’d
you marry her? Sorry, was that tactless?”

“A
little. She was with child. That’s why we married.”

“Ah.”

“Not that we married without love, Harry. I loved her more than I knew at the time. She encouraged me, let me read her my work, advised me, comforted me when everyone else was telling me to forget my wild dreams of London and theatres and poetry. I called her my Muse.” He turned over again, taking his friend’s head upon his belly. Absently stroking the long gold-auburn hair he said, “I’ve written little since I’ve been here. I’ve enjoyed myself too much.”

“Enjoyed
yourself with me?”

“Yes,”
William said, laughing. “You’re eager for flattery, aren’t you?”

“Flattery?
Or liking. Knowing I am liked. Or loved?”

“Liked.
Loved. You are my dear golden lad, my friend.”

Now
it was Harry’s turn to spin over, so that he looked into William’s eyes. “In this light,” he said, “your eyes are grey, and gold, and green and azure. Am I your dear lad?”

“You
know you are.”

“Say
it. Say you love me.”

“But
of course I love you. My dear lad, my dear lord.” The moment held, and stretched, as they stared into one another’s eyes. William could feel his flesh coming alive, as if he had been physically caressed. The beauty of the day, of this boy who looked at him so meltingly, coalesced. This was happiness, this was freedom, this was love. Shyly, as if he weren’t the elder, he said, “And you, Harry? Do you love me? Older though I am, autumn to your spring, world-worn, do you love me?”

“Dearly.
Dearly. You make me happy, Will.” Harry had to move only a hand’s span closer to kiss him. Their lips met, lightly, sweetly, with a power that shook them both. No more than that, just a kiss. Just love.

“You
make me happy too.” He kissed Harry’s eyes, the corner of his mouth. Harry laid his head back down, over William’s heart. He sighed. William stroked his hair and the soft white skin under it.

“What
think’st thou?” Harry’s tone made it a caress, or a promise.

“That
I am happy. That thou art my heart’s desire. And that for the first time since I came here I have my poem clear in my mind.”

“Tell
me.”

“Not
yet.” William was silent so long that Harry leaned up on his elbow to look at him.

“I
thought you’d gone to sleep. Tell me the poem, Will. Talk to me. Or kiss me again.”

“No.
And don’t be peevish. There, a kiss.” His lips lingered for a moment, then he put his hand on Harry’s cheek and drew away to sit up. “It’s time for me to work, Harry. Time to begin.”

Harry
lay there, leaning on his elbow, frowning up at him. “You would end this day?”

“God,
or Apollo Phoebus, will. It is near day’s end, Harry, and I must write. Come, love, nothing will end our love, but I must write.” And Harry saw it, saw the withdrawal into a world he knew nothing of, the passion and need that were not for him. Accepting it, and maturing with the acceptance, he laughed and stood up, brushing the grass from his clothes.

“Then
come home, Will, and write.”

But
he had pictured a cosy scene, William pausing every second moment to read his work, to ask Harry’s opinion, to intersperse his work with kisses. Alas. He was in the same room as William, but another world. He doubted William even knew he was there. The servants came, enquiring about supper. Would his lordship come to the dining salon? Should they serve the meal here? William paid them no attention. “Here,” Harry said, and saw that William didn’t even smell the food. Dismissing the servants, Harry himself put food on a plate, put it beside his friend. He got a grunt of vague acknowledgement and had eaten his entire meal before he saw William’s left hand move our, absently, to take the first morsel.

“Eat,
Will. Take a moment. Eat your supper.”

“What?”

“The food is growing cold. Is cold. Take a moment, leave your work and eat.”

“Ah.”
And, moments later, “What? Food? You should have told me. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,
Will. Nothing, my dear. Shall I send for more food? That’s quite cold now.”

“No,
it will serve.” William stood up, stretching to ease his back, shaking out his cramped hand. He came to the table and began to eat rapidly. He looked up once, smiling at Harry. “Have you been here all the time?”

“Yes.
I gave you,” he said pointedly, “three cups of wine, which you drank without knowing where they came from. Would you rather I went away? Do you rather work alone?”

“Oh
no, you don’t bother me. This pie’s excellent.”

“I’ll
tell the cook.”

“Now
what’s the matter?” William asked, cramming in more food. “I said you don’t bother me. That’s a compliment, Harry. There are few people I can bear in the room while I work.”

“Is
your wife one of them?”

“Oh
yes, Anne understands. At least you can be quiet, my dear, unlike most people. You share that with Anne. You understand.”

About
to say he’d spoken many times, that he could have danced naked around the room while the Queen’s minstrels played and William would not have noticed, Harry took the compliment and nodded gravely.

“I
like to have you here,” William said, sounding surprised. “But don’t look for company from me. Not when I am writing. I can’t explain it.”

“You
needn’t. I’ve seen. It’s quite late, Will. You’ve worked three hours.”

“But
I’ll work on a little.” He stretched again, groaning as stiffened muscles pulled. Again he shook his right hand. “Cramped.”

“Let
me ease it.” Instantly William held out his hand, leaning back with a sigh of pleasure as Harry began to rub it. “Oh, that’s good. Harder.”

“You’ve
knotted muscles, calluses too. I can feel where you hold your pen, the raised skin. Is it better?”

“Better.”
William’s eyes strayed back to his writing table and the pile of finished pages there. Resigned to the inevitable, Harry kissed the palm of his hand and gave it back to him. With a vague murmur of thanks William wandered back to his work. Harry knew better than to ask to see what he’d done.

Doggedly
Harry sat on, determined to do what he could to be a Muse. At ten the servants brought more wine and food, at eleven fresh candles. At midnight William asked for more paper. At one he went to the privy. At two he needed ink and drank a cup of wine, not knowing it was his fifth. At three he scratched his head, damned his pen, looked for another and found none.

“You’ve
used them all,” said Harry.

“Then
sharpen me some more.”

And
Harry, an earl, who had never sharpened his own pens or done a service for another person, meekly cut new quills. At four he gave in, put down his book and said he was going to bed. “Will? Won’t you finish for now? You’ve worked all the night.”

“Have
I?”

“Ah,
you heard me. Will, you’re exhausted. How can you work like this?”

“I
always do while it’s hot in me. Only another writer can understand. But you’re right. I’m too tired.” He glanced over the last page and, with an exclamation, threw it on the fire. “Far too tired, that’s plain. I’m writing rubbish and wasting paper.”

“Never.”

“Oh yes. Very well, then, bed.”

He
was reeling with exhaustion, nearly asleep on his feet. Harry gripped his arm and guided him through the connecting door and sat him on the bed.

“No,
my room. Lock my papers away. Always do. Can’t sleep ’less they’re safe.” But his eyes were closing as he spoke.

“I’ll
put them safely away, look, here in my cupboard with my private papers. No one will touch them. Will, lift your feet, let me take your boots off. There.” Awkwardly Harry undid buttons and laces, William obeying like a child, then swung him around, still in shirt and under-linen, and tucked him under the covers. “Go to sleep, Will, my love.”