Love's Will (15 page)

“To
sleep. To dream. Perchance to dream. My hand aches. My eyes ache.”

“I’ll
rub your hand. Sleep, Will.” Harry tossed off his own clothes, extinguished the candles and climbed into bed. He took William in his arms, drawing him close, laying his head on his shoulder. William gave a long sleepy sigh of pleasure. It made Harry feel protective, responsible as he’d never been for another human creature. William was not the first man who had shared his bed, but he was the first to lie defenceless in Harry’s arms, wanting nothing but comfort and sleep. Gently he took William’s right hand and began to massage it. William purred. Harry stroked the hair back from his brow and kissed him. Love filled him. William said, “My love,” then something that sounded like “Windsor”. Then he snored.

9.

That
first all-night white heat of creation was not repeated, but after that William worked every day on his poem. Much of what he’d written that first night went on the fire, but much was kept, revised, rewritten. Harry became used to it – the slow drifting into silent thought, then the hours of writing in which he ceased, with the rest of the world, to exist, except as provider of paper, pencils, sharpened pens and food. Anne Shakspere must know this exclusion, he reflected; she’d had ten years of it. Did William make love to her sometimes, when he fell into bed in the satisfied glow of creation? Did he give her more than kisses and words of love? Or less than that? Did William talk to her as he did to Harry? Could one talk to a woman of emotions and things of the mind, of books and poetry and ideas? If one could find a woman like that, instead of a man…

“What
about the poems for Burghley?” he asked one day. “He’ll want to know, Will; he expects value for his money.” They were at the shore, looking across to the Isle of Wight. Their horses cropped peacefully above them. Sea birds mewed overhead. A brisk breeze ruffled the water, splashing their bare feet. William tipped his head back to follow a bird’s flight before saying, “I’ve not seen the colour of his money yet. But the poems are being written.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Harry:

From fairest creature we desire increase,

That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory;

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

That thou art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.”

After
quite a time Harry said, “It’s Narcissus again. ‘Contracted to thine own bright eyes.’ And ‘self-substantial fuel.’ Still, Burghley will like it.”

“You
don’t?”

“It’s
a good sonnet.”

“Don’t
sulk.”

“I
am not sulking.”

“No?
Oh well. What about: Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest/ Now is the time that face should form another… The next lines I’m not sure of, but… For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb/ Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?”

“An
agricultural metaphor,” said Harry coldly. “Vulgar. It needs work. Do you think I’m so vain? Conceited?”

“No
more than you should be.”

“Your
meaning?”

“That
you are beautiful, and know it.”

“And
vain. And spoilt.”

“Your
words, not mine.”

“Well,
no one can say you’re not earning your pay from Burghley. Show me that woman so fair, and it would be a different matter.”

“Have
you,” William enquired, “never lain with a woman?”

“No.
And don’t use that voice, like a kindly older brother or an uncle. Next you’ll say I don’t know what I’m missing.”

“Perhaps
you don’t.”

“I
do.” They were sitting so close together that Harry had only to turn to take William in his arms and kiss him. This was no light, gentle kiss of purest love, but a kiss of passion, deep, demanding, longing. “I do know,” Harry said against William’s mouth. “I do know what I am missing. You. All of you.”

“Harry...”

“You liked my kisses. You responded.”

“Who
could not? But Harry, listen:

A woman’s face, with Nature’s own hand painted,

Hast thou, the Master-Mistress of my passion;

A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false woman’s fashion;

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

A man in hue all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.”

Harry
smiled, enchanted. William took the boy’s face in his hands and continued,

“
And for a woman wert thou first created;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,

Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure
.”

There
was a long silence. “I see,” Harry said at last. “That one thing is no-thing to your purpose: a double meaning. But I love you and I’ll have you.”

“Oh,
be content, boy!” William cried, and stood up. “Love lasts; passion doesn’t. Lust doesn’t.”

“You
know that, do you? From your wealth of age’s experience?”

“Yes.”

Harry scrambled to his feet. He stood facing William, still close enough to touch or kiss. “But cannot one have both? Love and passion? And if the passion dies, the love will last?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why should it not for us? And in that sonnet you’re not too complimentary to women, William. What did you say? Woman’s shifting heart? False woman’s fashion? You cannot have it both ways, dear Will. You cannot urge me to a woman, yet point out that women are inconstant, fickle, false.”

“It’s
only a poem,” William said feebly.

“And
perhaps you are not so eager as you make out to urge me into the nearest woman’s bed?” William looked away. Angrily Harry seized his chin and forced him to look back. Blue eyes stared into hazel ones, and Harry’s anger fled. “William, you love me.”

“You
know I do. But I am married.”

“Yet
you write of women’s falsity. Is your Anne false?”

“No.
And I will not hurt her by...”

“By
giving me your love? But haven’t you done that already? Haven’t you hurt her by loving me? By bedding all those women – and, by repute, not only women – in London?”

“Yes.”

“That’s honesty at last. Let’s have some more. Can you deny you want me in every way, as I want you?”

“Leave
be, Harry.”

“No.
You’ve broken your marriage vows by taking other women. Surely it is less of an offence to take me, your own kind and one who loves you?”

“I
don’t know,” William said helplessly. “I love you. I long for you. Yet you have been trusted to me. I can’t. Harry, leave be. Let me be. Please, if you love me.”

Again
silence fell and held between them. Again Harry was the first to speak. “I do love you. Very well. See? You’ve taught me I can’t have everything I want.”

“Conscience
doth make cowards of us all.”

“A
fine line. You’ll use it one day. Come, Will, let’s go home.”

Neither
spoke on the ride back. Things had changed, perhaps been spoiled. Neither of them knew. And, for the first time, they were fully conscious that winter was nearly upon them; the wind blew chill and breathed of rain, the sky was dark with thunderclouds.

“The
good weather is over,” William said dully.

“Of
course it is. It’s December, Will. It has rained every night the last fortnight.”

“Has
it? I didn’t notice.”

“No,
you were writing. Soon it will snow.”

“Yes.
December. I must go home for Christmas.”

“Yes
of course,” Harry agreed a little too readily. “But will you come back? The theatres are closed, you’ve no occupation in London. Come back after Christmas. The players, your company, are coming in February. We look for your new play then, Will. There will be others here then. Essex, I think, and Kit Marlowe speaks of coming; also Thomas Nashe.”

The
mention of rival poets stung William. “With Marlowe and Nashe, what need have you of Shakspere?”

“I
have need of the best. Come back. Please. After all, you haven’t finished my poem.”

“Nor I have,” said William. “Very well. After Christmas, I’ll come back.”

10.

William was not expected home so soon. He walked into the house in Henley Street to find the family at supper, and in the middle of some argument. The dining parlour was decked with holly and ivy for Christmas, there was mistletoe over the door. Susanna was the first to see him, shocking her grandmother by spilling her plate as she leapt up and ran for the door.

“But
it’s Daddy. He’s home!” She flung herself on her father, squirreling her arms and legs around him. She was really too old to be so boisterous and let her skirts fly up like that, but no one had the heart to reprimand her. The twins came more slowly, looking shyly up at their father. One arm still around Susanna, he crouched and drew all three children into his embrace. My beautiful children, he thought, feeling tears prickling his eyes. My darlings, my life.

“You’ve
grown, you’ve all grown. Hamnet, darling boy, give me a kiss. Judith, my precious, you too. My sweethearts, I’ve missed you so.”

John
Shakspere kissed his son as best he could and lifted Susanna away from William. “A delightful surprise, son. Welcome home. Come, sit down. Mother, wine, our best wine. Children, make a place for your father.”

“Father,
God’s day to you. You’re well? Mother, how good to see you. And Anne,” said William. “My dear, I’ve missed you. Come kiss me.” She did so, thinking how brown and young he looked. And happy.

“You
look well. You’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Very
much. But I missed you and the children. I wrote a good deal.”

The
rest of the family had waited their turn, but now came the kisses and handclasps, the barrage of questions. Are you well, did you have much snow on the journey, what news, how long can you stay, did you bring us presents, have you heard, what have you written? Tell us about the Earl.

A
twin on either side, Susanna staring enraptured, chin on hands, from the other side of the table, William did his best to talk, drink wine and eat his supper all at once. Anne ate her meal in silence and let him answer all the questions, retail the news.

“I’m
home for Christmas, then I join my fellow-players at Titchfield.” Usually they were in London for the Christmas season, the Queen held court in her capital and wanted entertainment. “No one knows when the theatres will open again. And what news here?”

They
told him, all speaking at once, and Anne watched his eyes narrow with interest. He’d come from the company of earls and poets, but he was enchanted with all these small Stratford doings; a fire, a marriage, a quarrel, an adultery, the state of trade.

“But
it’s late,” he said at last, “and I’ve been on the road a long time. Time for bed.”

His
mother exclaimed to find it was past eight o’clock and the children still up. The three of them sat tight, identical mulish expressions on their faces.

“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 across 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.”