Love's Will (17 page)

“You
did, this ring, the pearl earring.”

“Trinkets.
I can’t give you poetry or work a pair of exquisite gloves. All I have is my patronage and to use my rank to help you if I can. And money for
Venus and Adonis
.”

“Those
are very large gifts, my dear. My future. Fame, perhaps.”

“Will
you,” Harry slanted a glance at him, “let me give you something else? For Christmas, for our love? Out of love?”

“Harry...”

“Listen. Will you let me buy you a share in the playing company?”

There
was a long silence. William said softly, “To be no longer a hired player and play-maker? To be a share-holder, a house-keeper in a theatre? To be an established man, secure, with a steady income? You ask if you can give me that?”

“I
thought you might be offended. It smacks of trade between us. But money is all I have to give. That and love. With love.”

“But
my lord, my love, we are talking of perhaps a hundred pounds, and you’re not yet of age. Have you that much?”

“Yes.
Will you accept it?”

“Of
course. It’s my hope, my dream. My future. I can’t thank you.” On a wave of huge delight he flung his arm around Harry and kissed him. Broke away. Looked at him. Saw the need and longing and love, and the defence against rejection. Kissed him again, and this time William’s tongue parted Harry’s lips and probed his mouth. Harry made a little sound in his throat. William took him firmly in his arms, kissed him harder, held him close and felt all his responses. In the back of William’s mind a voice said sourly, You whore, William; and do what you must. Bring me the money.

“But
it’s not,” he said aloud. “It’s not the money. It is love. Just love. And because I have finished that poem and somehow that makes us less unequal.”

“I
know it’s not the money,” Harry muttered. “It’s love. I love you.”

“And
I love you. I love thee, thou art my love. Harry my dear, my sweet love, give me time to wash my face and clean my teeth then if you love me, if you want me, go bolt the door then take off your clothes and get into this bed with me and make love to me.”

“Yes,”
Harry whispered, enchanted. “Yes, my love.” Later he said, “At last, my heart. At last.” Swiftly Harry moved on top of him, matching their bodies so their mouths met and their hearts beat together. Then he began to move, hands following mouth and the long silky hair trailing a third sensation. Soon there were no sounds but kisses, and hands moving on flesh, each other’s name enough endearment now, in the panting breath of passion.

Afterwards, when they lay holding each other, Harry said, “Why now, Will? Why did you resist me so long and give in now? Didn’t you love me enough before?”

“I
loved you more than enough. Wanted you very much, too. Couldn’t let myself. I don’t know, Harry. Perhaps it’s because I’ve finished that poem and have something to give you at last. Perhaps it’s because you brought me breakfast and tucked me up snugly.”

Harry
lifted his head, laughing. “I didn’t go to the kitchen and cook the food myself.”

“No,
but you were kind. You took thought for me. Cared for me in that little way.”

Baffled,
Harry lay down again and kissed William’s collarbone. “And now I know you truly love me. Now we’re truly one.”

“I
always loved you,” William said sharply. “And now you will break my heart.”

“Oh
no, love. No.” Then, petulantly, he added, “Why don’t you think you’ll break mine? I do love you, Will.”

“Yes,
but I’m middle-aged, and married and not of your world or rank or kind, and you’re young and very beautiful. Whether it’s a man or a woman you find, yes, you’ll break my heart, Harry.”

“I
won’t. And you’re not middle-aged.”

“Half
your age again. Twenty-nine, come April. Losing my hair.”

“If
you were seventy-nine and bald I’d still love you. I would love my clever poet.”

“And
if your clever poet stops praising you in his clever poems?”

“Still
I will love you.”

“I
hope so.”

“I
know so.” Harry started to kiss him again, but there came the sound of horses’ hooves, of hounds baying, and a lot of hallooing. “Hey-up, our merry hunting party’s returned. And I’m afraid I must go down and play the gallant host.”

“Yes
you must. Harry. You won’t speak of this to anyone?”

“No,
my dear. But tonight? Again?”

“Yes,”
William said with a faint sigh. “Tonight. Again. For I cannot resist you, my dearest love.”

1
2.

It had set in to snow. The guests were confined to the house and desperate for amusement. Nothing would do but that they should put on a play. It would have to be one of William’s. He had brought his own fair copies of
The Taming of the Shrew
and
Two Gentlemen of Verona
. The man who had complained
The Shrew
was too countrified must have done a little reading and discovered the play’s sources, for now he was all for it.
The Shrew
let it be. So down they all went to what Harry called the playhouse room. He declared it perfect and ran about looking for properties and costumes and clamouring for their parts to be written out for them to learn.

“O
God, your only jig-maker,” William muttered when at eleven o’clock at night he was not in bed with Harry but sitting up copying out his play.

“What?”
Harry said absently beside him, doing his best to help.

“Nothing.”
But William noted down what he’d said. It sounded rather well. “How far have we got?” He looked at the sheets written out in Harry’s sloping, large, Italianate hand, comparing them with his own smaller, more accustomed writing.

“Last
three scenes, now you’ve cut it so much.”

“Had
to, if they want to do it in two days’ time. These aren’t professional players who can con a long part inside a week and have it ready.”

“How
do you players remember all the words? You always have, what, twenty or thirty plays in your repertoire?”

“Practice.
Keep writing.”

Harry
gave him a kiss and kept writing. He was as engaged as a child with the idea of doing the play, willing to put in all this dull work to make it a success. He was playing Katerina. He was by far too tall to play a girl, but it added to the part. His Katerina would be a gangling, awkward girl, all the more vulnerable by contrast to her pretty little feminine sister. John Florio was playing their father and Essex was parted as Petruchio.

“You
don’t really object to this, do you?” Harry asked when they’d copied the last scenes.

“No.”

“Good. Then come to bed.”

“Oh
no, Harry,” William smiled. “We haven’t finished yet. We have to paste up all the separate bits to make a complete part for each person. So fetch out the glue-pot and paper, my sweet, and get to work.”

“Oh
well, waiting will make it all the sweeter,” said Harry, and fetched out the glue pot.

As performances went, it was a dog’s dinner, but they enjoyed themselves. Even William did, reluctantly.

“And
the thing that stands out,” Harry said, “is what a good actor you are. Of course I have seen you on stage times enough, but I’d never before watched you stop being yourself and become another person. How do you do it?”

“That
I can’t tell you. But you were a touching Katerina. And you kissed Petruchio far too heartily.”

“Acting.”

“Well, come kiss me, Kate.” William pulled the other man down on top of him and all the new pleasures began again.

But, heady with success, the house party wanted to do the
Two Gentlemen
the following week and began to talk of William writing out his other plays for them to do. The players arrived just in time.

Watching
them unload their wagon, William knew that they were his people. The hampers held not just clothes and props but his world. This Titchfield interlude had been a delight, but he did not belong in that world. Startled at the relief he felt, he ran down the steps to greet his friends.

“James.
Dick. Welcome. What news of London? Will the playhouses be open soon?”

“Not
for a while, it seems. Pembroke’s Men are having a hard time of it on the road. Developments. I’ll talk to you later, in private, about that.” Burbage gave him a wink. “I’d better greet our gracious host.”

“Yes,
come inside where it’s warm. My lords, my ladies, may I present Lord Strange’s Men: James Burbage, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phillips, Will Kemp our clown, John Heminges, Richard Condell, John Sinclo, Ned and Will our boy-players. And Dominus Marlowe you know.” While everyone bowed William hooked his arm in Marlowe’s and took him aside. “Christopher, what are you doing here? With my company?”

“Don’t
worry, William, they feel for some strange reason that they will persist with you as their play-maker. Lord Harry invited me and I also find it convenient to be out of London at present and to make holiday, gratis. You look well, my friend. Hampshire must agree with you. Or Southampton, at least.”

“Hampshire
is a most pleasant county. Kit, I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m
not here on… business, so calm down.” Of course that had been in William’s mind. Lady Southampton was as fervent a Catholic as her late husband had been. Harry’s views on the burning question were unknown.

“No,
John Florio takes care of spying on the Southamptons.”

“How
did you know?” Kit asked, startled out of his irritating sang-froid.

“He
told me. Back when I wrote that sonnet introducing his Second Fruits. He invited me to join his little game, just as you did. I declined.”

“Ah,
yes. So honourable, our William. Yes, that sonnet, Phaeton, so quaint. No doubt the last piece William Shakspere doesn’t sign. Your sugared sonnets for our lovely friend are becoming famous. I long to read them. Finished
Psyche and Cupid
yet?

“If
you mean
Venus and Adonis
, yes I have. It’s good, Kit.”

Proving
again why he kept William’s friendship, Kit said gently, “If you wrote it, it is more than good. You’ll outstrip me altogether soon.”

“Never.
Though I would like to be known for my poetry more than for running off plays for the public theatre, mending other men’s work.”

“And
so you shall be. We will both be great names. Ah, my lord, I trust I see you well?”

“Thank
you, yes,” said Harry. “What is this, a play-writers’ conferring? Come, I have sent for hot wine before these players go to their quarters.”

As
he led them back to the party Kit flicked an eyebrow at William. Yes, William longed to say, I didn’t miss that: These players. To their quarters. So my two worlds meet and recoil. Harry had meant nothing by it, except inadvertently to compliment William by distinguishing him from his fellows. But they were his fellows, his peers. Harry was not and never could be.

“With
your permission, my lord, I will go with them.” Hurt flashed in Harry’s eyes. “We must discuss the new play,” William softened it, and Harry’s face cleared.

“Of
course. But I will see you later.” He meant to be discreet, but Kit’s face was full of knowledge.

Besides the playhouse room and several small bedrooms up in the attics, the players were given a large, disused room on the ground floor, tellingly near the domestic quarters. But it had a good fire and a table and enough stools and chairs, and the servants brought food and more wine.

“Comfortable,”
James Burbage said, stretching out his feet to the fire. “Well, it’s a good play, Will,
Love’s Labour's Lost
. Very good. It plays well. We ran it through once before we left London, once we had our parts down. You’re playing the schoolmaster, the pedant?”

“Takes
me back.”

“Yes,
you had some fun writing that. Dick, pull my boots off, please; they’re wet. Rotten journey down, Will. Now, some news. Word is that the Lord Chamberlain is looking to form a new playing company.”

“A
new one? I thought the authorities were keen to keep a check on us?”

“Yes
and that’s part of it, no doubt. But old Hunsdon wants to form a particular company, to be called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. It’s to be the best, the crème de la crème. Most of us. Some of the Admiral’s Men, if they’re lucky. You, for our playwright.”

“Ah.
Would that be why Kit Marlowe is hanging around you?”

“Could
be, could be. But he and Henslowe are like that.” Burbage held up two twined fingers. “And it seems to suit them. Kit writes for Ned Alleyn’s style. Will, it did cross my mind that Lord Southampton is Governor of the Isle of Wight, yes? And George Carey’s his deputy, yes? And Carey is Lord Hunsdon’s kinsman and also Her Majesty’s. Southampton is Lord Burghley’s ward. It makes a neat connection; Southampton, Burghley, Carey, the Lord Chamberlain, the Queen. Kit Marlowe could be looking after himself, trying to wriggle his way into that connection. He’s been playing too many dangerous games lately, has Kit – or perhaps he’s merely trying to be the play-maker for this new playing company. Keep your eye on him. But we don’t want him, good though he is. You suit us, Will. So stay on your toes and you’ll be in this new company. And it will have Her Majesty’s favour.”

“I
see,” William said thoughtfully. “James, I might soon have enough money put by to purchase a share in a company. In this new one, with luck, if not, in our present one. What say you to that?”

Burbage
studied him for a moment. “We can always do with new stakeholders, Will. You know what the money side of it’s like. But it would cost you a hundred pounds for a share.”

“I
can manage that, I think.”

“If
you can, you’re in. You’d go on writing for us?”

“Oh
yes, of course.”

“Good,
for I want to retain our own writer. Three for the price of one, eh? Actor, play-maker and shareholder.”

“If
all goes well. When would the new company start?”

“That’s
anyone’s guess. The plague’s still about in London, of course, but they’re using that as an excuse to keep the theatres shut. The Puritans are up to their usual tricks and the government’s playing coy. I wouldn’t count on seeing the theatres open this year.”

“So
long?”

“Aye.
We’ll be on the road again come Spring.” Suddenly not quite meeting William’s eyes he said, “You’ll be with us still?”

“Of
course.” William knew that quite definitely. He loved Harry, but he couldn’t continue to live here, known at Southampton’s catamite, living off the crumbs from his table. “Of course I’ll be touring. Come Spring.”

Over the next few days William had little time for anything but his play. The Southamptons had invited people from London and from the neighbouring great houses to make it a splendid occasion as well as a diversion from the dumps of winter.

William
was busy. But not too busy to note that Harry was spending a great deal of time with Christopher Marlowe. While William directed rehearsals, practised his own part, re-wrote the play, smoothed ruffled feathers and answered questions, Harry and Kit were snug in Harry’s reading room, talking over the dear old days at Cambridge, reading Greek, discussing literature or, with Essex, slandering Sir Walter Raleigh and Francis Bacon. When the weather cleared they walked out together, or rode. There was talk of a new play from Kit. He begged his lordship’s permission to dedicate
Hero and Leander
to him when it was finished. At night, William several times found Harry’s door locked. People began to whisper behind their hands and shot curious or relieved looks at William. The few times he was alone with Harry, they were busy with love, not questions. William began to contemplate writing a poem, or perhaps a play, about jealousy.

The new play was a success. Cheered to the echo. For a week the players stayed, putting on a play each night, ending again with
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. Then it was March and time for them to go.

“And
for me to go too,” William told Harry.

“Stay.”

“I must go to London to see
Venus and Adonis
into print. And then I go on the road with the players.”

“Why?
You needn’t. I’ll give you all the money you need. You can live here. Plenty of people keep a writer to – ”

“My
love, no.” Lovingly William stroked the golden head nestled on his shoulder.

“Why
not?”

“I
doubt you’ll understand, Harry. I need my own world and my own people.”

“You
mean to go back to your wife?”

“Of
course, when I can. I want to see her and the children. This was only a holiday here.”

“I
thought it more. If you’re afraid of talk, I’ll make you my secretary, put you on my staff with a salary, set up a players’ company of my own. You mustn’t leave me. You can’t leave me!”