Love's Will (26 page)

“To
learn to read so I can be a player,” he said promptly.

“I
didn’t know. Well, we can have you taught to read, nothing simpler.”

“Isn’t
it ’ard, though, to learn? Y’see, Mrs S, I thought, like, if I could read and the players took me on, I’d ’ave a trade, like, and I’d ’ave summat to offer a girl.”

Amused,
Anne glanced at him, and made two discoveries. He was blushing, and his eyes were fixed on Susanna.

On
Susanna. On my daughter, who will not marry a common Cockney street boy. Who is a child!

But
no, Susanna was not a child. Thirteen, and her menses had begun just before her birthday. A woman, as the world counted it, and marriageable. And lovely. She too had grown this summer, and Anne had had to let out her bodices for the new fullness of her bosom. Her russet hair framed a delicate, heart-shaped face full of lively charm. Mothers are partial, but yes, Susanna was a lovely girl. And too good for Nol. Poor Nol.

“How
old are you?” Anne asked him.

“Dunno.
I fink I might be seventeen.”

“No
family?”

“Nah.
Well, I must of ’ad, but I never knew ’em. You don’t miss what you ain’t never ’ad, they say, but sometimes I think I’d like to ’ave people what belonged to me, like.”

“Yes,
there is nothing like it. Well, why not think of learning to read and see if a playing company will take you on. You must know a good deal about the stage by now. And when you’re older, with a trade, as you say, you’ll find a girl and have family of your own. But I don’t think very young marriages are always a good idea.”

“Nah,
p’r’aps not.” He shivered suddenly, sneezing. “I don’t mind washing sometimes, Mrs S, but that old lady ’ad me in me drawers under that pump. ’Tain’t natural, all this scrubbing. I reckon I’ve been and gone and caught a cold.”

“You’ll
survive,” Anne said heartlessly. “The Queen takes a bath every month, they say, and she’s still hale.”

“P’r’aps.”
Nol giggled. “Master Will ’ad a bath last night. Cor, ’e was like a girl at it, Mrs S, scrubbin’ away and puttin’ sweet ’erbs in the water an’ cuttin’ ’is toenails.”

“Indeed,”
said Anne. “And Mother had him under the pump too.”

“She’s
fussy, ain’t she? But it’s fine to be in a grand ’ome like yours, Mrs S, with everything clean, like. Like yours was in London. I missed you when you went away. You reckon girls’d like me if I washed a bit more? Master Will said last night, when ’e was washing ’imself, women like that sort of fing. And I could learn to speak more gentlemanly, I fink.”

“Aye,
we do like those things.” Anne felt suddenly light-hearted. “Learn to be a player, Nol, and have a bath from time to time, and anything is possible.”

“And
what are you two talking about so intently?”

Anne
looked up at William. The children had scampered on ahead, while he stopped and waited for her and Nol. “Bathing, and what women like.”

“They
say Cleopatra bathed in asses’ milk. Nol, the children are going down to the river, why don’t you join them?”

“Why
not?” said Nol, and with a wink at Anne raced after the others. Anne noticed that Susanna waited for him.

“Bathing,
eh?” said William.

“Yes.
I hear you had a bath last night.”

“I
did, madam. I washed off the dust of the roads and the dirt of London to come home.”

“And
have you come home, Will?”

“If
indeed I have a home.”

Walking
slowly on, Anne said, “You may well have a house, if you agree my plan. You have children, who love you. That is a home, always.”

“And
a wife?”

“Have
I a husband?”

“You
have a fool for a husband.”

“A
fool, who enjoys fooling?”

“No,
a fool who fooled against his will. Your will. Your Will.”

They
had stopped, standing together under a tree, sheltered from sight. Distantly their children’s shouts came to them. Slowly, as if he thought to be rebuffed, William put his hand on Anne’s cheek.

“I
have come home to my wife. To you. Because I did not know how deeply I had hurt you until I knew about Harry and that woman.”

“How
very like a man,” Anne remarked. “You break my heart, and you don’t even know you’ve hurt me.”

“And
how very like a woman of think of precisely that revenge. For it was your idea, was it not?” Anne said nothing. Which was an answer of sorts. “Clever of you. A neat revenge. But you always were a clever woman. You know me too well.”

“And
what of your Scotchwoman?”

“She’s
with Harry, so far as I know. Or Essex. She casts her net wide.”

“You
would have her again if she returned?”

“No.”

“Be sure, for I will not share you.”

“Then
you shall not.” When she still stared up at him, unresponsive, he cried, “I can spin words out of air but not make my wife believe I love her.”

“Don’t
love your wife,” Anne cried back. “Love me! Love Anne. Love the woman who fell in love with you fourteen years ago and who loves you still. Love me.”

“I
do. Anne, I do. All that passionate love, infatuation, pining... that’s for boys and girls, not for us. We are married, and we love each other in the only way that matters. Forever, forgivingly. Anne, I wrote you a poem. Do you want to hear it?”

“Yes,”
she said warily, and, holding her hands in his he began to recite.

When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,

Featur’d like him, like him of friends possess’d,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet, in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

Anne
had an excellent memory. That poem had not been among the ones she had found locked away. “So, after fourteen years, I get a second poem.”

“A
poem of love, my dear. A poem of need and belonging and knowing. Love me, Anne, love your fool husband who loves you. Forgive me if you can, and love me.” He held out his arms. Slowly, sighing, needful, Anne went to his embrace. She rested her head against his shoulder, felt his lips caressing her hair, her brow, her cheek. “Don’t cry, love,” he said softly. “Don’t cry.”

“I
didn’t know I was.”

“Yes.
Tears, idle tears.” He kissed her then, claiming her mouth so sweetly that she put her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Forgive me, darling, and let us start again.”

“But
when something is broken...”

“It
can be mended, and the mend makes it stronger.”

“But
the mended place still shows and takes the wear until the unmended part tears, or breaks.”

“But
if the mend is done well, no one else need know the thing was broken, and you are all the more careful in handling the mended thing.” His voice hardened. “Or shall I go away again, Anne, after this short visit? Shall we live apart, pretending, for appearances sake, for the children’s sake, that it’s merely that you prefer the country while I must be in London? Shall we never meet again as husband and wife?”

“I
do prefer the country. But never meet again? No, Will. We’ll swallow pride and hurt and carry on.”

“With
love. Yes, with love. And, wife, I told you I stopped at home before coming here, and I talked with Joan. She told me –”

“Of
her hatter?”

“Her
what?”

“She’s
in love with some wandering hatter.”

“Mad!
What’s his name?”

“Willie
Hart. And she’s breaking her heart.”

William
shook his head, flummoxed. “Who and if she marries is up to my father, though I expect I’ll have to put up a dowry for her. But Anne, forget that. I have something for you. A proof I’m in earnest.” From inside his doublet he produced a paper, folded lengthwise. He gave it to Anne. “See?”

But
of course she didn’t see. This had the look of some important thing, a legal paper perhaps. She saw William’s signature at the bottom and a stamped seal, but she was used only to William’s writing and to print. These small and tightly written words were beyond her. She thought she made out ‘contract’ and … “New Place?”

“Yes.”
William was watching her very intently. “Joan told me how much you wanted it, so I have bought it for you. I hope, for us. That is the contract to purchase and I have put twenty pounds down to seal the bargain. How much have we in the bed-head, Anne?”

“Over
a hundred pounds, I think. Will, New Place!”

“It’s
in bad condition so I shall insist on some repairs before we pay the balance of the price and we may not get clear title to the place for some time, but it’s ours. We could be living in New Place on our wedding anniversary. How like you that?”

“You
need to ask?”

“And
is it proof enough that I need your forgiveness and will amend my ways and be a faithful husband?”

For
a moment Anne still hung back. “Dare you promise that? Can you promise that? What of Harry?”

“A
part of me will always be his. In memory. Nothing else. I dare and do promise you. And that’s the proof in your hand. A house of our own at last. A different life. I must still be often in London, but from now I’m excused from the summer touring. I shall use that time to write, here, at home. You shall join me in London if and when you wish, but I think a new life in a New Place?”

“Yes,”
said Anne, and once again the words were spoken between them. “Come, clap hands and a bargain.”

Hands
clasped, they began to move toward each other for a kiss, but: “Here are the children.”

“You
look hot, Mama,” said Susanna.

“Do
I? Well, it’s amazing how hot one can grow here in the Forest. And you, Hamnet, look cold. Been in the river, I see.”

“Yes.
Fell in.”

“We
were paddling,” Judith said anxiously, “that’s all. And Nol and Hamnet went in too deep.”

“So
I see. Well, never mind. But walk briskly home, get in the sun and warm yourself. You too, Nol.” For he was shivering quite violently in his wet clothes, and sneezing.

“It’s
all that washing,” he grumbled. “’Tain’t natural. I told you that.”

“That boy Nol is ill,” Mrs Hathaway said that night after supper. “I think he’s taken a chill. God forbid it’s the sweating sickness. I’ve put him to bed with a mug of hot ale and my goose-grease liniment on his chest.”

William
looked up from reading to the twins. “I wanted him to ride on to Coventry, to tell the players I’ll not be joining them.”

“Give
him a night’s rest. I’ll see to him before I go to bed.” She settled down with her knitting. “Now read on, Will, I love to hear you read.”

But
when she looked in on Nol, Mrs Hathaway came back looking like her own ghost. “It is the sweating sickness. He’ll be dead by morning.”

He
was, but by the time he died the twins had it too.

3
.

The sweating sickness. The sweat. Unknown in England until Henry Tudor’s ragbag army of French mercenaries and freed prisoners came to wrest the crown from King Richard. No one knew what caused it. There was no cure. If you lived a day with it, probably you would survive. Most people did not. Usually, children did not.

Hamnet
had it badly, worse than Judith. The fever burned the flesh from his body, and nothing could slake his thirst or ease the pain in his chest. Once Anne thought the fever was breaking when Hamnet’s skull-face broke into a weakly smile and he knew her and called her “Mama” and drank some watered wine. But it was only a moment’s respite, cruel for the fleeting hope it brought, and soon his sweat was soaking her gown again as she cradled him against her breast. He was so hot, so very hot, and screaming out with pain. Bartholomew’s wife Isobel tended to Judith, for she, like Anne, had survived the sweat as a child. They told each other as they worked over the children, “Two of us had it and lived. A good omen, and the twins had survived a day…”

The
light thickened towards the close of the second day. Sponging Hamnet over with cold water, for a moment Anne almost slept from sheer exhaustion and looked down terrified at Hamnet as some noise aroused her.

Arms
closed around her and her son.

“Will.”

“Aye. God help us, Anne. Is this my punishment?”

He
moved away. Desolate, her tears dripping onto her son’s ghastly face, Anne wondered why she had thought he could help.

“My
son is dying. I do not need talk of punishment.”

She
thought she had said the words aloud, throwing them at him like weapons, and realised she had spoken only inside her mind. Judith had been asleep after all, for like Anne she jerked awake and looked in terror at Hamnet, then saw her father. She neither spoke nor reached for him, but gravely she smiled then turned back to her twin.

Anne
heard William open and close the door. Heard him murmur to someone. Heard his boots hitting the floor, then the rustle of garments. His hand touched her brow, stroking the dirty, damp hair back from her face. “I can no longer leave this to you alone. You will go with Mother Hathaway to wash and eat a meal then lie down upon your bed. I will care for the twins. Isobel will tell me what to do. Go, my dear. It’s all I can do for you. All I can do to help.” Very gently he lifted their son away from her.

She
stood up, so unsteady she had to lean against him. For the first time she looked at him. He was tired, of course he was. He looked older. Exhaustion in his eyes, and fear. Pain in every lineament, pain and grief and hopeless love. A mark on his neck that could have been a love-bite from small, greedy teeth, but was only dirt. A new, pale line at the top of his brow. Her poor, vain, darling William was going bald at the front. He was thirty-two. Not one-and-twenty when their son was born. The son who would not live to see his twelfth birthday.

“Oh,
Will,” said Anne, and in his arms Hamnet stirred, tried to wet his lips, looked up at his father and knew him. “Give him the wine-and-water in that cup. I’ll bring some more.”

“The
maid can bring it.” William eased down on the tumbled bed so Hamnet lay against his shoulder. “You must rest and eat, Anne. Go, do as I bid.”

He
must have told her stepmother of his orders because a bowl of hot water awaited Anne in her bedchamber. With the heavy, slow movements of a swimmer about to drown, she stripped naked and washed herself all over. She broke a comb trying to drag it through her damp and tangled hair, so ran handfuls of water through it and brushed it out properly. In a clean smock and gown she went downstairs and surprised herself by being able to eat some bread and baked chicken. Bartholomew was there, similarly cramming down the cold food. She had thought he too had gone away with their brothers.

“No,”
he said, “I’ve had the sweating too, Mother told me. And you need your family with you. I’ve been doing what I can for Will.” His big hand fumbled out across the table and took Anne’s. “It’s worst for the mothers, perhaps, but dammit, it’s hard for us fathers too. Will’s breaking his heart. His only son.”

Anne let him give her two cups of wine, drinking them with her head on her hand. This is needful, she told herself, I need the food, the wine, this little respite. Will is here, he is with our son. I will need my strength. Her stepmother came in and silently pushed the platter of meat and bread towards her again. She shook her head and Mrs Hathaway sat down in the chair beside the empty hearth. Bartholomew took her hand.

After
a moment Anne stepped out into the garden, gratefully breathing the clean night air. What time was it? She hadn’t seen a clock since morning. Then suddenly she turned, hitched up her skirts and ran back inside and up the stairs to the twins’ room.

William
nodded as if she came in answer to his call. She scrambled across the bed and slid her arms around her son. “Send for Susanna and your family. The Sadlers too.”

William
left the room in silence. He was soon back, and from downstairs Anne heard Bartholomew leading the horse from the stables.

Hamnet’s
breathing had changed, it was slow and sterterous. A fingernail of white showed under his eyelids. Oh my son, my little boy, my heart’s delight, my child. She kissed him, rocking him as she had done the first time he lay against her breast. Hamnet my dear, my boy, my love. William was holding Judith. The girl was alive and better, but still unconscious. How long passed? An hour? Two?

They
heard the noise of arrivals, and then the family were all in the room. Susanna leaned against her father, her hand on Hamnet’s. John Shakspere knelt at the foot of the bed, his rosary openly in his hand, his lips moving in prayer. If the Queen’s men burst in now, thought Anne, would an old man’s grief for his only grandson excuse this treason? There is but one God, and He is taking my only son from me. The Blessed Virgin to whom my father-in-law prays lost her only Son. Will no one take away this cup? Hamnet, my son, my dear, my clever boy, my loving boy. Sir Hamnet Shakspere. Lord Shakspere. The Earl of Stratford. Lord Chancellor. My little boy who talks with his mouth full and scuffs his shoes and watches his father’s plays with such delight, who tried to write a poem for my birthday and wept because it wouldn’t come out right, who wanted to go to university, who kisses me at bedtime. Never again. Never. Never. Never.

The
Sadlers came into the room, Hamnet’s godparents who had given their names to the twins. Judith Sadler was weeping softly, her husband clearing his throat and dashing at his eyes. Joan knelt by her father, Gilbert’s arm around her. Richard and Edmund stood against the wall, tears falling unheeded down their faces. Mrs Hathaway held Mary Shakspere, their eyes never leaving the dying child.

The
dead child. Suddenly, between one breath and another, Hamnet Shakspere had ceased to be. Anne felt it. She saw and felt him die and felt his soul depart. My son is dead. Dead. Never again. My son is dead.

–
Anne, my dear, come away now.

–
So young, not twelve, so young.

–
Susanna, love, I’m sorry, but it is over.

–
Lay him down, my dear.

–
He is with God.

–
My son, my darling dear.

–
William, take her away.

–
Someone take Will away.

Anne
heard a clear, calm voice – her own – saying, “Someone see to Judith. Lift her up, give her to me.” But she herself was being lifted, carried in warm and loving arms, and her husband’s tears were falling onto her face. “Judith,” she repeated and saw Bartholomew carrying the little girl from the room. So it’s both of them, she thought. Both gone.

But
her brother said, “I’ll take her to the next room. I think she is better. Go, Anne.”

Then
there was a soft bed and wine with a gritty, herbal taste, and the pain of my son is dead became a muted, distant knowledge. Susanna snuggled in her arms, and William beside them, crying silently into the drenched pillow, and my daughters are still alive, my darling girls, and an old man weeping, and more wine, then peace and oblivion.

They went alone to Hamnet’s room. Their mothers had done what was needful. Their son lay silent, pale, on linen sheets, candles burning, white flowers clasped in his hands. Anne bent and kissed his cold brow.

“Hell
is empty,” William said, “and all the devils are here.” He knelt beside the bed, his fingers lightly touching Hamnet’s lips. “My son is dead.”

“I’ve
no comfort for you,” Anne said. “I cannot give you another son. I cannot share my grief, not even with you.”

“I
know it. I’ve no comfort for you. Not yet. Except that I shall tell Judith, when she’s well enough to know.”

“Thank
you. I could not bear to do it.” She turned away, no more able to bear the sight of William’s face than of her son’s. She was crying, and it was the first time, and she knew she must not let herself or her howls would bring the heavens down. “Bartholomew brought the flowers.”

“I
know. A little thing, a kind and loving thing. Anne,” he said in simple curiosity, “how do we bear it?”

“I
have no idea. We just go on.” Then she said, “Will, had things happened differently, had I stayed in London or you come home with us, Hamnet might still have died. Nol brought the sickness with him, but Hamnet could have taken it in London, had I stayed. Or caught it here. Stratford is no magic place where illness doesn’t strike. You were born in a plague year when half the townsfolk died.”

He
was silent for a long time before he said, “So you have comfort for me after all. I thought if I hadn’t stayed, if I hadn’t done what I did so that you had to leave... And I brought Nol and brought with him the disease that killed my son. My punishment.”

“God
takes the children of virtuous parents too. So many children die. It is not punishment. Or if it is, we share it. My son is to be buried tomorrow.” She kissed Hamnet’s lips and went away to tend her daughter.

Two funerals. One for Nol, who must lie nameless, for no one knew his surname, under a cross saying only “Oliver”. Bearable, that one, almost. One for Hamnet Shakspere, aged eleven. Buried in Holy Trinity’s graveyard, Stratford-upon-Avon, on the eighth day of August 1596. A little grave.