Love's Will (8 page)

Part
Three

1589-1593

1
.

Susanna ran shrieking through the front door, sending her little brother flying. Ignoring his wail, she grabbed her mother’s arm. “Mama, there’s a troupe of players come. It’s Daddy! The players have come!” On her last words she turned and ran out as tempestuously as she had entered, knocking Hamnet down again.

“Susanna,
wait,” Anne called, then faute de mieux ran after her. “Wait for me! Susanna, it might not be your father.” Too late. She seized the twins’ hands and pelted after the child.

The
rattle of drums. The blare of trumpets. The clatter of the wagons. The voices, singing and crying their arrival. Come see the play. In the Guildhall. Three o’clock in the afternoon this day. The players are here! Her heart thudding, Anne shaded her eyes to look. The players were bright in some great lord’s livery, but the jackets weren’t scarlet and the badges weren’t the Bear and Ragged Staff of Lord Leicester.

“Susanna,
love, I’m sorry, but it’s not Daddy, it’s not Lord Leicester’s Men. Susanna!”

The
little girl was running desperately, straight for one of the players. A man with a tanned face, curled hair, an earring in one ear. And he was leaping down from the cart, running to catch Susanna in his arms.

“Daddy!
Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”

“Sweetheart,
yes it’s me, Susanna my love.” He swept her up and covered her face with kisses. “Susanna, yes it’s truly me, but where are my twins? Where’s your mother?”

Slowly,
Anne stepped forward from the gathering crowd. Her eyes met her husband’s, and a smile of extraordinary intimacy broke across his face. He said, “Anne, my dear,” and, interested, the players and half of Stratford watched a long and passionate kiss. The players gave them a round of applause.

“Oh,
Will,” Anne whispered, “why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I’ve missed you, my dear.”

“And
I’ve missed you. Anne, I’ve so much to tell you. Are these the twins? Judith, Hamnet, do you remember me? Come and kiss me.” Susanna was still clinging like grim death, her legs around his waist and her arms tight around his neck. Awkwardly he hunkered down and held out his free arm to the twins. Not remembering him well, or not as this gay and buccaneering figure, they were more interested in the white-faced clown in motley, capering around them and playing a flute.

“I
take it this is your family, Will?” said a new voice.

William
stood up. “James, yes. My wife, my daughter Susanna, my twins, Judith and Hamnet. Anne, this is Master Burbage, the leader of our troupe.”

With
a flourish James Burbage bowed to Anne. “Madam, your most humble servant. Will is a lucky man.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. The twins giggled. Anne curtsied back, smiling up at this glamorous man.

“I
am honoured, Master Burbage. May I bid you welcome to Stratford?”

“Indeed
you may, Mistress Shakspere. A fine town it is. Now, I must wait upon your Mayor – Bailiff, is it here? Will, you are exempted from helping with the setting-up, go greet your family. Be back by two at latest or pay your two shillings fine.” He clapped William’s shoulder and turned back to his troupe, urging them on like sheep, bawling did they think they were here to make holiday, get on, they had to be on the boards by three of the clock. Smugly William watched them scamper. One, a pretty boy in his teens, made a vulgar gesture. William bowed delightfully.

“But
he makes a lovely girl,” said William. “Put him in a dress and he’ll break your heart. Well, wife... home?”

But
his mother barred his way. “Well, son? Am I not worth a greeting?”

“Mother,
forgive me, my mind was on the children. Good-day; God save you.” He kissed her, and her face softened.

“It’s
good to have you back. You look well. Is this the fashion in London, for men to wear an earring?”

“It
has been for some time. Yes, Hamnet, what is it?”

“I
said, who’s the man with the white face?”

“William
Kemp, our clown; a fellow of infinite jest. Wait till you see him juggle.”

“What’s
juggle?”

“He
throws things up and catches them. Lots of things, knives and oranges, anything to hand, and keeps them spinning. I can do it too, a little. I’ll show you at home. Oh, look, there are the Sadlers. Judith, Hamnet, bid them good day.”

Many
other neighbours had been lured out by the news of the players and were staying to greet this unfamiliar native son. By the door of the Henley Street house stood a knot of people, staring in disbelief, and William’s sister Joan broke free and ran to hug him.

“Will,
you’re home! We didn’t dare hope, they said Lord Strange’s Men, not Lord Leicester’s, but it’s you, it’s really you.”

“Yes,
it’s me. It’s good to see you, Joan. Father…” Hesitantly they embraced. “Father, you’re well?”

“All
the better for seeing you. Gilbert, run and fetch up the best wine. Let’s celebrate.”

“When
I’ve greeted my brother.” Gilbert grinned and threw a quick arm round William’s neck. “So, William Shakspere the player. Can London spare you?”

“With
embarrassing ease. Wine, yes please, Gil, and Anne, Mother, is there any food? We’ve been on the road since five.”

Gilbert
fetched the wine, Mrs Shakspere went to hurry dinner forward. They finally prised Susanna off her father, though she sat pressed close against him. Cramming down bread and cheese, William tried to answer all their questions.

“Lord
Leicester died last year. You heard, of course?” His father nodded, crossing himself. At the gesture, William’s eyes flicked up to Anne’s, then blandly away. “They say the Queen was sorely grieved. They’d been friends since their youth, some say she wanted to marry him. And, through friends, our troupe passed to Lord Strange. D’you know who I mean? Ferdinando Stanley, the Earl of Derby’s son, and so we wear his livery.” He touched the eagle’s foot badge on his jacket. “And we play under his name. This is excellent cheese, we get none so good in London. Yes please, that was a way of asking for more. That’s the thing about touring, it gets us out of the city into the clean air and the sun, and we get good food.”

“You
look thin,” his mother said.

“Oh,
d’you think so? No, I’m well.”

“But
London is unhealthy. And where do you lodge, son? I don’t like the sound of it at all.”

“The
playhouse is outside the city, Mother, in one of the Liberties. Out past Bishopsgate, in Shoreditch. My lodgings are none so bad, Burbage lives nearby in Holywell Street. Half the company do. The landlady is clean; and yes, she feeds me well.” His mother’s mouth turned down dubiously. Hastily Anne asked what the troupe had played.

“At
the Theatre, oh, everything. I could recite you the bloody
Spanish Tragedy
in my sleep. I probably will.” Under the table he took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly into hers. She returned the squeeze, trying not to blush. They’d sleep together tonight. Sleep, and more besides, with luck. “And, oh, works by Greene and Nashe, and by Kit Marlowe, of course. No-one can get enough of him. Old stuff and new, whatever pays best.”

“Do
you get any pay?” his mother asked, and once again Anne rushed into the breach.

“Madam,
you know he does, I told you how much he sent me with his letters. It seems,” she couldn’t resist adding, “that the theatre is a paying concern.”

William
put his hand on her arm, hushing her. His eyes never leaving his mother’s face, he took his purse from his belt and spilt its contents across the table. In reverent, astonished silence his family looked at the pile of coins. Gold coins. More money, in cash, than most of them had ever seen.

“There’s
eleven pounds and a bit more there,” William said evenly. “Made from playing and writing and patching up other men’s plays. I can, at last, provide properly for my wife and children.” He lifted Anne’s hand and piled the coins one by one into her palm. “It’s yours, love. I’ve enough for the rest of the tour, and there’s a bit more in London.” Neatly he folded her fingers down over the money. “You see, we common players share the groundlings’ gate. That’s the money paid by the people who stand in the space before the stage. Penny a head, and we cram ’em in. Burbage and his partner in the Theatre share the takings from the galleries. It’s tuppence up there and an extra penny for a cushion if your bum can’t stand bare wood. Yes, it pays. Enough for now.”

“So
it seems. And what parts have you played?”

“A
bit of everything. Well, not the leads, I’m too junior yet. Got to work my way up. Spear carrier. Deathless lines like ‘Here comes the King of France.’ Funny how there’s always a king of somewhere. I’ve fought for every nation on the earth, often, mutatis mutantur, for two different sides in the same piece. I’ve murdered and lied, poured wine, carried letters, been a Jew, a Spaniard, once a king myself – oh, and the loveliest girl.”

“I
noticed the beard had gone,” Anne said drily.

“It’ll
be back again. I’m too old to play girls now. That’s what the boys are for. With a wimple I can play a nurse. Or a mother. Or a queen.”

“Surely
it would be simpler just to allow women to play?”

“Anne!”
said her father-in-law, truly shocked. “It’s against the law, and for another thing, not even the lewdest woman would think of treading the stage.”

“No,
sir. I’m sorry.”

“Quite
right,” William said straight-faced. “Think of the havoc women would cause in a company. And we’re such a sober, God-fearing lot, we actors. We have women seamstresses to make our costumes, but that’s a different kettle of fish. Speaking of fish…”

“Yes,
dinner is ready. Come to table. William, you’ll say the blessing?”

Listening
to him, Anne thought how he’d changed in voice as well as in appearance. Some of the Warwickshire burr had gone, he turned some words in what she guessed was the London way, but most of all he spoke more clearly, deliberately and with a deeper tone. If this was what he could do with a simple meal-blessing, he was probably a good actor. Which was a relief. He had a mannered, fluid way of moving, and his gestures were controlled. It was all art, now, whatever the matter. He was brisk and confident and polished, much different from the provincial boy she’d sent away two years ago. You’d take him for a courtier today.

Out
of that thought she said, “Will, have you seen the Queen?”

“Once,
in the distance. It’s the Queen’s Men who get the commands to play the Palace. I saw her once, on the river, in her barge.”

“Tell
us.”

“Well,
gorgeously dressed, of course, ablaze with diamonds and rubies. A silver gown with lace and gauze, a high-standing ruff behind her head like a frame. It was after Armada time and she had Drake and Howard, Essex and Raleigh, all of them, with her in her boat. Laughing, and music was playing. She’s an old woman now, close to sixty. She wears a lot of face-paint, very white with rouge on her cheeks and lips, and her gowns are low-cut and show her bosom.” His mother tsked with shock. “She is a law unto herself, Mother. Gorgeous, and every inch a prince.”

“Yet
she put her cousin Mary of Scotland to death two years ago.” Again John Shakspere made the sign of the Cross. William studied him for a moment, then turned away and cut another slice of pie.

“Yes,
she did. It was put about that her secretary tricked her into signing the execution warrant. I don’t know the truth, of course. But they say Mary was involved in plots, neck-deep in treason against our Queen and the peace of our realm.”

“Faked
evidence, an excuse to do her to death.”

“Perhaps,
Father. Or perhaps it’s the truth. But her death has made her a martyr and the centre for Catholic sedition.” For a long moment his eyes held his father’s, whether in query or warning Anne wasn’t sure. Then he said, lightly, “But I didn’t finish telling you of my glories in the theatre. All London rings with my fame as a prompter, giving the actors their cues. Not to mention my way with managing the props and counting the cash. And, Father, when the costume gloves need mending or Master Burbage is going out in style, no one else will do.”

“And
do you write, Will? Do they act your work?”

“Sometimes.
Audiences like works by names they know, and bums on seats is what matters in the theatre. In the Theatre. Perceive the difference the capital makes, Anne, for Burbage calls his theatre
the Theatre
.”

“I
perceive that the capital has made a vast difference, Will. But I hope your work is acted soon. Do you still write?” Thinking of all those nights when, however tired he was, he would find an hour or two to write; how often had she fallen asleep to the scratch of his pen, and woken to hear it still and see the candles guttered.