Love's Will (9 page)

“Oh
yes. And in the intervals I press my work on Burbage and Henslowe. If Marlowe can do it, so can I. But he, of course, is a Master of Arts from Cambridge and, therefore, taken seriously.”

“A
man of birth?” Anne had thought it was the ordinary sort who wrote for the stage.

“No,
his father’s a shoemaker, I think; he had a scholarship to university. Between us, if we can’t furnish out the stage with plays, we could furnish out the players with shoes and gloves.” Broodingly he said, “He’s good, is Kit. His
Tamburlaine
is the most popular play in London. But yes, Anne, I go on writing when I can. And I know what plays, you see, I know what people like and what works on stage. Not everyone has that in their quiver. My stuff would do for the ordinary people, but the intellectuals want their plays written by one of the university wits to flatter themselves.”

“You’ll
succeed yet, my dear.”

“I
daresay.” Again that almost shifty look passed across his face. “Are you all coming to the play this afternoon? Oh, God’s wounds, what’s the time?”

“Not
two yet.”

“Oh,
good.” He settled back into his chair but shook his head when Gilbert made to fill his cup again. “So, are you coming to the play?”

“Can
the children come?”

“If
they’re quiet. Which you will be, won’t you, my loves? Good and quiet in the Guildhall to see your father act? Though you can cry bravo all you like, and clap, and boo the villain.”

“See
Daddy juggle?” Hamnet asked.

“Not
in the play, darling. Will Kemp attends to the funny business.”

“Juggle
now, then. You said.”

“You
did, Will,” Anne reminded him.

“I’m
not very good at it. I can only manage three.” Instantly the children pressed apples upon him. And he juggled. More than adequately, it seemed to Anne as she choked with laughter and applauded. He ended by bouncing an apple into each child’s lap. “There, that’s all for now. I must go soon to help set up for the play. Who’s coming?”

“Me
for one,” said Gilbert.

“And
I,” said Joan. “A shame Richard and Edmund are in school; perhaps they can play truant and come to the play tomorrow.”

“We-ell…”
His parents consulted with a glance, then to Anne’s surprise said yes, they would come. They’d always gone to the travelling companies’ performances in the past, especially when John Shakspere was Bailiff, but the theatre had taken on the evil glimmer of Sodom and Gomorrah, luring their eldest son away. It was hard for them to hold up their heads when everyone knew their boy was a common hired player. They blamed themselves. But now, Anne noted, they were oddly, shyly proud of William. London fame meant little in Stratford, but hard cash was different. So yes, they said, they would go to the play.

“Then
I’ll see you all there.” William kissed the children. “Ugh, wash your hands and faces first.” Kissing Anne, he whispered in her ear, “I have a thing for you.”

She
glanced up through her lashes. “I certainly hope so.”

“No,
you shameless woman, not that. Well, that too. A thing at the theatre. You’ll see.”

They were in good time, it lacked half an hour to three when the Shaksperes filed into the Guildhall. Clutching the twins’ hands Anne asked her mother-in-law to take a playbill; whether or not it listed William’s name among the players, it would be something to put away and keep, a memory.

“Anne?”
An uncertain reader, Mrs Shakspere turned a bewildered face on her. “Anne, can this be right?”

“Can
what be right?”

“Well,
look. Judith, give me your hand, let your mother see.” She thrust the paper at Anne. Anne read it, and her jaw dropped.

“Lord
Strange’s Men present… under James Burbage…
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
. Look, O, look – A play by William Shakspere. Why didn’t he say? A surprise, he said.”

Gently
her mother-in-law said, “My dear, he meant it as a compliment to you. After all, you believed in him all those years.”

“You
didn’t want me to encourage him.”

“No
I did not, for it’s not what we ever wanted for one of our children, but here he is with money in his purse and the good will of his fellows; and he is happy. It’s given to few enough of us to be happy.” She took the play-bill back from Anne and read it through again. “And after all, they could hardly come to Stratford with a play by John Shakspere’s son and not perform it. And,” she said confidently, “I am sure it is very good. Come along, children.”

There
was a painted backcloth and they had rigged some curtains at the sides to hide the actors’ comings and goings. Wings, William had told her they were called. It was a shabby little makeshift arrangement, yet it held a magic. The audience hummed with anticipation. Sharp as the market clock struck three, a fanfare sounded and James Burbage strode onto the stage. Everyone clapped. He bowed his thanks then spread his hands.

“Gentles
all,” he flattered, “today we are honoured to play this gracious town of Stratford.” (More applause.) “And it is meet that here we present a play by one of your own. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, Lord Strange’s Men present a new work:
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
, by your own William Shakspere.”

“My
daddy!” Hamnet yelled then ducked into Anne’s lap when everyone turned to look.

“Indeed.”
Burbage bowed to William’s family, and again especially to Anne. “And now let us take you to Verona.”

As
writers say, as the most forward bud is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit is turn’d to folly, blasting in the bud. Anne glanced at her mother-in-law’s rapt face, saw the same enchantment on all the other faces. They weren’t in Stratford any more, they were in Verona, and glovers had become lovers, hatters had become wits, solid matrons pretty girls.

Then
Anne forgot who and where she was and let the play transport her.

“Was it good?”

“Wonderful.”

“I meant the play.”

“So
did I.”

“Ha!”
William turned over, pulling Anne into his arms. He kissed her breast. “So you no longer call my loving wonderful? Yet I made you moan. Was I good?”

“In
bed and on the stage, you were wonderful. But different, Will. It seems you’ve learned more in London than how to shape a play.”

“Ah.”
She felt his lashes flutter in a guilty blink. “It’s been two years, Anne, and I am a man.”

“That
excuses anything?”

“No.
But explains it. I haven’t taken a mistress, Anne, there’s no one who holds my heart. You’re my wife. When I can bear it no longer alone, yes, I lie with others.”

“And
bring what they teach you home to me.”

Angrily
he said, “I wanted to give you pleasure. There’s more to this business than four bare legs in a bed, much more than I ever knew here in Stratford. You always pleased me, Anne, but I’ve learnt more. I wanted to give you pleasure,” he repeated.

“Well,
you did. Yes. And you’re a man. Yes. Just don’t tell me anything of who else you take to bed.”

“I
wouldn’t.”

But
after a moment’s stolid silence she said, “Are there many other women?”

“No.
Leave it at that, Anne. You’re my wife and dear to me.”

Wisely
she did leave it at that. They lay, still embraced, saying nothing. She thought he was nearly asleep when he said, “Anne, is my father still deep in the old religion?”

“He
doesn’t speak of it to me for he knows I don’t approve. But yes. Is it dangerous, Will? He’s been fined for not attending church, but is it worse than that?”

“Yes,”
he said soberly. “It’s very dangerous. God knows there are plenty of recusants all over the country, but most of them have the sense to show outward conformity. The Queen prefers tolerance, but her patience has its limits and there are men in her government who aren’t minded to be tolerant or patient. I hear a lot in London, Anne. Some of it is gossip and silly rumour, some’s spite; but the Catholics are active and running into danger. It’s worse since Mary of Scotland died. God’s nails, between the Puritans and the Catholics a man doesn’t know what innocent remark might run him into trouble. The Puritans spend their entire time trying to close the playhouses, afraid people might enjoy themselves. But dabbling in the old religion is as dangerous as witchcraft, Anne. Many people see no difference between the two.”

Curiously,
because they’d never much discussed these matters, Anne asked, “And what are your beliefs, Will, deep in your secret heart?”

“I
wish people could be left alone to worship as they like. What does it matter, when you come down to it?”

“The
Queen is head of the English church, so it matters. It’s close to treason not to follow the Anglican way.”

“But
in the end, if one’s a Christian, what does the form matter? It’s all a way for the government to hold people in control.”

“I
hope you don’t go around London saying that.”

“Oh
no. I go to church on Sunday, I take my communion three times a year; we theatre people come under enough suspicion as it is. Conformity is all. Queen Elizabeth is God’s Anointed and Head of the Church. Once we die, the rest is silence. But I must warn my father not to meddle openly with Catholicism. Thanks be, we’ll never have the Inquisition in England and Bloody Mary’s days won’t come back, but between the government men looking for sedition and the Puritans and the other fanatics, even a Stratford glover must be careful.”

“Tell
him so.”

“Aye,
I will. And Anne, make sure no-one can reproach you with lack of conformity. Obey the law. Go to church, praise God and the Queen, see the children learn their Catechism, speak openly against the old religion. Do the children know their Catechism?”

“Of
course, do you take me for a fool? Church twice on Sunday, all the proper teachings. Hamnet starts next year at the petty school, remember.”

“Oh
God do I remember. ABCs and horn books, letters in the cross-row, why don’t you know your lesson, William, over the bench with you, here’s a way to make you learn. And then on to the upper school and rhetoric and bloody logic and bloody Latin and here’s a thrashing for you, boy, and conjugate the verb, and why are we muffing our construe, Master William, over the bench for a reminder of the ablative bloody absolute, and spare the rod and spoil the child, let’s hear the Catechism… You’re lucky you didn’t go to school.”

“So
it seems. Bartholomew was very gentle in teaching me to read. Did you thrash the boys you taught?”

“Only
if they gave me cheek. And then I chastised their cheeks. I’d better write some more plays, for if I ever have to go back to being an usher in a school I’ll hang myself. I still need a patron, Anne, some nobleman who’ll let me use his name and who’ll accept my poems. And, it’s to be hoped, pay me well.”

“Would
Lord Strange do it? Have you met him again?”

Yawning,
William said, “Yes, briefly. Yes, he might. But he’s in bad odour with the government at present.” He yawned again, and slid his arms out from around Anne to turn over.

Snuggling
against his back, wrapping her feet around his, she said, “Why is he?”

“Suspected
of Catholic sympathies. And he’s got a claim to the throne, which under a Tudor monarch means you’re for the block.”

Nearly
asleep Anne said, “What claim? How?”

“His
mother was a Clifford. Descended from Henry the Seventh, I think. Perhaps even worse, from the Plantagenets. Can’t remember. A distant claim, but enough in the Queen’s eyes. He’s suspect. The Tudors like to get rid of anyone with the shadow of a claim; wonder he’s left alive. And the Stanleys are famous for turning their coats. The Queen won’t believe he’s loyal just because he says so. Though I think he is. He’s not stupid. A pleasant man. Might ask him, be my patron, poems. G’night, my love.”

“Goodnight,
my dear.” As she slid over the edge into sleep she thought, that’s only about the second time he’s ever called me ‘my love’.

2.

The
children had misunderstood; they had thought their father back for good. Susanna’s eyes, William’s eyes, were huge in her stricken face as she cried, “But I don’t want you to go away! I love you, Daddy.”

William
squatted down and put his hands on her shoulders. “Sweetheart, I love you too, of course I do. But I must go. I never meant to stay; I cannot. Child, I explained this when first I went to London. This is how I earn my living. I have to go on touring, then back to London. And now, I can come home more often, and perhaps your mother will bring you to London.”

“I
want you to stay. Now. Don’t go.”

Straightening
up he said, “I must, Susanna. Be brave, be good. Needs must. And I must go today, with the players.”

“I
hate them. Stay. Please!”

“I
cannot.”

“But
I want you to.”

“Then
want must be your master, Susanna.”

He
had never spoken to her so harshly. Mama and Grandam were the ones for firmness and discipline, her father the one for indulgence. She had always been his pet, and thought she could do as she liked with him.

“I
hate you,” she said, and stamped her foot. William looked coolly down at her.

“Never
say that, Susanna. I love you very much. But I must go. And I don’t want to take away the memory of a spoiled and insolent child. Come now, love, you’re seven, you can read, you’re a clever girl. Be a good one too, and sensible. I have to go and there’s an end to it.”

No
colour in her face she stared for a moment then spun around and raced off up the stairs. William sighed and looked at Anne. “I thought she understood.”

“She
didn’t want to. She loves you so dearly, Will. They all do.”

“And
I love them, but love won’t pay the bills.”

“I
know.”

He
put his hand on her shoulder. She turned away.

“What,
Anne?”

“What
do you think!” she cried, shaking off his hand. “Susanna said it for all of us. You have to go, yes, but let us come too!”

“But...”

“Oh, but me no buts, William. Don’t you know, can’t you imagine, how boring my life is here? How much I miss you? How sick I am of lodging in your parents’ house? How much I want a change and some fun? And do you know, do you care, that your only son never quite believes you exist because he couldn’t remember you? And now you are a god to him, he adores you, and you are going to go away and leave me to explain to him why you’re no longer here. Hamnet is four and a half years old, William, and you are about to break his heart.”

Again
his hand fell on her shoulder, hard this time, gripping, turning her about to face him. “Lovely speech. Thank you. I love my children.”

“I
know, but – ”

“You
said it: but me no buts. Have you thought, Anne, of what it would be like to live in London?”

“Of
nothing else. You fool.”

“How
dirty it is, how unwholesome the air, how bad for children, how expensive, how you’d know no one there?”

“Yet
it’s full of families. Other players’ wives and children live there.”

“I’m
on the road half the year.”

“Half
a loaf’s better than no bread.”

“God
save me from platitudes!”

“We
could come home when you went on tour. We could manage. Will, please. Or by God you will go and tell your son goodbye for another two years, you will explain it to him as you did, so charmingly, to poor Susanna. You will be the one who hurts them and I, for once, will be the one who blames you.”

His
mouth twisted as he thought it over. “You strike a hard bargain.”

“Perhaps
it is about time I did.”

“You
really want this?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. When the summer’s over. I’ll see about a lodging.”

“You
mean it?”

“Yes,
my dear, I do. And to prove it I’ll go tell the children.”