Shakespeare's Lady

by Alexa Schnee

  SHAKESPEARE’S

  SHAKESPEARE’S

  ALEXA SCHNEE

  Guideposts

  New York, New York

  Shakespeare’s Lady

  ISBN 13: 978-0-82494-528-2

  Published by Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  Guideposts.org

  Copyright © 2012 by Alexa Schnee. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company

  2630 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 100

  Nashville, TN 37214

  Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  Though this story is based on actual people and events, it is a work of fiction.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Cover design by Peter Gloege

  Cover photo Jitka Saniova / Trevillion Images

  Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DEDICATION

  To my parents—words aren’t strong enough to express how much I love you.

  “I love you more than words can wield the matter.”

  King Lear, Act I, Scene I

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my family for their constant and unrelenting support. From diapers to teenage moodiness to college life, you have always been there for me throughout the highs and lows. I would like to thank my mother and father, Lisa and Tim; my sister, Andie; and my brother, RJ, for living with me most every day. I appreciate every hug, every laugh, and every cup of coffee you brought me more than I can say. A special thanks to my grandmother Cherie, whose priceless wisdom I can always count on. I would also like to mention my extended family, who has offered me love in countless ways.

  I’d also like to thank my editor at Guideposts, Beth Adams, who believed in this story from the very beginning, and my agent at Books & Such, Rachel Kent, who is always there with a guiding hand and positive attitude. Thanks to Rachel Meisel, who made sure I was well taken care of while Beth was with baby Gretta. I would also like to mention Tricia Goyer, who encouraged me to always continue writing in our middle school writing class and insisted that I dream big.

  I want to acknowledge my friends, who made me laugh and walked beside me through every step. Whether I met you in ballet class at age four, studying Italian in Venice, or in Mrs. Goyer’s writing class, you have each added a sweet ingredient to my daily life, and your care and support means the world.

  I can’t thank enough the countless friends I made at Mount Hermon for the love they bestowed on me throughout my first writers’ conference. It would be impossible to name them all here, but know I am thinking of every single one of you who saw potential in my work.

  Lastly, I would like to thank the Bard himself, who inspired me to create words of my very own.

  PROLOGUE

  ANY WRITER WILL TELL you that brilliance does not come from the head. It comes from the heart.

  I learned this from the greatest writer the world has ever known. He whispered it in my ear as I lay in his arms. He told me as he looked over my crossed-out lines and empty pages. I see its truth in the little book he gave me. But I never understood what he really meant until it was too late and he was already gone.

  Yes, I loved William Shakespeare. Yes, he loved me. No, it did not end well. William and I would never grow old together. We would never build a life together. Love doesn’t always guarantee happiness.

  He was so handsome. An actor. A writer. So passionate about his work that sometimes it seemed to be the only thing he could ever love. His words were my rival, and sometimes I felt I could never compete. But I loved William Shakespeare more than I loved anyone on this earth. I loved him more than Henry Carey, more than Alfonso, more than myself, even. He was my salvation from the life that had been chosen for me. He encouraged me to become more than what I had been destined to be.

  Our love went against everything I believed in. A lifetime of doing what I believed was right was wiped away the moment he and I became lovers. I sinned against my queen, and I sinned against my God.

  He wrote about me. He hadn’t even done that for his wife. He wrote incandescent words about a woman who was captivating, beautiful, and mysterious—all things he told me I was. No one knew the identity of the woman in his sonnets, but I knew. When I read them, I knew he loved me, even all those lonely years later.

  Because I loved William Shakespeare, I lost my honor, my name, my dearest friend, and my queen. I lost my best work, one of my greatest accomplishments.

  Was it worth it? Was it worth it to love that man? That genius? Was it worth it to throw away my life for him?

  You tell me.

  The world doesn’t remember my name, but they will never forget me. I am a part of his work, his sonnets. I am his lover, his muse, his Juliet. I am his Dark Lady.

  PART ONE

  Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,

  Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

  At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

  Sland’ring creation with a false esteem.

  —Sonnet CXXVII

  ENGLAND, 1587

  DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH I

  GREENWICH COURT

  I REMEMBER TWELFTH NIGHT so clearly. I often reflect on it even now, when I am about to fall asleep. I can recall every detail. I remember what I wore, what I said, what dances I danced, the pageantry and singing. It was my first introduction to Queen Elizabeth’s court, with its intrigues, absurdities, and dangers. This was the night my life really started.

  My emerald dress flowed to the floor. A simple silver chain was clasped around my neck. I was perfumed and powdered; the brush’s bristles tickled my neck and face. My hair hung loose down my back, as I was a young lady just recently come to court. This was a flag of my virginity, a proud display of youth. Lady Margaret lent me a silver netted caul, which we draped over the back of my head. What a contrast against my long dark hair, shining in the candlelight.

  I remember the warmth of Lady Margaret’s hands on my shoulders as she inspected our accomplishment. I detected a bit of pride in her sweet features as she admired me.

  She smiled and said, “You look like a countess. And you deserve to be one.”

  Lady Margaret would know. She was the Countess of Cumberland. The title afforded her many fine things; Cumberland was a rich and fertile area. She was gowned in a subtle pink, her hair pulled back in an elaborate bun. She reminded me so of the fairies I used to create stories about when I was young…but I did not tell her this because it seemed childish.

  Lady Frances stepped up to me and ran a hand through my hair. She was dressed in a royal-blue gown that was a perfect complement to her eyes. Her blond hair danced around her shoulders. She was gorgeous—the epitome of English beauty. A pang of jealousy went through my chest. We all knew her night would be filled with courtiers, dancing, and laughter.

  She held my shoulders between her two hands and shook them. “There will be dancing, and food, and men!” she cried.

  A knowing look passed between Margaret and me—the latter was what Frances was obviously most excited for.

  The Great Hall was filled with sound that night. The music itself felt like a presence in the cavernous room hung with the queen’s rich tapestries. A long, heavy table laid with end
less settings for the queen’s guests filled one end of the hall. Plates and knives had been scrubbed until they shone. Ladies clucked around each other and swarmed the high-ceilinged room, while men gathered around tables with wine, their glasses sparkling in the candlelight. The air felt thick with merriment.

  Feasting was the evening’s first event, and Queen Elizabeth had outdone herself. The queen’s chefs had roasted a swan to perfection and painstakingly replaced the feathers before presenting the delicacy to her guests. There was rich roast duck for everyone, accompanied by the finest wine. We had the softest, most aromatic bread I had ever tasted and wild boar that had once roamed the queen’s own forests. I could only imagine the hours Elizabeth’s handmaidens had spent, organizing this grand feast.

  The queen sat far in front of us, on a raised throne, so all could admire her. In my first audience with her, when I was presented, I could only think of how cold and distant she had seemed. It was obvious she was enjoying herself now, though. She wore a lavish, golden gown embroidered with beads and pearls, her favorite gem. She wore her wavy copper hair like mine—long and loose around her shoulders. Whether or not she deserved the honor, we were all willing to believe it that night.

  No one abstained from drinking or making merry. Rowdy men poured themselves more ale while the women chattered. The Great Hall could hardly contain the splendor of the evening.

  After we feasted, we danced. Lady Frances was immediately chosen by a young courtier with an eager smile. Lady Margaret was allowed to dance with her husband, the Count of Cumberland. They danced together with calm experience.

  My eyes never left the dance floor as finely dressed figures twirled in time to the music, the ladies’ gowns swirling around their slippers, the men’s feet their metronome. Frances’s hair flew out behind her like a banner, and we could hear her laughter floating above the tune.

  I longed to join them. My hands ached to hold a handsome courtier’s, and I couldn’t help but sway to the music. It reminded me of the songs I would play for the countess in Kent. I missed her, but I was grateful to be here. The scene before me was all I had ever imagined of court.

  There were so many handsome men in the room, I could hardly look at one before I drifted to another. But one man in particular seemed to stand out from the rest, perhaps because he looked utterly indifferent. He stood slightly away from the other men near the large double doors with a glass in his hand. He nodded in time to the music, but he seemed to be buried in his own thoughts. His eyes darted in my direction, and he must have caught me staring at him. My own eyes went to the polished floor, my face burning in embarrassment.

  “Who is that?” I asked Margaret when I had the chance to pull her aside. She was short of breath.

  “Who?” She craned her neck to look. “That man?” She waved a hand. “A playwright, I believe.”

  “He’s quite striking.” I was surprised at the boldness of my words. Those sorts of things I usually kept to myself. But there was something about this playwright. He wore no finery or anything that might attract a young lady, and he seemed to be more interested in the music than in finding a partner to dance with. All the company he needed was himself.

  I peered over at him. I felt my heart dance to the music when I caught his eyes again. He raised his glass to me from across the room. It was all the encouragement I needed.

  I took a step forward, and then another, until I realized I was actually crossing the room to talk to him. I was almost there. His eyes again happened upon mine, and I swallowed. His dark brown hair was cut short, and I could detect a hint of stubble lining his jaw. He watched me, waiting for me.

  Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw an older man with a bit of a hunch. The skin around his eyes was wrinkled, and his hair was gray. In his day he may have been handsome, but now he looked old and cantankerous, almost like a goat. I started to pull away, but then I noticed he was dressed well, in a red doublet and sparkling jewels. I knew he must be at least a duke, so I curtsied. He seemed not to notice my hesitation, as he reached for my hand and swept me onto the floor with an air of authority.

  “Have you just arrived at court?” he asked, his voice crackling with age as we danced to the lively tune heavy with viols and harps. Dancing correctly was an art. A good dancer could impress while a poor one would be ridiculed. I tried to keep in step—to be as light as a butterfly and yet as sure as the ever-coursing Thames.

  I nodded, afraid to speak. I searched my mind for the steps of the dance. Did I step backward or forward before the lift? He placed his arm around my waist and spun me around. I kept my balance and even managed to smile. Although my partner was not the prince I’d hoped for, I enjoyed the excitement of dancing.

  “You are so different from the other young ladies at court,” he continued. He placed his lips next to my ear. “The queen finds you rather enchanting.”

  I stepped away in time with the music. So this man had spoken with the queen. He must be more important than I originally believed. Something beat wildly in my chest; I realized it was my heart. The queen liked me. I wondered if she was watching me now.

  The music’s rhythm guided me, and I danced better than I ever had before. We stepped jointly to the right and the left and clapped, my dress brushing the floor behind me. My heart continued to pound. The queen approved.

  “You remind us both of someone.” He looked me in the eyes. I felt my face grow hot.

  “Oh?” I asked. I tried to sound sure, but my shaking voice revealed my apprehension. “Who?”

  “You were born long after she died, but both the queen and I see the resemblance you bear to the queen’s mother.”

  Anne Boleyn? She was the woman famous for leading King Henry the Eighth astray from his wife. The Countess of Kent did not approve of her for that very reason. Anne Boleyn was said to be a witch—bewitching the king into making her the queen. I had heard that she had taken all sorts of potions to bear him a son, but the only child she had ever borne was Queen Elizabeth. The king commanded that the accused enchantress be beheaded at the Tower of London.

  “Are you cold?” the man asked. His hand slithered farther down my back and he pulled me closer to him, as if to protect me from the chill.

  He must have intended the remark about the queen’s mother to be a compliment. I smiled as politely as possible and focused on the rhythm of the music. Thankfully, the song finally reached a sleepy end. After expressing my gratitude to the old gentleman with a curtsy, I quickly rejoined Margaret and Frances.

  “Who is he?” I asked, keeping an eye on the hunched man as he made his way back to the queen’s side. He whispered in her ear, and she nodded and smiled approvingly. Light caught on the crown nestled in her hair.

  “Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon,” Frances answered. “He is the queen’s first cousin and is in a very good position to take the throne. His wife remains in Hunsdon, I see.”

  “He compared me to Anne Boleyn,” I said, finally airing the astonishment I had hidden from him.

  The two ladies eyed me with surprise. Margaret sighed before leaning in closer to me. “Well, if he did compare you to her, it was meant in your favor,” she finally said, her voice even over the sound of the music. “Anne Boleyn was his aunt and the queen’s mother.”

  “She was a witch,” I whispered as softly as possible. I matched Margaret’s hushed tone.

  Margaret took my hand and squeezed it tight. Her motherly, plump face calmed me, but the tightening of her lips told me that this was not a moment to be taken lightly.

  “Listen to me.” She spoke with urgency. “You must never say that again. If you are overheard calling her that, it will not be looked upon kindly. The queen is very sensitive regarding her mother.”

  Frances tossed a length of golden hair over her shoulder and spoke in agreement. “Her Majesty is rather thin-skinned.”

  “She has reason to be, Frances. Would you like it if your mother was called a heathen and an enchantress?” Margaret
scolded. As she reproached Frances, not a single hair moved on her head. I nodded. I understood. The queen’s ruthlessness was infamous. If I was expelled from court, I would have nothing at all.

  Our conversation was interrupted by another young courtier who fancied Frances.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked, extending an eager hand. He wore much finer clothing than the playwright, but he was no less handsome.

  “I would be delighted,” Frances agreed, taking his hand. She winked at me as he began to lead her to the floor. Margaret and I watched as, once again, Frances’s young man possessively placed his arm around her waist and her laughter filled the air. She had danced with all the handsome young men tonight, while I was forced to dance with the elderly baron.

  Later into the evening Henry Carey asked me to dance once more. I agreed, though I had been hoping someone a little younger would ask me, like the man I had been admiring earlier. The two gentlemen were conversing earlier. Perhaps the baron could introduce me to the playwright.

  We did not speak while we danced; he seemed to have said all he had to say. The baron had to be at least thirty years older than me. My first ball was not going the way I had hoped it would. But the music was lively and the spirits high, so I tried to focus more on the music instead of his hand on my back. I glanced around the crowded hall. Several young ladies were dancing with older men, so I felt less embarrassed.

  Something caught my eye over the baron’s shoulder. Couples began moving to the sides of the room, making room for something to pass through—and then the queen emerged in the space made for her. Courtiers surrounded her, wearing jewels and linens almost as fine as her own and twinkling in the candlelight lighting the hall. Though the queen had been an avid dancer in her youth, she now walked about the dancing couples. My breath quickened as I realized that her focus was on me. I could feel her hawkish eyes watching my every step of la volta, one of the most difficult dances and the queen’s favorite.