by Alexa Schnee
“No,” he said, waving a hand. “That is not the way I wrote it, and that is not the way you will perform it.”
My heart pounded. It seemed as though I was intruding on some secret meeting. The tables had been pushed to the sides of the large room to make space for the stage. People sat on the floors, watching the other actors perform their parts. The actors on the stage looked as if they were trying to act out a scene of court life but bumbled and ran into each other instead.
Shakespeare raised his hands in frustration, and before I could escape, he turned around. His eyes went straight to mine, and I thought I detected a hint of a smile on his face. I could feel a blush creep from my neck to the crown of my head. I took one last look at Shakespeare and then darted away. I hurried my return to the chambers, my heart beating to the steady tempo of my hurried footsteps.
HENRY REFUSED ALMOST EVERY invitation for the autumn hunts. That fall, he focused mostly on the different troupes he supported and the financial duties of the Lord Chamberlain. Henry Carey’s days of pretending he was a young man were over.
The court was excited for Accession Day—the day the play was to be performed. It was a holiday we celebrated every year to honor Elizabeth’s ascension to the English throne. It would be the first feast that we had celebrated in quite some time, and I wanted to enjoy myself. It was so much easier to forget my absent companions’ faces with wine and merriment.
Henry and I entered the Great Hall that night wearing royal blue; he admired the color.
I helped him as he limped into the room. We took our seats. Roast pheasant was placed before us, posed as though it were still alive. Spiced wine was poured all around, and wine glasses and beer tankards were knocked together in cheers. The chandelier above our heads, made of strong iron, lit the room brightly. Henry smiled at me every now and then.
We all clapped when William Shakespeare stood before us, the queen included. She nodded at Henry. Shakespeare introduced his troupe, his voice echoing clearly through the Great Hall. It was an actor’s voice. A beautiful voice.
Several men hauled out a wooden set. After all the time the troupe had spent rehearsing and planning, I’d thought the stage would be grander. The background was crudely painted to depict the throne room of a palace. I looked about me. Everyone else’s expressions seemed as confused as my own.
The costumes were also poorly put together. The woven linen frayed at the end of their shirts, and their sleeves were different lengths. It seemed that the men who wore them were also the ones who had sewn them. They were supposed to represent kings and queens of old, but they looked more like peasants. We all turned to the queen. Her face had suddenly changed; she wore the hard line I had seen at Frances’s wedding. She gave a weak wave for them to start.
A man in one of the cheap costumes spoke.
“Open your ears; for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?”
It was that moment when the world around me seemed to disappear. The Great Hall faded, and I could only see what was on the stage. I forgot what I had first seen and focused on the actors, the expressions, the lines. They spoke so eloquently, so rhythmically, in a way that every person in that room could understand. We could all imagine ourselves as king or lord. I felt as though I knew Prince Hal and that his journey of becoming king became my own. The stage disappeared. It was no longer a play; it was a life. It was real, living and breathing.
Henry turned to me as the actors left the stage after the first act. “Are you enjoying this?” He smiled.
All I could do was nod.
I hadn’t even realized that I was crying until it was over. Only when all the actors had taken their bows did I feel the wetness on my cheek. Music was one thing—it opened the soul. But this play was a soul of its own.
Henry ambled over to William Shakespeare after it was over. I could not walk to him so boldly. I stood a ways from them, fingering my cross. The feast had been cleared away, but a few men who had decided to stay and drink the night away remained. A crowd stood around Shakespeare. They slapped his back and smiled their congratulations. Only when Henry motioned me over did I return to his side.
William looked overwhelmed as people introduced themselves and praised his work. His eyes fogged over. As we drew near, he recognized us and his small smile appeared.
“That was brilliant.” Henry smiled and shook his hand. “The queen looked as if she enjoyed it.”
William Shakespeare gave a chuckle.
“I knew the costumes would attract some attention, but I hoped the lines might change Her Majesty’s first impressions.”
He turned to me, and at once I felt that sickness in my stomach. “Did you enjoy it, Lady Bassano?” he asked.
“It was beautiful,” I replied. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“Is it your first time to a play?” he inquired.
Once I nodded, he gave a small start.
“My lady, you offend and honor me. I am happy to know that you have been introduced to the theatre by my humble little play, but if you were to be introduced, it should not have been by my humble little play.”
I gave a laugh. For someone who wrote such serious drama, he had a sense of humor.
“Well, William Shakespeare, I would not know a good play from a poor one, so you are saved from my critical eye.”
He in turn laughed at my words and faced Henry again.
“Since it is the lady’s first time to the theatre, I would be happy to show her around, if it is by your permission.”
“Of course.” Henry yawned. “Though I think I shall retire to bed. Old men were not meant for such amusement.”
I was going to object, but I couldn’t manage to speak. All I could think about was being alone with the playwright. My fingers scratched at my dress.
William Shakespeare and I watched as Henry walked out of the hall. Once we could no longer make out his frame, the playwright led me over to the set where the backdrop hung. It looked even more drab up close. He placed a hand on it and stroked the canvas.
“I’m sure you know what this is,” he said.
I nodded and put my hand on it too.
“This is the set,” I said, though I wondered if it was fair to call it that. I was almost afraid to touch it in case it fell to pieces. I felt a halfway-hammered nail under my palm.
“Not so, my lady.” He smiled. “This is the sea.”
I noticed a piece of wood on the floor crudely cut to look like a sword. I picked it up and held it out to him.
“And this is not a prop.” I smiled back. “It’s a sword.”
“Not so, my lady.” He laughed like he had in Henry’s chambers. “This is the king’s sword. It was crafted in Verona and laid with gold in the hand. The king paid thirty-five pounds for it.”
He took it from my hands; I could almost see what he described as he fingered it.
“That was quite a lot a hundred years ago,” he added. He took my hand and I felt shivers run up it. It felt like stepping outside on the first freezing winter’s day. I felt a child’s wonder again. I admired how his fingers seemed so strong but yet so gentle around mine.
We were on the stage now, looking out unto an expanse of empty chairs and tables. The queen’s throne was on the far end of the room, and it was raised so she had the best seat. The men who had been drinking were now gone, leaving empty tankards—and us—to the quiet. It was only William Shakespeare and me.
“And this…” He stopped and glanced at me mischievously. “Well, what do you think it is?”
I looked around me. I was beginning to understand that in his world, nothing was ever quite what it seemed. After some time I answered.
“It is the king’s throne room, where he looks out unto the sea. The floor of this room is made of stones found along the English countryside, and the throne has been passed down from his father. The carpet is the finest fabric that he could import, perhaps from China or the Indies.”
“It�
��s Persian,” he said and laughed. “But otherwise you are right.”
His eyes turned to me, and I felt as if I had been blind to the world all along. Was anything what it seemed anymore? Why did I have the urge to touch his arm? I wanted to kiss him, but I had to force myself not to. What would be said of me if I was found kissing Henry’s playwright?
I let go of his hand. I wanted to feel his fingers wrap around mine once again, but I thanked the Lord that my better sense had gotten hold of me. I gave Shakespeare a smile to let him know that he had done nothing wrong. All he had offered to do was show me his set and his stage, and now here I was, acting like a lovesick girl.
He smiled back but then looked to the other side of the room, away from my gaze. I hated to see him feel that way, but I did not know what else I could do. I couldn’t have these feelings toward him. It was impure, wrong.
I thought about what I would say to him. How could I convey that it was not he whom I was upset with? “Thank you for showing me your stage, Master Shakespeare.”
“William, please,” he corrected me for the second time.
“Well, thank you,” I said. “I hope I will continue to see you around court.”
He nodded and followed me down the steps to where I exited the stage. His eyes didn’t shine as brightly. I was guilty of making them dull.
I gave him one last glance before I departed. My heart wanted more, but my mind was telling me what was correct. I clenched my right hand, and I left the hall with neither a clear conscience nor a satisfied heart.
WHAT HAD I DONE? What if he came to Henry and told him about my behavior? What would I say to defend myself? That I had an intense attraction to him and worried what might happen?
I was getting ahead of myself. Even if I had felt something toward this man, that didn’t mean he felt the same way about me. He had met me only a few times; he hardly knew me, and I hardly knew him. He must be married. A brilliant man who could bring the sea indoors must have children. It was a sin to think of him as I did. It wasn’t just that I felt physically drawn to him; yes, there was much of that, but I also admired how his mind focused on the smallest details. The words he wrote outshone anything I had ever read or heard before. He was brilliant. That much was clear.
The next morning, I decided to dress and go talk to Henry. If William Shakespeare had complained to Henry about my actions the night before, I would have to explain myself. I washed my face and put on a simple dress. I did not bother to place my hair in a nice bun, merely braiding it into a long tail that hung down my back. I looked nothing more than a milkmaid. I appeared innocent.
When I reached Henry’s door, I stood outside, listening for movement in the chamber. I heard his voice along with another’s. I pressed my ear to the door to see if I could identify who he was talking to.
It was William Shakespeare.
He must have come there to talk of the night before. I could turn away. I could apologize to Henry later. But I did not know how long it would be before they would be done, and I had duties concerning the new ladies. Today was their first day meeting the queen, and they were frightened. I hated the thought of putting it off any longer. And as much as I hated myself for it, I wanted to see Shakespeare.
I knocked on the door, pausing each time my knuckles met the hard, solid wood. I heard shuffling inside and footsteps as someone came to answer it. I filled my lungs with air before the door swung open.
William Shakespeare stood on the other side. He wore a simple doublet. I couldn’t help but smile when he grinned in return. It danced before me, its meaning as mysterious as he was.
“My lady,” he spoke. He said it slowly, almost with too much kindness.
I curtsied and walked past him into the room. Henry stood with his arms open, and I walked to him. He gave me a hug and an approving kiss on the cheek. Would William Shakespeare think I preferred this man over him?
“My dear, you came just in time. William is about to leave for London.”
It was as if a knife had torn open my chest. I had spent all that worrying about how I would go on with him so close, and now he was leaving.
“The baron has graciously offered to help me establish my troupe in a real theatre.” Shakespeare laughed. “No more canvas sets.”
I laughed, too, to hide my disappointment. So he was to go; he would take part of me with him. What was I to do? I could never sleep with Henry Carey again after this. I had felt more excitement holding William Shakespeare’s hand once than in all my years of being a mistress to the baron.
“You must come and visit.” William spoke to Henry. “You too, my lady.”
“Of course we shall,” Henry added, but the way he answered made me realize that he would be the only one to see London. “I can see you inspired a new passion in my mistress.”
Indeed he had. The expression on Henry’s face was undeniable. William was now a threat. He wrapped an arm around my waist protectively, shook William’s hand again, and congratulated him on the success of the night before. William thanked him for his patronage and grinned at me.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said.
“I have done nothing.” I smiled back. He had forgiven me for my actions and hadn’t mentioned it to Henry. I should have been thanking him.
“You have done more than you know,” he said. He gave a final brisk bow to each of us, and then, like a player on a great stage, he made his exit.
ENGLAND, 1591
DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH I
GREENWICH COURT
CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT and I tried to forget William Shakespeare.
It was not long after Christmas that I received a lengthy letter from Margaret. I had been sitting with the young ladies-in-waiting in the chambers. We all huddled around the large hearth like moths to a lamp. The cold English air chilled our bones through, and I could hear the wind moaning outside our window. Empty cups and trays littered the room, while the kettle we placed over the fire began to steam. I opened the letter with haste, for I was sure that it was the child’s birth she wrote about. I brought the letter over to the small desk the ladies shared, for I knew as soon as I finished reading the letter I would want to correspond.
Dear Emilia,
The child is born. She is a girl, a beautiful baby girl with a face like George’s. She seems healthy, not sickly like the little boy we lost years ago. I have named her Anne. She wails in the night like you would not believe, but I am glad to hear it. I would rather have a screaming baby who is strong than one who does not make a sound.
George and I have been experiencing some difficult times. He is upset that the only child I have given him is a girl. We were once so in love, but you can see how love does not guarantee a happy matrimony. I do not believe I can conceive another child, Emilia, nor do I want to. This little girl is all that I have ever wanted, but I worry what George will say when I am not able to bear him more children.
I do not know if you have heard from Frances yet, but I hear she is also with child and won’t be attending court. I feel as though I took away your friendship with her, and for that I am sorry. These days away from court have been days of thought and meditation.
There is nothing like having a child for your own, Emilia, and I wish it for you. I want to let you know that from the second you agreed to be Henry Carey’s mistress, I have prayed as fervently as you have that you would be with child and free from that man. He has been kind to you, I know, but there is something about being in love, whether it turns out for the good or for the bad, that every woman should experience. I know it does not make sense, especially after I have written about my own situation with my husband, but I now know these things and you must believe me.
Do not give up hope. Our God works in mysterious ways. If you are not meant to have a child now, you will sooner or later. He hears you, my dear, just as He hears all of us and understands.
In blessing,
Margaret
I had missed Margaret before, but
now I could hear her voice as I read the letter. Once I was finished with it, I read it again, this time savoring the message at the end. I wrapped the shawl tighter around my shoulders, shivering from the brutal cold that penetrated the walls of the palace.
I wanted to tell her that I did not know whether I had fallen in love. I wanted to ask her whether I could have fallen in love so quickly, or if time mattered. I wanted to know if she saw the same things in George’s eyes as I did in William Shakespeare’s.
I picked up a pen to write back and tried to think of what to say. I did not wish for words on a written page. I wanted her voice to tell me what I should be feeling and what I should do. Hesitantly, I put my pen to paper.
Dear Margaret,
I am overjoyed to hear the news of the addition to your family. I was concerned about your health, with you traveling when you were so far along, but now I see that it brought no harm. I have always loved the name Anne. I am sure it fits her personality and her face. I can’t wait to hold her in my own arms and play the part of the loving older sister or aunt.
Court has been quiet since you have been away. Henry is growing years older every day, it seems. He still remains in Parliament and continues to stand by the queen’s side. William Shakespeare, the playwright who had arrived just before you left, performed his play for us. I have never seen anything like it. I hear he is opening a new theatre in London.
Lady Bess and I have kept an eye on the new ladies who have come up. They remind me so of when I was young. They will definitely learn much in the next few months, and hopefully it won’t all be during Shrove Tuesday. Lady Bess and I have worked together often and are starting to enjoy each other’s company.
As for Frances, I wish her only the best. I congratulate her if she is with child, and I wish any hard feelings mended. I can only hope that with time, she can see that both you and I only wanted her happiness and safety. And I am concerned that Robert Devereux might return to the queen’s side when he comes back to court.
