Shakespeare's Lady

by Alexa Schnee

  IT WAS AROUND THIS time that I began writing again. I composed simple poems, nothing like what I had aspired to write when I was younger. They were poems for Baby Henry. I wrote of fairies and spirits, things I thought would make good bedtime stories for him when he was older. I created characters that resembled people from my own life. The fairy queen was most certainly Elizabeth, with her regal air and need for control over everyone. The character Hermia was Frances, refusing to follow what others told her to do in order to satisfy her own heart. I knew these characters as I knew the people in my own life.

  Henry grew faster than I thought he would. I was surprised by how much he changed in such a short time. I had been told that children grow before our very eyes, but I had never believed that. It was true. In a month his eyes were wide, not sleepy like a newborn’s. His curly dark hair and his smile made me jump inside every time I saw it.

  Eventually there came a time when I had to submit and let Alfonso have his way with me. He had been bothering me each night since the baby had been born, and I was beginning to grow more and more afraid of what he would do if I kept refusing him. At first he just stormed into the other room and slept on the chair. Then he started throwing things. I had been given a new set of dishes from Lady Bess, and I heard him smash one each night I told him that I was not yet ready.

  I worried for both my safety and Henry’s, so one night when he stormed in after having too much to drink, I figured I must not aggravate him. I waited up for him. Henry had been put to bed, away from harm, and it was very late. I was in my nightgown, my hair down. My body had developed more fully since the baby had been born, and I was no longer the vision of a pretty young virgin. I appeared older and wiser—sadder. Time was not a friend to some.

  He strode in. I watched as he disposed of some letters, throwing them into the burning fire one by one. I waited until he was done and did not bother him. In truth, it was a way to postpone the inevitable. Once his hands were empty, he turned and faced me. He gave me the expression that I had seen him wear when we were at the hunt. But now he was my husband; he could stare at me as longingly as he wanted to. However, that didn’t make it any less awful.

  “Am I finally allowed to have you tonight?” he asked. Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as I’d thought he was.

  “You are my husband,” I said, my arms crossed over my chest. “I suppose so.”

  “You do not want me.” He spoke gruffly. He placed his hands on his hips and looked away from me. He clenched his jaw and breathed in deeply through his nose.

  Was he actually hurt? His jaw grew tighter and tighter.

  “What would it matter to you? I am your wife. Now I am at your disposal.”

  He nodded and smiled cynically.

  “Finally,” he said.

  I WAS GLAD WHEN the queen called him back to court a few months later. I would not go with him because of the baby, but I didn’t mind. I was starting to enjoy the small house. We purchased another table to put in the kitchen and some more dishes.

  Alfonso sometimes came home for a few days at a time. He would be distant. He would hide in the bedroom during the day and expect only one thing at night. He only came out of the room for meals and when he was going out with his troupe. Daily actions seemed strained when he was there. I always felt like he was watching me, even when he was in another room and couldn’t see me.

  One day he emerged from the back room at an unusual time. His hair was disheveled, and a beard was beginning to grow on his chin. He looked like a drunk or a beggar on the street. I wondered if the ladies at court would think him so handsome now.

  “Where are you going?” I asked as I put another stitch into Henry’s new diaper. He was growing quickly.

  “Why would you care?” He wiped a hand across his nose.

  “You haven’t been out since yesterday,” I said.

  He huffed. “It is business. Women should not ask their husbands about business.” He looked disgusted, as if I were a disease that he could contract. “I’m going to the playwright, Shakespeare. He has need for some musicians for his plays. May I go now?”

  I tried to ignore the feeling in my stomach.

  “Yes.”

  He stormed out without bothering to comb his hair. He slammed the door, causing Henry to break out in a bout of tears. I went over to comfort him, my heart beating against my ribs.

  William Shakespeare? I was married and yet I found I still had feelings for him. How could this be? I had thought that once I was married, these thoughts would disappear. I thought the playwright would be a distant memory. I held Henry close, rocking him back and forth before settling him into a comforting slumber.

  I collapsed into a chair. He was married. I was married. I did not know him. He did not know me.

  Could I really be in love?

  Once again I pushed it to the back of my mind. There were things to be done. It was just an impulsive thought that had crossed my mind. I was no longer a young girl.

  Henry awoke a few hours later and I made supper for one. I did not know when Alfonso would be back, but I did not want to wait for him. I began to wonder what could have kept him.

  It was late when I heard a bang on the door. Alfonso usually just barged in, so I was surprised to see that it was indeed Alfonso, and he was with William Shakespeare. I realized that my heart had only been fluttering before. Now it was crashing inside of me. They walked inside the house. Alfonso ignored me while Shakespeare gave me a small nod.

  “Lady Lanier.” He smiled as if we were old friends.

  “William.” I nodded back at him. William Shakespeare was in my house. He was exactly the same. His eyes were so brilliant—I felt guilty looking at them.

  “Ah, yes, you know my wife.” Alfonso waved me on.

  “I do.” William Shakespeare’s eyes remained on mine.

  Alfonso went over to the table, sat down, and placed his feet upon it. Dirt crumbled off his boots, and I noticed a ring of sweat around the neckline of his shirt. He put his hands behind his head.

  “Emilia, pour me and Will some ale and then go. We’re going to talk about business.”

  I obediently went to the cupboard and took out a cheap cask of ale, sadly, our finest. I uncorked it as quietly as possible as I tried to hear the words that were being exchanged. They talked of business for some time, including when the bard’s next play, Titus Andronicus, would open at the Rose.

  “Will you need me there to play for you?” Alfonso asked. “I will do it for the same price.”

  “If you are not working somewhere else this next week, yes. Your troupe is most certainly the best I’ve worked with.”

  “All right, then,” Alfonso agreed. He flicked a speck of dirt off his vest. “The queen wishes me back at court later this year,” he said. He was bragging, but his behavior was still more pleasant than it would be if Shakespeare wasn’t here.

  “She has said that she wants me back next Twelfth Night,” Shakespeare said.

  “Yes, she likes your plays.” Alfonso shuffled in his seat. “And I am her favorite musician. How lucky are we?”

  I served the ale as Shakespeare laughed. Alfonso took a swig of his and then motioned me to our bedroom. They talked long into the night. I changed into my nightgown, kissed Henry, and crawled into bed. What were they talking about? Were they talking about me? That idea both delighted and horrified me. I only heard laughter and the clinking of glasses followed by muffled, incomprehensible words.

  I heard a bang in the kitchen as Alfonso got out another bottle of wine. Whatever they were talking of must have been serious. I began to memorize every crack in the ceiling. There was one over on the right that looked like the river Thames…and some smaller ones coming from there that I made into streets in my mind. It was a map of London on my ceiling. It wasn’t at all accurate, but it distracted me for a while and I wasn’t so worried about what they were saying in the next room.

  It must have been early in the morning when Shakespeare left. I hear
d the front door open and close, and Alfonso was now coming to bed. He entered the room, took off his pants, and slipped under the covers. He rolled over on his side, away from me. The only sound for some time was our breathing. His chest would rise when mine would fall. It was only after I was sure that he was calm that I asked him the question burning my tongue.

  “Why am I not returning to the palace with you?”

  I wondered if Shakespeare would be there.

  He sucked in his breath.

  “I do not think court is the best place for you.”

  “The queen has not wanted me to come back?” I asked.

  My husband did not say anything.

  I had wondered why she hadn’t wanted me to return. I had done everything possible to fulfill her wishes. It seemed odd that after all I had agreed to, she did not wish for me to rejoin them.

  “Please,” I said, my voice more pleading than I would have liked, “tell me the truth.”

  When he did not respond, I understood. The queen had wanted me. I thought of the letters he burned. Had the request been in one of those invitations?

  “She wished me back, didn’t she?”

  He grunted. I felt like slapping him. Because of his jealous nature and selfishness, I would not be able to see Margaret until the queen remembered to think of me again. It could be months or even years before I crossed her mind. My heart longed for my dearest friend. I missed her greatly.

  “I have your best interests at heart.” He was sneering, I could tell, even if I didn’t see his face.

  “If that were true, you would have let me go to court.” I climbed out of bed. “Then you would be able to watch my every move.”

  He turned to face me. “What, and have you there with the Earl of Essex or that poet, Thomas Campion?”

  “I do not care for them.” My voice rose. So that’s what this was all about. Jealousy.

  He took my wrist and began forcing me to lie back down.

  “Enough,” he ordered. “Be quiet.”

  I had taken much from Alfonso without complaint, but the feeling of his rough hand squeezing tightly around my wrist made me want to burst into tears and lash out at him.

  “I do not care for them, but I would rather be in their beds than yours,” I yelled.

  I felt a hard slap on my cheek, and I fell to the floor. My elbows and knees hit the wooden floor, and my side smacked into the bedside table. The room was dark, but I could make out the outline of his body. He loomed above me on the bed. My face stung in some places and I couldn’t feel it in others. He hit me. He hurt me.

  There were rumors of unhappy marriages at court, but I had never heard of a lady being struck. We were all ladies and had been expected to marry gentlemen. This man—no, this boy—before me was not a gentleman. He was nothing but an animal that had learned how to play the harp.

  He got out of bed and picked up his pants that were still on the floor. He pulled them on, cursing. I did not know where he was going and I did not care. I hoped he would leave me. I hoped he would leave me and little Henry alone for the rest of our lives. He stomped out of the room, slamming the door.

  Henry awoke, crying. I got up from the floor and held him in my arms. What were we to do? I had worried before that Alfonso might hurt me, but now it was apparent. Would he hurt Henry? I held the baby closer. I could not let that happen. Where was I to go? I couldn’t go back to court without an invitation from the queen, nor could I journey back to Kent. I did not even know if the countess was still alive. A million scenarios raced through my mind, but none of them seemed like good options. Once again I had no choice. The tears erupted as I realized that my only option was to stay with Alfonso.

  What use was the queen’s favor now? I might have married to receive it, but now it did not matter. I could not leave, nor could I stay. I must try to be obedient or I would be risking my own skin, not to mention my son’s. Henry mattered most, and I knew that I would have to bend to Alfonso’s will in order to keep Henry safe.

  Alfonso did not come back for the rest of the day. He was so angry when he left that I figured he wouldn’t come back until his time at court was over. Months. Several months. In the next few hours, my eye grew swollen, and I went out into our small plot to pick some herbs to reduce the swelling. I poked my finger on a few thorns, drawing a shade of scarlet from my fingers. The red-andgreen reminded me of the Christmas balls at court.

  Henry and I spent a quiet day at the house, even though I needed to buy food from the market. I was afraid to go out. I was afraid of people’s stares and glances. They would know that I had been beaten like a common housewife. It was hard to believe that not long ago I had been a lady at court, a mistress to the cousin of the queen. Alfonso came home only once before leaving for court, to gather his things. I hid in the kitchen and heard crashes coming from the bedroom as he stuffed his clothes and other belongings into a trunk. I heard the clomping of his large boots across the floor.

  “Where’s my harp?” he yelled.

  I did not answer. I was too frightened.

  There were more bangs and bumps. I wondered how he could have lost something like a harp. After a moment, he walked out of the bedroom with it in his hand and his trunk under his other arm.

  He did not even say good-bye before he left. He simply stared at me, his eyebrows lowered and his lips tight. He repositioned his trunk under his arm and left without a word. I heard the door slam with a mighty crash before I let out my breath. For the time being, I was free from Alfonso.

  ONE EVENING, I HEARD five knocks on my door. I had just finished bathing Henry in the basin in our kitchen and wrapping him in a clean rag. Once I heard the knocks on the door, I placed Henry on my hip, for he was now old enough to sit up on his own. I walked over to the door to let the stranger in.

  He looked like a ghost. He was dressed in what was once a bright, white shirt and a dark leather vest. At first I thought him a spirit of a lord or duke come to haunt me, but then I realized the man was just covered in some chalky white powder. He was smiling, and he looked rather embarrassed as he brushed off the front of his doublet. William Shakespeare laughed softly when he saw my face.

  “Hello, Lady Lanier.”

  “Master Shakespeare…”

  “William.”

  “Very well,” I agreed. “Then to you I am Emilia.”

  He laughed again. “All right, Emilia. I am afraid I must ask a favor of you. May I come in?”

  I stepped aside and let him through. Even underneath the chalk odor I could still smell his scent, a mixture of paint and sweat. “What is it that you need?” I asked. I shifted Henry to my other side and closed the door.

  “Well,” he began, “I believe you can see my predicament.”

  “Really?” I joked. “I did not notice.”

  He looked at me, his eyes intense yet light and joyful. I wished they didn’t amuse me so. I wished that I could just forget them and be happy with the life I had. There was a freedom in his eyes.

  “There was an accident at the theatre,” he explained. “It was just a small explosion.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” I said, “but what were you…exploding?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He smiled once again. “It is a surprise.”

  “For me?”

  “For everyone.”

  I felt my cheeks burn like fire. Was I so quick to give away what I thought of him?

  “What do you need?” I asked again, trying to cover the expression on my face.

  “Just a wet rag to wipe my face and some of your husband’s clothes.”

  I nodded and left him standing near the front door as I made my way into the bedroom. Alfonso’s clothes were in our armoire, and I had to dig around before I found a doublet and a pair of pants that would be suitable. I put Henry in his bed and delivered the garments into William’s hands.

  “Thank you,” He smiled. “Can I change into them here?”

  “Yes,” I said, motioning him to the back bed
room. “But you live in London. Why don’t you go to your own home to change into your clothes and clean up?”

  He paused, his smile hanging there like a crooked picture frame. I knew that there was more to that smile than he was saying. He shuffled his feet before answering.

  “You live closer to the theatre, and I must be back soon.”

  He looked at the floor, as though he were ashamed.

  I didn’t question his reply, and I couldn’t tell whether or not it was true. What was going on in William Shakespeare’s mind? It was a task to decipher it, and I was not quite sure I was up to it. It could take me years. How many layers would I have to go through before I found the real man, the man underneath the ideas and fantasies?

  He went into the bedroom while I went to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of wine. William Shakespeare was here. Alone. With me.

  I poured some wine into a wooden cup. I could hear his movements in the next room. I tried to focus on the taste in my mouth. My mind wandered to the bedroom, and the thought of him dressing made me almost swallow wrong.

  The wine tasted cheap, and I wanted to spit it out, but I forced myself to swallow. Before I could stop myself, I was creeping over to the bedroom door, the cup of wine still in my hand.

  I pressed an ear to the coarse wood. I could hear him muttering inside, his voice traveling out from under the door. I tried to make out words, but they were muffled. I hurried back into the kitchen, but then I heard his steps behind me.

  I turned to see him holding my black, leather-covered book of writings to Henry.

  “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

  “I am not.”

  He leafed through the pages, stroking them softly as though they were his own.

  “This looks like writing to me,” he said.

  “You haven’t even read it,” I protested. “How would you know if it is?”

  His eyes returned to the little book, and they remained there for several minutes. He turned the page every so often. All of him focused on my simple story. I was so nervous I downed my glass of wine right in front of him. It was frightening to stay, but I couldn’t leave. I would just have to wait until he finished.