by Alexa Schnee
Once he had read through it, he closed the book with a thud. His eyes returned to mine. I could not read their meaning, just as I never could. I never knew what he thought or felt.
“This is very good.” He grinned. “Have you ever thought of publishing something? I could ask that the theater company print a quarto of this.”
I laughed. “I hope you are jesting.”
“No, I only jest when I am on the stage playing a part,” he jested.
“It’s a simple child’s tale,” I explained. “I wrote it for Henry.”
“The simplest stories are sometimes the best,” he said.
“I am a woman,” I continued. “Women do not write.”
He shrugged and set the book on the kitchen table. His earring caught the light from the sun coming through the window.
“They rule countries, sometimes fairly well.”
I laughed louder. “Alfonso seems to have the opposite opinion. He thinks a woman is nothing but a slave. I’m sure he would have the queen off and married if he had his way.”
I could not believe that I confessed my husband’s ills to this man. What was I thinking? I had not even told Margaret what I thought of my husband, and now here I was confessing my deepest thoughts to this man. What must he think?
Despite what I revealed to him, his face remained the same, his brow smooth, as if he already knew. He probably did, I realized once I thought about it. Alfonso wasn’t necessarily known for his kindness.
“He is your husband, not your God,” he said. Suddenly his face turned very red, as if he had said too much as well.
We did nothing but look at each other. I could feel my face growing as red as his, but I could not look away. We stood there almost frozen.
Then Henry cried out, and I bustled from the room. He held out his pudgy arms to be picked up. I wrapped his blanket around him and placed him on my hip once again.
When I came back to the kitchen, William Shakespeare was at the door. He looked uncomfortable now, as if he had been exposed in some way.
“I should go back to the…” He stopped, as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place.
“Theatre?” I finished.
He nodded quickly, and I opened the door for him. He kissed my free hand and left in a hurry. His boots slapped on the cobblestone streets of London. He left in such hurry that we had barely time to say good-bye.
He was different from anyone I had ever met. Henry Carey was so old, while Alfonso treated me badly, even if he was my husband.
When I went back into the house I thought about what Shakespeare had said. Could I write? I had always dreamed of it. Even now I still clung to that dream, hoping it could help me escape from the life I found myself in. I looked at my little notebook. He had said my story was good. Was that the truth? Either way, what could it hurt? I would write when Alfonso was gone, which was most of the time. Before, this had been simply a child’s poem, but William Shakespeare encouraged me to make it into something more, and I vowed that was what I would do. I would do it for him.
AND THAT’S WHAT I did. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote until my hand cramped up, and then I wrote more. My mind filled with lovers and fairies. I was in a daze. The scratching of my quill brought back memories, and the ink smelled like an old friend. I ran my hands over the parchment, writing as small and as straight as I could so the words would look legitimate on the page. It felt good; the words flowed from my pen like water from a pitcher. I did not know if I was doing it correctly, but I did not stop to make sure. I moved Henry’s cradle right next to my chair, so if he needed me I could be right there for him. He was quiet most of the time and only cried when he was hungry or lonely. Most of the time he was more my companion than my child. He would smile at me when I glanced down to make sure he was doing all right. He was six months old now, and he was beginning to outgrow his bed. I would have to ask Alfonso to build him a new one when he got back.
After I finished writing late at night, the characters and scenes still danced inside my mind. It felt so real; I lived in that world. I would pick up Henry and put him in my bed and hold him in my arms as his tiny breaths faded into sleep. My eyes stared wide open at the cracked ceiling. But my mind would be in the forest with my fairies and lovers. I did not want to leave.
I RECEIVED A LETTER from Margaret.
Emilia,
We miss you at court. Without you or Lady Bess, life here has been slow and lonely. I have Anne, but there is no one I can talk to or confide in.
I see Alfonso every now and then, his brow furrowed, going to and from the queen’s chambers. She is very demanding of him and requests that he play for her and whichever courtier has taken her fancy whenever she commands.
I wish you back, and I wonder how you fare as a married woman. Please write back soon. Your companionship is missed.
Love,
Margaret
I WAS INTERRUPTED ANOTHER day, a few months later, by five knocks on the door. William Shakespeare was back. I dressed quickly. All I had done that day was write, and I had gotten stuck at one part in my story. Henry laughed as I tripped over my skirts. Did he know about my absurd attraction? Was he laughing at my folly?
I attached the back of my dress nimbly, while he knocked his signature greeting again. I fumbled toward the door and then realized that my hair was loose around my shoulders. I opened it anyway.
“Lady Lanier.” He smiled and grabbed my hand, pulling me over the threshold. The feeling of his hand in mine was familiar and just as wonderful as before, but still I could not hide my astonishment.
“What is going on?” I cried as he started to lead me down the street.
“The surprise,” he said plainly. I remembered him mentioning it at our last meeting.
I quickened my step to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The theatre.”
“Wait.” I stopped. “Henry.”
Shakespeare swore and turned around quickly. We rushed back to the house. I had left the door open, and Henry was still in his cradle, laughing. I had been so caught up in William Shakespeare holding my hand that I had completely forgotten about my own child. I placed Henry in my arms and made sure the door was firmly closed behind me before we set out once again.
“Could the child stay with someone?” Shakespeare asked. “The theatre is crowded this time of day, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”
He was asking me to choose between Henry and this so-called surprise. Or did he want me to decide between Henry and himself? I looked down into my son’s face. I hesitated. Henry smiled naively. I bit my lip.
Finally I agreed, knowing that he was right; Henry would be overwhelmed. We went to the house next door, where I had talked to the mistress of the home over the fence. She was hanging out her laundry. I had left Henry with her before, for short periods of time, when I went to the market to buy food, fabric, or parchment and ink. She seemed pleasant. She was an older woman whose husband had passed away, and I figured there was no better person to watch Henry than she.
We knocked on her door; William’s fingers played on his coat, nudging the decorative buttons and toying with the worn leather.
The elderly woman opened the door. She did not seem surprised to see me.
“Excuse me,” I asked. “Do you mind watching my son?”
“For how long?” her voice croaked.
I turned to William, who stared impatiently down the street towards the theatre.
“Two, perhaps three hours,” he replied, but his mind was clearly somewhere else.
“How much?” she asked, grinning. She was missing a tooth. I told her a number, and she smacked her lips and reached for the child.
Once Henry was safe in the lady’s arms, she looked at Shakespeare quizzically. She must have been certain that he was not my husband. William took my hand once again and began to lead me to the theatre.
The streets were crowded, and we had to
jostle our way through the throng of people headed to the Rose. I had never been this way through the city. I had only gone to the market since moving to London, and I was beginning to find the city a fascinating place. Most of the people here were peasants, and Shakespeare seemed to be right at home, navigating his way through the crowds and dodging the horses and carts. I held tightly to his hand and let him drag me, as if we were a horse and cart among the many others.
He squeezed my hand every time we came across a puddle or a horse that he needed to steer us around. I felt as if I were young again.
We passed through a narrow alley. The buildings crowded together like birds on a sill. I could hear the shouts of London as we came closer to the main street that led to the theatre. The smell of sweat and dirt and manure pervaded the air.
There were so many people. I had never seen a congregation like this, except perhaps at the Easter holiday or the Queen of Scots’s beheading. This was different, however; people weren’t coming here to see violence or God or the queen. They were coming to see Shakespeare.
When we finally reached the theatre, Shakespeare pulled me along toward the back. There weren’t as many people there, and I was glad for the ability to stop and rest, for we hadn’t slowed since we left my house. Shakespeare let go of my hand, and I missed the feeling of his fingers laced with mine. We entered through a lonely door, and when we stepped inside, I was amazed to find that we were in a dark room with a wooden ceiling above us. Light from above escaped through the slats.
“We are under the stage,” William whispered. His voice caressed my ear, and I smelled his distinctive scent.
There were clunks and thuds above us as the actors and musicians walked. The scent of spiced food wafted throughout the air, and my stomach groaned. I hadn’t eaten, since I had been writing all morning. I did not care. I was too engrossed in what was going on.
We reached a flight of stairs, and I followed William up them. The wooden boards creaked beneath our feet, and then we stepped out into an auditorium. The light hit my face, blinding me. I held my hand over my eyes, shielding them from the bright light until I could make out the silhouettes of objects and people. There were several hundred here. A sea of faces. They had all come to see this man’s work.
The expansive stage took up most of the area; it stretched lazily out, like a dock into the ocean. High beams supported the upper level, where the elite sat. I felt as though I were in the middle of a rainbow, surrounded by the bright colors from the audience’s clothes. I felt important, as if I was a duke’s escort. I took a peek behind me to see the set. It was much improved, with real flowers and a vibrantly painted sun.
“Come,” he said, leading me across the stage. I heard a few whistles from the pit, where the less fortunate spectators stood. I had forgotten that I had kept my hair hanging about my shoulders instead of putting it in a cap. I pulled it back with my hands and tried to make something of it, but I had nothing to tie it with. It would have to hang there, as if I were a silly virgin.
I hoped no one I knew was present, for what would happen if someone caught me like this with William Shakespeare? They could only assume the worst.
We climbed a set of wooden stairs toward the balcony, where the wealthier members of society sat. Several men recognized Shakespeare and shook his hand, congratulating him for a play that had not even started. He smiled confidently and thanked each one of them, as I was sure he had done a hundred times before. The ladies were dressed in fine silks, and I felt foolish in my simple muslin dress. I wished I had had time to prepare myself a bit more.
“Performing today, Master Shakespeare?” a man asked. He wore a thin beard and rings on his fingers. I recognized the stones that sat on top of each ring as rubies and sapphires. His blood-red doublet was trimmed in silver lining, and it matched the belt he wore around his slender waist.
“No.” Shakespeare smiled. “I let Kempe have this one today.”
The man turned to me. He must have thought ill, for I looked nothing like the woman next to him. She was pale, and her hair was pulled back under a cap, which only heightened her beautiful features and made them more admirable. No doubt, underneath her cap was a trail of golden hair. “Who is this lady?” the man said as he kissed my hand. “She is lovely. What is your name, dear?”
“Emilia,” Shakespeare answered quickly before I could. I noticed he had hurried to hide that I was married and a Lanier.
We sat down in the seats he’d saved. I felt his elbow touch mine. I prayed he would not move it away, and he did not. It was a whole feeling, like when you were hungry and you had your fill. It was like wanting wine and finding that the bottle you chose tasted better than you expected.
He stared straight ahead, oblivious to the feelings rushing inside me. It was easy to pretend that they weren’t there; it was much harder to admit to myself that they were. The loud voices quieted when a man in costume, decorated in a page’s hat and leather boots, stepped out onto the stage with a scroll in his hand. He unfurled it slowly.
“Henry the Fourth, Part One,” he announced, his voice loud and clear as it traveled the theatre.
It was the play I had requested that Shakespeare write for Henry Carey—the precursor to the play he’d performed for us in court. I turned in my seat to see if my old master was there, but I could not see him. I looked to see if William was watching my reaction, but his eyes were focused on the sets and the actors now on the stage. He had brought me here to see it, but it was clear his mind was on his creation.
The play began in London with the ailing king and his advisor. The costumes, once so drab and shabby, were now neat and true to the time period. The painted scenes showed what Greenwich might have looked like at that time—darker, with less ornate furniture. The actors moved about, speaking their parts and creating a whole world. It seemed so real—the actual stage and theatre brought the scenes to life better than a simple canvas set had. I was soon lost in the story.
Partway through the play, I felt a set of eyes on me. I turned to meet the gaze of Shakespeare himself.
“What do you think?” he said softly.
What could I say? The first time I had seen Shakespeare’s work in the queen’s court, Henry Carey had asked me the same question. I began to speak but closed my mouth promptly. There were no words that could express how I felt here, watching his art, being with him.
His fingers wrapped around mine once again, and this time it wasn’t because he was showing me something or leading me somewhere. He did this because he wanted to. Our breathing matched, our chests rising and falling to the same rhythm, and I could feel us drawing together.
We watched the players on the stage, but it was as if our own lives were entangled in it. I could not find where the stage started and where it ended. Who were the actors and who were the spectators? Where did William end and I begin? The lines were becoming blurred, and I was no longer certain of anything.
AFTER THE PLAY WAS over, William and I went down to the stage. Everyone who hadn’t congratulated him before the play did so now, and we were swarmed with people from every class. Shakespeare treated them all with kindness. He was modest about his plays; there was always a bit of doubt in his voice when he thanked the spectators. They would tell him it was excellent, and he would nod hesitantly, as if deciding whether they were right.
“Excellent, Master Shakespeare.” A man in garb nearly as fine as Essex’s patted him on the back. “You must put on another soon.”
“I will if I can actually get it written,” William joked.
I hid farther away, nearer the edge of the stage. I did not want anyone to assume that I was more than an acquaintance. William looked back at me a few times, but I could not walk over. I let him enjoy his moment.
Some people asked who I was—mostly the dwellers of the upper classes—and he replied the same every time. I was simply Emilia. I was not a former mistress to one of the most influential men in England, not the daughter of the king’s musician. I
was not married to the queen’s favorite harpist. I was just Emilia. It was insulting and liberating at the same time.
I froze when I thought I saw Henry Carey with his wife shuffling toward the door. I turned away. If he saw me here, I was sure to die of shame. I hid my face from the crowd trailing toward the exit. After a few moments, I peeked under my hand to see a broad back facing me. He was leading a robust woman wearing fine lace through the door. I did not know if it was Henry, but I could not have been more relieved that he did not recognize me if indeed it were he.
Once the theatre cleared out, it was just him and me—William and Emilia. We looked out onto the now-empty seats and pit where crowds had stood. The once-busy building was now quiet. I stood next to the cannon, the one that had caused William’s appearance that day at my house.
“So.” He smiled mischievously. He pointed to an intricately carved piece of wood. “What is this?”
I recognized the game we had played at court. It seemed so long ago. Back then, this piece of wood would have been a simple stick. Henry Carey’s money had served them well.
“The scepter of England,” I replied after some time. “It has been shipped from Rome by the pope for the king’s coronation—a gift, if you will. The handle”—I picked up the prop—“is solid gold, and the cross on the top was a pendant on a necklace His Holiness wore around his neck. His alliance is supposed to be with France, but he would like to see the young country—and its young king—succeed.”
I waited for a response from William, but I received none. He was looking at me, and just me. Usually I saw many things in his eyes, but at that moment, I saw nothing but my own reflection smiling back at me. He took a step toward me…and then a step back. Was he unsure about what he thought of me?
We waited there. What was holding him back? It was as if he were deciding whether I was worth it. Something I had done had changed his mind. What could it have been?
