by Alexa Schnee
He shuffled his feet and looked away from me, around the theatre. He’d made his decision. I felt my heart drop as I realized that I had been expecting more, something that showed that he thought of me the same way I did him. But there was no such revelation. He smiled, but it looked painful. His eyes were once again filled with ideas and stories, and I was just a passing thought.
I tried to hide my disappointment, but I wondered how clearly he could see it. I looked at the floor of the stage, at the boards perfectly aligned.
“We must get back to Henry,” I said, now that I was sure of how he felt. “He is probably lonely.” I hadn’t thought of my son in hours.
Shakespeare nodded and plastered a smile on his face. He took my hand once again, but this time without the warmth that I had experienced earlier. After all, I was just a friend. Not even that—the wife of a friend.
The streets weren’t nearly as crowded as they had been before, and we were able to make our way home quickly. Every now and then I would look at his face, hoping to see something that would support his earlier actions, but I could find none.
When we reached my neighbor’s house, he knocked on the door. Just two quick knocks, not five consistent ones. When she came to answer the door, she had Henry asleep in her arms. He looked as if he’d weathered the experience of being in someone else’s care fairly well. I thanked her and offered to pay, and she held out a hand as she eyed Shakespeare suspiciously. William pulled out a coin and handed it to her. After that, he didn’t seem so suspicious in her eyes.
William escorted me to my own door. I held my child close. I felt bad for leaving Henry so suddenly, but it had been a day that I would not forget. I hadn’t remembered how good the sun felt on my cheeks. It was refreshing to hear applause and laughter and praise, and I loved the smells and sounds of the theater. I opened the door.
“Well.” Shakespeare sighed. “Thank you for going with me to the theatre. It wouldn’t have felt right without you.”
I nodded in thanks. “I should be thanking you. It was magnificent.”
“Beauty breeds beauty,” he added simply. “It was your idea.”
I felt my cheeks flush. Did he think me beautiful?
“Thank you again,” I said before I entirely lost my wits.
“You are welcome, my lady,” he said. He kissed my hand and began his way down the steps. My eyes followed him as he walked farther and farther away. He only looked back once.
He waved. I waved. I watched him until he was gone, but he was still in my heart long after he left.
ENGLAND, 1594
DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH I
LONDON
ALFONSO RETURNED HOME JUST before Twelfth Night. It had been a busy season for him, first at the queen’s court and then, during the Christmas holiday, traveling throughout the country. Noblemen invited him to play at their homes for a few days or a week, before he packed up and left for the next estate. It had been a good year for him financially, and his stock of beer and wine increased.
It was strange, living with him again. We were tedious at first, living like those newly married. We tried not to make mistakes in front of each other and never spoke out of turn, but he still didn’t apologize for hitting me, and I wondered what I should do if he did it again. It would only be a few more years before Henry would be old enough to go with him and learn his craft, and I worried about the boy’s safety.
After a few days, things returned to normal and Alfonso hid in the bedroom once again, only coming out if he was meeting the troupe for a trip to the pub. I did not want to know where else he went, nor did I ask him.
William Shakespeare did not return to see me while Alfonso was in town. After the play, William had not come to see me at all. I often waited to hear his knocks on the door, but they never came. I wondered what I had done that day to discourage him from visiting me. I spent nights sewing and mending and thinking about that wonderful and terrible day. Remembering it was like rehearsing a play inside my head. If I had done something differently, would the outcome have changed? He no longer came to the door to see me—only my husband, his business partner. I would rarely see him. They would leave together before I was able to say hello.
Days ran together while Alfonso was home, and there was no escape through writing. Alfonso would not allow it while he was there, so I did not even try. I felt as if I was letting myself and William down. The only thing that changed from day to day was Henry; he grew from a baby to a walking, talking toddler. He remained my greatest companion and joy.
“I’m going to the pub,” Alfonso called on his way out one night. It was his third night in a row away from me and the baby.
I placed a spoonful of mashed peas in Henry’s mouth; he was eating solid foods now.
“When will you be back?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” he grunted. He was just about to the door.
I thought for a moment. I had been thinking about asking whether I could return to court in the summer with him. He was in a relatively good mood, so I decided to make my proposition.
“No,” I said. I put another spoonful in Henry’s waiting mouth.
“Good.” He began to walk away.
“I want to go to court this season,” I said quickly, curtly.
He stared at me. It felt like it was minutes, but I’m sure it was only seconds before he spoke. His face was hard and stiff, and it appeared as unbreakable as marble.
“No,” he answered. He strode away.
I heard the door close. I dropped Henry’s spoon on the table and placed a hand on my forehead. I had no freedom at all. Was I to be shut away like a criminal?
The thought of spending more months alone made me cringe. Henry, my child, was my closest friend. It was both a beautiful and a desperate thing. I knew everything about him, from his smiles to his frowns to his cries of laughter to his groans of sorrow, and I loved that I knew him so well.
But I wished for Margaret and Anne. I wished for Margaret’s hugs and her motherly love. I wished for Anne’s laughter, and I wanted to introduce her to Henry. They would be good companions for each other. I wished for things to be the way they had been before.
I decided I would do whatever I could to return to court.
I WROTE TO MARGARET the next day.
Dear Margaret,
I find myself longing for you and Anne more than I can stand. The only people in this world who would understand me are you and my son, Henry. I wanted so badly to be happy in this new life, yet I find no joy at all. Alfonso is nothing but a spoiled child. We knew that long ago, didn’t we? We knew he used others for his own benefit. I worry about you and George. I worry about Lady Bess and Frances. I even worry about Her Majesty, though she is old enough and wise enough to take of herself.
I miss you. My friends here are Henry and the play-wright, William Shakespeare. William has come over a few times when Alfonso was gone, and he treats me kindly. His kindness is a welcome relief. I find myself waiting for him. It is silly, I know. But you would understand, I think.
Perhaps the real reason I write is that Alfonso has forbidden me to go back to court this next season, even if the queen has requested my presence. I’m afraid I will never see you or Anne again. I do not think I could live with that. I will try to convince Alfonso to let me go, but I must ask that you write to me as soon as you hear of the ladies who are invited and write to me if I am one of them.
Take care, Margaret, and please write back soon. I will be waiting for your words of wisdom and your gentle manner of suggestion. If anyone can make this better for me, it is you.
Emilia
It would be days or even weeks before I heard from her, but the possibility of receiving some comfort gave me hope. I knew that once she read my woes, she would write as soon as she was able.
Alfonso would be leaving again in the spring. To be a musician was transient. Though I waited eagerly for him to go, I also found myself dreading being alone.
Wi
lliam Shakespeare and Alfonso were together almost every night. They would go to the pub some nights. William hardly ever spoke a word to me when he came to the door, and he and Alfonso grew closer, almost like brothers. I found it strange. Alfonso was not kind to all men, but William seemed to have a way of understanding him. It was more than I, his wife, ever could.
One time, I was convinced Shakespeare had forgotten me. He came to our house one evening to retrieve Alfonso. The air was freezing. The cold came through the walls of the house and bit my toes, even through my stockings and shoes. I wrapped Henry in a blanket and carried him close to my chest to keep him warm, pulling my cloak tighter. Even though fires had been burning in both the kitchen and the living area all day, it still wasn’t warm enough to take off my cumbersome clothing.
I heard a noise outside and turned to see William’s figure through the frost covering the window. He strode up to the door with determined steps that reminded me of the day we’d met at court so long ago.
“Master Shakespeare is here,” I called to the back bedroom just as I heard William knocking. I placed a hand on the latch, which was cold even through the leather gloves I wore.
Alfonso emerged, pulling on a cap over his ears. He, too, wore a heavy coat and gloves.
“I don’t know when I will be back,” he said.
I nodded before I opened the door.
William bustled in, his arms wrapped tightly around the rest of his body. He brought a bone-chilling gust of wind with him.
“We had best hurry there,” he spoke to Alfonso. “I don’t plan to spend any more time in this weather than I have to.”
He did not even look at me or greet me as Alfonso passed me and they left, laughing as they went. After closing the door I looked through the window, but it became hard to see them as they continued down the dark streets. How could I have ever thought that William Shakespeare might feel something for me? My heart grew colder than I thought possible as I brought Henry next to the hearth. I tried to keep my mind off my memory of that day at the theater.
On several occasions, the two men came to the house instead of the pub. Alfonso would carry in a new bottle of wine and I would get out the glasses. These were the only times I ever saw Alfonso happy. When he and Shakespeare were together, they laughed about news from court or talked business. They would speak of money, of the queen, of life in general. Most of the time I heard it through the bedroom door, but if Alfonso had had something to drink before he came home, sometimes I could sit in the chair in the far corner and listen to their conversation.
I was glad when spring arrived. We received a letter from the queen. She wanted Alfonso back at court. I was afraid to ask if I could read it, so I watched him throw it in the fire just as he had last time. It burned rapidly and became ash. I held Henry in my arms and watched my happiness go up in flames.
“The queen wants you back?” I asked tenuously.
He nodded and threw another letter into the fire.
I stood up slowly and walked Henry over to his bed. He fell asleep in my arms and went as limp as a doll. I kissed him gently, saying a short prayer, and only then did I rejoin Alfonso.
“I would like to go to court too,” I said, trying to make my voice as brave as possible.
“We’ve already discussed this.” His gruff voice almost made me back down.
“I would like to discuss it again.”
He breathed in through his nose, and from the flickering light of the fire, I could see his grip tighten on a piece of paper. What was he so afraid of? Was he afraid that I would sacrifice my honor and pride to the next man I laid eyes on?
I waited for his reply. If this hadn’t been such an important situation, I would have enjoyed the peacefulness of it and that we were actually getting along. The fire continued to burn, and my eyes wandered to the paper he was holding.
“That has my name on it.” I reached for it.
He jerked it away. I stretched out my fingers, trying to snatch the envelope away from his hands. I couldn’t reach it. He held it too far away. Who would have sent me a letter? Could it have been Margaret? Or the queen? I had wondered why I hadn’t received a reply from anyone at court. I now understood what he had done.
“How many of those have you burned?” I demanded. “Tell me.”
His hand gripped the paper harder. The handwriting on it was as familiar as my own. It was Margaret’s. Margaret had been writing to me all along, and he had been burning those precious words of comfort that I needed. No doubt when I had given him a letter to deliver to court, he had just thrown them away as well. What if Frances had wanted to see me? What if something had happened to baby Anne?
I was angrier than I had ever been. I jumped at him, my hands shaped like claws, ready to scratch his face and hurt him like he had hurt me. He took hold of my wrists and held me as I flailed about like an animal. I was ready to kill him. I did not care if blood would be spilled. He had lied to me.
He finally pushed me down into the chair. I felt his hand collide with my nose. He slapped me repeatedly while I struggled to kick him. I could not even feel his attacks. My anger numbed them. I was too upset to care that he was hitting me over and over again. I got hold of his hand, and before I could stop myself, my teeth sank into the curve between his thumb and forefinger.
He stopped for a moment to examine his hand and breathed in angrily through his nose. Then he turned to me, more vicious than ever. He hit my face, harder, and this time the agony exploded.
Only once did I cry out in pain. My hands flew to my tender nose to protect it. Otherwise, I let him hit me. I was done fighting with him. The battle had been won, but the war was not over. He would regret this day and the actions that had caused this uproar. Blood spurted from my nose, and he gave me a look of horror. He seemed disgusted with both himself and me.
Once I knew he was done with me, I stood up and strode past him to Henry’s bed. I stood in front of it, a barrier. Alfonso’s eyes bore into me.
He laughed.
“It is not the baby I have a problem with. I will never touch him.”
“Promise me.” My voice came out cracked, and I was surprised that my words were so feeble, like I needed something from him. But maybe I did. Maybe I needed to know that I could put that fear to rest and not worry about Henry’s safety.
He considered it, his brow wrinkling. Could I trust him either way? I wasn’t sure. But at least I would know that I had tried to protect the boy.
Alfonso nodded. “I promise. You will never speak of this.”
“Then allow me my letters. The queen should not think so highly of you if word was to get out that you beat one of her ladies.”
He glared at me; he knew I was right. His status as her favorite musician would be tainted if my blood was on his hands.
“They are yours to read.”
HE CAME A WEEK after Alfonso’s departure. I rushed across our tiny house to open the door before he knocked again. Henry was deep in sleep and I didn’t want to wake him. Shakespeare’s eyes were on everything besides the wood of the door when I opened it.
“Is Alfonso here?”
“No, he’s not. He’s gone back to court,” I replied.
He grinned. “That’s too bad,” he said and then stepped inside the door. I put a finger to my lips, signaling for him to be quiet, and motioned him in. He nodded and walked past me. I closed the door silently and turned to face him. “It appears I will have to write to him instead.” But he made no move to go.
“What do you need, Master Shakespeare?” I whispered.
“So we are on introductory terms again?” He matched my pitch.
“I hardly see you anymore. I do not know if we are on friendly terms.”
His eyes laughed. “I see. Once again, I am William, Lady Lanier.”
“Very well. Once again, I am Emilia, William.”
There was a pause. We did not speak. Finally he pointed at my nose.
“That is some lovely paint they
are requiring ladies to wear nowadays. First it was just rouge.”
I had forgotten about my face. Alfonso had left his mark, and it was slow to heal. I was a fair alchemist, but this had been quite a challenge.
I did not need to explain. William gently pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit down. He went into the kitchen, where he took several herbs from their jars and placed them in a cloth, which he then wetted. I could smell lavender and sage coming from the cloth. The scents floated throughout the room.
“You are good with audiences, words, and herbs?”
“A trick I learned in Stratford-upon-Avon.”
He placed the cool cloth on my sore face, holding it against my skin as softly as I would have to Henry’s. The liquid seeped through the cloth and eased my aching skin and muscles.
His eyes were concentrated on mine, and I looked away shyly because of the intensity.
“This is what my mother did when I fought. She was always concerned about me. I was her only boy, so she did not know that all boys fight.” He chuckled. “This heals all sorts of cuts and bruises.”
“What’s it like there, in Stratford?” I asked. I had never traveled past Essex or Kent, though I would have been happy to.
“It’s small, mostly a farming community. Everyone knows others’ business.”
He smiled fondly. I wondered if he was remembering his childhood.
“Did you go to school there?”
“Yes. I was one of the few in my family who did.”
This man was so honest. There was no pride in his voice or vacillation before he said anything. It was almost as if he were merely reciting lines from one of his plays.
“Your…” I faltered. “Your wife…does she live there?”
He nodded again, and I could feel him tense. He took the cloth from my face.
“She does.”
“Do you visit her often?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
There was more silence, and I scolded myself for presenting the subject of his wife. It was obvious that he did not wish to speak of her. His mind was now clearly on something else, and I watched him look toward my book of writings on the table.
