Shakespeare's Lady

by Alexa Schnee

  “You don’t think I have been?” he said, his back still turned to me. His eyes were on the ceiling, his head tilted upward. I wondered if he were making maps of the river Thames out of the cracks as I once had. “I’m trying my best. You know how I would rather defy Elizabeth than cower under her power.”

  I answered honestly and cruelly, dashing his fantasies.

  “Yes, but there is nothing we can do.”

  He turned around to face me, his face contorting in an angry expression I had never seen before. His hands gripped my shoulders. He attempted to kiss me, whether in anger and desperation or distress at being apart for so long, I did not know. I turned my cheek, though I wanted his lips on mine as much as he did.

  “I have no choice? I am bound to her too, as we all are? That is not living. What kind of a sad existence is that?” he exclaimed after I denied him.

  “We can’t do anything,” I said sadly.

  “Unless if we are truly to love without care. Let us face the queen and admit it. Leave Alfonso and his wrath.”

  I sighed quietly enough so that only I could hear it. Didn’t he know how hard it was for me to begin with? The last thing I needed was him convincing me to give up the life I had.

  “What are you afraid of?” he went on. “That you’ll be beheaded like the Queen of Scots, or that you will be exiled like Lady Bess? Or are you afraid to look the queen in the eye and tell her that you have found what she could never have? You can pretend you love Alfonso to please her or the Countess of Cumberland or even to convince yourself, but you know the truth, Emilia. Your God knows the truth.”

  We were so similar and so different. Our truths were both truth and false. I had once seen my life so clearly, and now I could barely understand my own feelings. Since meeting him, I now understood both my reasons and his. It disturbed me that I could be so easily swayed.

  “You know I love you,” I answered after some thought. “But I have to think of others besides myself. What of my boy? What of Margaret?”

  William did not answer. He glanced away from me and to the window, and I wasn’t sure whether he was simply refusing to answer me or whether he had nothing to say. When he was quiet, I never knew what to think.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I continued. “You should understand. You love Henry as well. We are endangering him and your friend and my husband.”

  He looked a little defeated, as though he couldn’t believe I was attacking him. I wasn’t trying to; I just wanted him to comprehend my position. I did not want to hurt him.

  “Think of your family,” I added.

  “You don’t think I have?” he replied angrily. “They are far away and not important enough to be hurt by the queen’s rage. She would be more interested in hurting you. What do you think she would do? Behead your boy? Torture Alfonso? Or are you more afraid to stand in front of her and tell her the truth? You only married him to make her happy.”

  I couldn’t argue that.

  “This isn’t about my marriage.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “It is about every underlying issue in this relationship we have ever had—your marriage, your apprehension, and your friends’ thoughts. You love me; I know this. I know you do. I just can’t comprehend why what the queen says or does matters so much to you.”

  The words would not come to me. How could I tell him that I thought of the queen as my family? My supporter? My guide? Someone to take care of me when it seemed that I would have to take care of myself?

  “She was someone who seemed she would always be there and who I could always admire and respect,” was all I could say.

  He shook his head gently, and a sad smile crept upon his face. He held his hands together and eyed them, as though he were contemplating something about them instead of me.

  “Do you doubt yourself so much? You are my sun. I wouldn’t love anyone who wasn’t.”

  “I know. And I appreciate your support, but William, you must understand. I have never had anyone’s approval but yours, Margaret’s, and the queen’s.”

  He shook his head and one of his hands flew into the air.

  “Why you should need others’ approval is beyond my comprehension. You should need no one’s but your own.”

  “The queen helped me in many ways, and I owe her the life I live today, as do you,” I continued.

  And he would need her support if he were to build his theatre.

  “Well, I can see us doing two things,” he commented, his anger subsiding. “We could do as you say and forget we ever met each other, forget we ever loved each other. Perhaps you can do that, but I can’t. Neither can I continue to be friends with Alfonso if I have to see you. I couldn’t stand coming to your home and seeing you smile and laugh. If the queen wanted to torture me, she could think of nothing worse.”

  I agreed with him completely. I didn’t think I could live, seeing him the way I had before. Even when we had just been friends, it had been hard to see him. It was even worse once we committed and had to pretend that nothing had changed, when, of course, everything had.

  “The second thing would be to continue as we are, but to be more careful and more understanding of the other. I was trying to protect you. I thought I was doing the right thing. I can’t see why the queen would care about our insignificant happiness, but if you really fear Her Majesty, we will be very careful. Very, very careful.”

  I nodded slowly, biting my lower lip. Could I compromise? I could still be with William, but was it worth it?

  “So what do you propose we do?”

  He already guessed what my answer would be. He smiled and took my hand again, his thumb gliding across the back of it. He treated me with such delicacy. It was so unlike Alfonso that I couldn’t help but enjoy his fingers enclosing mine.

  “I was serious about your story, as I always have been. It is a wonderful idea and I am more than willing to help you with it.”

  I laughed. “William, it is nothing worth helping.”

  “When are you going to realize how talented you really are?”

  I sighed. “Never, probably.”

  He kissed me softly on the cheek. His lips were so sure; he was so committed to following what he wanted, what he loved. At that moment I was jealous of William. I was jealous of how everything that seemed right to me wasn’t what seemed right to him.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  He smiled and brushed my right cheek with the tips of his fingers. “I love you too. We will be very careful, Emilia. The queen will not even know. We love each other too much not to continue. I do not want to lose you.”

  “I don’t want to lose you either,” I said. A part of me screamed in disappointment at myself that I could not stay angry with him, while another breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I would not have to give him up.

  He gave a small laugh back and kissed my neck. Once. Twice. “I have missed you.”

  “Yes,” I simply said. “Yes.”

  The next thing I knew, my lips were on his and we began to lose our surroundings. I saw and felt only him, and he gave me the impression that he was as lost as me. I had missed him. I had wanted him to hold me and kiss me and desire me, and now I felt complete, as the old, familiar, happy feeling overwhelmed me.

  WE WERE VERY CAREFUL. We rarely saw each other, and when we did, we spoke only salutations. We did nothing that could be interpreted as love or passion. We would smile and bow our heads slightly and then continue on.

  But the evenings we were together were beyond anything I could have ever imagined. It was a relief not to have to worry about Alfonso, or even Henry. It was only William and only me.

  He spent much more time with the queen than I would have liked, but it could not be helped. She called him into her chambers to hear his poetry. The poems he had written about me were given to Her Majesty. He sat in the place of honor some nights in the Great Hall. Hot tears boiled behind my eyes as I saw Elizabeth laughing with him or putting a hand on his back, but I c
ould not let them show.

  I only got to be with him late at night when everyone in our quarters was asleep. It was uncommon to find people wandering around this part of the palace at night. Mistresses weren’t a normal occurrence in the lower classes; only the wealthy could afford to pay for dresses and jewelry for women other than their wives.

  Most of the time William would sneak to my chambers; it was easier for a man to be seen in the halls at those late hours than a woman. He would knock five times, just like he always had.

  I would let him in. We would talk of his plans for a new theatre and of our days. He always asked me why I wouldn’t let him publish my mediocre play. I would laugh and he would laugh. It was not something I would want exposed to the world with my name on it, but he kept bringing it up.

  In my tiny chamber, we would sit on the floor, holding hands, while he worked on his play, Romeo and Juliet. Darkness waited for light outside my window, and William and I looked for stars shining through the glass panes while the fire warmed our bones. The scratch of his pen became the rhythm of my life. He sat at that old desk, head bent over delicious words. Every now and then he would read them aloud.

  “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’?” he asked, candlelight shining on the amber color in his brown hair. “How does that sound?”

  “Perfect,” I’d reply. It always sounded perfect to me.

  “Don’t you think it could use a bit more…something?”

  “No,” I said. “I think it is just fine.”

  “Should it end happily?” He smiled mischievously. He squeezed my hand and planted a kiss on my neck.

  “Yes,” I said. “We are happy enough, are we not?”

  “Seems unfair to deny them what we have found.”

  When he wasn’t writing plays, he was writing sonnets to pass the time. I would sit on his bed or in the musty chair by the hearth. Sometimes my own scratching would match his and we wouldn’t speak; we simply worked together. Even then, it was comfortable just to have him near.

  Now and then I caught him looking over at me and watching me as I worked. I could feel his stare.

  On days he was more rested, we would pull out my little book of writings and cross out lines, write new ones in, and evaluate the work that needed to be done. I put myself into this project halfheartedly; it was William’s more than mine now.

  I suppose what I adored most about William was his ability to love me without the usual expectations of a mistress. He didn’t just want me for the lovemaking or the kisses or to have me on his arm when he went to state dinners. He didn’t seem to mind our late-night talks. In fact, he seemed interested in what I had to say. He would even ask me for advice about his plays.

  Yet sometimes he kept me at a distance. When he needed something to recite to the queen the next day, I was not invited to his chambers. There were pieces of his world I was not a part of.

  During those times, I couldn’t help but wonder if I came second to his work and fantasies. He never asked for anything more than what I was willing to give, and I tried to return the favor. I did not want gifts or dresses or anything a mistress would want. They were what I wanted when I was a mistress to Henry Carey…but maybe if I had loved him, things would have been different. Love was a strange thing. It changed my perspective and made me realize all I had been missing. I tried not to think about all I was giving up.

  MARGARET REMAINED AT A distance while William was there. She never spoke about him, and I never mentioned him. I knew she was glad that I could fall in love and be content, but she also thought William wasn’t worthy of my love. He was a playwright to her, only that, and she did not approve of the time he spent with the queen. She cautioned us to be just as careful during the nights as we were during the days.

  I would visit her sometimes, mostly when William was working. We would have our lunch, and I would get to see Anne. She was a striking girl, her face much more like her father’s than her mother’s. While Margaret’s face had a warm, comforting appearance, Anne’s face was more angular, with higher cheekbones and altogether a darker look. Her eyes were sharp and saw much; the girl was wise beyond her five years. It seemed only a few days ago I had held her in her baby clothes and walked her around the palace garden.

  She would come and sit on my lap sometimes. We liked each other. She didn’t ask questions. All she demanded was that I tell her a story once in a while. I was happy to oblige. I tried to tell stories that would please both Anne and her mother. I loved it when I could get a laugh out of Margaret. My situation was weighing on her, and I tried to cheer her up as much as possible.

  It wasn’t only me who was causing Margaret distress. The queen was a constant worry to her. Margaret spent most of her days catering to Her Majesty, since Anne was old enough to stay in the chambers under the supervision of the other ladies. I sympathized with my friend. It was long past the time when she should return to Cumberland and raise Anne.

  The queen was lonely without Essex. It had been months since she had sent him to Ireland and commanded that her ladies stay close to her side during this time. I was sorry for the queen. She was an old woman now, but she was still not content with what she had achieved in her lifetime. She never would be.

  Spring turned into summer, and my days alone were simple and pleasant. I wrote and read and spent time outside until my face resembled that of a gypsy’s. I received many stares, mostly from children who had always been told that white skin was fashionable. I was the only dark lady in the court. The others all came from noble English families with centuries of white skin. William loved it, calling me a Moor. His own skin was a lovely olive color; he spent more time in the sun than the other gentlemen.

  “We must look like quite the pair,” he said one night as we sat talking in his room.

  I laughed with him. The musician’s daughter and the playwright. What an odd couple we must be.

  I was so happy then. We kept our secret as best we could. We were blissful. I prayed often, perhaps more than I ever had before. Even then, I thought about forgiveness. I wondered if what I was doing was truly a sin and how God saw it. Everything I had believed about doing the right thing was confused and contorted. It was easier to forget that what I was doing might be wrong. I did not want to believe it could be.

  William would come to church sometimes, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes far away. Music filled the high ceilings, and the glass windows reflected on the ground. When we knelt for our prayers, I would peek at him to make sure he wasn’t watching me. He never seemed to pay attention to what was going on, but when I asked him about it, he would always say he liked most of it.

  “I don’t like the sermons,” he would say. “But I love the music. It’s all some grand play for God, is it not?”

  I nodded. In a way, it was. “The Good Lord is watching us from above,” I said. “All the world is a stage, and we are but the players.”

  William laughed.

  William was very happy during this time. I think he saw things he hadn’t before, tasted things differently, and finally loved something that was not completely made in his head. I saw myself in his eyes more often now, though I was still competing with witches, kings, and ghosts. In some ways, I was almost a character of his—a person occupying his mind and his plays. Maybe this character was more beautiful than the reality, but I was excited to be his desire and his focus.

  Sometimes he was so wrapped up in what he was writing that he couldn’t think about anything else. One afternoon I went to his chambers. I was hoping we could spend some precious time together talking—and not about writing. I knocked on his door, and he opened it in haste. His hair was mussed and ink stained his fingers. The scruff on his face seemed thicker.

  “Emilia, darling,” he said hurriedly. “What is it you need?”

  My brow furrowed. “I just wanted to see you,” I replied. “Is now a bad time?”

  “No.” He ran a hand through his hair and paused a moment before speaking
. “Well, yes.”

  “Oh,” I said, taking a step away from the door. “I will leave you alone, then.”

  “No, you can come in,” he said…but with his hands on either side of the doorframe, I could tell he did not want me to.

  “It is fine,” I said, already turning away. I was surprised to find that I did not want to be around him when he was so flustered. My face grew warm. “I will come by later.”

  Before he could stop me, I hurried down the hall, confused at the feelings that tumbled inside me.

  WILLIAM CAME TO MY chambers one afternoon. The summer heat had made the tiny room almost unbearable, but the queen was out in the garden that day, so I stayed in. I sat with my sewing in my lap, hoping to mend one of my dresses enough to be able to wear it.

  He burst in. His eyes darted like a mad man’s, and he looked almost lost. His shirt looked like he had put it on in haste—it was wrinkled. His bag was slung over his shoulder.

  “William?” I asked, standing up. “What’s wrong?” I dropped the dress onto the bed.

  He went to me and took my hands. “My son is very sick. Anne fears death.” He breathed deeply. His hands were shaking. “I am going to see him as quickly as possible.”

  My hand covered my mouth. “Is she sure? There’s no hope at all?”

  He looked away and I could see his concern in his eyes.

  “Do you have everything you need?” I asked before he had to say anything. “Do you need food? Is there anything I can get you?”

  I did not know what to do, but I felt as though I should do something. Yet what could I do but be there for him? I felt powerless.

  He shook his head. His thoughts were far away. He was so worried. Even if he didn’t love Stratford or his wife, he loved his children.

  “You will understand if I do not write to you?”

  “Of course,” I said. He could not have any contact with me while he was with his wife.

  “I will miss you.” He was preoccupied.

  “I will miss you too,” I said.

  He kissed me on the forehead. “Take care.”