“Bar a line or two from my Edward II,” murmured Kit.
“Homage to the master,” snapped William. “As you’ve used a line or two of mine. It’s inevitable; things stick in one’s mind. But I will not have anyone, let alone a talentless, filthy, pox-ridden, whoreson prick like Robert Greene, say I steal other men’s work.”
“No, it’s bad, Will. Greene doesn’t hesitate to take a hit at me, later in his little work.” William glanced at another marked passage, nodded soberly, and ruffled Kit’s hair. “What are we to do? Who printed this rubbish, by the way? Henry Chettle. Hmm. Another playwright. Do you suppose he wrote this himself? Though Greene could never forgive me that my plays take more money than his, and him a university man and, therefore, a gentleman. He tried to borrow money from me once. I refused and he never forgave me.” He flung himself into a chair. “What are we to do, Christopher? Can we do anything? I can’t afford to go to law, even if an action would lie.”
“Nor can I. But I had a good idea, Will, I think I’ve been rather clever. Harry Southampton.”
“Lord Southampton?” asked Anne. “What of him?”
“Well, I had made up my mind to write to Will about this, then I thought, why not ride to Stratford and talk it over; it’s fine weather for riding.” William made an impatient gesture. “Oxford is on the way to Stratford; on one way, at least. And the Queen is at Oxford. And Harry Southampton has been bidden there to dance attendance on Her Majesty. He liked you, Will, when he met you in London. So, what simpler than to stop in Oxford, find Southampton and put the matter to him?”
“But Kit...”
“Oh, he was glad to help. He will help. He was at Gray’s Inn; not that that qualifies him for more than play-going and tobacco-smoking. But he was shocked at the affront to England’s two premier poets. His words, dear Will, not mine.”
“But what can he do?”
“Make representations to Chettle, make him regret he ever published this trash. After all, Will, an earl, and Lord Burghley’s ward. The mere hint of his displeasure would make any printer blench.”
“And will he do it? Why should he bother?”
“I told you, he idolises us. He likes you, admires your plays rather more than he does mine, I think. More to the point, he once sat through half of one of Greene’s efforts.” William laughed aloud. “So, of course, he will help us. He will send representations to Chettle and obtain an apology, a retraction.”
“How very kind of Lord Southampton.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Kit said. “Lord Southampton sent you a letter.” Forgot, my bum, thought Anne, and wondered what Kit thought he was up to.
“How very kind,” William said in a stunned voice when he’d read the letter.
“What is it?”
“Lord Southampton invites me to his home, to Titchfield, in Hampshire, to discuss the poem I’m to write and dedicate to him. Also he speaks of a party of guests later and they, or his mother the Countess, would like a play, a new play. At a fee, of course. It’s a commission.” He looked at Anne as if asking her blessing.
“Of course you must go. You can hardly refuse.”
“No,” said Kit, very blandly. “He cannot.”
7.
It happened that William’s visit had to be postponed. He was about to set out when a letter came: Harry Southampton’s maternal grandfather, Viscount Montague, had died in the first week of October. But please come, wrote Harry, for to have a friend by my side would be a comfort. Details about the funeral followed, then, I will look for you in a week or two from the date of this letter. Please do not fail me.
William wondered if it were unseemly to go to a house in mourning, but another letter begged him yet again to come, and he set out in the middle of October.
Titchfield was not the largest or grandest house William had visited, but it was the first of its kind he had come to as a guest rather than a hired entertainer. He thought it handsome, a pleasant seat in fine countryside, its mellow stone glowing honey-gold in the afternoon sun. For a moment he thought he should go to the back entrance, then thought, No, I am a guest, and rode boldly up to the front door.
A footman greeted him, called for a groom to take his horse, said that His Lordship was out riding but expected back shortly, and handed him on to the butler. The butler said that His Lordship was out riding but expected back shortly, and handed him on to John Florio, Southampton’s Italian secretary. He said that Ees Lordship was out ridingue, but was expected back shortly, and handed William on to a footman, who conducted him at last to his room, saying, “His Lordship is –"
“I know. Out riding, but expected home –"
"Momently.”
“You amaze me.”
“Will you require water for washing?” The man’s tone meant, if you players know what washing is, and he left a space where ‘sir’ or a title might have fitted.
“Of course,” said William with a haughty surprise that wiped the half-smirk off the servant’s face. After all, as his mother had said before he left Stratford, who, a hundred years ago, had heard of the Wriothesleys? Rich they might be, powerful they might be, but they were upstarts whose money came from old King Harry’s destroying the monasteries, and William must never forget he was an Arden by descent.
His room was in the same wing as Harry’s, a mark of signal favour. Hired players usually bedded down wherever they could find a horizontal space. But he was here as a friend, not player or servant. The room was small but gracefully furnished with everything a sensible man could want. Best of all, it had a large writing table in the window with a cushioned chair.
There was water for washing, valets to unpack. He needed do nothing himself. William was not unused to the gentilities of life, but this was another realm. Dreamily he washed, put on the clothes the valet laid out for him, then went to the writing table. One of the serving men was looking doubtfully at the small leathern trunk in which William kept his books and papers. “Leave that to me.” He disliked other people touching these things, except Anne. He arranged his books, the ones he had to have to hand while he worked, his precious copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Boccaccio, Ronsard and Montaigne, a few others, and laid out his paper and pens just so, inkstand to the right. A smaller box with a clicket lock held his current work, and the key to that stayed in his belt-purse. It would be a strange thing to work in someone else’s house, but this room had windows to the south and east, and the garden below. He could work here. What he did here would be good.
He was looking idly through Ovid when Harry came quickly into the room. “Will, my dear friend. I’m so glad you’ve come.” He put a quick kiss on William’s cheek. He was in riding clothes, and the exercise in the brisk air had brought unusual colour to his face. Here on his own territory he was more self-assured, quicker moving, and seemed less boyish.
William had forgotten how beautiful he was.
“Come to my room, I long to talk with you.”
“My lord.”
“Harry, remember? Or are we no longer friends?”
“We are friends. Harry. I want to thank you for your help with that pamphlet of Greene’s.”
“But I was glad to help,” Harry said earnestly. “Such an insult to you couldn’t be left alone. And all it took was a visit from my man of law. A humble retraction will be published.”
“It was kind of you to help. And to invite me here.”
“No, quite selfish of me. The pleasure is mine. Come, now. I’m three doors along. We’ll take glass of wine together. Our time’s our own. My mother is away, so’s my sister.”
Harry’s room was a nest of silk and velvet, gold brocade and crystal. Of course there was water ready, valets to attend his every need. Having his hair combed, Harry looked at William in the glass, and smiled. “Let’s have that wine.” On his words he hurried William into the adjoining room, where he flung himself down on a divan. This room was a salon, long and high, lined with books, furnished with chairs, several tables and l
ecterns, two more of the velvet divans. Windows looked to the formal gardens at the front of the house. Portraits and looking-glasses framed in gold decked the walls. Already, though it was not yet twilight, servants were lighting the candles that stood everywhere, while others brought manchet bread, cheese and fruit, and poured wine.
“Your health,” said Harry, dismissing the servants.
“And yours.” The wine was unremarkable; someone fiddling the household books, William surmised.
“Now, the poem?” Harry prompted.
“Yes.” William sat down opposite him. “Venus and Adonis.”
“A good title. A good theme.” Harry’s long, beautiful mouth twisted. “One of Burghley’s secretaries wrote a work and dedicated it to me, not long ago. The theme was Narcissus.”
“Not flattering.”
“No. It was not meant to be. Oh, fine words, pretty phrases; shame there was no talent. And – Narcissus. Vain I may be; girlish I know I look. Proved myself as a man, I have not; not for want of trying. Eager to marry I am not. Deal in country matters with women, I do not. But Narcissus?”
“Yet Narcissus was beautiful,” William said and couldn’t keep from smiling.
“And am I beautiful?”
“You have a glass: you know you are. Do you have nymphs in love with you?”
Harry shrugged. “For all I know. There was no Echo in the work I speak of. Insultingly no Echo. But I love no nymph. Am I Adonis in your poem, Will?”
“Do you wish to be?”
“I think,” said Harry gravely, “that I wish to be your Adonis.”
“And yield to Venus?”
“That is up to you, my Will.”
“No, my lord. Your will.”
“Venus or Cupid. And no more ‘my lord’.”
“I’ll remember. Harry, Lord Burghley is to pay me to write poems urging you to marry.”
Southampton lay back on his cushions, gazing narrow-eyed at William. “Harry, marry. A vile rhyme. You can do better. I know about your bargain with Burghley. The man never gives up, does he?”
“He would have you give yourself up to marriage. How did you know?”
“His son told me. Robert Cecil likes me. I wondered if you would tell me, or gravely write your poems and wonder why I was not pleased.”
“I was unsure about telling you. But I prefer honesty.”
“Between friends?”
“Between friends. But many people would think ours an odd friendship, Harry.”
Lifting his wine cup to his lips Harry paused and said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight. Nine years your senior. Ten years married. Three times a father.”
“Then that should remove one barb from the quiver of popular disapproval. Patron and poet. A simple relation. You shall pierce me with your… poetry and all the world may see. What the world does not see, is no concern of the world’s. Write your poems for Burghley, Will, and take his payment. I’ll like them nonetheless. I shall even pretend they move me to do my duty. Perhaps they shall. To love, at least. And now, to Venus and Adonis. Is it written yet?”
“Only a stanza. But it’s planned in my mind.”
Sounding suddenly very boyish in his earnestness Harry said, “Here you will have all the time and peace and inspiration, I trust, to write what you will. And pens, ink and paper. Books. And pleasure. You are my honoured guest here, Will.”
“And I am honoured.”
“If so, repay me with a poem the world will remember. Make me immortal.” He turned over, laughing again as he reached for William’s hand. “And read me it, every day.”
8.
But at first the poem made slow progress. What Harry was giving William, and a greater gift than he knew, was leisure. The first carefree time of his life. The first holiday. From habit he woke early, before six, but now he could go back to sleep or lie in the drowsy pleasure of having no duties, no calls on his time. No school to teach, no plays to write against the clock, no rehearsals or performances. No travelling. Quiet and peace. And Harry.
Harry Wriothesley could be childish, selfish, capricious and stubborn. He was in many ways unworldly; sheltered. He could be as easily amused as William’s son Hamnet by a play on words, a bawdy song, a story. He could also be sophisticated and subtle, a clever disputant, an erudite listener. He was also kind, generous and sweet-natured, with the makings of a good man. In those first few days, and before they knew it, those first few weeks, they rode out every day, they went to the sea-shore, played tennis and bowls, walked for hours. Autumn it might be, yet it seemed the sun always shone, the sky was always an azure bowl flecked with scribbles of fluffy cloud, the sea always calm. Both fair-skinned men with auburn hair, they grew red from sun, then gently brown.
Despite possessing countless houses all over England Harry was a London boy, a city child whose nose had been kept to the grindstone of learning. He had never, until now, gone out on foot in the woods, had never run through the early dew on the grass, had never set a snare for a rabbit. He knew the sea as something to comment upon in terza rima or to sail across, not as something to plunge into, naked, in the warmth of noon. What hunting he’d done had been the formal affair, with other courtiers all with an eye to ritual and who had the best horse, not the exhilarating scramble on foot or, as the whim took him, on horseback. He had never watched harvesters at work or plucked fruit straight from the tree or bush and eaten it in the open air, washed down with ale bought in a village.
“How do you know all these things?” he asked one day, lying back in the grass in his shirtsleeves, the juice from an apple running down his face.
“I was a boy in the country. An ordinary boy.”
“And free.”
“Free to play truant from school sometimes or to go out poaching with my friends if I could get away with it.”
“And chasing girls?”
“Sometimes.” William rolled over onto his front, propping his chin on his hands. “But I never knew the freedom of money or of university life. I had to leave school at sixteen and work for my father.”
“In the glover’s shop.”
“And as a tutor and schoolmaster. I could still make you a fine pair of gloves, Harry.” Harry looked struck by this; as well he might, a man who’d never so much as dressed himself. “We’re very different, my dear. You grew up to inherit this...” He waved a hand, taking in the great house in the distance, all the lands it surmounted, “... and I in a glover’s and wool-dealer’s house in a provincial town. A tradesman’s son. Nearly a tradesman myself.”
“But you are not.”
“Play-writing is a trade. So is playing. Six performances a week, week in, week out. Writing when I can snatch a moment, usually at the cost of sleep. Touring in the summers. And what I could tell you of the roads in England, and the lodgings! Why can’t we have better roads, Harry? When you take your seat in Parliament, bring a Bill to improve the roads.”
“I shall. Though you’ll have to wait two years till I’m of age.” Harry moved to rest his head in the small of William’s back. “I grew up knowing I would inherit all this, yes, but I never knew a happy family life. My parents quarrelled, they parted, they used me as go-between. My father kept me and my sister from our mother. And living with my father was no holiday. Fanatical Catholic, did you know? Narrow and righteous, involved in plots and treason. A foolish man. And spiteful. Also under the thumb of his servant – for which you may read his lover – Dymock, who had to be obeyed in everything. He was king in the Southampton houses. I never heard my mother spoken of but as an adulterous whore. And my father left me little but debts.”
“But you love your mother?” William rather liked the Countess. She was, although a silly, tactless woman, kind-hearted.
“I suppose I do. One does, after all. She irritates me, often. She’s discontented, not that I can blame her after the life my father gave her. My grandfather was the point of security to me when I was a child; he was a good man. My mother f
ancies herself in love with Sir Thomas Heneage. Perhaps they’ll marry. Although she’s old to marry, in her thirties.”
Amused, William said, “So is my wife.”
“So much? She doesn’t look it. Then she’s older than you?”
“Nearly seven years older.”
“Why’d you marry her? Sorry, was that tactless?”
“A little. She was with child. That’s why we married.”
“Ah.”
“Not that we married without love, Harry. I loved her more than I knew at the time. She encouraged me, let me read her my work, advised me, comforted me when everyone else was telling me to forget my wild dreams of London and theatres and poetry. I called her my Muse.” He turned over again, taking his friend’s head upon his belly. Absently stroking the long gold-auburn hair he said, “I’ve written little since I’ve been here. I’ve enjoyed myself too much.”
“Enjoyed yourself with me?”
“Yes,” William said, laughing. “You’re eager for flattery, aren’t you?”
“Flattery? Or liking. Knowing I am liked. Or loved?”
“Liked. Loved. You are my dear golden lad, my friend.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to spin over, so that he looked into William’s eyes. “In this light,” he said, “your eyes are grey, and gold, and green and azure. Am I your dear lad?”
“You know you are.”
“Say it. Say you love me.”
“But of course I love you. My dear lad, my dear lord.” The moment held, and stretched, as they stared into one another’s eyes. William could feel his flesh coming alive, as if he had been physically caressed. The beauty of the day, of this boy who looked at him so meltingly, coalesced. This was happiness, this was freedom, this was love. Shyly, as if he weren’t the elder, he said, “And you, Harry? Do you love me? Older though I am, autumn to your spring, world-worn, do you love me?”
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