Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  “No. It’s too countrified,” said the same man, “but Titus Andronicus; now that has a pleasing touch of Marlowe to it.”

  “And Marlowe’s touch must please anyone,” William said evilly.

  Trying not to laugh, Harry suggested that such ideas were for later. After supper they would have music.

  “And perhaps,” said John Florio, his accented Italian voice lilting, “Master William would be so kind as to read us some of his poems. He has a most poetic touch.” And Will, his mouth unpoetically full of mutton, could only nod agreeably.

  And that’s what I am, he thought that night, in bed. A hireling. A player. Someone to amuse the guests. A winter house party while there’s plague in London. Guests at a loose end? Send for Whatisname, Shakspere, that’s right, he’s your man. Make extempore words to a song. Read a poem. Tell amusing anecdotes about touring. Teach some mincing lordling how to play Katerina. Trot out your Latin, your French, your Greek and your little Italian. Make a classical allusion, cap a quotation. Earn your keep, Will Shakspere. Sing for your supper.

  The thought drove him out of bed and over to his writing table. He lit two candles and stirred up the fire. He pulled on his dressing gown and, absently, his best cloak over the top. He thrust his feet into the fur-lined boots Harry had given him in autumn. Harry, who had paid him no more attention all evening than to pull his strings for his guests’ amusement. No better than a dancing bear. Harry, who wanted to be made immortal by his words.

  So, all through the icy night, William wrote. Words poured from his pen, coming ready-made, it seemed. Once he rose to use the close-stool and kick the sulking fire to life, and went back to work with the thick velvet coverlet wrapped around him. He hardly felt the cold, or not until he saw the uneven lines of writing and realised his hand was shaking. His whole body was. But the bed was also cold; empty, its sheets a clammy embrace, the warming pan without a hint of heat. Harry’s bed would be warm from the boy’s sweet sleeping body. Or warm perhaps from Essex’s body.

  William remembered talk about those two in the past. Or someone else. I could be home, he thought, snug in my marital bed with my wife. I am a married man. I love my wife, who loves me. Who loves Harry Southampton. Or did she merely say so to punish me? She had said, at parting, “Go to your lovely boy and do whatever you must for fame and money. I’d rather you took him than loved him. But do what you must and bring me the money. I have been a player’s wife too long. It is time I was a theatre-owner’s wife, a poet’s wife. And rich.” His wife, his Anne. The shy farmer’s daughter. You took an ignorant farmer’s daughter… And gave her nothing. No house, no fine clothes, no ease. Friendship, yes. Enough of love. Little enough of love. But more than he had known until she said she loved another man.

  William took up his pen again but his hand refused to answer him. Ink blots slashed across the page, the pen fell. He wanted to write of honour and corruption and could not. Miserably he rolled into bed, wrapping his diverse coverings about him. It was nearly dawn, a winter dawn of grey and frost. It would be a brave bird that heralded this dawn from an ice-hung tree. It is the nightingale and not the lark, that pierced the something hollow of thine ear. No – it is the owl… No... Like to the lark, at break of day arising, sings hymns at heaven’s gate… Better… Birds chirping. Cawing. The rook makes wing… William slept.

  He woke to warmth and pleasant smells and quiet breathing beside him. Most of all, to warmth. Through his closed eyelids he could see the flicker of the fire, and when he moved his feet they met the cosiness of a hot brick wrapped in cloths. Lazily he opened his eyes. Yes, a blazing fire and the thin light of a winter morning well advanced. His cloak was still around him, but someone had straightened the bed and tucked him snugly in.

  “Good morning.” Harry was lying beside him on top of the covers. He put down the sheaf of loose papers he was reading and grinned. “You worked all night again, it seems.”

  “Till dawn. I was so cold. Harry?”

  “When you didn’t come down to breakfast I came to see. Found the candles burnt out, the table covered with papers, you all bundled up and shivering in your sleep. I hope you haven’t taken a chill. There’s breakfast there if you’re hungry.”

  William sat up. A tray on the bedside chest held covered dishes of eggs, slices of beef, bread so new it was still steaming, ale. “What time is it? I must get up. Aren’t your guests looking for you?”

  “They’ve gone out hunting. It’s past nine. Eat it here, on the tray.” Companionably Harry plumped his pillows for him.

  “I’ve never eaten a meal in bed.” But he did so. It was much too pleasant to move. “By the way, what’s that you’re reading?”

  “For once you didn’t lock your work away. You’ve finished Venus and Adonis, Will. And it is superb. What genius you have.” His mouth full, William made a modest noise. “It really is good beyond praise. I am honoured. Dedicate this to me and I’ll be immortal. And these other poems, did you write them last night too? And this fragment of a play?”

  “I hardly know. I must have if it was out on the table. You’ve seen what it’s like with me, Harry; the urge to write comes, the Muse comes.” He reached for the sheet of paper in Harry’s hand. Harry held it away, saying no, his fingers were buttery. To read it, William leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder.

  “Ah yes, I remember that idea coming to me. It’s not well written, though. Needs work. It was just a night-time fancy.”

  “No, it’s good.” Harry shuffled the papers together, made a long arm to put them on the table, weighted down with a candlestick. He lay back, his arms folded behind his head, watching William finish his food. “I didn’t give you a Christmas gift.”

  “You did, this ring, the pearl earring.”

  “Trinkets. I can’t give you poetry or work a pair of exquisite gloves. All I have is my patronage and to use my rank to help you if I can. And money for Venus and Adonis.”

  “Those are very large gifts, my dear. My future. Fame, perhaps.”

  “Will you,” Harry slanted a glance at him, “let me give you something else? For Christmas, for our love? Out of love?”

  “Harry...”

  “Listen. Will you let me buy you a share in the playing company?”

  There was a long silence. William said softly, “To be no longer a hired player and play-maker? To be a share-holder, a house-keeper in a theatre? To be an established man, secure, with a steady income? You ask if you can give me that?”

  “I thought you might be offended. It smacks of trade between us. But money is all I have to give. That and love. With love.”

  “But my lord, my love, we are talking of perhaps a hundred pounds, and you’re not yet of age. Have you that much?”

  “Yes. Will you accept it?”

  “Of course. It’s my hope, my dream. My future. I can’t thank you.” On a wave of huge delight he flung his arm around Harry and kissed him. Broke away. Looked at him. Saw the need and longing and love, and the defence against rejection. Kissed him again, and this time William’s tongue parted Harry’s lips and probed his mouth. Harry made a little sound in his throat. William took him firmly in his arms, kissed him harder, held him close and felt all his responses. In the back of William’s mind a voice said sourly, You whore, William; and do what you must. Bring me the money.

  “But it’s not,” he said aloud. “It’s not the money. It is love. Just love. And because I have finished that poem and somehow that makes us less unequal.”

  “I know it’s not the money,” Harry muttered. “It’s love. I love you.”

  “And I love you. I love thee, thou art my love. Harry my dear, my sweet love, give me time to wash my face and clean my teeth then if you love me, if you want me, go bolt the door then take off your clothes and get into this bed with me and make love to me.”

  “Yes,” Harry whispered, enchanted. “Yes, my love.” Later he said, “At last, my heart. At last.” Swiftly Harry moved on top of him, matching their bodies so th
eir mouths met and their hearts beat together. Then he began to move, hands following mouth and the long silky hair trailing a third sensation. Soon there were no sounds but kisses, and hands moving on flesh, each other’s name enough endearment now, in the panting breath of passion.

  Afterwards, when they lay holding each other, Harry said, “Why now, Will? Why did you resist me so long and give in now? Didn’t you love me enough before?”

  “I loved you more than enough. Wanted you very much, too. Couldn’t let myself. I don’t know, Harry. Perhaps it’s because I’ve finished that poem and have something to give you at last. Perhaps it’s because you brought me breakfast and tucked me up snugly.”

  Harry lifted his head, laughing. “I didn’t go to the kitchen and cook the food myself.”

  “No, but you were kind. You took thought for me. Cared for me in that little way.”

  Baffled, Harry lay down again and kissed William’s collarbone. “And now I know you truly love me. Now we’re truly one.”

  “I always loved you,” William said sharply. “And now you will break my heart.”

  “Oh no, love. No.” Then, petulantly, he added, “Why don’t you think you’ll break mine? I do love you, Will.”

  “Yes, but I’m middle-aged, and married and not of your world or rank or kind, and you’re young and very beautiful. Whether it’s a man or a woman you find, yes, you’ll break my heart, Harry.”

  “I won’t. And you’re not middle-aged.”

  “Half your age again. Twenty-nine, come April. Losing my hair.”

  “If you were seventy-nine and bald I’d still love you. I would love my clever poet.”

  “And if your clever poet stops praising you in his clever poems?”

  “Still I will love you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” Harry started to kiss him again, but there came the sound of horses’ hooves, of hounds baying, and a lot of hallooing. “Hey-up, our merry hunting party’s returned. And I’m afraid I must go down and play the gallant host.”

  “Yes you must. Harry. You won’t speak of this to anyone?”

  “No, my dear. But tonight? Again?”

  “Yes,” William said with a faint sigh. “Tonight. Again. For I cannot resist you, my dearest love.”

  12.

  It had set in to snow. The guests were confined to the house and desperate for amusement. Nothing would do but that they should put on a play. It would have to be one of William’s. He had brought his own fair copies of The Taming of the Shrew and Two Gentlemen of Verona. The man who had complained The Shrew was too countrified must have done a little reading and discovered the play’s sources, for now he was all for it. The Shrew let it be. So down they all went to what Harry called the playhouse room. He declared it perfect and ran about looking for properties and costumes and clamouring for their parts to be written out for them to learn.

  “O God, your only jig-maker,” William muttered when at eleven o’clock at night he was not in bed with Harry but sitting up copying out his play.

  “What?” Harry said absently beside him, doing his best to help.

  “Nothing.” But William noted down what he’d said. It sounded rather well. “How far have we got?” He looked at the sheets written out in Harry’s sloping, large, Italianate hand, comparing them with his own smaller, more accustomed writing.

  “Last three scenes, now you’ve cut it so much.”

  “Had to, if they want to do it in two days’ time. These aren’t professional players who can con a long part inside a week and have it ready.”

  “How do you players remember all the words? You always have, what, twenty or thirty plays in your repertoire?”

  “Practice. Keep writing.”

  Harry gave him a kiss and kept writing. He was as engaged as a child with the idea of doing the play, willing to put in all this dull work to make it a success. He was playing Katerina. He was by far too tall to play a girl, but it added to the part. His Katerina would be a gangling, awkward girl, all the more vulnerable by contrast to her pretty little feminine sister. John Florio was playing their father and Essex was parted as Petruchio.

  “You don’t really object to this, do you?” Harry asked when they’d copied the last scenes.

  “No.”

  “Good. Then come to bed.”

  “Oh no, Harry,” William smiled. “We haven’t finished yet. We have to paste up all the separate bits to make a complete part for each person. So fetch out the glue-pot and paper, my sweet, and get to work.”

  “Oh well, waiting will make it all the sweeter,” said Harry, and fetched out the glue pot.

  As performances went, it was a dog’s dinner, but they enjoyed themselves. Even William did, reluctantly.

  “And the thing that stands out,” Harry said, “is what a good actor you are. Of course I have seen you on stage times enough, but I’d never before watched you stop being yourself and become another person. How do you do it?”

  “That I can’t tell you. But you were a touching Katerina. And you kissed Petruchio far too heartily.”

  “Acting.”

  “Well, come kiss me, Kate.” William pulled the other man down on top of him and all the new pleasures began again.

  But, heady with success, the house party wanted to do the Two Gentlemen the following week and began to talk of William writing out his other plays for them to do. The players arrived just in time.

  Watching them unload their wagon, William knew that they were his people. The hampers held not just clothes and props but his world. This Titchfield interlude had been a delight, but he did not belong in that world. Startled at the relief he felt, he ran down the steps to greet his friends.

  “James. Dick. Welcome. What news of London? Will the playhouses be open soon?”

  “Not for a while, it seems. Pembroke’s Men are having a hard time of it on the road. Developments. I’ll talk to you later, in private, about that.” Burbage gave him a wink. “I’d better greet our gracious host.”

  “Yes, come inside where it’s warm. My lords, my ladies, may I present Lord Strange’s Men: James Burbage, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phillips, Will Kemp our clown, John Heminges, Richard Condell, John Sinclo, Ned and Will our boy-players. And Dominus Marlowe you know.” While everyone bowed William hooked his arm in Marlowe’s and took him aside. “Christopher, what are you doing here? With my company?”

  “Don’t worry, William, they feel for some strange reason that they will persist with you as their play-maker. Lord Harry invited me and I also find it convenient to be out of London at present and to make holiday, gratis. You look well, my friend. Hampshire must agree with you. Or Southampton, at least.”

  “Hampshire is a most pleasant county. Kit, I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m not here on… business, so calm down.” Of course that had been in William’s mind. Lady Southampton was as fervent a Catholic as her late husband had been. Harry’s views on the burning question were unknown.

  “No, John Florio takes care of spying on the Southamptons.”

  “How did you know?” Kit asked, startled out of his irritating sang-froid.

  “He told me. Back when I wrote that sonnet introducing his Second Fruits. He invited me to join his little game, just as you did. I declined.”

  “Ah, yes. So honourable, our William. Yes, that sonnet, Phaeton, so quaint. No doubt the last piece William Shakspere doesn’t sign. Your sugared sonnets for our lovely friend are becoming famous. I long to read them. Finished Psyche and Cupid yet?

  “If you mean Venus and Adonis, yes I have. It’s good, Kit.”

  Proving again why he kept William’s friendship, Kit said gently, “If you wrote it, it is more than good. You’ll outstrip me altogether soon.”

  “Never. Though I would like to be known for my poetry more than for running off plays for the public theatre, mending other men’s work.”

  “And so you shall be. We will both be great names. Ah, my lor
d, I trust I see you well?”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Harry. “What is this, a play-writers’ conferring? Come, I have sent for hot wine before these players go to their quarters.”

  As he led them back to the party Kit flicked an eyebrow at William. Yes, William longed to say, I didn’t miss that: These players. To their quarters. So my two worlds meet and recoil. Harry had meant nothing by it, except inadvertently to compliment William by distinguishing him from his fellows. But they were his fellows, his peers. Harry was not and never could be.

  “With your permission, my lord, I will go with them.” Hurt flashed in Harry’s eyes. “We must discuss the new play,” William softened it, and Harry’s face cleared.

  “Of course. But I will see you later.” He meant to be discreet, but Kit’s face was full of knowledge.

  Besides the playhouse room and several small bedrooms up in the attics, the players were given a large, disused room on the ground floor, tellingly near the domestic quarters. But it had a good fire and a table and enough stools and chairs, and the servants brought food and more wine.

  “Comfortable,” James Burbage said, stretching out his feet to the fire. “Well, it’s a good play, Will, Love’s Labour's Lost. Very good. It plays well. We ran it through once before we left London, once we had our parts down. You’re playing the schoolmaster, the pedant?”

  “Takes me back.”

  “Yes, you had some fun writing that. Dick, pull my boots off, please; they’re wet. Rotten journey down, Will. Now, some news. Word is that the Lord Chamberlain is looking to form a new playing company.”

  “A new one? I thought the authorities were keen to keep a check on us?”

  “Yes and that’s part of it, no doubt. But old Hunsdon wants to form a particular company, to be called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. It’s to be the best, the crème de la crème. Most of us. Some of the Admiral’s Men, if they’re lucky. You, for our playwright.”

  “Ah. Would that be why Kit Marlowe is hanging around you?”