Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  “Could be, could be. But he and Henslowe are like that.” Burbage held up two twined fingers. “And it seems to suit them. Kit writes for Ned Alleyn’s style. Will, it did cross my mind that Lord Southampton is Governor of the Isle of Wight, yes? And George Carey’s his deputy, yes? And Carey is Lord Hunsdon’s kinsman and also Her Majesty’s. Southampton is Lord Burghley’s ward. It makes a neat connection; Southampton, Burghley, Carey, the Lord Chamberlain, the Queen. Kit Marlowe could be looking after himself, trying to wriggle his way into that connection. He’s been playing too many dangerous games lately, has Kit – or perhaps he’s merely trying to be the play-maker for this new playing company. Keep your eye on him. But we don’t want him, good though he is. You suit us, Will. So stay on your toes and you’ll be in this new company. And it will have Her Majesty’s favour.”

  “I see,” William said thoughtfully. “James, I might soon have enough money put by to purchase a share in a company. In this new one, with luck, if not, in our present one. What say you to that?”

  Burbage studied him for a moment. “We can always do with new stakeholders, Will. You know what the money side of it’s like. But it would cost you a hundred pounds for a share.”

  “I can manage that, I think.”

  “If you can, you’re in. You’d go on writing for us?”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  “Good, for I want to retain our own writer. Three for the price of one, eh? Actor, play-maker and shareholder.”

  “If all goes well. When would the new company start?”

  “That’s anyone’s guess. The plague’s still about in London, of course, but they’re using that as an excuse to keep the theatres shut. The Puritans are up to their usual tricks and the government’s playing coy. I wouldn’t count on seeing the theatres open this year.”

  “So long?”

  “Aye. We’ll be on the road again come Spring.” Suddenly not quite meeting William’s eyes he said, “You’ll be with us still?”

  “Of course.” William knew that quite definitely. He loved Harry, but he couldn’t continue to live here, known at Southampton’s catamite, living off the crumbs from his table. “Of course I’ll be touring. Come Spring.”

  Over the next few days William had little time for anything but his play. The Southamptons had invited people from London and from the neighbouring great houses to make it a splendid occasion as well as a diversion from the dumps of winter.

  William was busy. But not too busy to note that Harry was spending a great deal of time with Christopher Marlowe. While William directed rehearsals, practised his own part, re-wrote the play, smoothed ruffled feathers and answered questions, Harry and Kit were snug in Harry’s reading room, talking over the dear old days at Cambridge, reading Greek, discussing literature or, with Essex, slandering Sir Walter Raleigh and Francis Bacon. When the weather cleared they walked out together, or rode. There was talk of a new play from Kit. He begged his lordship’s permission to dedicate Hero and Leander to him when it was finished. At night, William several times found Harry’s door locked. People began to whisper behind their hands and shot curious or relieved looks at William. The few times he was alone with Harry, they were busy with love, not questions. William began to contemplate writing a poem, or perhaps a play, about jealousy.

  The new play was a success. Cheered to the echo. For a week the players stayed, putting on a play each night, ending again with Love’s Labour’s Lost. Then it was March and time for them to go.

  “And for me to go too,” William told Harry.

  “Stay.”

  “I must go to London to see Venus and Adonis into print. And then I go on the road with the players.”

  “Why? You needn’t. I’ll give you all the money you need. You can live here. Plenty of people keep a writer to – ”

  “My love, no.” Lovingly William stroked the golden head nestled on his shoulder.

  “Why not?”

  “I doubt you’ll understand, Harry. I need my own world and my own people.”

  “You mean to go back to your wife?”

  “Of course, when I can. I want to see her and the children. This was only a holiday here.”

  “I thought it more. If you’re afraid of talk, I’ll make you my secretary, put you on my staff with a salary, set up a players’ company of my own. You mustn’t leave me. You can’t leave me!”

  “Yes, I must. I can. Must, while I still can. I daresay there’s talk enough already, but what’s done is done.”

  Harry stopped his nuzzling caresses. He sat up, thrusting the hair back from his face. In these last few months his looks had matured, William noted. He looked much less girlish, fully a man now. And still beautiful. All the more beautiful. Even when he was petulant with anger. “If you leave me,” he said, “you can’t love me. What if I refuse to pay you for that poem? Refuse you my patronage? Refuse the money to buy a share in the theatre? If you don’t stay, you can kiss those things goodbye. Because I gave them out of love, and if you leave me you don’t love me.”

  “That is how a child reasons.”

  “I am not a child!” Harry shouted, childishly. “I’m a man.”

  “Then act like one.” Harry gasped as if William had slapped him. “Refuse me the money and I’ll still love you. But you will despise yourself and, therefore, me. Yes, you’re a man and you know that what we have is between men. It’s love, Harry. Don’t spoil it. I have duties and responsibilities. So have you. And what sort of love cannot bear a parting? Parting’s a sweet sorrow, Harry, when it’s not forever.”

  “But you will come back to me?”

  “If you want me. When you want me. But remember I have a life outside these walls and this bed and your arms.”

  “If I come to London will you...?”

  “Harry, I will be in London until the Spring. Come to London if you wish. But then I go on tour. That’s flat. It’s what I must do.”

  “And I must bear it.”

  “As must I.”

  “Well, then.” Harry lay down again, taking William sweetly in his arms. “I must accept it. I do. And what I said about the money was anger. Spite. Misery. You’ll dedicate your wonderful poem to me and I’ll buy you your share in the playing company. Because I love you. But when you go home to your wife...”

  But William cut him off by laying his finger across his lips. “When I go home to her I won’t forget you. And that is all you can know of what’s between Anne and me. We’re doing a lot of talking, Harry, when I must leave in a day or two. Come here and love me.”

  13.

  “So,” said Kit, “you’re famous. All London rings with your name.” He sauntered across to William’s writing table and picked up one of the copies of Venus and Adonis. “Dick Field did you proud. It’s a handsome publication.”

  “We old Stratford men must stick together. But yes, it looks well. What do you think of the dedication?”

  “Properly obsequious and respectful. Obsequious to the point of arse-licking. Which reminds me; word is that Harry Southampton’s given you a thousand pounds.”

  “A thousand!” William swivelled further around to look at his friend, but Kit was standing before the window, his face in shadow. “No, Kit. I doubt he’s got a thousand pounds till he comes of age.” William thought of the money he had recently sent home to Anne. Not a thousand, of course, but nearly three hundred, for the play, for the sonnets, from Lord Burghley, and a clear hundred to buy his share in the playing company.

  “Ah, yes, I did wonder. A thousand pounds would make you the most expensive whore in Christendom.”

  “Will you get out,” William courteously enquired, “or be thrown out?”

  “Touched you on the raw? I see. It’s as he says. You’re in love with him.”

  William began an angry retort and saw the malice in Kit’s eyes fade. “I love him,” he said. “Yes, I’m in love with him. Did you two talk of me, then?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything intimate. He talke
d of you with love. And what of your wife in all this, Will?”

  “That is my concern.”

  “And I hope you have it well in hand. A fine woman, Anne. I envy you her. You know you won’t keep Harry, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said William, knowing an infinity of pain. “Yes, I know it. Kit, why did you go to Titchfield?”

  “To see if I too can win Harry’s, er, patronage. See how frank I am with you?”

  “Be more frank. Are you his lover?”

  Kit let a moment go by before he said, “I have been. Welcome, Will, to the company of those who are hurt. Like Anne.”

  William saw the book quivering in his hands. “You’re an odd person to give a moral lesson. Suppose we leave Anne out of this?”

  To his surprise Kit said, “Very well.” He came to sit beside William, clasping his hands behind his head. “Venus and Adonis is a great work, Will. It will live. A fine and witty work.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it. Will, I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I have,” Kit said slowly, “got myself into a dangerous spot. I can’t tell you. Best you know nothing. At Titchfield I watched Will Kempe preparing his act. He juggled seven balls and never let one fall. I’m not the juggler I thought I was. Stay out of the spying game, Will. And watch that your father goes no further into recusancy. Stay away from Raleigh’s circle.” Unshed tears made emeralds of his dark-lashed eyes. His hand crept out and closed over William’s.

  “Kit, my dear friend.”

  “Oh, it may come to nothing. But if you hear I am dead, don’t believe it until you view the body. If anyone comes to you asking of me, you know nothing. There is nothing to know. No secrets. No papers. Mourn me if you will. Then forget me.”

  “I could never forget you. Nor could the world forget you. Kit, if it’s a matter of leaving the country, that kind of thing, I can give you money.”

  “You need not. It may come to nothing. But remember I loved you. For all that I sought to win Harry Southampton, as patron and lover, from you, I have loved you.” In one lithe movement he stood up, gave William a kiss and went.

  After a moment William leapt out of his chair and ran down the stairs after him, but by the time he reached the street Kit was nowhere in sight.

  Anne looked at the letter the messenger had brought. She ran her finger over the seal, tracing the unfamiliar coat of arms imprinted there. “From Lord Southampton? And for me, not my husband?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m to say, if there is a reply, you may send it with me.”

  “Will you wait a few moments?”

  The man nodded. Anne directed the maid to take him to the back parlour and give him some ale. Then, slowly, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The children were clamouring around her. A letter must be from their father. What did he say, was he coming home? She shooed them away and locked her door.

  Why did a man write to his lover’s wife? With news of his death? That he was never coming home again? Abruptly she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  The letter was formal, pleasant. And, as gently as possible, it told her that Christopher Marlowe was dead.

  “Christopher,” she whispered. “Oh, Kit.”

  …in a tavern brawl at Deptford, or so the common fame runs. If there is more behind it, no one is admitting it. It might be wise not to enquire too closely. Thinking you might not have had the news, I thought it best to write to you. I do not know where Lord Strange’s Men will be at present. It is possible your husband will not hear until he returns to London or comes to Stratford. It is a great loss to all who knew Christopher Marlowe, and to England.

  He had signed it, formally, Southampton.

  Well. Kind of him to write. A great loss indeed. Dear, witty, malicious, kindly Kit with his green cat’s eyes. He had liked her. She had liked him. He had been a friend. This would hit William hard. Did he know, or was he touring contentedly, looking forward to seeing Kit when he returned to London? At least he evidently was touring, not summering again with Southampton.

  Anne had never written to a nobleman. In fact, her only letters had been to her husband, who would never criticise her mistakes. At William’s writing desk she took out paper and hesitantly inked a pen. In a careful, childish hand, she wrote a few words of thanks for the news, of her loss, of her gratitude for his kindness in telling her. She did not, she finished, know where her husband would be at present or whether he had heard about Marlowe.

  That would have to do. She folded the letter and gave it to the messenger. And wondered who William would turn to for comfort; her or Harry Southampton.

  William came home a bare week later. Anne was dusting the parlour when two arms closed around her and a kiss was planted on the back of her neck.

  “Marry come up, Will, it’s you!”

  “Who else, sneaking up to kiss you?” He spun her around, kissed her lips. “I’ve today and tonight. We’re at Oxford and I begged some leave. You’re well?”

  “Oh yes, Will. And you?” Though she had little need to ask. More richly dressed than she was used to, brown from sun, dusty from the road, content and full of health. Glad to be home. Her heart soared. “My dear.”

  But their daughters had seen him come. They were all over him, and from then on there was no time for private talk. Hamnet was in school. “So we’ll fetch him home,” said William. “I’ve only today and I’ve missed him. Send Richard with a message, urgent trouble at home.” And by the time he’d greeted his parents and brothers and sisters and had a mug of ale, Hamnet was home, flinging himself on his father, half-crying with joy. Then it was dinner time, and still no chance to be alone.

  In the afternoon they went to the back garden, under the shade of the fruit trees, and there were strawberries with cream and wine kept cold in the well. Anne took her shoes and stockings off. William lay in his shirtsleeves on the daisy-starred grass, Judith weaving a daisy crown for his hair. Hamnet cuddled against his shoulder. Susanna hugged her knees, listening to him talk.

  “The new play?” William answered Hamnet. “A success. Picture, Hamnet love, a room in a great house, a room big as this house, the curtains drawn and more candles than you’ve ever seen, all blazing. And two-score men all in silken clothes and jewels, and pretty ladies.”

  “As pretty as Mama?”

  William gave it due thought. “Not quite as pretty,” he decided, and added aside to Anne, his eyes full of promise, “You’re looking very handsome, Mrs Shakspere. A new way of doing your hair. I like it. And a new dress.”

  “I spent some of the money.”

  “Excellent. There’ll be more. Venus and Adonis is selling like hot cakes. It’s a success, a success d’éstime, I’m becoming famous for it. People talk of ‘sweet Mr Shakspere’. All those same people who despised me as a would-be playwright, a would-be poet, trying to make my way with no university education, no connections. What did you think of it, Anne?”

  “I liked it. Admired it. Pagan. Passionate. Sweet. Country love. And I wonder if people think I am Venus, the rampaging country hussy.”

  “No hussy. Country matters… What, Hamnet? Oh yes, the play. Did you read the fair copy I sent home?”

  “Yes but I didn’t understand some of it. Mama said they were probably jokes.”

  “Mama was right. I had some fun with that play. Holofernes is... well, I won’t say his name, but someone I know.”

  “I liked him, the schoolmaster,” said Hamnet. “He was funny. He was a bit like the one at school, the new one.”

  “And a bit like one I had when I was your age. Prosing old pedant. So the play went very well. Master Burbage was excellent as always. We all were. And the audience liked it. We did it a second time that week, and it will go into our repertoire. Kit Marlowe was there and he liked it.”

  Judith put the daisy crown on her father’s hair. “Master Marlowe’s dead,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” William repeated. He had stopped pa
cing the bedroom and was slumped on the edge of the bed, his face still marked with tears. He had looked not to Anne for solace, but to his mother. Anne had been left to comfort the children. Poor Judith had been weeping desperately because she thought William was angry with her and her twin had scolded her. Susanna was crying because she heard her father crying. Hamnet was grave-faced, looking in his sensitivity more than ever like William. All of them desolate that their lovely day was spoiled. Anne tried not to cry because William had looked at her with hatred.

  His mother had taken Anne’s part. How could Anne tell him? She hadn’t had a moment. He’d sent for Hamnet, then it had been dinner, then there were the other children. Anne had been biding her time, waiting to tell him in private. She had liked Master Marlowe, and a friend’s death was always a grief, but there was no call to take it out on Anne.

  William made his peace with the children. He ate dinner quietly and then told them a bedtime story. Not a word to Anne, until now, when the household was to bed and he came at last to her room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Do you hold that much spite against me, that you couldn’t tell me of my best friend’s death?”

  “He was my friend too.”

  “A passing friend. He was my mentor, my friend, my colleague, the one I tried to emulate, the one I admired above all others. When first I went to London, when first I met him, he talked to me – talked! – we talked the stars to bed, all one night, the first night we met, because each of us had discovered perhaps the only one who could understand. He helped me, he read my work, he wasn’t envious or spiteful, he...”

  “He loved you. And you loved him. I know that. I liked him better than almost anyone I know. And I didn’t tell you because, as your mother said, what chance did I have? I was going to tell you as soon as we were alone. Spite? Never spite between us, whatever you do when you’re away from me.”

  To her annoyance Anne was also weeping now. She bent and retrieved Southampton’s letter, lying crumpled where William had tossed it once he had finished reading it. “And if we’re to strip the matter to the bone, if even Harry didn’t know where you were, how much less could I know? I couldn’t send a letter. I could only wait to hear from you. It was kind of Harry to write. I think he knew I loved Kit Marlowe too.”