Once inside his room she stumbled to the floor, pulling him down on top of her.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes. But do it anyway.”
He pulled the beard and mustache from her face and gently kissed her cheek.
“You,” she said, “are an honest man!” She burst into guffaws. “A saint.”
“You overstate my worth.”
“Then love me, you worthless jack.”
“Sleep.”
“You find me not to your liking?”
He closed her eyelids, kissed her forehead and said, “Ask of me anything, m’lady, and I shall serve you slavishly. But you must make your requests when you’re of sound mind. Then we’ll both know tis you and not the ale that does speak.”
“I love thee,” she said to him.
“Sleep,” Shakespeare said. “Dream sweetly.”
Rebecca smiled and drifted off.
When she was in deep slumber, Shakespeare lay beside her, watching her sleep, her mouth as rich and red as poinsettia, her chest moving rhythmically with each breath. Like a tune affixed in the brain, Rebecca’s laughter rang through Shakespeare’s head. The feel of her hand, the smell of her intoxicated breath. Feeling raged inside of him, an intensity of passion as explosive as the first time he’d ever loved a woman. One side of him screamed to possess her; she was willing, he was drowning in desire. His other side begged restraint.
An hour later restraint was victorious. He rose from his pallet and sat at his desk, quill in hand, attempting to pen another verse of the poem he’d promised Lord Southampton; the nobleman was his benefactor. In the past he’d been more than generous with monetary support.
But Shakespeare was distracted by Rebecca’s breathing. Like a siren’s song, it beckoned him closer.
Restraint.
Harry had used that word to describe him, a depiction that had puzzled Shakespeare then, confused him even more in memory.
I love you, Shakespeare, he had cried out one night as they walked home from a tavern. Harry had been weeping buckets. You’re the man I had always wanted to be. But I failed. My father failed me. My God failed me.
Sweating, Shakespeare had pulled him onto his feet. Come, Harry. Walk. Your closet is only five doors away.
The man I wanted to be, Harry had reiterated. A man of modesty, a man of restraint, a man of integrity, a man of honesty!
Shakespeare the fool.
Ever the honest man.
He picked up his quill and dipped it in the inkpot.
Chapter 22
Sunlight was turning to twilight. Shakespeare squinted, the words in front of him a blur. His closet had become stifling, and he threw open the window, filling his lungs with the scented air of spring’s dusk. The city below played its music, a swell of sound ringing between his ears where silence had resided only a moment ago. He capped his inkwell and cleaned his quills, then, savoring the moment, allowed his eyes to focus on his pallet.
Sleep was still heavy upon the girl. Shakespeare wanted to touch her, stroke her, hold her, but he restrained himself lest he’d startle her. She must be wakened soon, he thought. The supper hour grew near and her absence was bound to be noticed. But he wanted to keep her in his possession for yet another day, another hour, at the least another minute. She lay so tranquil, so beautiful…Let her sleep a while longer.
He’d take a brief walk. Shake some life into his legs and relieve his mind of the windstorm of swirling images; his head always ached after an afternoon of writing. By the time he returned, she’d be awake, maybe even gone….
He closed the door softly.
The streets were still congested with traffic, people scurrying about in a frantic attempt to complete unfinished business before dark. Mongers were pulling in the wares that hung from their upstairs windows, merchants were closing their booths, fruit peddlers shouted loudly, trying to rid their baskets of overripe edibles that would spoil come the morning. A mile into his walk Shakespeare stopped in front of the stall of a costermonger.
“What do you lack before the night?” the seller asked. He was as bald as a melon. His hands were callused but scrubbed clean, his fingers long and tapered. “Me figs are as sweet as honeycomb and as plump as a milkmaid, me apricots are juicy and taste like the nectar of the gods. Me fruits are better than anything you’ll be finding at the Cheape.”
Shakespeare bought some figs and apricots.
“A fine evenin’ it looks to be, bless be to God for that.”
“Beautiful,” Shakespeare agreed.
“A fine day it was. May God give us another like it tomorrow. The sellin’ was good, the buyers were many. Look how little remains in me baskets.”
The costermonger proudly showed them to Shakespeare.
“The goodwife and me’ll be making merry tonight,” the seller said, laughing. “A goodly day it was indeed. Only some plunky bairns causin’ me mischief behind me back. Stole me apples when I turned me eyes. Ifin I catch those boys, I’ll give ’em a beatin’ they won’t forget. They’ll be thinkin it was Whitsunday.”
Shakespeare nodded.
“Those plunky bairns,” the monger repeated. “God save the Queen.”
“God save the Queen.” Shakespeare bit into a fig. Sweet. Delicious. He tipped his cap to the peddler and walked away.
The golden sunlit streets had tarnished to a dull gray, the tenements casting spectered shadows over the people and on the roads, against the plaster walls of closed shops.
Shadows.
Dark shadows.
They had become objects of fear as of late—something Shakespeare couldn’t feel or grasp.
How do you fight a duel of retribution with a spirit that has no form, no body?
A dark cloud passed over his head, and the same eerie aura that had enveloped him at the Mermaid earlier in the day now wrapped its evil arms around him, invisible fingers squeezing his flesh.
He became wary. Felt for his sword, realizing how little protection it offered against a ghost.
He pivoted to his left and caught a glimpse of black. Then appeared a gentleman in a midnight cape.
Was evil in his eyes? Did not they shine and reflect like those of an ebony cat?
The master waved to a trio of gentlemen on the opposite side of the street, crossed the road to join them, his steps slow and calm.
Shakespeare continued his walk on Bishopsgate Street, past Bull’s Inn. Though not yet dark, the tavern was crowded. People awaiting their drink, speaking loudly of better times soon to come.
Shakespeare strolled past the gnarled trunk of a hundred-year-old oak. Nothing appeared out of order. Everything was in its place according to the laws of God. Only his mind was confused.
He kept walking. Even at dusk Black Death announced its presence—soft moans in distant breezes, wafts of burning wood and decayed flesh. Shakespeare’s thoughts turned to the clean air of the countryside. Warwickshire. Images of Anne and the children, of his last visit back home. It had been hard to leave, the little ones crying, tugging on his cape. Especially Susannah. The girl was nine now, with a finely honed mind. She had sat on his lap every day after supper, playing with his beard, twirling curls in his hair with delicate fingers. And the twins chasing each other around the house, competing for his laughter and attention.
How they carried on the morning of his departure. Anne stood at the threshold, wishing him well, watching him go. But he sensed her ever-so-slight annoyance at the children for putting up such a fuss.
Anne was calm, always calm. When calamity struck—illness, death, fire—she was calm. When he was accused of poaching on Sir Thomas Lucy’s estate, she was calm. When they made love (she was always willing but never seemed anxious), she was calm. Her steadfast nature never seemed to waver. She greeted him with a smile and a kiss when he returned home and sent him back to London in the same fashion.
In the beginning Shakespeare had begged her to come with him. She patted his
cheek and told him London was not healthy for the children, that her parents were now older and depended on her company. For two years he pleaded. Then he stopped asking.
He settled into a daily routine in London with the fellowship and, thanks to Harry, finally made enough money to pay off his poaching fine. A burden lifted from his back, Shakespeare was now free to return home. And he would have left London and the fellowship forever had Anne pleaded with him to come back to Warwick. Marry, she needn’t have even pleaded. A simple request would have sent him home. But the request never came.
Shakespeare had loved Anne the moment he met her—a woman six years his senior. She’d been so reassuring, a balm for his nerves. He had heard the whisperings when he married this older woman. More speculation abounded when Susannah was born six months later. He didn’t care. He had his Anne to stroke his cheek, to wash his laundry, to cook his meals and serve them with a smile on her face.
His own household had been chaotic, his father’s burning ambition at the root of it all. John Shakespeare had married above him, but his rise in stature after the wedding of Mary Arden did little to satisfy his need for more. He wasn’t happy being just a farmer and the town’s best glovemaker. He wanted more—always scurrying off to meetings, running for local positions in the town, leaving his mother in a pool of loneliness. She was ill-suited to raise a brood of crying, whining bairns who demanded so much attention, and at the end of many a day, Shakespeare would find his mother collapsed in a chair, weeping with nervous exhaustion.
Anne was such a departure from his own mother—a sensible woman of steady nature. But her calmness converted to apathy not long after they married. It mattered not to her who he was, where he was, or what he was doing. Just as long as the house was neat and there was plenty of food on the table. Shakespeare was frugal by nature, not one to indulge in clothes and trinkets. His home in Warwick lacked for nothing.
Nothing except passion.
Shakespeare thought of the girl sleeping in his closet. Young and beautiful, but more than that. Volatile, passionate, emotional, witty. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke, her lips pouted when she was displeased. No doubt the damsel had a vile temper, but that excited him. Someone unpredictable and stormy. Someone spontaneous.
A love affair.
An adulterous love affair.
She was not his wife, he was not her husband.
As if that meant anything.
He turned down Leadenhall Street.
How many bastards are born in a year? Thousands? Yet his vows still meant something to him. Yes, he’d had diverse tumbles with stews, an occasional roll with a lady whose lord had lost interest. But none of them were like her.
What would Anne say if she knew?
Probably nothing.
He turned back at Aldgate, hugging the wall of the city for his route home.
He sang, his voice full of woe:
If my complaints could passions move
Or make love see wherein I suffer wrong:
My passions were enough to prove
That my despairs had governed me too long,
O love I live and die in thee
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me
My heart for thy unkindness breaks
Yet thou dost hope when I despair
And when I hope thou makst me hope in vain
Thou saist thou canst my harms repair
Yet for redress thou lets me still complain
Can love be rich and yet I want
Is love my judge and yet am I condemned?
Thou plenty hast yet me dost scant
Thou made a god, and yet thy power condemned
That I do live it is thy power
That I desire it is thy worth
If love doth make men’s lives too sour
Let me not love, nor live henceforth
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith
That you that of my fall may hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith
I was more true to love than love to me.
He passed the chandleress’s shop, the launderess’s, the shoemaker’s, the stall of the hide monger. A crescent of moon had peaked over the rooftops, stars sprinkling silver onto a charcoal canvas. Night was upon the city. Shakespeare couldn’t believe he’d walked so far and long. He thought of Rebecca. He’d have to accompany her home lest she fall prey to some scurrilous thief. No doubt she’d protest, insisting she was well able to take care of herself, but he’d be adamant. Picking up his pace, he trotted home, wondering: If she still slept, what would she say to him upon awakening? Would she repeat her words of love now that the spirits had fled from her body?
The thrill of uncertainty!
He reached his tenement, climbed the stairs and opened the door to his closet.
He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust.
And then he saw it—a hulking form, its head swathed in an inky hood, poised over Rebecca’s sleeping frame. A dagger gleamed above its head, waiting for its master to make its malicious arc downward. The shadow saw Shakespeare, laughed sinister, gravelly sounds!
“Noooooo!” Shakespeare shouted.
Rebecca jerked open her eyes and screamed.
The dagger plummeted to the ground as Rebecca rolled to her side, the point of the stylus missing her throat by a fraction of an inch. Shakespeare leaped forward, but the shadow was too quick. Shakespeare caught only air and stumbled. Recovering his balance a second later, he saw the shadow hoisting itself through the window. Shakespeare lunged and grabbed the hem of the shadow’s cloak. A glint of moonlight highlighted another dagger now aimed at Shakespeare’s face. He ducked, and by the time he lifted his head, the specter had flown away.
Shakespeare stood motionless, breathing heavily as he stared out his window to the empty streets below.
Nothing except the howling of the wind. No, there was no wind. Just…screams. Rebecca’s screams.
He rushed to her, hugging her fiercely as she sobbed, stroking her back, whispering words of comfort. She finally quieted, leaving a night so still, it smoldered in silence.
“He’s gone,” he said, his words seeming unnaturally loud. “No more harm can he cause you.”
She nodded, her head buried in his arms.
“You’re safe.”
Rebecca threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly. “I was so frightened.”
“You’re safe.”
“So frightened.”
“Blame me for what happened.”
“What…what did happen?” she managed to say.
He swallowed, shamefully told her that he’d left her sleeping—unguarded—while he took a walk.
“No doubt the fiend—the one that visited me the night before our fateful duel—thought you were me,” he said. “I forgot to close the window when I left the room. That’s how he came in the first time. May you and God forgive my stupidity. I should have never left you alone. Unpardonable idiocy—”
She placed her fingers over his lips.
“Speak not,” she said. “I owe you my life.”
“No. It is I who almost cost you your neck.” He brushed the delicate bones of her gullet. To think that once he had aimed his rapier at that beautiful arch of almond-colored flesh.
Rebecca said suddenly, “I feel sick, Shakespeare,”
“Your stomach?”
“My head. It vibrates like the clapper of a bell.”
“You imbibed too much this afternoon.” He helped her sit up. “Wait.”
He quickly fixed a posset of milk and honey and wet a rag.
“Lay this upon your forehead,” he said to Rebecca. “And drink slowly.”
“The hour is late?”
“Very late.”
“My father…”
“I’ll speak with him. Explain—”
“No!” Rebecca said. “Do not go near him! He angers easily, and this time I’ve given him much
cause for ire.”
“Twould be dishonorable and cowardly if I’d allow you to face your father alone. I’ve had many a confrontation with diverse angry men—”
“Not my father!” Suddenly she grabbed her head and moaned.
“Drink.” Shakespeare raised the goblet to her lips.
After she drank half the cup, she said, “I pray you, Shakespeare, let me deal with my father in my own way. I’ll think you not a coward and no less honorable if you cede to my judgment in this matter.”
Shakespeare said nothing.
“Do not be offended,” Rebecca implored. “I trust your manner and speech. Aye, beautiful words you pen. They could move mountains. But I know my father’s ways and can play upon them. Walk me to my home, then let me deal with my father. Please trust me as I have trusted you with certain delicate confidences.”
Shakespeare paused, then said, “At your insistence, mistress.”
“You’d do me honor if you’d call me by my forename.”
“Only if you’ll return the honor.”
“I thank you much, William.”
Shakespeare reddened. The melody in her voice as she spoke his name…
He glanced to his right and his eyes fixed upon the dagger that had almost severed that lovely throat. He picked it up and held it to the moonlight.
“Smithed like the first one used against you?” Rebecca asked.
“Seems to be.”
“And the other one? The one that this devil threw as he escaped through the window?”
“I’ve not had opportunity to look at it yet,” said Shakespeare, “but methinks it must be fashioned as the other two.”
“How many daggers does this vile creature have in his possession?”
“As many as he needs.”
“Who is he?”
“I know not, save that he’s no ghost.” Shakespeare unfolded his fist and showed her a scrap of black cloth. “I tore this from his cape. I felt his body, felt the pull of his muscles as he escaped.”
“Mackering?”
“I know not. Only that he was a man. Mayhap an extraordinary man, a madman, but a man nonetheless.”
The Quality of Mercy Page 25
