She would laugh when the conversation would go along the lines of, “And we hope that this little one will be as pretty as you, and as fine a writer as your husband.”
To which someone would inevitably add, amid shouts of laughter, “Aye, and not the other way ’round.”
Then, when the birth was imminent, things had begun to get complicated. There was the sudden, mysterious appearance of the woman with the loud voice in their apartment one night. William had passed it off as nothing, but it had obviously worried him.
Then there was the Queen’s Royal Command that William write a play within a fortnight.
William had declared publicly that it was an impossible task, grumbled that it was beyond him, then disappeared with rancour into the tiny ante-chamber at the end of their apartment, only to triumphantly reappear four days later, holding a script aloft. He had handed it to Budsby, commanding him loudly, so all could hear to, “Take it to the Chamberlain’s Men at The Globe, instruct Burbage that on Saturday week we premiere it before the Queen, and tell him that this is his greatest acting challenge.”
Worst of all, there had been the arrival of a doctor, sent under the strict instructions of Sir Thomas Walsingham and Lord Burghley, “To ensure that Mrs Shakespeare has the best possible care and that a healthy baby is born in the best possible circumstances.”
She did not really want the doctor around. She felt so well. But there was little opportunity to argue about his involvement, as he had been sent in by the two very powerful people as an obvious show of support for William.
The trouble was, this man of medicine, clean-shaven with a mass of silver hair, was a pompous, over-bearing type who brooked no contradictory opinion and took control of proceedings away from Margaret.
Worse still, within two days of him appearing on the scene and ministering potions, she started to feel unwell, and this only encouraged him to stay around longer.
She began to get a feeling of lethargy. A burning sensation in her chest. A weakness in her arms.
These symptoms continued and worsened, despite his ministrations of drafts and foul-tasting concoctions that he assured her would, “Eliminate this fever or whatever it is, and have you in the best possible shape for the arrival of the little one.”
Perhaps it was because of all the pressure on everybody that now, suddenly losing weight and feeling ill, she went into labour earlier than expected, only hours before the curtain went up on one of the most important moments in her lover’s life.
“Don’t bother William,” she had said to Margaret, in between contractions. “He is over at the theatre, it’s his big opportunity to impress the Queen, and he does not need this distraction.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Margaret had said. “Men get away with things like this all the time. In the beginning, when it’s all lots of fun, they won’t leave you alone, hanging around doe-eyed until they have had their wicked way with you. But when it comes to the hard part - being by your side when the result of their little dalliance is entering into the world - they are not anywhere to be seen!”
And so, as Sarah began to concentrate her energy on the final stages of the birth, and the doctor blustered in to give instructions, Margaret had sent a messenger across to the theatre that the baby was imminent.
Over at The Globe, to Queen Elizabeth, her courtiers, and the penny-paying public in the pit, nothing seemed different.
Master Shakespeare came out, introduced himself, said that he had been delighted to accept the challenge of Her Majesty, had written and produced The Merry Wives of Windsor involving the antics of Sir John Falstaff in the requisite time, was proud to present it by the Chamberlain’s Men, read the prologue, bowed, and strolled off stage.
But the second he was out of the view of the audience, he rushed to the stage door, bounded out into the Saturday afternoon light, jumped into a four-horse carriage provided by Sir Thomas Walsingham, and headed straight for the tavern, where he arrived at the crucial moment, just as the baby’s head was beginning to show.
Breaking all usual custom, he burst into the room.
“Mr Shakespeare, sir, I must ask you to leave,” said the doctor, wheeling on him.
“This is my wife, my baby, and I am staying,” said Shakespeare.
What William did not add, but what he was thinking was, I was not there for the birth of my other children, and I am not missing this time.
There was silence, as the two men eyed each other, waiting for the other to back down.
“Good to hear!” said Margaret, trying to break the impasse. “About time the men got involved.”
But by now William had started to look beyond the doctor, and was overwhelmed at what he saw. Sarah was sweating profusely, her hair was matted, she had turned almost sheet-white. Strangely, she was making very little noise, yet she was in the final minutes of giving birth.
She was exhausted from the process, and as she gave one last push and the baby came out, the very life-spirit seemed to almost leave her.
“It’s a boy, it’s a boy!” shouted Margaret as she took the baby expertly, cut the umbilical cord, and wrapped him in a snow-white blanket. “A beautiful baby boy!” she said again, as she placed him gently at the side of Sarah.
But William knelt by the side of the bed, and gently kissed Sarah, tears welling in his eyes.
She looked across at him dreamily and smiled with cracked, dry lips.
“Water! Water! My wife needs water,” shouted Shakespeare, looking up for help.
With all the pressure of the Queen’s challenge, William had not really been focusing on everything around him, and now it dawned on him that Sarah was desperately ill. Her eyes had lost their spark, and were rimmed in red. Her skin was drawn and pale, sort of grey. She had a hooded, almost defeated look.
“What shall we call him?” she whispered.
“What?” said William distractedly. For he was now looking directly at the baby, and was realising that - even allowing for his total inexperience in these matters - the little one, also, was obviously far from well. After the initial scream declaring his arrival, the boy had gone very quiet. His eyes were closed, and his lips, instead of being pursed like a ruby rosebud, were colourless and screwed at an angle.
“Well, I was thinking of Rufus, after Mr Budsby,” whispered Shakespeare, not daring to take his eyes off the baby.
“Sir Rufus Shakespeare? I like it,” said Sarah slowly.
“Sir Rufus? You think he will become a nobleman?”
“As long as he is a noble man, like you,” said Sarah. “You are the most noble man in the world.”
“Sarah, I …” said Shakespeare, lowering his head. “I … ah …”
“You don’t need to say anything,” said Sarah gently. “I know.”
“Know? Know what? What are you talking about?”
“I know. I know about you. I know about your wife. And your children. I know about Christopher.”
“Christopher?” Shakespeare hissed, looking around the room to make sure that Margaret and the doctor were not within earshot. “What do you know about Christopher?”
“I know Christopher is not dead.”
“But … how?”
“A woman knows these things, William. I know he is not dead, and I know that you do not write those plays.”
“You know? I mean, you knew all the time, but did not say anything? Even when I used to sit in a room and pretend I was writing. You knew and yet you still continued to love me?”
“I fell in love with William the actor, William the producer, William the perfect gentleman, William my friend, William the funny man, William the noble man. By the time you became William the so-called writer, it did not concern me one way or another, all I wanted was to be your lover and to have your child.”
There was a long silence as the couple stared into each other’s eyes.
“I think you should call him Christopher as well,” she whispered ultimately. “And Soho. And Samuel.”
“Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel Shakespeare. Rufus after your mentor, Christopher after your brilliant friend, Soho after the greatest performer in the world, and Samuel after our brave and noble protector.”
She began to cough, and William noticed with alarm that her eyes were going hazy and a small trickle of blood was coming out the side of her mouth.
“Doctor! Margaret!” he shouted. “Come quickly, do something!”
The physician, who had been fiddling with some instruments at a side-table, turned around, rushed over, and peered into Sarah’s face. He drew back, looked grave, and started to shake his head slightly. “Perhaps you could leave the room for a moment, Mr Shakespeare,” he said calmly.
“I’m not leaving until I know that she is all right!” shouted William.
“She will be fine, but I need to examine her. Please?” The doctor turned to Margaret. “Margaret?”
Margaret moved to William, took him by the arm, and tenderly got him to stand. “It’s for the best, William,” she said. “Let the doctor do his work, and wait outside.”
Slowly William trudged to the door, turned, looked back at his ill wife and listless child, and went outside.
In the hallway, he stood quietly, with his eyes shut, his head tilted back against the wall.
“Why me, Lord,” he whispered to himself. “Why me? I have never done anything so wrong as to be cursed with this, surely?”
He opened his eyes, and noticed a looking glass on the wall opposite. He moved over to it forlornly, stood still, and began to examine the image in it.
The Shakespeare staring back at him looked tired, drawn, worn out. There was little life in the eyes, a worried frown across his forehead, a downward curve of the lips giving him a sad appearance.
“What a miserable face,” William whispered.
It was a sad face, a dejected face, a depressed face.
“What a face,” he said loudly. “But one day it will be a happy face, as I introduce my son Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel Shakespeare to the crowd for his first performance on the stage.
“Then again, maybe he should become an accountant and enjoy life …”
“Or a strong man,” came a voice.
Shakespeare turned to his right at the sound, and was overjoyed to see Samuel Davidson walking down the corridor to him.
“Samuel,” he cried. “Samuel. I didn’t know you were coming back.”
He rushed forward and the two embraced.
“I thought …” continued Shakespeare.
“You thought I would be over there forever?” said Davidson.
“Well … who knows when this will all end?”
“Who knows? But I had had enough … enough of life on the road, enough of being the courtier to the Queen of Nubia, enough of wearing black make-up.”
“So, they decided to let you go?”
“Christopher has been writing some sort of sonnet or somesuch, not a play, mind, and had missed the last courier with it, but expressly wanted to get it back to Sir Thomas. Really important, he said. So Soho and I ...” and here the big man’s face began to crumble.
“Yes?” said Shakespeare slowly.
“Soho and I,” said Samuel, drawing a deep breath, “Soho and I offered to bring it back, and come home for good.”
“Excellent,” said Shakespeare.
“But …”
“Samuel, what’s wrong?”
“But, Mr Shakespeare. There’s only me that’s come back.”
“What?”
“Soho … perhaps he was doing the cartwheels because he was so happy that we were coming home.”
“Cartwheels?”
“On the Pont du Garrard, or something like that,” said Davidson, his bottom lip trembling. “One of those Roman water bridges, in France. He fell off, Mr Shakespeare, fell off, and now he’s dead.”
William staggered backwards. The back of his head hit the looking glass, and he turned around to stare into it. Soho? Dead? Not Soho. He was indestructible. He could survive anything. He could bounce from danger to safety in an instant.
William was about to say something like, “Did he suffer?” when in the looking glass, he detected a movement behind him and turning around all thoughts of Soho and of a future for his own son drained away, as he saw the looks on the faces of Margaret and the doctor standing at the bedroom door.
They were both sombre, the doctor looking professionally concerned, Margaret dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “The Plague …it comes, it goes … it has taken her, and the baby was not strong enough to survive by itself … I’m sorry.”
It was tribute to the character of William Shakespeare that, after he had pushed past them, rushed in and knelt by the bed and hugged the dead bodies of his wife and child in tears, he went back to the theatre - knowing he had to be there at the end to receive the plaudits of the Queen and thus maintain the subterfuge of the great Marlowe plot - and took his bows, weighed down by the death of his new son and of his wife.
Indeed, through his tears when he left the room, he took no notice of how the doctor, silently and stealthily packing his potions away in his bag, reached across the table to pick up a bottle, revealing on his left forearm, as his sleeve slid upwards, a nasty looking tattoo of a coiled snake …
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The death of his de facto wife and newborn son was the cruellest of body blows to William Shakespeare.
Now thirty-four, he had experienced what he felt was his fair share of trials and tragedies throughout his days at Stratford, travelling the countryside with his mentor Rufus J. Budsby, and ultimately setting up business in London. There had been the sudden dissolution of his engagement to Anne Whateley and her subsequent tragic suicide. There had been his rapid-fire, forced marriage with Anne Hathaway, and the resultant birth of children amid the turmoil of an on-again, off-again, but basically loveless marriage.
There had been moments of despair when the travelling mummer group faced bankruptcy, and had been almost overwhelmed by tragic personal circumstances, such as the roadside killing of the gentle giant, Hercules, by brigands at Norwich and now the distressing death of the troupe’s favourite, Soho, on the Gard River in France.
There was even the time, thought William ruefully, that they had had their horses stolen overnight, thus providing a very profitable source of meat filling for an enterprising east London pie-maker. Successful as that project had been for the horse thieves and the baker, to William, that was not the Shakespeare way of doing things.
William stopped for a moment, and looked up from kneeling at the side of the cold, unmade bed, where only a few hours before the love of his life and their new baby had lain.
“The Shakespeare way of doing things?” he shouted to the empty room. “What is the Shakespeare way of doing things? Hey? Can anyone answer that?”
There was no answer, but the agonised Shakespeare pursued the query. “Can you, God? Or whoever it is you call yourself? Can you answer the question, ‘What is the Shakespeare way of doing things?’
“Well, I can. I will tell you.
“The Shakespeare way of doing things is to be controlled by others. That’s it. To be manipulated by forces, seen and unseen. Mainly unseen…” he said wanly, tears rolling down his cheek. “Mainly unseen. Never in control of your own destiny. That’s the Shakespeare way of doing things.
“Picked up, probed, pushed, and packaged.
“Packaged into something that I am not.
“In fact, I do not know what I am.
“There is no word to describe me!
“Charlatan, perhaps.
“Fraud, maybe.
“Usurer, possibly.
“After all, I am user of other people’s talents, especially that of my good friend, Christopher. What word is there to describe me?”
“Friend!” barked a mighty, booming voice. “That is a word describing
you, just as a beginning. Friend. And believe me, young man, I can tell you that, in the pantheon of human traits, there is no better characteristic than loyalty.”
There was silence as the big fellow shuffled across the polished wood floor. Through his tears Shakespeare noticed for the first time that Budsby was not moving with his usual smoothness and agility on his otherwise dainty feet. The news of the death of Soho, his unique performer and partner right from the earliest days had shocked, battered and exhausted him.
The big man came up to Shakespeare and put a huge left hand on his student’s shuddering right shoulder.
“Friend,” intoned Budsby. “Loyal friend. Business partner. Hard worker. Actor. Producer. These are just some of the words that do you justice.”
Shakespeare stared up at the big man, his bottom lip quivering.
“Lover is another,” continued Budsby. “A gentle, beautiful lover for Sarah. Giving her a love that fulfilled her life, absorbed her every hour. And there is one more word …”
“What is that?” whispered Shakespeare slowly.
“A son,” said the big fellow gently. “You are like a son to me. No, wait, not like a son. You are my son. You have been my son since the day we met by that cold stream outside Stratford and forged a bond that has taken us on this extraordinary journey through life, a journey one moment of which I shall never regret.”
More tears began to well in William’s eyes.
“And I am here,” said Budsby quietly, “to help share the burden of my son’s grief.”
Shakespeare got up and embraced the big fellow, the tearful droplets cascading down his cheeks.
“Thank you, Mr Budsby, thank you,” he whispered. “But even if I do not know what I am, I know what I have lost. I have lost the love of my life, and the child of my dreams. That is what I have lost.”
“You have not lost their memory, their image and their enduring love, that will stay with you forever.”
The Playmakers Page 30
