‘I want him to desire me.’ She breathed out the words through lips taut with fury. ‘To touch me, to kiss me, to know what his body feels like …’ She stopped. She had no need to supply him with the rest of her imaginings. She was sure he could understand it well enough.
Tom lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head in acknowledgement. Then he smiled. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I doubt you need to ask the spirits.’
‘How so?’ She looked up at him quickly, suspecting a joke.
He reached out a hand to smooth back a hair from her temple. ‘You’re a woman, Sarah. A young woman with a clever mind and a pretty smile. You can win him easily.’
She stared.
‘I will teach you.’
‘Teach me?’ She was bewildered. ‘Teach me what? Teach me how?’
‘What – to weave a spell without magic, to be cunning. How – by showing you how to be with him, how to hold your head and smile, how to move your body when he’s near, how to flatter and charm and be aloof all at once, how to stir his jealousy. I promise you, he will come.’
Sarah ran her tongue across her lips. ‘Is this how you win a woman?’ she asked. She knew he never lacked for lovers, but she had always assumed his youth and good looks and natural wit had simply brought him good fortune. She had never considered he might consciously use cunning.
‘The same principles apply,’ he replied.
‘Then let us start,’ she said with a smile. ‘I am eager to learn.’
‘Tomorrow, sweet sister,’ he said, getting up, then taking her hand in his to help her to her feet. ‘It’s late and I’m tired.’
She nodded.
‘Think on it,’ he said, ‘and ask for dreams to help you. Tomorrow we’ll begin.’
He bent to kiss her cheek and squeezed her fingers. Then he was gone and the door swung to gently behind him.
In the morning the whole household was at breakfast: mother, father, brother, sister, servants, and Simon the apprentice, taken on when Tom had refused the position, preferring instead to use his knowledge of tailoring as the Company’s wardrobe-keeper. The bitterness of his refusal still hung in the air even four years on: Tom had never once accepted his stepfather’s authority, and he had laughed in the older man’s face when he tried to force him to accept the apprenticeship. Sarah still admired her brother for his courage but there were times when she wished for a more peaceful house – the constant hostility wore at her nerves.
There was silence at the table, no one daring to speak unbidden by their master, and Sarah picked at her bread and butter. She had no appetite after the night of dreams, her mind still chasing the images. Absently she watched the apprentice as he helped himself to more herring. He caught her eye and smiled, thin lips creasing, and she looked away, embarrassed he had caught her. She hoped he would read nothing into it; she had noticed recently he was smiling at her more. Perhaps he was thinking of another way to ensure his place in the family inheritance. God, she hoped not. She flicked a glance towards Tom, who returned the look with an almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. He had noticed it too, then, and her hopes were in vain.
Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Stop picking at your food, Sarah. Either eat it or leave it.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Then leave it.’
She pushed the trencher away, sullen, resentful of her mother’s scolding. ‘I’m not a child,’ she said.
‘Then don’t eat like one.’
‘Excuse me,’ Sarah said, standing up. Her father lifted his eyes from his food and looked her over as though she were a piece of cloth he was thinking to buy. But he said nothing and after a moment lowered his gaze once more to the bread in his hand, continuing to chew his herring with a regular and persistent slopping that revolted her. ‘I have things to do.’ Clamping her jaw against her resentment, she left the chamber and fled up the stairs to her room. There she stood at the window, looking down into the street. A cart had got a wheel stuck in the mud a few doors down and the carter was trying to enlist help from passers-by to shift it. Two gentlemen in fine velvets stood to watch with encouraging jeers until a couple of passing journeymen pitched their strong shoulders against it and the spectacle ended.
Turning from the window, she saw her brother leaning his narrow frame in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him come in. Light from the window brushed his face, highlighting the sharp high cheekbones, the straight and narrow nose, the angular jaw. His eyes were clear and blue grey today – the same eyes as hers, people said. But he was so familiar to her that she seldom actually saw him, and in the glow of the morning sun she remembered he was handsome.
‘She treats me like a child,’ she said.
‘But you’re not a child’ – he shrugged – ‘so why let it bother you?’
She smiled at his logic. ‘Old habits, I suppose.’
‘Then it’s time to learn some new ones.’
‘Don’t you have to be at the playhouse?’ She had not expected him to teach her this morning; she had thought she would have to wait until evening.
‘A few minutes,’ he replied. ‘That’s all we need.’
She took a deep breath and remembered the lust of her dreams. With the memory she felt a flush cover her neck and cheeks, and she touched her fingers to her face to feel the warmth.
‘You need to make him notice you first,’ Tom said. ‘When he isn’t onstage, what does he do?’
‘He watches. Sometimes he reads pages of the play. Often he is with John.’
‘Then you need to be close to where he is. Find some excuse to be near him. Here, pretend I’m Nick.’ He leaned against the door, half examining his nails, half giving his attention to something in the distance. For all the world he could have been Nick at the theatre.
She laughed and swung away, self-conscious.
‘Do you want him or not?’ Tom demanded.
‘I want him,’ she said, swallowing down her embarrassment.
‘Then …?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Good morning to you, Nick,’ she offered, taking a step closer. Then she looked towards the imaginary stage, feeling foolish. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Come nearer,’ Tom said.
She took another step. Impatiently, he reached out a hand to grab her arm and pulled her closer until she was standing right by him, her skirts brushing his legs, her face at his shoulder.
‘So near?’ Tom becoming Nick confused her: it felt dangerous, this closeness, and inwardly she shrank away.
‘Stand up straight,’ Tom told her. ‘You have a pretty figure, use it.’
‘I’m flat as a board,’ she answered, looking down, running her hand over the bodice of her dress. It was a great source of disappointment. ‘There’s nothing to use.’
‘It isn’t important. But if you think it would help then do something about it. You’re a seamstress, aren’t you? Alter the dress. Give yourself something to use.’
She laughed with embarrassment. She had thought of it before but it seemed like a falsehood, a trick a lady at Court or a harlot might use, and beyond her own means.
‘You have your whole body,’ Tom was saying. ‘The touch of a hand, the sway of a hip. Let your dress brush against him. Touch your hair, run a hand across your belly. Make him aware of your body as a woman. Now let’s try again.’
She stepped back away from him and he pretended once more to be absorbed in the play. Attempting to clear her mind as though she were preparing to scry, she took a deep breath and moved forward again, coming in close beside him this time. It felt strange to be so near him with such unsisterly thoughts in her head, and with a jolt she realised she’d never been conscious of Tom as a man before: he had just always been her brother, and the new heightened sense of him threatened her understanding of the world – everything she had thought till that moment seemed abruptly changed. Was this what it meant to become a woman and leave childhood behind? Heat flickered over her skin as a blush, and she sw
allowed, struggling with unfamiliar emotions, forcing herself to be calm, to remember what Tom had just taught her. She waited a moment, trying to imagine again that she was at the theatre and that the man beside her was not her brother at all but Nick, the man she desired. By force of will, she mastered her nerves and heard herself say, ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
Tom turned his head towards her as though surprised by her sudden appearance. His face was very close to hers. ‘Yes, it’s very good,’ he said.
There was a moment of silence, and she could feel the sudden tension between them, a heat passing one to the other, a quickness in her blood. She was aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his gaze on her face. Overwhelmed by confusion, she backed away, turning her attention towards the window, away from her brother. When she looked towards him again, he was still watching her, a slight smile in his eyes.
‘Do you think he will notice you now?’ he asked her, his voice soft.
She nodded, her senses still prickling and her pulse running quickly. She was uncertain what had passed between them; she only knew it had excited her.
‘Then let’s go.’
He turned abruptly and snatched open the door, and she followed him down the wooden stairs and into the drizzle of the morning.
At the playhouse, rehearsal was just beginning and the various members of the Company were spread around the theatre to watch. Sarah sat herself on a bench with her sewing in the downstairs gallery to watch too. Nick was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the tiring house behind the stage, or upstairs, she thought, perhaps rehearsing lines with some of the others. She would wait until he came to the yard. She felt a surprising calm beneath the nerves, the excitement of a coming adventure rather than the fear she had expected. The strange moment with Tom she had pushed out of her mind: she did not want to think of it. But whatever had taken place between them had imbued her with a new sense of courage.
They were blocking the first scene, the witches on the heath. Tom, Robert Armin, and Will Sly. It was clever casting, she thought, one young, one old, one fat. They came and went through the trapdoor, appearing as if out of nowhere. With smoke in performance to hide them they would indeed seem as spirits. Will stood to one side of the stage, directing. There was no sign now of sleeplessness or fear in his face. He seemed his usual self, absorbed only in his work, passionate and certain. His self-possession was comforting: perhaps whatever he had conjured had gone on its way and let him be. Perhaps his dreams were no longer haunted. She touched the small charm she kept closely hidden in her skirts, one of the poppets that she and Tom had made for protection, and closed her eyes in a brief prayer to Hecate that it was so.
Onstage the witches were circling.
‘Hail.’
‘Hail.’
‘Hail.’
Burbage and Nick – Macbeth and Banquo – wheeled slowly after them, following their movements.
‘Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.’
‘Not so happy, yet much happier.’
‘Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none …’
‘Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more …’
Macbeth’s eyes lighted on Tom, the nearest of the witches, who shook his head with a sly smile of denial as he backed away. Thwarted, and his gaze still following Tom’s movements, Burbage took a step back, forgetting that the trap was still open. He fell hard into the space below with a cry.
For a moment no one moved, frozen by surprise, but as Burbage began to wail and moan, the whole Company ran forward to peer through the opening. Sarah was the last to get there to see Richard lying crumpled at the foot of the little wooden ladder with Nick crouching next to him, a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder.
‘Let me through,’ Sarah said.
They moved apart for her and she let herself down through the opening and knelt beside the injured man in the semi-darkness. ’Where are you hurt?’ she asked him.
‘My arm,’ he said. ‘And my back.’
She lifted her head for a moment, searching for Tom among the faces that were looking down. He caught her meaning at once and set off at a run to bring their mother, who was skilled in healing, her years as a midwife teaching her all manner of cures. Sarah was only beginning to learn but she was not without some skill.
‘Let me see your arm,’ she said, and gently folded back the sleeve from his wrist, running her fingers across the skin and finding the fracture beneath.
‘Is it broken?’ Richard asked, grimacing.
She nodded, the break unmistakable beneath her fingertips. He winced with her touch. ‘My mother will know best what to do. We must get you upstairs.’
Richard moaned.
Sarah turned to Nick. ‘Can we lift him up?’
He nodded. John Heminges dropped down through the opening and together they managed to manhandle Richard back onto the stage. Then between them they half carried, half dragged him through to the tiring room and laid him on the couch that lay against one wall.
Everyone looked to Sarah. She swallowed and forced herself to speak with confidence. ‘He needs a pillow for his arm and a cold compress across the break,’ she said. ‘Then we must wait for my mother.’
They helped him to settle on the couch and Sarah stayed with him, attending to his arm with the compress someone brought, making sure he was comfortable before she sat on a low stool by his head to keep him company while the others withdrew, their voices hushed with concern and dwindling to murmurs. Only Will remained.
‘What of Lear tomorrow?’ Richard asked. ‘I cannot play.’
‘I know,’ Will answered with a sigh. ‘We will play something else.’
‘But the bills have been printed.’
The playwright shrugged.
‘You could do it,’ Richard said. ‘You know the lines …’
‘Aye,’ Will replied, turning away. ‘I do know the lines.’
Then neither spoke for what seemed to Sarah to be an age. She was aware of Will pacing at her back and concerned, she guessed, for the days to come. Performances were scheduled and their leading man was down. But the Company was versatile, their repertoire extensive, and she had no doubt the plays would still go on. Richard struggled to sit up straighter, following Will’s movements, and Sarah reached to shift the pillow that supported his arm. A grimace of pain passed across his face as he moved.
When her mother finally hurried in, out of habit Richard tried to rise to greet her, only to fall back with a groan. Mistress Stone came to the playhouse rarely these days but she was well known to the older members of the Company: her first husband, Tom’s father, had been wardrobe-keeper in the early days, and Will had remained a constant friend. It was a source of great discord in their family: her second husband hated the playhouse and its players with all the passion of his Puritan faith, and Elizabeth had kept her distance from it to keep the peace.
‘Mistress Stone,’ Richard said. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Hush,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘And let me take a look at you.’
She bustled her daughter out of the way and took her place at the stool, running expert fingers over Richard’s arm, examining his back. Sarah shared a glance with Tom, standing close to her, but she couldn’t read his expression. His fingers brushed the back of her hand and she squeezed them. The accident and her mother’s presence had unsettled her earlier confidence. Tom leaned in close and breathed in her ear. ‘You did well. And you look beautiful.’
She took in a sharp breath of shock, but his words had their effect and she straightened herself up again, remembering she was a woman, not a child. She flashed him a glance and smiled.
‘Good girl,’ he murmured.
‘We must get Master Burbage to his home,’ Elizabeth pronounced at last, turning to look up at the waiting players who loitered near the door to the stage. They moved forward, anxious for news, and she got up to address them.
‘His wrist is broken but it will mend,’ she s
aid. ‘And his back is strained. But he must have rest. I’ll prepare compresses of herbs to apply every day.’ Then she directed her gaze towards Will, and Sarah saw the sympathy between them, an understanding she had seen many times before. It was a look she had never once seen pass between her parents. ’You must needs find a cart to take him,’ her mother was saying. ‘He can neither ride nor walk for many days yet.’
Will bowed slightly in answer and left. The others followed at a distance, and Sarah and Tom trailed out behind them, leaving Richard with their mother. The rest of the Company sat in small groups around the theatre, waiting, lounging on the benches or on the floor of the yard. Nick stood alone at the edge of the yard, leaning against one of the pillars with his arms crossed, apparently deep in thought.
‘Go,’ Tom said.
She nodded and let go of her brother’s hand. Then, with one slow breath for courage and a movement of her fingers against the small charm in her pocket, she crossed the yard and went to stand beside him.
Chapter Four
Birth-Strangled Babe
In the evening after the tavern, Tom came to find her in her chamber once again. She was sewing by candlelight, the fabric close to the flame as she worked on the bodice of her dress to round out her figure. She had made pads to insert to push up her breasts, but it was less easy than she’d thought and she was beginning to wonder if she’d ruined a perfectly good bodice.
Tom stood at her shoulder for a moment, watching. Then he said, ‘Do you still think you need them?’
‘They can only help.’
He nodded, turning to lean his hips against the table, close beside her. She finished the stitch and tied off the thread. Then she sat back and looked up at him. He was pale, she thought, and his cheeks seemed gaunter than before. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Of course I’m all right.’ The question seemed to irritate him. ‘I’m always all right. And I came to talk about you, not me. So tell me. What happened with Nick?’
Shakespeare's Witch Page 3
