Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  ‘You’re half-frozen,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you use more blankets?’

  ‘I slept fine,’ he answered, but he was shivering, so she fetched another blanket from the couch to wrap around his shoulders. He accepted it with a smile and drew it round him before he got to his feet.

  ‘How are your legs?’ he asked.

  ‘Sore,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘But bearable.’

  ‘It’ll ease in a couple of days. I’ll get some ointment today.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and she meant for more than just the ointment.

  He nodded, understanding. Then he said, ‘You can’t stay here. We have to find you somewhere to go.’

  ‘I know.’ She had thought of little else since her beating, her options spinning round in her mind. And last night she had cast her fate to the gods, asking for a new path to open.

  ‘I thought as a servant somewhere?’ Tom suggested. He sounded hesitant and unsure, as though he expected her to refuse him outright. ‘Perhaps for Nick? There is only Joyce, who comes in during the day to look after the house. There would be enough work for you if he would have you. And you could still earn money with your needle.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you think he will have me?’ She saw the image of Nick in her dream, taking her hand, kissing her fingers, leading him towards her. It was the answer she had prayed for.

  ‘I think he will.’ He paused again, eyes wandering the boards, and she waited, watching him. He looked weary, his skin pale and sickly, cheeks gaunt. Then he raised his face to meet the look. ‘But it will ruin any chance for a good marriage for you. Your good name will suffer.’

  She shrugged. ‘I have run away from home and rejected my father, so I have no dowry. I work at the playhouse. Three nights ago I wandered the Bankside taverns with a whore and drank ale with a company of players.’ She gave him a wry half-smile. ‘I think the damage is already done.’ If a good marriage meant Simon, she could wear the loss without sorrow. And though she knew the easy comfort of her former life had gone for ever, she had few regrets – the comfort came at too high a price.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘where else can I go?’

  ‘One of the others in the Company? A bigger household with a family, women.’

  ‘I would rather go to Nick’s,’ she said softly, and he laughed.

  ‘Of course you would.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I will ask him for you, gentle sister.’ He stepped forward and touched a finger to her cheek and she rubbed her face against his touch, like a cat. A memory of his touch in her dream forged unbidden into her thoughts, her breasts against his ribs, his member against her belly, and she swallowed, guilt blushing over her, denying the sense of desire. All her other transgressions slid away under the sin of this.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  She backed away and shook her head, eyes lowered, appalled at herself. He followed her and all she was aware of was his closeness, the shape of his body under his clothes.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Second thoughts? It’s still not too late to go back.’

  ‘No, it isn’t that,’ she mumbled, in her confusion. ‘I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ he urged. His hand held her arm and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her hair.

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘Tell me,’ he insisted again.

  She shook her head once more and he took her chin between his fingers and tilted her face up towards him. She struggled to look away but his grip was firm and his mouth was close to hers. ‘Why can’t you tell me? You’ve always told me everything.’

  She swallowed again. Tears began to rise and there was nothing she could do to stop them. ‘Please don’t, Tom.’

  He let her face go and folded her into his chest, his arms holding her tightly. She stood quietly, forcing down the tears, forbidding herself to cry. But she did not relax into him as she had always done before, and his closeness was not a comfort but a torture, all her senses alive to the maleness of him, forbidden need suffusing her. She wanted only for him to let her go. He sensed her reluctance and loosened his hold, stepped back one pace and looked into her face again.

  ‘What have I done?’ he asked.

  ‘I had a dream, is all,’ she answered, because she couldn’t bear to see the pain in his eyes, the belief he had done something to hurt her. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘A dream is never nothing,’ he said. ‘You know that more than most. Tell me.’

  She hesitated. He was right: her dreams had foretold the future many times. It was a gift she knew Tom envied, and he had helped her in the past to find the meanings they contained.

  ‘We can puzzle it out together,’ he said. ‘What did you dream?’

  She sighed, unable to resist any longer. She had never been able to say no to her brother: he had a capacity for persuasion she was sure he used often and well. And perhaps, after all, it meant something other than it seemed. Perhaps he could help her to see it.

  ‘Come, Sarah, tell me.’ He held her fingers gently in one hand, his face still lowered and close to hers. A warm desire fanned from her belly and she kept her face averted.

  ‘We were naked, you and I,’ she whispered. ‘You touched my breast, and your …’ She stopped, searching for the right word. Even with her brother, she had never talked of such things.

  ‘My …?’ he prompted.

  ‘Your … manhood … pressed against me. Against my belly.’ She watched him closely, trying to judge his reaction, but his expression remain unchanged: there was no trace of the revulsion she had feared, and hope gave a little spring inside her. For a moment he said nothing and she waited, aware of her breath in the silent room, her brother’s eyes searching the floor for answers. A sliver of the same desire from her dream crept through her blood, and as she wound her fingers more tightly in his, he lifted his head to look at her.

  ‘Did it … please you?’ he asked, returning the pressure of her fingers.

  She nodded, biting her lower lip in shame, gaze tethered to the boards at their feet. ‘I wanted you,’ she whispered.

  He let out a long breath, so that she knew even he was taken aback by it. Then he said, ‘Tell me the rest of it.’

  She told him as quickly as she could say the words, without emotion. The forest, the four men, the prediction each of them had made. When she had finished, his fingers were still entwined with hers and he rubbed at them gently.

  ‘They were choices,’ he said, after a time. ‘Choices for you to make. You rejected the first two. You can reject the third also.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘But the dream led me to give up Father and Simon: I could reject them in my waking hours because it was the path I took in the dream. And in the dream you led me to Nick. Though in the daylight I know it must be wrong because my head tells me so, my spirit disagrees and still rises with desire.’

  He was silent, considering her words, and after a moment he let go of her hand. With the contact broken, she breathed out as though released from a bond.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked.

  She took a deep breath, and the fear coalesced into meaning at last. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘that I must follow the path the dream has set. That I must reject and choose as it guided me. That if I go another way I will lose all power of choice.’

  ‘You’re afraid of losing Nick?’

  ‘Yes. And of losing the freedom to reject Father and Simon.’

  He nodded in agreement. Downstairs they heard a door slam, a man’s voice in the yard. Both of them looked towards the stairs; the Company was arriving for rehearsal. ‘We’ll talk more later,’ Tom said. ‘But first we must find you somewhere to go. And before even that,’ he went on, ‘I must find some breakfast.’

  She smiled. ‘Fetch me something too.’

  He touched a finger to her face and in a moment he was gone, his lean
frame dropping through the hatch onto the ladder, his footsteps light and quick on the rungs. She turned away, fingers straightening her hair, brushing down her skirts. As she bent to retrieve the chamber pot, she heard Tom calling out to bid good morning to someone he passed on his way out, and wondered if it was Nick. Then she wondered if she should have told him, if they were being tempted into something evil. But her dreams had never failed her before, never been wrong, and the meaning had seemed very clear. Fear and guilt and desire mixed into excitement, and the soreness of the wounds from her beating was forgotten. She turned once more towards the steps and carefully lowered herself down through the opening to face the day.

  Downstairs, the players were getting ready to begin. John was centre stage, pacing softly, hands gathered before him, lips moving in a silent murmur as he practised his lines. The tension of his nerves was palpable. Nick stood at the door to the tiring house, the daggers held loosely in one hand, awaiting his entrance, watching.

  Moving with care, Sarah found a spot at the edge of the yard and leaned against a pillar. Other members of the Company lounged around the theatre, and Will stood to one side of the stage, leaning, arms folded, impossible to ignore.

  ’Tis strange, Sarah thought, how some men have such a power in their presence that you know when they enter a room by a change in the air, a different atmosphere that follows them: they can lighten a room or darken it. Will was such a man, and the others let him lead them readily; she suspected this play would have faltered already without him. He was the kind of man that others would follow willingly to battle, she realised, and for some reason the thought made her glad.

  Tom approached, holding a packet of still-warm bread that filled the theatre with its scent. She took the piece he gave her with a smile of thanks and nibbled at it absently, still watching the stage, waiting for the scene to begin.

  Will clapped twice to call the Company’s attention, and nodded to John, who was watching for his cue to begin.

  ‘That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;

  What hath quenched them hath given me fire.

  Hark! Peace!

  It was the owl that shriek’d,

  the fatal bellman …’

  The boy changed before her eyes. The rangy, awkward limbs of his youth straightened into elegance, his chin lifted into the tilt of a woman’s head as the nerves of before slipped away. Sarah smiled in appreciation of his talent and flicked a glance to her brother, standing beside her. Tom was rapt, chest lifting with deep breaths, eyes bright and dark with something that was more than admiration. She swallowed, seeing in him the same excitement she felt watching Nick, the same desire. She hadn’t known her brother’s lusts ranged so far, and the realisation stuck in her chest, catching at her breathing. He would have to be careful – such desires were forbidden. Gently, she touched her brother’s hand and he turned immediately, an impatient question in his look.

  ‘You’re staring,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll give yourself away.’

  He said nothing, but slid his gaze hurriedly back toward the stage. She regarded him a moment longer, noticing the flush that coloured his sallow cheek.

  She switched her own gaze to Will, who was talking to the actors now, discussing some nuance of their lines, and wondered whence the inspiration came to have witches to set Macbeth upon his path of self-destruction. For why did they choose to topple Macbeth? What gain for them? And such witches – seers, sorcerers, conjurors – they could summon up the gods and the spirits, raise the dead. It was witchcraft beyond her knowledge, a magic steeped in evil. Dark witches she had heard of, wicked souls who spat their curses onto others and summoned unnatural forces to hinder and to harm. But these weird sisters that Will had brought to life hailed from a darker realm: they were barely human, spirits from a netherworld. Daemons. Words of sorcery, words of conjuration – the witches’ incantations reached far beyond her own simple spellcraft, and their powers tapped a different, darker source. They frightened her: words spoken contain a power, no matter if they’re said by actors on a stage or by witches round a fire. No wonder Will had nightmares when his mind was filled with spirits such as these, their speech upon his tongue. Though she had seen in the shewstone that his dark imaginings had opened doors to shadow realms, she had barely understood it at the time. But now she’d heard the witches’ words of sorcery as they worked their malice to warp a man into a tyrant and to send his Lady mad, and the visions of the shewstone had come to seem as destiny, a fate that was hewn in rock.

  Shaking her head against the thought of it, she turned her mind once more to the actors on the stage. The scene came to an end and the players moved away. Tom turned to her again. ‘Say nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Nick.’

  Tom crossed the yard to speak with the man she hoped would soon be her master, and Sarah saw him cast a furtive glance towards John, who had found himself a quiet spot in the gallery to practise his lines. Wondering if John was the first boy Tom had wanted or if there had been others before, she looked away with a sigh, then, conscious that she barely knew her brother after all, she turned her gaze to him once more and watched him as he spoke to Nick.

  The two men talked for what seemed like an age, and she saw Nick’s gaze flick towards her once or twice, saw him nod and smile and, finally, when she was sure he must have said no, he beckoned her towards them. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, heart hammering, she stepped across the yard, made a small curtsey and stood before them.

  ‘Your brother tells me you’re in need of a position as a servant somewhere?’ Nick said. His smile was kind, lines forming at the corners of his eyes, and she dropped her head away from it, afraid she was wearing her feelings too plainly in her face.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I’ve left my father’s protection ...’

  ‘I know,’ Nick replied. ‘Tom has explained all.’

  She waited, raising her eyes to Tom for a quick glance of understanding. His head dipped briefly and relief surged through her in a wave. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to calm herself, suddenly aware how afraid she’d been that he wouldn’t take her after all.

  ‘You can have the attic,’ he said. ‘It’ll need a clean, but you’re welcome to it if you think you can bear to serve a couple of players.’

  She lifted her eyes to meet his then. He was regarding her closely, waiting for her answer. ‘Thank you. I can think of no one I would rather serve – a couple of players will suit me fine,’ she whispered, dropping her head once more in a small bow of gratitude. ‘I’ll serve you well.’

  Nick smiled. ‘And I’ll try to be a good master.’ He looked across to Tom. ‘Or I’ll have your brother to answer to.’

  She returned the smile. ‘I’m very grateful.’

  He reached out to touch her arm with a movement of gentle reassurance. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll talk more on it later.’

  She nodded, curtseying again before she walked away, and the ground felt like air beneath her.

  When the Company broke for lunch, Nick found Sarah in the wardrobe upstairs, sewing one of the dresses that John would wear as the Lady. She was alone at the bench, standing, the dark silk spread out before her. The door was open to the bright winter cold to let in the light, and she had wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. Her breath condensed in little clouds before her.

  She turned at his footstep on the stair and laid down her needle carefully, threading it through the fabric to keep it safe, waiting. He could see the slight hesitation now that the relation between them had changed. They were no longer simply fellows in the Company and neither was quite sure how to act. Dipping into a brief, respectful curtsey, she kept her head lowered as he stepped across the boards towards her.

  ‘How goes it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s John’s gown for the banquet scene – it’s very fine.’ She fingered the fabric lovingly, her eyes still turned away from him.

 
He smiled. ‘It is. But I wasn’t asking about the dress.’

  ‘Oh.’ She lifted her face then and there was a smile at the edges of her mouth. He observed her for a moment, the smooth, pale cheeks, flushed now with cold and her nerves, the full lips, the bright and curious eyes. Her hair was pulled back sharply from her face, and he wanted to loosen it and let it fall about her shoulders. She would be pretty with her hair about her face.

  ‘I am well,’ she said.

  ‘But not well enough to sit.’ He gestured to the stool that was set away from the bench.

  She licked her lower lip and her gaze still wandered everywhere but to him. ‘No. Tom tells me it will be a couple of days.’ She looked up. ‘He has more experience of such things than I.’

  There was a silence. He remembered his own beatings as a child before he too ran away to the playhouse to escape them, and the thought of such violence against the girl before him raised a bitter taste to his mouth. But though he understood her desire to flee her family, he wondered if she knew how stark and hard would be the road; she was risking a very great deal for her freedom. It was no easy thing to be a woman at the mercy of men. ‘I am glad I can help,’ he said.

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ she murmured and curtseyed again, awkward.

  He smiled. ‘I should get back,’ he said.

  She nodded, and when she looked up again, he had gone.

  ‘Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more.

  Macbeth does murder sleep …”’

  She tore her eyes from the stage and searched the playhouse for a sign of her brother, but he was nowhere to be seen. The other players were scattered about, lounging on benches, studying their lines. To one side of the yard, two hired men she barely knew were practising their swordplay, the same feint drilled over and over as they took turns. She leaned her shoulder against the pillar and returned her gaze to the stage.