Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  The conversation was about the new play and it seemed each man had something they wanted to say. He watched the comments batting back and forth, lively, animated with laughter and argument. In the centre of it all John was silent and still, and Tom realised his attention never wavered from the face of his master. Sliding onto the stool beside him, he kept on watching, starting to understand where the boy’s affections truly lay. There was a break in the talk as the subject brought forth a round of laughter and John turned abruptly, suddenly aware of the man at his side. Tom saw the conscious effort not to flinch, finding a strength instead in a stillness of his body that was quite beautiful. It was the same elegance he brought to his portrayal of the Lady, Tom thought, an innate quality of composure he could call on at will.

  ‘How goes it, John?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ the boy replied stiffly. ‘And your good self?’

  ‘I am also well.’

  In the pause that followed, Tom leaned across for the jug and poured himself wine, then held the jug above the cup that John held in his hand, in a questioning gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, John nodded and Tom poured. Then he said, ‘And how is my sister faring as your servant?’

  ‘She is no servant of mine,’ John answered.

  ‘But she is of your household now. I am just curious to know how she does.’

  John slid a furtive glance towards Nick before he answered. ‘I believe Master Tooley has nothing to complain of.’

  Tom nodded. ‘He is kind to her?’

  ‘He is always kind,’ John replied in barely more than a whisper so that Tom had to lean in to hear him. ‘Always.’

  ‘I am glad to hear of it.’

  They sat in silence then, and he could think of nothing else to say, no way to tease John away from the company of the others, no chance to try his luck once more. Giving up the hope that he might make John his that night, he turned to the players, helped himself to the slices of salted radish on the table, and added his voice to the conversation.

  The wine was strong and when they finally left the tavern not one man among them could hold a straight line. Tom walked with them, his own lodgings along the way, and he kept close to John so that sometimes their arms brushed together as they walked. They were at ease with each other now – Bacchus had done his work – and Tom’s mind was whirling, plotting the night’s seduction. He turned to Nick on the other side of him.

  ‘How does my sister as your servant?’ he asked.

  ‘She does very well,’ Nick answered with a smile that Tom suspected held other thoughts. ‘Very well. You didn’t talk to her today at the playhouse?’

  ‘I did,’ Tom said, ‘but I wanted to hear it from your lips. She is not one to complain …’

  Nick’s answer was swift and sure. ‘I hope she has no cause to complain. I am sure I have given her no reason …’ He turned towards Tom, questioning, concern in his voice. ‘Has she given you cause to doubt that?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tom replied.

  They walked on in silence for a few paces. Then Nick turned to him again.

  ‘Why don’t you come home with us now?’ he said. ‘See her there for yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom nodded. ‘I would like that.’ Smiling to himself in the darkness, his arm brushing against the boy’s, he felt the heat pass through him and knew he would gain his desire tonight.

  Sarah was waiting when they reached the house, a good fire burning, spiced wine warming at the hearth, fresh rushes on the floor. It was a house that was good to come home to now, and Nick was glad that she was there. She opened the door and dipped him a small curtsey, which he met with an answering bow. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the fire and her pleasure to see him. She showed no surprise to see Tom but he guessed she was used to her brother’s unpredictable ways.

  ‘He came to check on you,’ Nick explained. ‘To be sure I’m not mistreating you.’

  ‘I am fine, dear brother.’ She smiled. ‘As you can see.’

  They went into the hall and settled themselves before the fire, warming their bodies after the chilly dampness of the night outside.

  ‘Wine, wench!’ he ordered, with a smile. ‘And remove my boots.’

  She gave him a low playful curtsey and brought wine for them all, then knelt before him, her hands resting on one of his boots, ready to drag it off. He leaned forward to stop her with a touch to her shoulder. She looked up, their faces close, and he thought again how lovely she was with her grey-blue eyes and the small perfect breasts that pressed now against the top of her gown. ‘A jest, merely, Sarah.’ He smiled. ‘I can take off my own boots.’

  ‘I am here now, sir,’ she replied, dropping her eyes, coy, hands still placed against the soft leather. ‘And it is no trouble.’

  He swallowed and sat back, stretching out his leg for her. ‘Then I thank you.’

  With one hand against the heel and the other across the arch, she paused, lifting her face to meet his smile for a moment before she deftly pulled the boot from his foot, allowing her hand to graze along the stockinged foot along the way. Her touch pulsed through him and he drew in a breath to steady himself as she readied to draw off the other. When it was done and his feet stretched out towards the heat of the fire, she did not get up but remained seated on the floor by his chair, only turning a little to face more to the fire. Some strands of her hair had come loose from their binding and rested on the pale skin of her shoulders. It was hard to take his attention from the nape of her neck and the thought of how it would taste against his lips, his tongue. But he was aware of her brother on the other side of the hearth and John, sitting on his heels on the rug, fidgeting with his cup. He took a mouthful of the wine. It had a different spice, a bittersweet taste he did not recognise that lingered on the tongue beguilingly and invited you to more.

  She turned once more towards him. ‘The wine is to your liking?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Very much. What is it that you use?’

  ‘A family secret.’ She smiled. ‘Passed from mother to daughter.’

  Tom flicked his sister a glance that Nick could not read, sensing a history behind her words, a deeper meaning. But the wine was warm and intriguing and he took another mouthful.

  Tom drained his cup and stood up, stretching like a cat before the fire, a theatrical yawn. Then he said, ‘And now that I have seen that you are happy and well here, dear sister, I fear my bed is calling me.’

  Nick smiled, aware Tom was excusing himself so that he and Sarah might be alone. He was sure that Tom had never in his life been the first in a party to take to his bed and he wondered if Sarah had told her brother what had passed between them in the gallery, or if Tom had simply guessed. It was hard to judge the closeness between them and know what secrets they shared. His own sisters he barely knew, and it was a kinship he could only imagine.

  ‘John’s bed is big enough for you to share,’ he said in an automatic offer of hospitality, before he recalled what Sarah had told him of her brother’s desire. Lulled by the wine and the fire and his lust for Sarah, he had quite forgotten John’s fear of Tom. He watched the boy and waited, interested to see what he would do. Perhaps it would do him good to lose a little of his innocence, he thought, and Tom was surely the man to take it. John stared for a moment, gaze flicking between Tom and his master. Nick thought he saw a glimmer of interest, and he saw no signs of fear. After a moment John dropped his head and swirled the wine in his cup before he drained it off.

  A new tension fell. Another look passed between brother and sister, an exchange of confidence that he could not share, and the beginnings of a jealousy bit at his innards. He drank more of his wine and Sarah rose to fetch the jug to refill his cup. He smiled his thanks as she poured, but he could see she had registered the change of his temper in the tension of her jaw and the tightness of her grip on the jug.

  John had got to his feet and was standing now awkwardly before the fire, fingering the empty wine cup.


  ‘Come,’ Tom said, with a smile. ‘Let’s to bed.’ He held out his hand to take John’s cup, then walked across the room to place it on the sideboard before he went toward the door.

  Nick felt the gust of cold air as the door opened and gave an involuntary shiver. Sarah caught the movement and smiled at him, taking her place once more on the rug near his feet, close to the warmth of the fire.

  Then the two boys were gone and he was alone with her at last. They sat in silence, listening to the uneven sound of the footsteps climbing the stairs, the low rumble of their voices in the room overhead. They waited to hear the door close, and when it had latched to, Sarah turned herself to face him. He observed her for a moment, aware that she would have him in a heartbeat if he wanted, the desire plain in the brightness of her eyes, the slight parting of her lips. Above him, he heard the thud of boots hitting the floorboards, the back and forth of a conversation whose words were lost to him.

  He knew that her brother was happy for him to have her, tacit approval in the way he had gone early to bed. But Tom did not know the whole of it, and he wondered if he’d be so keen if he only knew the truth.

  Sarah was smiling, waiting, and he was unsure what to do. She was different from the women he usually bedded, whores and harlots who were ten a penny, or bored ladies at Court who liked the danger of a player when the Company played there for the King. An image of Catherine fell across the thought; it was hard to believe now that he had ever loved her, and the realisation took him by surprise – he could not remember the moment of his change of heart. But Sarah would be no idle fuck; she was no plaything to use and cast aside as soon as he was done. She was under his protection now and he owed her more. Did she have hopes of marriage? he wondered. Or just a first taste of love?

  She shifted forward to kneel between his feet, still looking up, breasts tilted at an inviting angle, the dark crease between them a promise offered. He could not look away. ‘Do I not please you, Master Tooley?’ she asked.

  ‘You please me,’ he heard himself answer. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Then why do you hesitate?’

  ‘You are my servant,’ he whispered, leaning forward, placing his hand against her cheek, cupping her jaw to tilt her head closer. ‘And a maid. I don’t want to use you badly.’

  ‘I would give my maidenhead to you,’ she offered. ‘If you will take it.’

  He was silent.

  ‘Will you take it?’

  Her hand was on his leg, her face inches from his own, and he struggled to think of anything beyond the warmth of her palm on the muscle of his thigh and the rise of her breasts against her dress. He swallowed, forcing his thoughts to coherence. She was waiting, ready to give herself to him, and the temptation to deceive her filled his blood, running through his veins and hard to put away. But he liked her too much to lie to her. Slowly, he lowered himself from the chair to sit beside her on the rug. He kept his eyes trained away from her, watching the flames dance and flit in the fireplace, but he could still see her anyway in his mind, the soft curve of her breasts, the full lips, and his thigh still burned from her touch.

  He forced the words to his mouth and turned towards her to say them. ‘I cannot marry you.’ He watched her, trying to judge her reaction and know if it was indeed marriage that she hoped for, but there was no change in her expression, no flicker of surprise, and relief began to burn inside him, desire rising. She said nothing but lifted her hand to his face, fingers tracing the line of his cheek towards his mouth. Then she placed her thumb on his lower lip as he had done to her in the gallery that afternoon, before she leaned in to kiss him. With her kiss all will to resist her fled him and he gave himself up to the desire.

  Afterwards, they lay together half-naked before the dying fire. Languidly, Nick reached out to poke it, stirring the last life from the embers to throw a little more warmth into the room. They shuffled closer, smiling, both reluctant to move and bring the moment to an end.

  When he had finished with the fire, he replaced his arm around her and she lay with her head against his shoulder, fingers moving lightly across his chest. So different from her brother, she thought, solid and firm and strong against Tom’s boyish slightness. She nestled in closer.

  ‘We should go to bed,’ he said. ‘It would be warmer.’

  ‘Soon,’ she replied. ‘Just a little longer here.’ She was comfortable with her back to the fire and her body alongside his, and reluctant to disturb the closeness.

  He smiled and gave an exaggerated shiver, so she peeled herself away, sitting up to watch him, her gaze tracing the lines of his muscles and the strength of him. Instinctively, she reached out to touch, trailing her fingers along his shoulder, over his chest, still amazed that she could. Then he got to his feet and held his hand to help her up, and they stood together for a moment at the hearth before he squatted to scoop up their clothes and led her out of the room, up the stairs and into his bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Innocent of the knowledge

  ‘Why can’t you marry me?’ she asked.

  At rehearsal he had come to find her again, taking his place beside her on the bench in the gallery while she sewed. On the stage the Lady was losing her mind and it was hard to look away and give her attention even to the man at her side.

  They were awkward with each other now: the intimacy of the night had left them and they had yet to find a way to be with each other in the day. They sat close, almost touching, and though words were hard to find, she knew that he wanted her again. But she was intrigued by his admission that she could not be his wife and her thoughts had been turning it over all morning. She shifted to face him now. He was leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands lightly clasped, eyes lowered to the boards beneath his boots. At her question he bit at his lip, took a breath as if to speak, and said nothing.

  ‘Nick?’ she said softly, and laid a hand on his arm.

  With her touch he looked up and she could see the indecision in his eyes, gaze flicking to and fro, not meeting her own. ‘Why did you say it? I had no expectation that you would …’

  ‘I was afraid to mislead you,’ he said, stilling his gaze at last, eyes coming to rest on her face. He placed his own hand over hers, absently rubbing at her fingers. The closeness of the night was returning and she smiled, pleased that he had thought enough of her to care, and her judgement that he was a good man had proved correct.

  ‘So now you must tell me why not. My curiosity is aroused.’ She smiled, encouraging. ‘Please?’

  He nodded, looked away, and she could see the struggle. Then he turned his eyes back to her and said, ‘I already have a wife. And a child.’

  Even though she had known, for there could have been no other reason, his admission came as a shock of disappointment and surprise; she hadn’t realised just how much she had hoped for him herself.

  ‘But …?’ she heard herself say. She could find no words, thoughts refusing to cohere into order.

  ‘Where is she?’ Nick formed the question for her.

  She nodded.

  ‘We never lived as man and wife – she remained at her father’s house.’ His voice was low and reluctant and she could hear the pain within it. ‘And I have never seen my son.’

  Sarah found her voice at last. ‘What happened?’ she asked, entwining her fingers through his.

  ‘Her name is Rebecca. Becky,’ he said, dropping his eyes once again.

  She clasped his hand tighter, hoping he would look at her again. She felt she could bear to hear anything if only he would look at her.

  ‘She was the daughter of my lawyer, of Burbage’s lawyer at that time. He drew up the contract of my apprenticeship when I was fourteen. By fifteen she and I were lovers. By sixteen she was with child. I had no choice but to marry her.’ He lifted his eyes to her and shrugged. ‘What else could I do? But I could not keep her, so she stayed at her father’s until the time came that I could provide for her.’

  She nodded to show she unders
tood. ‘And now?’

  ‘And now she refuses to come to me. Despite my house and my income, she will not come.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She has taken to her father’s Puritan ways. The playhouse is evil, a den of sinners, she says, and while I am a part of it she will not live as my wife.’

  ‘But you are her husband and she belongs to you. She gave herself to you – she is subject to your will.’ Then she thought of her father and her own disobedience. Perhaps it was not so different. She wondered if the same thought occurred to Nick.

  ‘Aye. In law I have the right of it. But do I seem to you the kind of husband who would beat my wife to obedience?’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘Do you see her still?’

  ‘No. Nor my son. And believe me, I have tried.’ He stroked her fingers, watching the movement of his hand. ‘It pains me that my son will never know his father.’

  ‘You would be a good father,’ she said. ‘Firm but kind.’ She thought of her own father and the strap across her legs, across Tom’s, and could not imagine that Nick would ever give such hurt to a child.

  He gave her a wry, sad smile. ‘I doubt I’ll ever know.’

  ‘And Becky? Do you still …’ She stopped, wondering if after all she wanted to know.

  Nick waited for her to finish, and she forced herself to say it. ‘Do you still love her?’

  He shrugged. ‘I love the thought of her, of what could have been. But we’ve not met in more than eight years and I can barely even remember her face …’ He trailed off and his gaze slid away from her, his fingers falling slack in hers.

  She swallowed, emotions confused and conflicting. Jealousy and hurt raged with anger at his wife for causing him pain, and she wished she could think of some words to say to give him comfort. But nothing came to her and so they sat in silence a while, letting their attention be gradually drawn once more to the drama below.