Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  The house was still empty when Sarah went in, Nick not yet returned from his wife, and she was glad. Time to compose herself and wash the scent of Tom from her legs. But first she lit the fire, needing the cheer it gave: without it the place seemed forlorn and sad. The wood took time to kindle and catch, and she had not long finished her toilet and settled with some wine at the hearth when she heard the door scrape open and Nick was home.

  She got up from the hearth, stepping towards the door to greet him, but when she saw the sorrow in the lines of his face, his mouth grim with anguish, she hung back, uncertain how to be with him. The new presence of his wife had changed it all and so she waited to see how he would be.

  ‘Get me wine,’ he said, when he had taken off his cloak. It was heavy with the rain and when he shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, drops of water splashed onto the rushes. She took the cloak and hung it on the hook beside the door, then went through to pour the spiced wine that she was keeping warm by the fire. He took the cup without a word and flung himself into his usual chair at the fireside. She waited again to see if he wanted anything else, but when he said nothing she settled herself back on the cushions and sipped at her own wine. He seemed oblivious of her presence.

  He drained his cup and she leaned over with the jug and poured him more. He gave a curt nod of thanks and stared once more into the flames, which had settled now, the fire drawing well, the room warm and comfortable. She threw on another log and the hiss and crackle seemed to draw Nick’s attention back to his surroundings. He sighed and sat forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, lessening the distance there had been between them.

  ‘She’s terrified of me,’ he said, lifting his eyes to her at last with a wry smile. ‘I’ve never seen such a beaten-looking woman. God only knows what her father told her about me to make her so afraid.’

  Sarah could think of no words of comfort to offer and her own bleak future loomed over it all: the conversation with Tom had placed it frontstage and centre in her thoughts, impossible to ignore. She said, ‘Did you see your son?’

  He shook his head.

  She tried again. ‘So she will come here as your wife?’

  Reluctantly he nodded. ‘After her father’s funeral.’ Then he lifted his hands to beckon her towards him and she knelt between his legs and held him. Within the muscular strength of his body, she could feel his fragile soul, full of sorrow and afraid, and her heart turned in pity – he was a prisoner of them both and she didn’t know how to set him free.

  She held him for what seemed a long time until finally he drew back from her and took her face between his palms, lifting it to look into her eyes. His own eyes were dark and troubled and there was a light in them she had not seen before. ‘Will you stay, even so?’ he asked. ‘Can I truly ask you to share me?’

  ‘Where else would I go?’ She smiled with a shrug.

  ‘And will you be kind to her?’

  She tilted her head, catching her bottom lip with her teeth, searching for the words for the lie.

  ‘For my sake?’ he prompted.

  ‘She broke your heart,’ Sarah said. ‘And now that it’s mended she would hurt you all over again …’ She trailed off. She wished the woman were dead; kindness would not come easily.

  ‘This is not of her doing – I can promise you she does not want to come here.’

  She said nothing but moved in closer towards him, resting her head against his chest, her arms wrapped around the muscles of his back, breathing in his warmth and strength and loveliness. Soon he would belong to his wife, his Christian soul chafing against the magic she had wrought to win him, aching to be free of it. Soon she would lose him, love given unwillingly shadowed with hate, and the sadness of all of it washed up in a wave that overwhelmed her. All the tears she had forced down before with Tom finally rose and broke and she was unable to stop them. She buried her face against him harder, trying to hide, but her shoulders were heaving with her sobs and her breath came in long ragged bursts. Nick held her tightly, broad hands strong against her narrow back, a different strength from her brother. But her love for them both was forbidden and this promise of safety was no more than a brief and tempting illusion. The cold, dark exposure of her future was waiting and soon none of it would matter any more, all of it meaningless in death. Then he could be as kind as he liked to his wife and she would neither know nor care.

  He rocked her gently, soft sounds of reassurance on his lips, but the tears still flowed and she could only give herself up to them until slowly the tide of her weeping started to ebb and he loosened his hold on her, gazing into her face, wiping at her cheeks with a gentle thumb. Then she lifted herself upwards to meet him, her lips against his, her face cradled in his hands until he laid her down onto the cushions and loved her gently, tenderly, all their sorrow contained in their wordless union. And afterwards he held her tightly again, wrapping his limbs around her, her back reddening with the heat of the fire behind her.

  They fell asleep at the hearth on the hard floor, the rug drawn across them for warmth, and they only awoke in the morning when Joyce arrived to make up the fire. She stopped in the doorway, just enough light still glowing from the dying fire for her to see them, and her instinctive disapproval struggled with her love for them both. After a moment she turned and walked away, closing the door behind her, and the two lovers smiled at each other.

  ‘Never mind,’ Nick said, twisting his fingers in her hair, wrapping the soft strands around his hand. She tipped back her head in answer and he kissed her upturned mouth, once, gently. Then he said, ‘We should probably get up.’

  Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from him, separating, becoming their two disparate selves once again. They watched each other dress, savouring the beauty of their bodies, his lean, strong hardness, muscles curved and taut, and her slight boyish frame, the small upturned breasts. She was sad when they were covered, too many layers of cloth between them. She wanted to undress them both again, to lie once more skin to skin and feel the thud of his heartbeat close to her ear.

  When they were ready, he went to the door and called out to Joyce, ‘We are decent now – it is safe to return,’ and Sarah laughed, meeting him in the doorway on her way toward the kitchen.

  He stopped her, holding her arms in his hands, bending his face close to hers. ‘This will never change,’ he whispered. ‘It will always be so between us. I will make it so. Trust me.’

  She smiled and nodded, wishing he had the power to make it true. Then she slipped out past him and hurried along the passage so that he would not see the truth in her face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Word of Promise

  ‘They have taken John.’

  The words took flight through the playhouse so that no one really knew who had said them first. They came to Sarah from the lips of Nick, who climbed the steep steps to the wardrobe to find her there sewing costumes with Tom. Brother and sister turned at once at his appearance and laid down their stitching. Nick was a stranger to this room; it was Tom’s domain and she knew he felt at a disadvantage here. That he had brought bad news she knew without a doubt.

  ‘They have taken John,’ Nick said.

  Her heart seemed to lift in her chest and pause in its beating. Her eyes slid of their own accord toward her brother, a shared look of despair.

  ‘Do we know any more?’ Tom turned to the other man, who had set his hatred aside to bring them the news.

  ‘Not yet.’ Nick shook his head. ‘The word is that the magistrate examined him this morning.’ His gaze moved from one to the other, and she saw her own fear reflected in his eyes. John’s capture could hang them both, and the Grand Jury hearing would be the weighing of the balance of her life. Nick stepped closer and wrapped his fingers around her hand. ‘It is only his word, against all of ours …’ he murmured.

  ‘You will still speak for her?’ Tom asked. ‘Knowing what you know?’

  Nick’s fingers tightened on hers, muscles
tensing. He turned slowly towards her brother. ‘I will speak for her,’ he replied. His voice was low and even, masking fury underneath, but still she was glad Tom had asked. It helped to hear Nick’s promise. ‘It was not John she bewitched.’

  She was silent, thinking of the rite in the Grove, asking Hecate to return the harm against her to its source, and John’s madness translating into murder. She kept her eyes lowered but she knew without looking the thoughts in Tom’s head were the same.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tom answered.

  ‘I need no thanks from you,’ Nick snarled, leaning forward, an automatic hand resting on the handle of the knife at his belt so that Tom instinctively shifted back. Physically, they were unevenly matched. She tightened her grasp on his hand, calling him back, but he seemed unaware of her, all of his attention focused on Tom. ‘Be sure that I would not say a single word that could save your skin. All of this is down to you. All of it.’

  She saw Tom compress his lips and turn away, all the words gathering unuttered on his tongue and dangerous. Moving closer to Nick, her body up against his arm, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Nick, please,’ she breathed. ‘It does no good.’

  He wrenched his attention away from her brother and forced a small smile towards her. Then he said, ‘I’m needed downstairs,’ and with a few short strides he was gone, his head disappearing rapidly down the steps, boots thudding.

  Silently, she moved back to the stool and picked up the gown she had been sewing – Lady Macduff’s, green velvet with gold brocade. Just a while ago she had been admiring the fineness of the fabric as she made the stitches, the soft, deep colours that changed with the light. Now she was oblivious to its beauty, its richness against her skin unnoticed.

  ‘It’s over,’ she whispered. ‘The Fates were mistaken. I’m not going to live long enough to die of grief, Tom. I’m the one who’ll die at the end of a rope.’

  Tom took a deep breath and she waited, but he said nothing, merely shaking his head, no words he could offer her.

  ‘He will say I cursed him to the murder and I will hang instead of him.’ She laid the sewing aside, still careful with the fabric even in her distress, the habits of a lifetime, and her thoughts flickered back to the night before, Tom’s mouth on hers, the rough wall at her back, the warmth of him inside her. All her senses pulsed with the memory, alive to the physical sensations, the lift and fall of her breath, the steady knock of the heartbeat in her chest. She let her gaze travel over the room around her: the colours seemed to brighten as she looked, and she became aware again of the softness of the gown under her palm. She was conscious of everything, her whole being opened to the universe, sensation pouring into her, filling her. Even the touch of the cold air on the skin of her hands, the slight warmth from the candle that flickered on the bench. But still it was not enough – she wanted to feel and touch and know everything, a desperate hunger to connect to the physical world she would soon be forced to leave.

  She lifted her gaze to Tom. He was watching her with grave and curious eyes. Was this why he chased his pleasure with such recklessness? To experience the mortal world in all its mad entirety, aware of the nullity of impending death?

  ‘And now you understand me, sweet sister,’ he said softly, gesturing with a hand at the room around them. Her eyes followed the movement briefly. ‘This is all there is and it is over in a moment.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said simply. ‘I’m afraid of the nothingness of it.’

  ‘I’m afraid too,’ he replied. Then he stepped around the bench and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. For a moment she tensed, uncertain of his intentions, but the embrace was gentle and warm and she relaxed into him, trusting him again, her brother.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Primrose Way

  ‘Come with me to the funeral.’ Nick propped himself up on one elbow beside her in the bed the next morning, the other hand gently tracing the lines of her breast. They had made love on waking and now the daylight beckoned beyond the curtains. Neither wished to leave the haven of their bed.

  She turned her head on the pillow to face him. ‘I thought you wanted me to be kind.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, lifting a hand to touch his cheek, his beard rough against her palm. ‘But my being there would only make it worse. For everyone.’

  He nodded reluctant acceptance, then turned from her, and as he rolled out of bed she propped herself up to see him better as he dressed, sad as his body disappeared beneath his clothes. She could have looked at him all day, drinking in the details of each line of muscle, the mole on his shoulder blade, the scar on his rib from a youthful brawl. Buttoning his doublet, he turned to her. ‘You too.’ He smiled, and lazily she swung herself up to sit, aware of his eyes on her breasts and her buttocks as she lifted herself out of the bed. She stood to face him, head tilted and coy, knowing he could not help but come to her again. He kissed her hard and she could feel the seams of his doublet press against her breasts as he held her close. Then, abruptly, he stepped back, hands held up before him in mock surrender.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘I must.’

  She smiled and watched until the door latched to behind him, then listened to his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the front door as he left. For a moment she stood naked by the bed, gathering her courage, before she turned to dress herself. Without the warm reassurance of his presence to shield her, the prospect of the trial loomed dark with its promise of death. The fear of it shadowed all her thoughts now, and she counted the days, terror always simmering just below the surface, only forced a little deeper out of sight in the pleasure of Nick’s company. Tom, she could hardly bear to be with any more – it was like looking in a mirror – and though she knew her avoidance cut him deeply, she hoped he understood.

  Taking a deep breath, her dress complete, she squared her shoulders, took her courage in her hands and went downstairs to face the day.

  The funeral was at St Dunstan-in-the-West where he and Becky had married, and there were many mourners – Roberts’s touch had spread wide, and Nick recognised familiar faces in the crowd that gathered in the church. Richard Burbage was among them, still hobbling and bent with a cane, and Nick moved through the mill to stand with him.

  ‘How goes it, Nick?’ Burbage seemed pleased to see him. ‘I hear there’ve been a few problems.’

  Nick tilted his head and smiled. ‘Aren’t there always?’

  ‘Yes, but the female lead … murder and madness … that isn’t usual. What did you do to the poor lad?’

  ‘It was none of my doing,’ Nick replied. ‘I just played my part.’

  ‘And what a good part it is.’ Burbage lowered his voice, remembering where they were, realising his resonant voice was attracting attention. ‘I am still sorry to have lost it to you, though I’ll be interested to see what you make of it. And how is the new Lady? Losing John must have been a bitter blow. Such a shame. Such talent gone to waste.’

  ‘Yes. He was my apprentice,’ Nick reminded him. If anyone should feel John’s loss it would be him.

  ‘And you will speak for him at his trial, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ Nick lied automatically. Burbage was obviously less well-informed than he thought. but he was in no mood for explanations. ‘But now,’ he said, ‘I must find my wife.’

  He enjoyed the surprise on the other man’s face but Burbage recovered quickly and smiled. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to reclaim her now.’

  Nick bowed and took his leave to make his way to the front of the mourners to find her.

  She saw him approach and dipped low into a curtsey, eyes lowered to the stone floor at their feet. Her hand rested on the shoulder of a boy that he guessed was his son, but he too kept his eyes fixed to the floor. He was aware of the attention of the mourners around him and now was not the time to demand introductions. So he bowed to her instead, this stranger in mourning
who now belonged to him, and took his place beside her as the service began.

  He barely listened, repeating the words mechanically, without thought, aware only of the woman at his side who held herself so still and never turned her head towards him once, though he slid curious glances towards her often. She would be in his bed tonight, he thought, and tried to remember her body as he had known it before in their brief encounters, always clothed, always secret. Childbirth would have changed her, rounding out the youthful hips and breasts, putting flesh on her belly. In spite of everything, he was eager to know, to explore beneath the wall she had erected round her and force her to a response. She was his wife after all, and they must make a life together somehow.

  The funeral dragged on and when at last the service ended he walked behind her as they accompanied the coffin to the grave, familiarising himself with the shape of her and the outline of the son he’d never met. Afterwards, as the mourners came to speak to her and pay their respects, he stood back to watch and observed an awful self-sufficiency about her, a detachment and aloofness: her expression never changed, and their son stood beside her with the same shuttered look upon his face. Perhaps it was the grief, he hoped, a mask to meet the trials of the day. But in his gut he knew it was not so and a cold dread of the future settled on his shoulders like a cloak. Finally, finally, only they remained, but she did not move or turn to him and he was forced to walk around her to stand and face her.

  ‘Becky.’

  ‘Husband.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  He squatted before the boy, finding a smile from somewhere deep inside to wear. ‘How fares my boy?’

  The boy risked a quick look and immediately flicked his eyes to the ground again. ‘Father.’

  ‘His name is Michael,’ Becky said. ‘My father wouldn’t allow me to call him Nicholas.’