Mistress Shakespeare (38 page)

“Yes, I understand. And thank you from the Lord Chamberlain’s Men too, my lord.” My legs were trembling as I rose from my stool; no, my entire body was shaking.

“And,” Cecil added as his man stepped forward with a bundle in his arms, “I’d suggest you keep to your pack train business, and steer clear of actors and such. A volatile, overly emotional lot, however much the queen seems to favor them. By the way, she’d like them to come to Whitehall for a performance of something light to clear the air—definitely not
King Richard II
.”

Was he making a jest? I almost smiled as I dipped him a curtsy. “Shall I tell them a comedy then?”

“Do so, as I hardly believe you will avoid them, no matter what I counsel. You see, I have learned much of strong, clever women working with Her Majesty—protecting her, as you say. That is all, Mistress Anne Whateley,” he repeated abruptly and gestured me away, evidently before he—not I—could say more.

I went, head high, not running from the place as I longed to do, but making my exit with measured steps. Though all was silence, I felt as if the queen’s Secretary Cecil had just applauded me as the heroine in a play, hopefully a history and not a tragedy.

Act Five

CHAPTER TWENTY

The dangerous question
about my relationship to Will that Cecil had put to me—and, I believe, I had escaped truly answering—was to endanger Will and me once more, not privily this time, but in a public trial. But allow me to unfold events leading up to that dread day.

After the ruined Essex rebellion, I had staged my own rebellion against Will, for I felt he had much changed from the man I knew. He was still seething not only over the loss of his Arden kin, but the government’s handling of Essex and Southampton. Will’s father had died too, in the fall of 1601, and that had sent him into black thoughts of his son’s loss and his bleak relationship with his family. His plays—like the man himself—had turned bitter.

In a current work,
The Tragedy of Troilus and Cressida
, Will satirized life at court and the decay of nobility and heroism. It was, if I say so myself, a savage play. Some said he’d written the character of Achilles, sulking in his tent, to remind everyone of Essex’s attitude toward the queen. I know not how he managed to get the whole thing past the Master of Revels. I was certain that, unlike Kit, Will was not in league with the powers-that-be. Perhaps, in the end, it was his genius that saved him.

As usual, we had argued, but this time I’d left town. For three months now, despite winter roads, I had gone back and forth between Oxford, visiting the Davenants and my darling Kate, now fourteen, in their cozy inn, and staying in my rebuilt cottage in Temple Grafton.

But as spring came to Warwickshire in late March 1603, I was going mad. The pleasure of furnishing my fine place, even walking the hills and meadows, did not quiet my heart this time. I longed to be in London, and, curse the man, I wanted to be with Will.

“I’ll take that cheese there, if you please,” I told the man in the row of Stratford Rother Market stalls that displayed pyramids of my favorite round, gold cheeses. My maid Sally had told me to buy from the first stall run by the tall John Lane, for his competition, the red-haired Rafe Smith, in the next one, was a blowhard and made lewd comments too.

I’d come in Sally’s stead today, for I needed something to do besides keep the books for my pack train business and read Will’s last letter to tatters as well as the new one I’d received from Richard Burbage. My big market basket was getting heavy with purchases, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop buying things. As soon as I finished here, I told myself, I would go pick violets for Kat’s grave.

And then, past the market cross and beyond a stall piled with early sallet greens and leeks, I saw Anne Hathaway. In bright blue taffeta and a feathered hat, she was dressed overly well for a foray to market. She trailed an entourage of four servants, two male, two female, with flat, square baskets she was heaping with goods, both produce and fripperies. Heavier than I recalled, she was turning gray at her temples. In an imperious tone, her high-pitched voice carried to me—to everyone, I guess, and perhaps that was the point.

John Lane gave a sharp snort and muttered, “Now we don’t got the Cloptons or Ardens in these parts, thinks she can take their place—her highness! Comes every day, la-di-da, takes things, sends her daughter to settle up later.”

“Her daughter Susannah or Judith?”

“The older one, dresses her fine too. You know the Shakespeares? The da’s a ’portant, wealthy man, makes plays in Londontown, can see why he don’t come home much.”

I saw a stir in the crowded market besides the pompous procession of Anne Hathaway. A portly man—I recognized the longtime town crier—mounted the steps from which proclamations were read. The bells of Holy Trinity began to toll. The steady, clanging cadence cut right through me.

“The queen is dead! Long live the king!” the man shouted over the din of the bells. His cheeks were shiny; he was crying. John Lane gasped and dropped the cheese, which rolled away under Rafe Smith’s booth, but I did not budge. “Long live King James VI of Scotland, now our King James I of England! The queen is dead! Long live the king!”

I could not believe it. My legs began to shake.

“Hey, Lane,” the redheaded Rafe shouted from the next booth, “he got that all wrong, ’cause we still got Queen Shakespeare and that pretty little Princess Susannah in these parts, eh? Like to bring them both down, I would.”

I could not believe he dared to besmirch this solemn moment with his words and an obscene gesture as he spoke Susannah’s name. John Lane only frowned and motioned for the other man to leave off. I did not wait for my cheese, but headed home.

Tears blinded my eyes, but I could still see the queen as she’d looked in my girlhood, garbed in gleaming satin upon her white stallion in that moment when her eyes met mine. I saw her at court, deigning to speak to me: “I am pleased to see a woman among the players, at least behind the stage, for behind every man—or men—there is a strong woman.”

Of course, Her Majesty was aged, and rumors said she had been ill, but I could not fathom she was gone after forty-five years on England’s throne. Will had written that the company had acted before her at Richmond Palace just last month; he’d said she’d looked delicate but was as demanding as ever. Gloriana had seemed to me invincible, a woman bestriding a man’s world, one who had wanted but never wedded the only man she had ever loved—and she’d lost her Leicester years ago.

I stumbled but managed to keep from falling. I had lost the love of my life too. And with the death of the queen, I knew I had lost something of myself.

Her Majesty’s griefs lately, like mine, had been many. How they said she had suffered when she’d signed the Earl of Essex’s death warrant that sent him to the block. Southampton, at first condemned with Essex, had seen his sentence commuted to life in prison and had been languishing in the Tower.

Lugging my heavy basket, I left the outskirts of town and headed toward Temple Grafton. I continued to cry, partly for the queen, partly because Will and I had parted awkwardly as friends, not lovers—and most certainly not as man and wife. And see what had happened to his plays since I was no longer his muse, not to mention that flippant, bitter sonnet about his mistress!

Since he was in London, he’d probably known of the queen’s death two days ago. He would be relieved at his best or rejoicing at his worst. It would be just like him to write a poem celebrating Her Majesty’s death instead of commemorating it.

When I heard a horse on the crosscut path behind me, I swiped tears from my face. The rider passed me, then reined in and turned in his saddle to look back.

“Mistress Whateley?”

Blinking back tears, I saw it was Dr. John Hall. He had a growing medical practice in Stratford and was well respected. I’d heard nothing but good things about the ambitious young physician. It was said he desired to become a writer too, one who dealt with diseases and their cures.

“Are you quite well?” he asked.

“I just learned in town about the queen,” I said as he dismounted and kindly took my basket from me. “Have you not heard?”

“Ah, yes, we all mourn such a change.” He seemed more philosophical than emotional—too much like Will, or perhaps all men. “’Tis an end of an era,” he added, “though life must go on. A strong Protestant king is good, I think, though I find it hard to believe he is the son of that Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“Life is full of surprises and turnabouts. I’m surprised you recognized me, for it’s been nigh on eight years.”

“I did not forget you. After all, you introduced me to Susannah.”

I wiped my cheeks with the corner of my cloak. “Then you have become dear to each other?” Why had not Will told me? But then, as much as he was away from home, perhaps he did not know. Both of his Annes had lost him to his raving ambitions and desire for revenge. I could not fathom it was enough for Anne Hathaway to have that grand home and to put on gentrified airs. If I were she, I’d rather have Will—the old Will—and live in the middle of a cow pasture if I must.

“Susannah is kept much to home, and I am ever busy with my patients and stocking my new dispensary, but perhaps someday . . .” He sighed. “The course of true love never did run smooth, they say.”

I wondered if he knew he was quoting Susannah’s father from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, but perhaps Will had been quoting a country saying. Considering my own life—and the queen’s—it seemed a universal truth.

“Indeed,” he rushed on, as if anxious to share his thoughts, “I do see her but only off and on. I am eight years her elder, and her mother says she’s too young to be courted. Will you not ride the rest of the way home on my mount, if that is where you are heading?”

“I’ll be fine, though I’d appreciate it if you’d take the basket and give it to my girl Sally at the house.”

“I have seen how you’ve expanded it to quite a handsome place. All right then. Mistress Whateley, ’tis an honor to speak with you again.”

I imagined I heard the rest of his unspoken sentence,
No matter what others—especially Susannah—say of you.
Yet I was on the girl’s side. How could her mother keep her much to home if she and John Hall were in love? Surely he was an honorable man and had been open about courting her. He could certainly support a wife and family, and Susannah would still be near her mother. Anne Hathaway’s imperious manner reminded me of the tantrums they say the queen used to throw when one of her maids of honor eloped. Why, when Will and I were eighteen, we were . . . were wed and then everything fell apart.

The moment John Hall rode away with my basket, I cut off the road and headed across the meadow, its grass still brown and much beaten down by melted snow and winter winds. But I saw hints of green, tufts of early flowers, especially around the hawthorn hedge. I leaned one shoulder against a sturdy horse chestnut tree where Will and I had sat once, eating apples, kissing and dreaming of our future. Of a sudden, my fierce desire to live life to the fullest swelled within me like spring sap.

The end of an era, John Hall had said. I broke into great sucking sobs. The queen was dead, but I was alive and I wanted Will. I wanted to be back in London, to go to the Globe, to live at Blackfriars near my friends. I wanted to be at Westminster when they interred the queen so that I could say farewell to her and, if he didn’t want me back, fare-thee-well to Will!

 

 

 

The day of the queen’s funeral
procession to Westminster Abbey, April 28, 1603, there was stunning spring weather as if the England she had loved and long tended wished to bid her a sweet good-bye. The breeze was gentle, and shafts of sun slanted down into the cobbled streets surrounding the huge old building. Few but formal mourners would be allowed inside the abbey itself, so it seemed all of London lined the streets nearby.

I had found my place early; now the crowds were six or seven deep. Little children sat on shoulders. Even men cried; women sighed and moaned. People leaned from third-story windows to watch just as, I’d heard, they had the day she was crowned here.

Mostly people stood silent, but now and then someone would tell of a time Elizabeth the queen had ridden by or waved out the window of her coach at them. I too would ever treasure the times I’d seen her, but I sealed all that away with my dearest memories.

I hoped Will was nearby and in a respectful mood. I kept skimming the rows of faces for him. Her Majesty had shown him great favor, and he should be grateful for that.

I had been in London but two days after a stay with the Davenants on my way back from Temple Grafton, but I had not yet seen Will. I was afraid we would argue again over the queen, and I could not bear that right now. But mostly I’d stayed away—I was sure Richard Burbage must have told him I was back—because I didn’t want it to look as if I ran to him the moment I returned.

Distant trumpets sounded as the procession came closer; the fanfare echoed off the abbey’s gray stone walls. The crowd seemed to hold its breath as the first black banners of the heralds came into view. Between trumpet blasts, I heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, then the footsteps of the nearly one thousand persons in the funeral parade.

The procession was both somber and magnificent. Black velvet swagged the four raven-hued horses and the huge hearse they drew. Over the catafalque, a black canopy bedecked with bunting and banners was carried on poles by six earls walking with slow strides.

People gasped and murmured when they saw atop the bier the life-sized wax effigy of the queen with its painted face. Dressed in her crimson robes of state, she wore a crown on her red hair and held the orb and scepter in her hands. As the hearse bounced across the cobblestones, that image of her seemed to move as if it would shake off death itself and rise.