The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman (6 page)

Today be St Hilda's Day, proclaimed by our late Queen as a holiday forever to mark her coronation, and still kept. Our servants visit, or sleep, or sport. It is an inconvenience to be servantless all day, but a glad one. I count myself most blessed that I met Her Majesty, and my wit had blade enough to please her.

Winter begins to shut us in, edging away the smiling face of day as we pass into the gloomy realm of the year's night. But we do well at New Place. My wife has ordered apple wood to scent the air, and keeps the fires well stoked. Today she checked the butts of strong beer to see us through the winter. Her face still be misshapen, but the pain has eased.

I walked down to see that the hothouses were closed upon the asparagus and cauliflowers, mint, tansy, sorrel, celery, endives and cardoons to give us plenty for the winter, for though Stratford be rich in markets, those markets have wealth in wool and mutton only; not like London, where a man may buy a lemon or basket of potatoes or a butt of Rhenish wine. Yet our plenty reminded me of what I do not have, and makes me long for London; not just the wine, but wit and women and laughter with good friends.

But friends will come from there for Christmas Eve and Day, and I back to London with them till Twelfth Night. Till then I must content myself with neat hothouses of fat cauliflowers, apple-wood fires and this, my book of words.

And memories.

Thus Judyth and I began, and thus continued, day upon day, kiss upon kiss, poem upon poem, each word climbing to heights I had never seen, much less aspired to reach; until the hour I fell into the sea of those green eyes and asked her, ‘Will you be my wife?'

The world hung still, as if the winds had left it. Would she tell me yea, or nay? My heart no longer beat.

She took my hand, my calloused glover's hand with its thick ridges from the knife, scissors and needles, in her soft one, calloused only on one finger from the pen, like mine.

‘Of course,' she said.

The larks sang and the sun danced and every leaf about us whispered, ‘Love!'

We were young to marry, but not too young to plan it. True, I had not even my journeyman's papers, nor money to support a wife. But I was the eldest son, and my wife would live in my family house, which I must inherit. And Judyth had her dowry. The three fields were in her brother's name, but she would have their rent for all her life; a matter of six pounds a year. It would not raise her family's estate to marry me — a glover is a poor match for a merchant's daughter — but it would be no great disgrace.

‘I will tell my brother I will marry no other,' she said, her face so fierce with love that I believed even the wind would bow to her. ‘Not if a prince come riding by, or Mark Antony himself to woo me.'

‘I wish I were a Mark Antony or Caesar, to be worthy of a wife as you. You would really marry an apprentice glover?'

‘I would marry a poet,' she said softly. ‘Who else could I marry but one like you?' She smiled. ‘You do not realise the miracle you are, Will Shakespeare. For you are not only a poet, but a man who will listen to a woman's poems too. How could I marry a man who wanted me only to ornament his table and his bed, to bear his children?'

I flushed at the word ‘bed'. We had kissed, but not lain together. I would not profane our love by more. But to be married, to lie flesh to flesh each night . . .

‘We will be poets together,' said Judyth. ‘One day perhaps a book may bear our
names:
Poems From a Lover to His Loved, and From Her to Him
.'

‘You truly think your brother will agree if I ask him for your hand?'

‘Arnold is a good man. He will need persuading, but he will agree at last if it makes me happy.' She hesitated. ‘Your family will welcome me?'

I kissed her hand. ‘How could they not?'

How could they not indeed? My parents must delight that I had found such a wife, young, beautiful, so well connected. And surely they would be glad to add a son's wife to the household too. Our servant, Mary, was almost a crone now and toothless; nearly fifty — still less than the years I now bear. But mine are borne on a strong back, with not a day's sickness except a weakness sometimes of the bowels, and good teeth. Since I became a player I scrubbed them with orris root each night, and none have failed me but one at the back, broken.

My pen begins to prattle . . . I was speaking of my Judyth. I could see our married life together as clearly as my hand. Judyth would take Mary's place in our household, helping my mother. As my parents aged, and my brothers and sister grew up and left home, Judyth would cosset and comfort them in their old age. (My father was then eight years younger than I am now, but I thought him Methuselah.)

I wandered home, seeing her cheeks in every rosehip, hearing her laugh in every stroking of the breeze.

My father sat in the sunlight on the bench outside our hall, peering at the stitching on the fingers of a glove, which needs to be so fine it will not show a seam and spoil the line.

He looked up at me. ‘Well, son?'

I grinned at him, the man I trusted above all else, in wisdom and in love. ‘Very well indeed, Father. May I bring you some new ale?'

He blinked at me. His eyes were clouding even then from so much close work. ‘You may. Bring one for yourself too.'

I fetched the ale from the kitchen. We sat together, gazing at the young cabbages and leeks and turnips.

‘Whose glove is it?' I asked. I hadn't known we'd had new orders.

‘No one's, nor like to be.'

I noticed he had left the fingers open at the ends, and the glove's sides too. This glove could fit many a hand if a customer should come. I supposed he worked to keep his hands busy.

I put my mug of ale down, and took my courage in my hands. ‘Father, I would marry.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I have been thinking the same, my son.'

My hopes leapt like a spring deer. ‘Her name is Judyth, Mistress Marchmant. Father, she is the most lovely, most gentle of girls —'

He held up his hand to stop my bubbling words. ‘I know the girl. Most beautiful indeed. I know her family too.'

‘They are above us in station, but she cares naught for that. She will tell her brother that we love each other —'

Once more Father held up his hand. ‘Love,' he said, ‘does not put bread upon the table. Does she have a dowry?'

‘Three fields, Father, that bring in six pounds a year.'

He looked at me sharply. ‘Fields owned in her own right, or owned by her brother?'

‘By her brother. She but gets the rent.'

‘I see.' Father finished the ale before he looked at me again. He wiped the foam from his lip and beard. ‘In what house will you put this wife of yours?'

‘Why here, Father.'

He did not meet my eyes. ‘This house is mortgaged.'

I stared at him. I knew of the loss of Mother's fields, sold to meet his debts. I had not known of this.

‘If we do not make payment by the quarter-day, we lose it all.'

It says much for my father's care that he had never let us know how bad our affairs had become. But I sat as if the whole of winter's snows had descended and frozen the world and my heart too. How could this be: the family of a man who had been high bailiff become homeless, no roof above our heads?

If we lost this house, what else might we be? My mother had no sisters living; my father had no brothers to take us in. Back in the old King's day, the Abbey would have sheltered us. The sisters would have set our women to needlework, we men to tend their fields. We would not
have starved, nor frozen in winter. But now or then to be homeless meant there would never be the hope of home for us again. For if we had no house, no gloves could be stitched. Gloves need an air-room to stretch the leather and dry it so it keeps its shape; a warm room so the glover's fingers are nimble enough to make the stitches; a room with windows enough to give good light.

We would have all the light we needed under the green trees. Till winter came, and the leaves were gone, and we, as beggars, froze as well. It was impossible. Yet, looking at my father's face, I knew it to be true.

I said, still trusting him, ‘Father, what can we do?'

He did not look at me but in his empty tankard. ‘You, my son, must marry.'

‘But, Father —'

He held up his hand. ‘Mistress Marchmant is a small, fair girl, and six pounds a year is a small, fair dowry. But it will take more than a small dowry now. It would be different if she had the fields to sell, but rent . . .' He shrugged. ‘Six pounds would not tickle the stomach of my debt. You must woo yourself an heiress, lad, to save us all.'

And that was how my father sought to sell me; not at age ten, but at eighteen.

Dinner: a haunch of veal, cold, as the servants are holidaying; a pigeon pie, made yesterday; cheese cakes; almond biscuits; prunes; raisins of the sun; a damson cheese. My wife spiced cider to warm our stomachs with the cold meal. Supper: a brawn of kid; pickled mushrooms; butter with oatcakes, as no bread was baked today; apples and cheese tarts.

Bowels this afternoon a trifle queasy from cold meats and oatcakes, but waters remain clear.

This day I did the accounts for this household, the first for two months. My wife's tallies are most neat; nor did I find fault. My position being better even than last quarter, I called her and told her that for the next twelve months she shall have thirty pounds for all expenses, clothes and everything. She was much content, not having expected half that much.

My daughter Judith came in to kiss me, for she shall have a new dress, of sarcenet, and new stockings too. She sat upon my knee and twirled her curls, which I have noticed is the way with her when she wishes me to give her aught.

‘Winter's days are short,' she said.

This being true, I did not reply.

‘But they are brighter with good company to dinner.'

‘We will have guests over Christmastide. And Susanna and good Dr Hall bring the sun even into winter's dullness,' I said.

Susanna plays the harpsichord, which neither my wife nor Judith have accomplished. With her loss, we have music and dancing only when she visits.

Judith pouted. I hid my smile. This was not how she had planned the conversation.

‘We could ask new people to dine, Father,' she offered.

‘That is indeed possible,' I said. ‘If angels can dance upon a pin, a man can have new faces at his table.'

‘Thomas Quiney has a most interesting face.'

I stood, removing her from my knee. ‘You have had dealings with Thomas Quiney?'

The landlord of Atwood's tavern was as free with his affections as his ale. I remembered how he had bowed to us at the Mop Fair.

‘I have but seen him in church and at the market, no more,' she said hurriedly. ‘Not even to talk to him.'

The lady doth protest too much.

‘He is not a man I will see at my table.'

‘Because he is in trade, not a gentleman?'

‘Because though he be a man, I doubt his gentleness. And that is all to be said of Thomas Quiney, or ever will be said. You understand?'

‘But, Father —'

‘Do you question your father's word?'

‘No, Father,' she said. ‘I do greatly love thee.' She smiled and kissed my cheek again.

Oh, John Kneebone, I thought, my tenant farmer Lear. How will your daughters smile when you have naught to give them? My daughter's smile today is for the new sarcenet dress, not for a father.

I may have put my books away but yet they follow me. The squire's son and pretty
Bess for Romeo and Juliet, for today I saw Bertram in the field below our house, and
he was not there to milk our cows, but to stare at pretty Bess. Old Kneebone is our
Lear; and it is whispered that Mistress Feathergale may be a witch, having no
husband nor son to bring her meat to table, yet at three score and ten she still has
all her teeth. And when she walks in the
woods, it be not just to gather firewood for her
cottage. Does she mutter prophecy, like the hags in my
Macbeth
? Nor must I
forget Thomas Quiney, for he would make a right good Bottom, his handsome face
hiding his true nature as an ass.

Dinner: beef steaks with anchovy; hare, jugged; saddle of mutton, boiled then roasted; beef marrow bones with mustard; pickled artichokes; a jelly of pippins and rhubarb, and one of quince, of which I did not eat; cheese; May butter; raspberry wine of my wife's making, two years old and fine.

Bowels: steady once again, and waters clear.

To market with my wife, for naught but to receive the bows of gentlemen and to return them, for though Jem walked behind to carry our purchases, they were in truth small. The days when my wife must market and carry her own basket are long past. And the evenings when I sat at my table above the inn and shared my bread and cheese and candles with the rats have vanished too, like the spirits of the air.

These days the traders call on us, not we on them. But my wife saw a fine brace of quails for Jem to carry, a dozen snipes and a hare, of which I am most fond. These wild meats are all we need that are not of our fields or from our tenants, except for venison that my Lord Sheriff makes me a gift of when he goes hunting, or boar from the squire.

A small boy looked wistfully at the hot chestnuts, so I gave the seller tuppence for the boy to have his fill, and did not know till afterwards, till I felt the tears cold upon my cheeks, that I thought of my lost son, and how Hamnet ate those chestnuts each time we visited the market.

Back here, to the warmth of my chamber fire, and to my book. In truth, even if the days grow short, there be not enough of interest to fill them.

Deeds of the past give more delight:

Their brightness doth make even winter bright.

And tears, although they cleave the soul,

Are yet the salt to make a memory whole.

I see my father as clearly now as if he were not dead these fourteen years. I hear his voice long decades past as he did bid me forget Judyth and find myself an heiress to save our family from disgrace and homelessness and death.

I wrote again that night. Words were the only sword to cut the anguish from my heart, and place it upon the paper. Words, words, words.

At last, exhausted, I copied out my scribbles in a fair hand:

Doubt that the earth doth move,

Doubt that the stars are fire,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love.

I met her beneath the beech tree the next day, on the twelfth heartbeat of the great church clock. We kissed, as we had kissed each time before. I have supped with princes, ay, and a queen too, but no wine was as sweet as Judyth's kisses then.

I pulled the poem from my sleeve.

She read the words, then looked at me. ‘Oh, William.'

All my fine words fled, like a hare that hears the hounds. My soul stood naked as a newborn babe. I said, ‘We cannot marry.'

She stepped back. ‘William! Do you mean to jilt me?'

‘'Tis no jilting to break what never was.'

‘And yet you say you love me?'

Should I have said that I did not? It would have been kinder if I had, but I did not know that then.

I said, ‘My father has lost all, will lose our house come quarter-day. I have no home to give you. Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever will. I will be a glover's apprentice to a master who makes no gloves, nor has a hall in which to make them.'

She looked into my eyes and took my hand. I feared mine was trembling, but hers did not. ‘You will make your own way, William. As a blacksmith forges iron, you will forge greatness with the fire of your will.'

‘How? What can such a wretch as I do?'

For I had no other trade; nor could I enter one without the price to pay to be apprenticed, or the higher price still to join a merchant's guild.

‘Truly, your brilliance dims the sun! To write the words you do . . .'

‘Would your brother take me as a secretary?' I tried to smile. ‘You know I write a fair hand.'

She bit her lip, suddenly prosaic. ‘Arnold has a man to do that work, nor do I think he would employ thee, even for love of me.'

‘Then what must I do? We cannot live on air, as the birds do.'

She said simply, ‘You can be a schoolmaster.'

Why had I never thought of that? Admittedly, I had little Latin and less Greek, but I knew my classics, could figure and write dancing couplets. The books I had borrowed from my schoolmaster in the last six years had taught me well. A school usher could not support a wife like Judyth, much less help my family, but a schoolmaster in a good school or household might.

‘How does one become a schoolmaster?'

I was embarrassed to ask her. But she had seen more of the world in her three years away than ever I had, as
well as hearing the merchants' tales at her father's and brother's tables.

‘Why, advertise as tutor to a family, and then in two years, or even three, apply to a school that will make you an usher, and then, seeing your quality, will make you master with your own house, where you will need a wife.'

‘You would marry a schoolmaster?'

She nodded. ‘I would gladly be a teacher's wife, if that teacher was you.' She stepped back, though her fingers were still laced with mine. ‘I will wait for you,' she said softly, ‘for as many years as you need to carve your place in the world. I would wait till a single drop of water carved your name upon a rock, and then my name, in a heart to bind us both. You will be a poet, William, not just a schoolmaster. You are greater than this small town. This tragedy has been sent, perhaps, to make you leave it, so you may rise, uncramped and unconfined. Men yet unborn will read your words. And they will read my name and say, “She was his wife.”' She kissed me gently then. That one soft kiss moved me more than when our tongues had clashed like cymbals.

I did not move. If I had moved, I would have clasped her to me until the Avon had washed the last tear of rain from this land.

She slipped away, beyond the leaves, and still I stood, feeling her touch upon my fingers. Even now, I feel her fingers on this gnarled hand with which I write.

For she was right, this quiet girl. I, Will Shakespeare, could forge a future for himself, as had my ancestor who had given us our name, shaking his spear for some great lord. I might even make my name and fortune as a poet. But not by quarter-day.

By next quarter-day I could be in the employ of a merchant's household, tutoring his sons who needed no more Latin than I, a glover's son, had to impart. But this I knew too: that wage would not keep my family from starvation, much less keep my father's house and dignity, nor would I be paid it till I had worked a full year's quarter.

What choices do wretches such as I have, crawling between earth and heaven? My Judyth, or my family? My love, or duty?

I knew, even then, which I had to choose.

Dinner: a loin of pork with apple sauce; quail, roasted, with egg sauce; a coney pie; oxtail with mustard; cheese cakes; rhubarb fool; butter; biscuits with our crest; and raisins of the sun.

Bowels and waters: steady, like my life, were it not that I have bitter memory by day and dreams that bite at night.