The Playmakers (41 page)

After months of anticipation, days of worry,
and hours of anxiety, he had become a father.

And this time, to his way of thinking, a real
father.

Yes, yes, yes, he realised
that he had sired three other children. But, really,
he
would often think at night, lying next to the pregnant Sarah,
I am hardly their father in the true sense of the
word. I helped give them life, I will admit. But my involvement
stopped there. The conception of the first child changed my life
forever, forcing me into a loveless marriage with Anne Hathaway,
and making me forego an almost certainly wonderful lifetime with
the Anne that I really loved, Anne Whateley. Whenever I looked at
that first child, she only gave me anguish and brought back bad
memories.

As for the twins, I saw
them but once, bundled up against their mother’s breast, and I left
with the clattering sound of a hurled pot ringing in my ears. I am
the father of the three of them in name only.

But this?

This was different.

This was a child born out of the long,
devoted and patient love of Sarah.

Sarah, the beautiful, gentle, caring, young
woman he had first met after the Budsby troupe had arrived in
London and found the going so tough.

Sarah, the niece of potty Percy, the owner of
the tavern that William and Budsby had chanced upon and had
converted from a losing entity into a thriving entertainment
centre. Sarah, the devoted worker who had been the backbone of
their success, as the organiser of cooking and serving operations.
Sarah, whose innocence meant that she knew very little of, and made
few inquiries about, William’s obviously emotionally-bruised past
life, certainly nothing of his still-legal marriage. Sarah, whose
naivety extended to be her being happily convinced that she was, in
fact, William’s wife after a wonderful ceremony conducted in a
church, presided over by the Bishop of Guernsey who had such a
commanding presence and a voice that he could well have had a
career on stage …

Sarah, oblivious to the fake death of
Marlowe, and to the fact that her beloved partner was not a
playwright at all.

It had been a long, patient relationship, its
ultimate success dependent on the slow emergence of William from
behind the shadow of his painful and mysterious past, and the
similarly slow-paced blossoming of Sarah into a beautiful woman,
lover, bride, and now mother.

Ah, motherhood.

She had loved every moment of it, right from
the very start.

She had known the morning after she and
William had made love that she was pregnant.

Because the night had been special.

William had been working hard, helping with
the onerous task of organising the disassembling of the old Theatre
by volunteers, and the transportation of the lumber across the
river to Bankside to be re-constructed as The Globe. They had
hardly seen each other for days, and on this night, he had arrived
back home at two o’clock in the morning and eased himself into
bed.

She had been asleep, but naked, and the
minute his skin touched hers, she had turned to him, and given him
a gentle, sleepy kiss. He had kissed her lovingly back, and weeks
of being apart were suddenly absolved - tenderly, sweetly,
passionately.

She had felt tremendously well throughout the
entire nine months, not even being sick in the morning in the first
weeks, as many women of her acquaintance had been.

“You look strong, and it will be a healthy,
happy baby,” had been the regular prediction of her friend, the
wonderfully honest Margaret, the tavern’s chief serving wench and
who knew, “A thing or two about children, or at least the process
that leads to ’em!”

Throughout her time, Sarah had continued
working in the tavern, organising the cooking and waitressing. And
as she bustled around the tables, so obviously pregnant, she would
feel a wonderful surge of pride when a regular patron would say,
“You look blooming marvellous, Mrs Shakespeare.”

She would laugh when the conversation would
go along the lines of, “And we hope that this little one will be as
pretty as you, and as fine a writer as your husband.”

To which someone would inevitably add, amid
shouts of laughter, “Aye, and not the other way ’round.”

Then, when the birth was imminent, things had
begun to get complicated. There was the sudden, mysterious
appearance of the woman with the loud voice in their apartment one
night. William had passed it off as nothing, but it had obviously
worried him.

Then there was the Queen’s Royal Command that
William write a play within a fortnight.

William had declared publicly that it was an
impossible task, grumbled that it was beyond him, then disappeared
with rancour into the tiny ante-chamber at the end of their
apartment, only to triumphantly reappear four days later, holding a
script aloft. He had handed it to Budsby, commanding him loudly, so
all could hear to, “Take it to the Chamberlain’s Men at The Globe,
instruct Burbage that on Saturday week we premiere it before the
Queen, and tell him that this is his greatest acting
challenge.”

Worst of all, there had been the arrival of a
doctor, sent under the strict instructions of Sir Thomas Walsingham
and Lord Burghley, “To ensure that Mrs Shakespeare has the best
possible care and that a healthy baby is born in the best possible
circumstances.”

She did not really want the doctor around.
She felt so well. But there was little opportunity to argue about
his involvement, as he had been sent in by the two very powerful
people as an obvious show of support for William.

The trouble was, this man of medicine,
clean-shaven with a mass of silver hair, was a pompous,
over-bearing type who brooked no contradictory opinion and took
control of proceedings away from Margaret.

Worse still, within two days of him appearing
on the scene and ministering potions, she started to feel unwell,
and this only encouraged him to stay around longer.

She began to get a feeling of lethargy. A
burning sensation in her chest. A weakness in her arms.

These symptoms continued and worsened,
despite his ministrations of drafts and foul-tasting concoctions
that he assured her would, “Eliminate this fever or whatever it is,
and have you in the best possible shape for the arrival of the
little one.”

Perhaps it was because of all the pressure on
everybody that now, suddenly losing weight and feeling ill, she
went into labour earlier than expected, only hours before the
curtain went up on one of the most important moments in her lover’s
life.

“Don’t bother William,” she had said to
Margaret, in between contractions. “He is over at the theatre, it’s
his big opportunity to impress the Queen, and he does not need this
distraction.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Margaret had
said. “Men get away with things like this all the time. In the
beginning, when it’s all lots of fun, they won’t leave you alone,
hanging around doe-eyed until they have had their wicked way with
you. But when it comes to the hard part - being by your side when
the result of their little dalliance is entering into the world -
they are not anywhere to be seen!”

And so, as Sarah began to concentrate her
energy on the final stages of the birth, and the doctor blustered
in to give instructions, Margaret had sent a messenger across to
the theatre that the baby was imminent.

Over at The Globe, to Queen Elizabeth, her
courtiers, and the penny-paying public in the pit, nothing seemed
different.

Master Shakespeare came out, introduced
himself, said that he had been delighted to accept the challenge of
Her Majesty, had written and produced
The Merry
Wives of Windsor
involving the antics of Sir John Falstaff
in the requisite time, was proud to present it by the Chamberlain’s
Men, read the prologue, bowed, and strolled off stage.

But the second he was out of the view of the
audience, he rushed to the stage door, bounded out into the
Saturday afternoon light, jumped into a four-horse carriage
provided by Sir Thomas Walsingham, and headed straight for the
tavern, where he arrived at the crucial moment, just as the baby’s
head was beginning to show.

Breaking all usual custom, he burst into the
room.

“Mr Shakespeare, sir, I must ask you to
leave,” said the doctor, wheeling on him.

“This is my wife, my baby, and I am staying,”
said Shakespeare.

What William did not add, but what he was
thinking was,
I was not there for the birth of my
other children, and I am not missing this time.

There was silence, as the two men eyed each
other, waiting for the other to back down.

“Good to hear!” said Margaret, trying to
break the impasse. “About time the men got involved.”

But by now William had started to look beyond
the doctor, and was overwhelmed at what he saw. Sarah was sweating
profusely, her hair was matted, she had turned almost sheet-white.
Strangely, she was making very little noise, yet she was in the
final minutes of giving birth.

She was exhausted from the process, and as
she gave one last push and the baby came out, the very life-spirit
seemed to almost leave her.

“It’s a boy, it’s a boy!” shouted Margaret as
she took the baby expertly, cut the umbilical cord, and wrapped him
in a snow-white blanket. “A beautiful baby boy!” she said again, as
she placed him gently at the side of Sarah.

But William knelt by the side of the bed, and
gently kissed Sarah, tears welling in his eyes.

She looked across at him dreamily and smiled
with cracked, dry lips.

“Water! Water! My wife needs water,” shouted
Shakespeare, looking up for help.

With all the pressure of the Queen’s
challenge, William had not really been focusing on everything
around him, and now it dawned on him that Sarah was desperately
ill. Her eyes had lost their spark, and were rimmed in red. Her
skin was drawn and pale, sort of grey. She had a hooded, almost
defeated look.

“What shall we call him?” she whispered.

“What?” said William distractedly. For he was
now looking directly at the baby, and was realising that - even
allowing for his total inexperience in these matters - the little
one, also, was obviously far from well. After the initial scream
declaring his arrival, the boy had gone very quiet. His eyes were
closed, and his lips, instead of being pursed like a ruby rosebud,
were colourless and screwed at an angle.

“Well, I was thinking of Rufus, after Mr
Budsby,” whispered Shakespeare, not daring to take his eyes off the
baby.

“Sir Rufus Shakespeare? I like it,” said
Sarah slowly.

“Sir Rufus? You think he will become a
nobleman?”

“As long as he is a noble man, like you,”
said Sarah. “You are the most noble man in the world.”

“Sarah, I …” said Shakespeare, lowering his
head. “I … ah …”

“You don’t need to say anything,” said Sarah
gently. “I know.”

“Know? Know what? What are you talking
about?”

“I know. I know about you. I know about your
wife. And your children. I know about Christopher.”

“Christopher?” Shakespeare hissed, looking
around the room to make sure that Margaret and the doctor were not
within earshot. “What do you know about Christopher?”

“I know Christopher is not dead.”

“But … how?”

“A woman knows these things, William. I know
he is not dead, and I know that you do not write those plays.”

“You know? I mean, you knew all the time, but
did not say anything? Even when I used to sit in a room and pretend
I was writing. You knew and yet you still continued to love
me?”

“I fell in love with William the actor,
William the producer, William the perfect gentleman, William my
friend, William the funny man, William the noble man. By the time
you became William the so-called writer, it did not concern me one
way or another, all I wanted was to be your lover and to have your
child.”

There was a long silence as the couple stared
into each other’s eyes.

“I think you should call him Christopher as
well,” she whispered ultimately. “And Soho. And Samuel.”

“What?”

“Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel Shakespeare.
Rufus after your mentor, Christopher after your brilliant friend,
Soho after the greatest performer in the world, and Samuel after
our brave and noble protector.”

She began to cough, and William noticed with
alarm that her eyes were going hazy and a small trickle of blood
was coming out the side of her mouth.

“Doctor! Margaret!” he shouted. “Come
quickly, do something!”

The physician, who had been fiddling with
some instruments at a side-table, turned around, rushed over, and
peered into Sarah’s face. He drew back, looked grave, and started
to shake his head slightly. “Perhaps you could leave the room for a
moment, Mr Shakespeare,” he said calmly.

“I’m not leaving until I know that she is all
right!” shouted William.

“She will be fine, but I need to examine her.
Please?” The doctor turned to Margaret. “Margaret?”

Margaret moved to William, took him by the
arm, and tenderly got him to stand. “It’s for the best, William,”
she said. “Let the doctor do his work, and wait outside.”

Slowly William trudged to the door, turned,
looked back at his ill wife and listless child, and went
outside.

In the hallway, he stood quietly, with his
eyes shut, his head tilted back against the wall.

“Why me, Lord,” he whispered to himself. “Why
me? I have never done anything so wrong as to be cursed with this,
surely?”

He opened his eyes, and noticed a looking
glass on the wall opposite. He moved over to it forlornly, stood
still, and began to examine the image in it.