Love Disguised (5 page)

“Though it is a lesser work—the gloves—I must be content with,” he added.

“You are a witty one,” said Anne, slapping his arm lightly. “I'll fetch them for you.”

Will hoped Catherine would come out so he could see her again, but Anne returned quickly, handing him the bundle of gloves. With no further reason to dally and nothing else witty to say, Will tucked the gloves inside his jerkin and said good-bye. At the end of the lane he glanced back and thought he saw Catherine's pale face at the window, watching him through the curtain of rain.

However Will contrived to speak to Catherine, it was always Anne who came to Henley Street on business or met Will in the marketplace and bade him walk her back to Shottery. He complied, for he always hoped to see her sister. When Anne took his arm, Will was afraid anyone who saw them would think he was courting her. At the same time he wondered what her body looked like without clothes. He wished that she were younger or he older. He felt guilty for dreaming about Anne when it was her sister he loved. But Catherine remained out of reach, a bud deep within a thorny rosebush.

Therefore Will conceived a plan to kiss Catherine during the Pentecost festival in June, when three days of games, dances, and mumming culminated in the crowning of the Summer King and Queen. But he required the aid of the pageant's organizer, David Jones, who happened to be one of his father's loyal customers.

When Jones came by the shop Will saw his chance.

“For you, Davy, this belt is only five shillings, not eight,” he said, then skillfully brought the conversation around to the festival.

Jones admitted the pageant had become a burden to organize, with merchants, craftsmen, and aldermen all vying to create the best wagons and obtain places of honor in the procession.

Will hummed in sympathy. “I was thinking more of the play itself,” he said. “Those ancient rhymes so twist the tongue and strain the sense that the audience groans to hear them. 'Tis no fault of yours,” he added hastily.

Jones looked troubled. “If the play displeases the people of Stratford, I will suffer in their esteem.”

“I have some skill with verses,” said Will. “With your leave I will make the old pageant new, and you shall be praised for it.”

Jones hesitated. He was paid a good wage for his yearly efforts and was unwilling to share it, Will knew.

“I want no payment. Only permit me to play the first shepherd,” he said. Thus reassured, Jones gave his ready consent.

Will knew the old pageant by heart. He began revising it in his head as he worked. At first the words trickled through his brain like water in a dry brook. Why, it was easier to translate Latin sentences! But when he thought of Catherine the rhymes flowed freely. At night he scribbled down his new verses by the flame of a candle stub. A week later he visited David Jones with his finished pages.

Nodding as he read it Jones said, “I like it very well. The Summer Queen is hard of heart but women are ever so.”

Affecting nonchalance Will said, “I care not who plays
the queen, but let the younger Hathaway sister be my shepherdess. She is nimble and can lead the others in the dance.”

Will had carefully rewritten the lines he would say to his shepherdess to awaken thoughts of love.

Behold the queen, the mistress of disdain
,

Leading her king with a rose-red chain
.

When his lips are ready for their pay

She winks and turns her lips another way
.

Come now you shepherds, all ye red-lipped lasses
,

Praise the god of love, ere summer passes
.

Jones punched Will's arm. “I see your plot!” he said. “I'll gladly smooth the path of love for you. She shall be in your arms by nightfall.”

On the day of the pageant, the mayor's son and an alderman's daughter were transformed with flowers and green worsted capes into the king and queen, harbingers of summer. Will, wearing a sheepskin belted at the waist, spoke his lines to Catherine while straining to see through her gauze tunic. She pursed her lips until, cued by his verses, she smiled at him. But she would not kiss him as the other lasses did their shepherds.

“Please,” he said. “It is written thus.” But she only shook her head.

Though downcast by her refusal, Will grinned to hear the loud applause, which pleased him more than he had expected.

After the play, as everyone began to dance, Anne seized
Will as her partner and leaped lightly before him. “See, I can dance as prettily as my sister. But no one can rhyme like you, Will Shakespeare.” And she kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind the scent of lilac. Will found himself blushing.

At least one citizen of Stratford was not pleased with the day's events. John Shakespeare, though he did not leave his house to see the pageant, heard about Will's role in it. That night Will felt his wrath.

“Did I not forbid you to be a player? Yet you deceive me and strut upon a stage before the whole town.” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you had forgotten that disgraceful business. Writing verses! What profit is there in such vanity?”

“Thieving is more disgraceful than acting,” Will shot back, “yet there is profit in it. Many a man, while seeming virtuous, milks the commonwealth for his good alone.”

His father smoldered like a peat fire. “Hold your peace!” he demanded, reaching for his rod. “I abhor your disobedience!”

But Will could not be silent. “Next to a thief a player is honest; he takes nothing but the appearance of another and yields it again at the play's end.” He watched the rod tremble in his father's hand but felt no fear.

“I will be a poor player and an honest poet before I will be a false glover.”

Will's father turned and struck the table. With a loud crack, his rod broke and clattered to the floor in pieces.

Will had crossed an invisible bridge and was estranged from his father, though they dwelled in the same house. But in his mind Will was absent, always pondering how to leave Stratford. Should he ask the mayor for a letter of introduction to Lord Warwick, or should he hie to London and find employment there? One should not arrive in London penniless. Perhaps it would be wiser to work as a tutor for a year and save his wages. He considered his choices like a clerk comparing columns of figures. Should he leave in secret or tell his mother? And what about Catherine? There was the rub, the biggest hurdle of all. He wanted to marry her and take her with him, but he had yet to declare his love or even to kiss her.

On market days Will and his brother tended their father's stall at a prime spot, the stone cross where Henley Street, Bridge Street, and High Street converged. Often Catherine came to Stratford's market to sell the butter she and her sisters made. Will clipped and perfumed his beard and took to wearing a lace-trimmed shirt, hoping to look his best for her.
The effect was like spreading birdlime on a bush; a whole flock of fair admirers was snared. A few even bought gloves.

But Will's shy bird did not come flitting by until the last market day in August, when the fruits of the fields and gardens overfilled the many stalls.

Will was playing the role of a glover's apprentice to similar excess. “Such pretty fingers, goodwife!” he said, lifting a customer's forearm by her wrist. “Slip them inside this glove. A perfect fit! Last week Lady Warwick bought a pair just like these.”

He and Gilbert watched the woman prance away, her newly gloved hands raised for everyone to notice.

“Confound me if I know how you persuaded a poor laundress she cannot live without a pair of embroidered kid gloves,” Gilbert said.

Will did not reply. He had glimpsed a familiar brown-haired woman carrying a basket. One of the Hathaway sisters, for certain. As she drew near, his heart leaped. It was Catherine! She smiled shyly and held her basket in front of her. When she drew in her elbows her breasts swelled behind her bodice.
Breasts like golden apples
, Will thought, faint with desire.

“Lean closer, mistress, that I might see what's in your basket.” It was Gilbert who had the boldness to speak.

Will cuffed him on the ear, knocking off his cap. With an oath Gilbert bent to retrieve it.

“'Tis only butter,” Catherine said to Will. “Would you like a taste?”

She stuck her forefinger in the soft butter and held it aloft. Unable to believe his good fortune, Will took her hand and slowly brought it to his mouth. Should he lick her finger or
put it in his mouth? He did both, lingering until she pulled her finger away. Will's heart was beating. This was better than a kiss.

“When can we meet? I must be alone with you,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

“Anne watches me like a hawk.”

“Hoodwink her. Slip away while she sleeps.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “You don't know my sister.”

Will groaned. “Pray give me another bite, butterfinger.”

“Close your eyes.”

Will obeyed and opened his mouth in anticipation. He felt Catherine's breath in his ear.

“Meet me in the Forest of Arden, where the old oak lies across the stream and the rocks with the fairy rings jut from the ground. Tomorrow when the moon is at its height.”

Will felt a tap on his nose and opened his eyes. Catherine had gone, leaving a dab of melting butter on the end of his nose. With dreamlike slowness he wiped it off. Then he realized the meaning of her invitation. She wanted him as much as he wanted her!

“Heigh-ho!” he cried, throwing his arms around Gilbert, who was waiting on the alderman's daughter, and knocking him to the ground. They struck a post, causing the tent to lean and toppling bridles and belts. While Will pummeled his brother with glee, the alderman's daughter glanced around in a furtive manner, picked up a kidskin purse trimmed in gold braid, and put it in her sleeve. Humming to herself, she walked away.

Will did not sleep a wink that night, nor could he keep his mind on his work the next day. His thoughts raced like deer before the hounds. Yet the hours and minutes of the clock crept like snails. He worried that he would become tongue-tied when he tried to speak his love, so he composed his thoughts into verses and memorized them.
Shall I compare you to a summer day?
Summer was almost past.
You are more lovely than the buds of May
.

By nighttime Will was so weary he was afraid to lie down, lest he fall asleep and miss his meeting with Catherine. He leaned on the windowsill, listening to the creaks and sighs of the house as his family slumbered. He watched the shadows shift along Henley Street until he judged it was time to go. Through the silent town and westward toward Shottery he hurried, his path bordered by nodding gillyflowers and daisies. A grove of alder and birch marked the entrance to the forest. Beyond, thick-trunked oaks all but blocked the moonlight overhead, casting long columns of darkness on the ground. It was the last of August, the night was cool, and his feet were damp with dew from the bracken. He heard the brook singing while the rest of nature slept. Across its banks lay a fallen oak tree and nearby loomed a large rock. This was the spot Catherine had described—but it was deserted.