Love Disguised (6 page)

Will made his way over the rocks and sat on the trunk of the oak tree, his back resting against a branch. The moon began its descent, darkening the glade. An hour or more passed. Doubt stirred in Will. Had she come first and left because he was not there? Or had she never intended to come? Was he being played for a fool? He called her name but the woods returned no reply.

Just as Will was beginning to despair, he heard a rustling and saw a figure wrapped in a hooded cloak.
Catherine!

“I thought you would never come,” he said, taking her hand as she climbed over the fallen tree.

She lowered her head, her brown hair spilling forward. “I was half afraid,” she murmured.

The darkness made him bold, able to speak without stammering. “Let me see you,” he said and reached out to remove her hood.

She intercepted his hands and held them. Ever the shy one, she turned her head to the side. So with his lips he ventured beneath her hood and found her forehead. Her hands released his and touched his face instead. A bolt of lightning traveled to the pit of his stomach. He drew in his breath.

“I have got my wish and you, your Will. So let us kiss and love each other still.”

At once her mouth covered his, soft and wet. He closed his eyes and opened his lips and with his tongue touched her ivory teeth. Like an explorer he ventured into the cavern of her ruby mouth. He felt at once weak and mighty. And stunned to find her as eager as he was to travel farther.

“Now let us all the rites of love fulfill.”

The words were like the sighing of the wind through the trees. Will opened his eyes, but the moon had vanished and he could not see her face. Could this be his shy Catherine? The darkness had emboldened her. She shrugged off her cloak and was looking down to untie her bodice. Her swift, decisive movements reminded Will briefly of Anne. He reached out and pulled her bodice open. She tugged at his shirt and the points of his trousers. This was no dream, he knew as he
lowered her to the ground and felt her warm and willing limbs yield to him.

Afterward she said, her low voice mingling with the gurgle of the brook, “If we follow this deed with vows, then we are wedded one to another.”

Will was weary with joy. His eyes were closed, the better to feast his other senses upon her. He lowered his head into the slight bowl of her belly. “I promise to be true to you, my Catherine,” he said and fell asleep.

Daylight shone through Will's eyelids, forcing him awake. He was curled up on his side, shirtless. He sat up with a groan, wondering why he was in the forest. He remembered Catherine. She was gone. He scratched his head. Had he dreamed the night's events? He put on his shirt and drew a long, brown hair from the sleeve. No. Catherine must have returned home to avoid rousing suspicion. He smiled to think how easy his task had proven after all. Throughout the summer he had fretted and delayed. Now in a single night he had wooed and won his love.

Will's forehead itched from lying on the bracken. He raised his hand to rub it and noticed that the ring he usually wore on his little finger was missing. He did not remember taking it off. Had he given it to Catherine? Had they vowed their love? In the bright light of day, Will was not sure he wanted to be married yet. But he thought of Catherine's body and the pleasures it afforded him, and his doubts faded.

Beside him the brook babbled away, telling the secrets of all the lovers who had ever lain on its banks. Will stretched
out in a patch of sunlight, letting it dry his dew-damp clothes. He knew he should be at work but cared not a whit for anyone's disapproval but Catherine's.

The day was far gone when Will finally returned to Henley Street. He knew the moment he entered the house that his father's toubles had flared again, this time into a bonfire.

John Shakespeare was shouting at his wife. “If I answer this summons, they will throw me into some hellhole of a London prison. Do you want that?”

“You might as well be in prison! You never leave the house.” Seeing Will, she ran to him. “Alack and well-a-day, my son! We are ruined for certain.”

“What is the cause, Mother?” he asked, alarmed.

Will's father answered, “Burbage has moved to London and is suing me for ten pounds, the amount of loans plus interest.” He leaned on his desk and stared at an open ledger. “You must help me, Will,” he said without looking at him.

Honeyed thoughts of love melted from Will's mind. Would his father be forced to sell his business and the house on Henley Street? Where would they all live? His own ambitions seemed frivolous. How could he go away and leave his family in such straits?

“What can I do more? I am already doing an honest man's work,” Will said. If his father even hinted at something illegal, Will was prepared to defy him.

John Shakespeare took out a key and unlocked a heavy oak cabinet behind him. He removed a small casket, unlocked it, and spilled the coins onto his desk.

“Here are twenty-five crowns I was saving to pay the herald for a coat of arms. But I no longer have cause to be titled a gentleman.” He sounded bitter and defeated.

Will had never seen so much money. Twenty-five crowns was equal to six pounds, the amount a craftsman might earn in a year. But it was only a portion of what his father owed.

“Take it, Will. Use a pound to hire a lawyer. Thomas Greene of Middle Temple knows me. Make him persuade Burbage to settle for half the debt.” He searched the summons. “Or the case will be heard at the Queen's Bench in Westminster on the fifteenth day of October and a penalty determined.”

Will blinked in amazement. It was not the lawsuit or the sum he disbelieved, but that two extraordinary wishes could be fulfilled in a single day. He struggled to speak.

“You permit me … to go? Nay, you
send
me … to London?”

The look Will's father gave him said what his words could never say: that he trusted Will to perform this business, knowing he could not make him return to Stratford. He was saving face, granting Will freedom without diminishing his own authority.

Gratitude and long-buried affection stirred in Will. He knelt to his father as he used to when receiving his nightly blessing and said, “I will find Burbage and persuade him to drop his suit. I will be diligent in all things, Father, and one day you will be proud of me.”

Will saw the path of his life stretching before him, straight as an arrow's course. To London, by way of Shottery.

Will pounded on the door of the Hathaway cottage, calling for Catherine. He shook the latch, leaned his ear against the door, and strained to hear within.

“I'm here, Will.”

He whirled around to face a surprised Catherine. Seizing
her hand, he drew her into an arbor where roses twined and bloomed and told her what his father had asked him to do, concluding, “Come away with me, Catherine, whom I have missed since last night, as Adam missed the rib taken from his side—”

“Nay,
I
missed
you
, Will.”

“Then we have lacked one another, but no longer.” He reached for her other hand. “Why did you leave the forest without waking me?”

She pulled her hands away and brought them to her bosom. “You are mistaken; I never went to the forest.” Her look was troubled.

“Then was it a dream? No, these hands and lips swear they touched you.”

Catherine shook her head violently. “Last night I was locked in my room. Anne was my jailer. And after I confided in her! She said she would not let me risk my virtue.”

Will ran his hands through his hair. His thoughts were in a muddle. Why would Catherine lie to him? Did she regret her hasty vow? He looked into her eyes and saw a fury he did not understand.

Catherine stamped her foot. “O vile sister! Where are you hiding?”

Will drew back as from a tigress.

Anne emerged from the barn with a jug of fresh milk. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes dark-rimmed as if she had not slept. She passed by Will and Catherine, her gaze fixed on the kitchen door.

“Stop, Anne, and hear me.” Catherine's voice was hard.

Anne set her jug on the doorsill and stood erect.

“Will Shakespeare claims he made love to me last night,” said Catherine, her voice trembling. “I say it was not me but an impostor. Some witch, surely. What say you?”

Anne said nothing. She swept her forefinger along her neck, pulling a narrow ribbon from within her bodice. Will recognized the ring dangling there and the truth hit him like a rock.

“It was you?” he asked unnecessarily. For even without touching her now, he knew that it was Anne he had kissed, Anne whose body he had embraced, Anne who drew from him, on the brink of sleep, the vow that was as binding as marriage.

How could he have mistaken one sister for the other? He looked at Anne, her hair brown like Catherine's, her height the same, her face only a little more lined. Catherine had the flighty manner of a girl, but Anne had the firm confidence of a woman. And, it would seem, a woman's cunning.

“You deceived me, Anne,” he said.

“You were willing to be deceived, I think. And I never claimed to be my sister.” She spoke softly.

“Why did you do it?” Will said, even as a voice inside him whispered that his own passion had done it, had blinded him.

“Because
I
am a fitting match for you, Will Shakespeare.” Now Anne sounded defiant. “Not my sister. She is a child who does not know her own mind.”

“I know you are a jealous harpy!” cried Catherine. She shook her balled fists inches from Anne's face. “You can't get a young lover without tricking your way into his bed!”

“O I am bewitched and bewildered!” lamented Will. He
had relished every moment he spent with Anne, believing she was Catherine. Did that mean it was Anne he loved, not Catherine? Now Anne, bold and sensual, was appealing to him. And her sister, whom he thought he loved, was behaving like a shrew.

Anne didn't reply to her sister, only slipped Will's ring on her finger and removed it, tucking the ribbon into her bodice again.

Catherine stiffened as she understood the significance of the ring. “No! You marry old Fulke Sandells. Let
me
have Will Shakespeare!” She was sobbing now.

Anne did not flinch but bore the assault as if she deserved it. Will saw the tears in her eyes. He knew he should be angry with her, but those tears stirred him while Catherine's frightened him. Gog's wounds, he was confused!

“I hate you, sister,” Catherine said. “And you, too, Will Shakespeare, now and for all time.” She stalked away, plucking up flowers and flinging them to the ground.

Will turned. Anne was touching his arm. Her cheeks were wet but she made no effort to wipe them. With her other hand she fingered the ring. She gazed on him with eyes full of sorrow and strange affection. She opened her mouth to speak but Will did not stay to listen. He turned and fled down the garden path, certain of only one thing: the desire to put Shottery and the Hathaway sisters far behind him.

London 1582

The pale morning sun crept over the innyard, making the cobbles shine with dew, and climbed the walls of timber and wattle to the sign of the Boar's Head, where it glinted on the beast's newly painted gold tusks. A thrush nesting atop the sign hopped to the ledge of a nearby window and began to sing. Below, a cloaked figure scurried through the patch of sunlight and disappeared around the corner of the inn.

Light streamed into a gabled room on the third story where Meg de Galle lay flat on her bed, the crown of her head pressed against the wall. Her gold curls tumbled around her face like the bloom of a flower. Her arms were bent and her hands, two folded leaves, rested on her stomach. Her body under her shift was slim and straight as a stem. Two graceful, long-toed feet rested flat against a heavy chest at the end of her bed.

Meg awoke to the song of the thrush but lay abed with her eyes closed, wishing for a few more moments of sleep. She heard heavy footsteps, the scrape of her door, and the voice of her mistress.