Love's Will (18 page)

“Yes,
I must. I can. Must, while I still can. I daresay there’s talk enough already, but what’s done is done.”

Harry
stopped his nuzzling caresses. He sat up, thrusting the hair back from his face. In these last few months his looks had matured, William noted. He looked much less girlish, fully a man now. And still beautiful. All the more beautiful. Even when he was petulant with anger. “If you leave me,” he said, “you can’t love me. What if I refuse to pay you for that poem? Refuse you my patronage? Refuse the money to buy a share in the theatre? If you don’t stay, you can kiss those things goodbye. Because I gave them out of love, and if you leave me you don’t love me.”

“That
is how a child reasons.”

“I
am not a child!” Harry shouted, childishly. “I’m a man.”

“Then
act like one.” Harry gasped as if William had slapped him. “Refuse me the money and I’ll still love you. But you will despise yourself and, therefore, me. Yes, you’re a man and you know that what we have is between men. It’s love, Harry. Don’t spoil it. I have duties and responsibilities. So have you. And what sort of love cannot bear a parting? Parting’s a sweet sorrow, Harry, when it’s not forever.”

“But
you will come back to me?”

“If
you want me. When you want me. But remember I have a life outside these walls and this bed and your arms.”

“If
I come to London will you...?”

“Harry,
I will be in London until the Spring. Come to London if you wish. But then I go on tour. That’s flat. It’s what I must do.”

“And
I must bear it.”

“As
must I.”

“Well,
then.” Harry lay down again, taking William sweetly in his arms. “I must accept it. I do. And what I said about the money was anger. Spite. Misery. You’ll dedicate your wonderful poem to me and I’ll buy you your share in the playing company. Because I love you. But when you go home to your wife...”

But
William cut him off by laying his finger across his lips. “When I go home to her I won’t forget you. And that is all you can know of what’s between Anne and me. We’re doing a lot of talking, Harry, when I must leave in a day or two. Come here and love me.”

13.

“So,” said Kit, “you’re famous. All London rings with your name.” He sauntered across to William’s writing table and picked up one of the copies of
Venus and Adonis
. “Dick Field did you proud. It’s a handsome publication.”

“We
old Stratford men must stick together. But yes, it looks well. What do you think of the dedication?”

“Properly
obsequious and respectful. Obsequious to the point of arse-licking. Which reminds me; word is that Harry Southampton’s given you a thousand pounds.”

“A
thousand!” William swivelled further around to look at his friend, but Kit was standing before the window, his face in shadow. “No, Kit. I doubt he’s got a thousand pounds till he comes of age.” William thought of the money he had recently sent home to Anne. Not a thousand, of course, but nearly three hundred, for the play, for the sonnets, from Lord Burghley, and a clear hundred to buy his share in the playing company.

“Ah,
yes, I did wonder. A thousand pounds would make you the most expensive whore in Christendom.”

“Will
you get out,” William courteously enquired, “or be thrown out?”

“Touched
you on the raw? I see. It’s as he says. You’re in love with him.”

William
began an angry retort and saw the malice in Kit’s eyes fade. “I love him,” he said. “Yes, I’m in love with him. Did you two talk of me, then?”

“He
didn’t tell me anything intimate. He talked of you with love. And what of your wife in all this, Will?”

“That
is my concern.”

“And
I hope you have it well in hand. A fine woman, Anne. I envy you her. You know you won’t keep Harry, don’t you?”

“Yes,”
said William, knowing an infinity of pain. “Yes, I know it. Kit, why did you go to Titchfield?”

“To
see if I too can win Harry’s, er, patronage. See how frank I am with you?”

“Be
more frank. Are you his lover?”

Kit
let a moment go by before he said, “I have been. Welcome, Will, to the company of those who are hurt. Like Anne.”

William
saw the book quivering in his hands. “You’re an odd person to give a moral lesson. Suppose we leave Anne out of this?”

To
his surprise Kit said, “Very well.” He came to sit beside William, clasping his hands behind his head. “
Venus and Adonis
is a great work, Will. It will live. A fine and witty work.”

“Thank
you.”

“I
mean it. Will, I’m afraid.”

“Of
what?”

“I
have,” Kit said slowly, “got myself into a dangerous spot. I can’t tell you. Best you know nothing. At Titchfield I watched Will Kempe preparing his act. He juggled seven balls and never let one fall. I’m not the juggler I thought I was. Stay out of the spying game, Will. And watch that your father goes no further into recusancy. Stay away from Raleigh’s circle.” Unshed tears made emeralds of his dark-lashed eyes. His hand crept out and closed over William’s.

“Kit,
my dear friend.”

“Oh,
it may come to nothing. But if you hear I am dead, don’t believe it until you view the body. If anyone comes to you asking of me, you know nothing. There is nothing to know. No secrets. No papers. Mourn me if you will. Then forget me.”

“I
could never forget you. Nor could the world forget you. Kit, if it’s a matter of leaving the country, that kind of thing, I can give you money.”

“You
need not. It may come to nothing. But remember I loved you. For all that I sought to win Harry Southampton, as patron and lover, from you, I have loved you.” In one lithe movement he stood up, gave William a kiss and went.

After
a moment William leapt out of his chair and ran down the stairs after him, but by the time he reached the street Kit was nowhere in sight.

Anne looked at the letter the messenger had brought. She ran her finger over the seal, tracing the unfamiliar coat of arms imprinted there. “From Lord Southampton? And for me, not my husband?”

“Yes,
ma’am. I’m to say, if there is a reply, you may send it with me.”

“Will
you wait a few moments?”

The
man nodded. Anne directed the maid to take him to the back parlour and give him some ale. Then, slowly, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The children were clamouring around her. A letter must be from their father. What did he say, was he coming home? She shooed them away and locked her door.

Why
did a man write to his lover’s wife? With news of his death? That he was never coming home again? Abruptly she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

The
letter was formal, pleasant. And, as gently as possible, it told her that Christopher Marlowe was dead.

“Christopher,”
she whispered. “Oh, Kit.”

…
in a tavern brawl at Deptford, or so the common fame runs. If there is more behind it, no one is admitting it. It might be wise not to enquire too closely. Thinking you might not have had the news, I thought it best to write to you. I do not know where Lord Strange’s Men will be at present. It is possible your husband will not hear until he returns to London or comes to Stratford. It is a great loss to all who knew Christopher Marlowe, and to England.

He
had signed it, formally,
Southampton
.

Well.
Kind of him to write. A great loss indeed. Dear, witty, malicious, kindly Kit with his green cat’s eyes. He had liked her. She had liked him. He had been a friend. This would hit William hard. Did he know, or was he touring contentedly, looking forward to seeing Kit when he returned to London? At least he evidently was touring, not summering again with Southampton.

Anne
had never written to a nobleman. In fact, her only letters had been to her husband, who would never criticise her mistakes. At William’s writing desk she took out paper and hesitantly inked a pen. In a careful, childish hand, she wrote a few words of thanks for the news, of her loss, of her gratitude for his kindness in telling her. She did not, she finished, know where her husband would be at present or whether he had heard about Marlowe.

That
would have to do. She folded the letter and gave it to the messenger. And wondered who William would turn to for comfort; her or Harry Southampton.

William came home a bare week later. Anne was dusting the parlour when two arms closed around her and a kiss was planted on the back of her neck.

“Marry
come up, Will, it’s you!”

“Who
else, sneaking up to kiss you?” He spun her around, kissed her lips. “I’ve today and tonight. We’re at Oxford and I begged some leave. You’re well?”

“Oh
yes, Will. And you?” Though she had little need to ask. More richly dressed than she was used to, brown from sun, dusty from the road, content and full of health. Glad to be home. Her heart soared. “My dear.”

But
their daughters had seen him come. They were all over him, and from then on there was no time for private talk. Hamnet was in school. “So we’ll fetch him home,” said William. “I’ve only today and I’ve missed him. Send Richard with a message, urgent trouble at home.” And by the time he’d greeted his parents and brothers and sisters and had a mug of ale, Hamnet was home, flinging himself on his father, half-crying with joy. Then it was dinner time, and still no chance to be alone.

In
the afternoon they went to the back garden, under the shade of the fruit trees, and there were strawberries with cream and wine kept cold in the well. Anne took her shoes and stockings off. William lay in his shirtsleeves on the daisy-starred grass, Judith weaving a daisy crown for his hair. Hamnet cuddled against his shoulder. Susanna hugged her knees, listening to him talk.

“The
new play?” William answered Hamnet. “A success. Picture, Hamnet love, a room in a great house, a room big as this house, the curtains drawn and more candles than you’ve ever seen, all blazing. And two-score men all in silken clothes and jewels, and pretty ladies.”

“As
pretty as Mama?”

William
gave it due thought. “Not quite as pretty,” he decided, and added aside to Anne, his eyes full of promise, “You’re looking very handsome, Mrs Shakspere. A new way of doing your hair. I like it. And a new dress.”

“I
spent some of the money.”

“Excellent.
There’ll be more.
Venus and Adonis
is selling like hot cakes. It’s a success, a success d’éstime, I’m becoming famous for it. People talk of ‘sweet Mr Shakspere’. All those same people who despised me as a would-be playwright, a would-be poet, trying to make my way with no university education, no connections. What did you think of it, Anne?”

“I
liked it. Admired it. Pagan. Passionate. Sweet. Country love. And I wonder if people think I am Venus, the rampaging country hussy.”

“No
hussy. Country matters… What, Hamnet? Oh yes, the play. Did you read the fair copy I sent home?”

“Yes
but I didn’t understand some of it. Mama said they were probably jokes.”

“Mama
was right. I had some fun with that play. Holofernes is... well, I won’t say his name, but someone I know.”

“I
liked him, the schoolmaster,” said Hamnet. “He was funny. He was a bit like the one at school, the new one.”

“And
a bit like one I had when I was your age. Prosing old pedant. So the play went very well. Master Burbage was excellent as always. We all were. And the audience liked it. We did it a second time that week, and it will go into our repertoire. Kit Marlowe was there and he liked it.”

Judith
put the daisy crown on her father’s hair. “Master Marlowe’s dead,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” William repeated. He had stopped pacing the bedroom and was slumped on the edge of the bed, his face still marked with tears. He had looked not to Anne for solace, but to his mother. Anne had been left to comfort the children. Poor Judith had been weeping desperately because she thought William was angry with her and her twin had scolded her. Susanna was crying because she heard her father crying. Hamnet was grave-faced, looking in his sensitivity more than ever like William. All of them desolate that their lovely day was spoiled. Anne tried not to cry because William had looked at her with hatred.

His
mother had taken Anne’s part. How could Anne tell him? She hadn’t had a moment. He’d sent for Hamnet, then it had been dinner, then there were the other children. Anne had been biding her time, waiting to tell him in private. She had liked Master Marlowe, and a friend’s death was always a grief, but there was no call to take it out on Anne.

William
made his peace with the children. He ate dinner quietly and then told them a bedtime story. Not a word to Anne, until now, when the household was to bed and he came at last to her room.

“Why
didn’t you tell me? Do you hold that much spite against me, that you couldn’t tell me of my best friend’s death?”

“He
was my friend too.”

“A
passing friend. He was my mentor, my friend, my colleague, the one I tried to emulate, the one I admired above all others. When first I went to London, when first I met him, he talked to me – talked! – we talked the stars to bed, all one night, the first night we met, because each of us had discovered perhaps the only one who could understand. He helped me, he read my work, he wasn’t envious or spiteful, he...”

“He
loved you. And you loved him. I know that. I liked him better than almost anyone I know. And I didn’t tell you because, as your mother said, what chance did I have? I was going to tell you as soon as we were alone. Spite? Never spite between us, whatever you do when you’re away from me.”

To
her annoyance Anne was also weeping now. She bent and retrieved Southampton’s letter, lying crumpled where William had tossed it once he had finished reading it. “And if we’re to strip the matter to the bone, if even Harry didn’t know where you were, how much less could I know? I couldn’t send a letter. I could only wait to hear from you. It was kind of Harry to write. I think he knew I loved Kit Marlowe too.”

“Harry
can be kind,” William said cruelly, then threw her his sodden handkerchief. “Oh, blow your nose, woman. Don’t snivel at me. I was unfair. But oh Jesus, Kit. Christopher Marlowe. Dead. That golden voice silenced forever. My friend gone.”

“Mine
too.” Anne blew her nose, then with distaste put the handkerchief aside and fetched out two clean ones. “Here.”

“Thank
you.”

Wearily
Anne turned aside and began to undress for the night. “Will you come to bed? If you have to start back early tomorrow you should get some sleep.”