Shakespeare No More Read online

  No matter how hard I tried, I could not shake the image of a pale, wan Will Shakespeare and his trembling voice saying, “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  We had traveled so far, he and I, running and playing in the fields between Stratford and Shottery, tormenting the schoolmaster and our fathers with our pranks, stealing our first kisses from hapless maidens. But ’twas Will who succeeded in bedding a girl first. I was not as forward as he, more fearful of rejection I suppose.

  But who would want to kill Will Shakespeare? He was a playwright and a player by trade. Maybe it was a Puritan? They hated the theatre with more than a passion, and, indeed, there was a growing wind of Puritanism blowing across the land. But his daughter Susanna herself was a Puritan. She had supported Thomas Wilson, a Puritan vicar, when that troublemaker John Lane attempted to start a riot against Wilson. Lane accused Susanna of adultery with young Rafe Smith, a hatter. Susanna sued Lane for slander and won the suit.

  Or maybe Will had met his end by a cuckolded husband, like myself. In my youth, I had enjoyed the stews in London alongside my friend Shakespeare. But the war in the Low Countries changed me. I saw such death and devastation.…When I returned, I wanted only a home and a family and peace. To my delight no one had married Peg before my return. We wed, and we quickly produced a pair of daughters, as bright and beautiful as their mother. Fortune had smiled on me.

  Or at least I thought it my good fortune until that day in my house. I shuddered at the memory, the two of them entangled in the bed, laughing with the abandon of new lovers. I had not spoken, simply turned away and rode out of town, stopping for a few nights at a tavern near Kenilworth Castle.

  When I returned, I said nothing about it to Peg, nor would I speak to Will at all. I did not pretend that nothing had happened. But I did not try to sort it out either.

  ———

  “What troubles you?” Peg. Slipping into the room as quietly as a mouse.

  “Nothing.” I was not disposed to tell her. Will had been too much a part of our lives already. I saw no reason that he should continue so through eternity.

  I paused to look at my wife. “Mouse” truly described her. She was petite, with long brown tresses and huge brown eyes. I had loved her almost as soon as I saw her, on a soft summer’s eve in Wilmcote. Will and I had gone up there to fetch some sheep for my father. We were only boys, but boys feeling the first stirrings of manhood. And she was in front of her parents’ cottage, watching over her little brother.

  We did not speak, that first time. But I could not take my eyes from her. It took more than a month for me to summon the courage to speak to her. And when I did, I feared that every sentence would prove me to be an idiot. And those fears were probably justified, at times, but Peg seemed not to care.

  Curiously, Will seemed not even to realize that Peg existed, for which I was grateful. Then. He had a grace that escaped me. He glided. I stumbled. Words came easily to him. I was at a loss when saying “Good morning,” especially to a beautiful girl.

  And Peg, or Margaret, was still a beauty now. And I still loved her. But I had not found forgiveness in my heart yet. She knew it.

  “Will you never speak to me again?”

  “I did not know that I have stopped.”

  “You speak to me of our children. You speak to me of our parents’ health. But you never speak to me anymore.”

  My eyes were locked onto the fire and I could not move them. “I never speak to anyone anymore. Ask Hamnet.”

  “I spoke to Hamnet,” she said. “And he claims that you intimated that Will was murdered.”

  Though I would have throttled Hamnet at that moment for speaking of that to her, I was successful in not showing my wayward wife any reaction.

  “Was he?”

  I looked at her then, without a smile. “He’s dead and you still cannot chase him from your mind.”

  “He is dead, and like every other citizen of Stratford, I am curious. I am curious at what you have learned that has set you on this path.”

  “Was it curiosity that led you to invite him into our bedchamber?”

  No answer.

  At first.

  “No, Simon, it was your absence. I have no excuse for the sins I have committed. But you were never here. Always out at your duties. And Will would come to see you. He was lonely and bored with life outside of London. And I was bored and lonely without you.” She stopped, biting her lower lip until I thought it might bleed. “It was you that drew us together. You turned back the covers and bid him enter your bed just as surely as if you had been there.”

  “Of course, Peg. I am the maker of all sins, the bringer of all evil.”

  She did not speak for a long moment. “I still love you, Simon.”

  And then, I did not answer.

  In seconds, she had retreated, leaving me confused, angered, and in pain. For I still loved her, loved her with my very being, but I could not erase the vision of her enwrapped in my best friend’s arms.

  I did not sleep the rest of the night, but stared into the fire and remembered Will Shakespeare.

  ———

  We met in Henley Street. I was six and he was seven. Of average height and brown hair, he was a comely youth. Though I was a year younger, I was the larger. But I did not notice such differences; all I saw was the wooden sword in his hand. I wanted it.

  “Would you like to play?” I asked innocently. Bullying was not my nature, but his sword was so expertly carved, so exquisite, that I could not resist.

  He leaned on the sword and looked me up and down. “You do not wish to play. You want my sword.”

  “I do not!” But my denial rang false, and the little brown-haired boy just smiled.

  “Then why do you keep staring at it and not at me?” Even then, at that age, he had an uncanny knack for reading souls. But his question shamed me, and, in moments, we were playing some martial game. By the end of that day, we were fast friends.

  ———

  The fire was dying, and I fed its hungry maw with more wood. The flames leapt red, yellow, and blue.

  ———

  Then came the day that a traveling troupe of players arrived in Stratford. A young Richard Burbage was among their number, along with his father, James. The council allowed them to perform. This was surely not the first time that players had come to Stratford. As small children, we would go with our fathers and watch them act out their stories of kings and pirates and lovers torn asunder. And Will went to every performance, as did I. But something about those occasions captured him as they never did me.

  The arrival of the Burbages was different. Will was eighteen, and already champing under the bit of marriage. I noticed that the expression on his face as he watched the plays had changed. Where once the look of awe and wonder had marked him, now he seemed to be studying their actions, movements, words.

  One afternoon, after the play ended, Will hung about as the players put away their equipment and costumes. I was curious and stayed too. After a moment or two of hesitation, Will approached James Burbage.

  “That last speech. It needs work. I-I could help with that.” Will did not generally stutter, but his usual self-confidence had fled.

  Burbage, a look of irritation on his face, turned. “You could, could you? Then you run along and do that and leave me to my work.”

  Any other man of Will’s age would have been crestfallen, but my friend simply turned and retreated to the school room in the Guild Hall. I followed after him, but did not speak. He gathered some scrap paper and with a quill began writing furiously.

  A half hour later, he arose, ignored me standing in the door, and returned to where the players were packing away the last of their appurtenances. He walked up behind James Burbage and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Burbage, obviously tired and irritable, swung around on him. “What do you want now, boy?”

  “Here is the last speech,” Will replied, holding out the papers.

  “Bah!” Burbage hu
ffed, knocking them from Will’s hand. “Go home and bother your elders no more.”

  At that, I saw the glint of moisture in the corners of Will’s eyes. He turned away and did not see a young Richard Burbage come up and gather the papers from the ground. I slung my arm around his shoulder and, without a word, started walking him back toward Henley Street.

  We had covered less than ten paces when we heard a cry rise behind us. Richard was shouting at his father, waving Will’s speech. I watched with interest as Richard shoved the papers in James’s face, saying something we could not hear.

  James Burbage took the sheets and studied them carefully. Richard continued to speak. Finally, his father raised his head and turned to us. “Boy! Come here!”

  I felt the hesitation in Will’s shoulders; he had been embarrassed, and he was afraid of garnering more. But he straightened and, with me at his heels, marched back to the Burbages.

  “What is your name, boy?”

  “William Shakespeare.”

  He waved the speech. “This shows promise. Where did you study?”

  “Here, in Stratford. I spent some time in the north as a tutor and a player.”

  At that, even I was surprised. I knew that Will had been a tutor, but he had never mentioned that he had been a player as well.

  “Come to London, and I will find you work. It will not be much, at first, but if you can write like this, it might turn into something. Here, Richard. We yet have work to do.”

  The younger Burbage grinned at Will and then hustled back to his work.

  And that sparked our first major argument.

  ———

  Another log to feed the fire.

  ———

  “You have no heart for adventure,” Will accused me. He was attempting to cajole me into accompanying him to London. He had long since tired of life in Stratford, and Burbage’s offer was a temptation indeed.

  “You have a family to care for.”

  “Bah! Can you see me working for Father? London! London is where I will find my fortune, Simon! Come with me, and we will capture the city together!”

  “What of your father? His health is not good. What of his business?”

  Will waved my words away as if swatting a fly. “Gilbert will work with Father. He is far better suited to such a life than I.”

  Capturing cities. Adventure. Will’s mind was ever filled with drama and dreams. “Please, Simon. You are my dearest friend.”

  “I wish only to marry Peg and make a life for myself here, Will.”

  He pushed by me, hurt by my refusal. “You will be sorry, Simon. The future will be glorious.”

  “Will! You are making too much of this. I will visit you in London. Often.”

  “It will not be the same.”

  I slapped him on the back. “We will make it the same.”

  But we did not. Within the year, I had gone to the Low Countries as a soldier with the earl of Leicester to fight the Spanish, and Will had begun his ascent to the top of the London theatre world.

  ———

  Dawn stole through my window before I finished my musings. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see my oldest daughter, Margaret, standing next to me. Named for her mother, she was sixteen that year and lovely in a way her mother never had been. Peg was a beauty, but her looks were more homespun. Margaret had the kind of beauty usually reserved for the nobility, and I had never felt quite comfortable in my daughter’s presence. Her mind was turned much as was mine, more thoughtful than emotional, which might account for some of my discomfort.

  My other daughter, Mary, was younger by three years. She was still in the throes of childhood and was without guile. Her beauty was more like her mother’s, as was her character.

  Three other children had graced our marriage, but none had survived its first year. As much as I adored my daughters, I regretted not having a son.

  “Did you not sleep, Father?” Margaret asked.

  “No, child. I have just been sitting here thinking.”

  “Of Cousin Shakespeare?”

  I nodded.

  “Father, is it not time for you to forgive Mother?” Margaret had been in the house that day; she had inadvertently borne witness to her mother’s adultery. Little Mary knew nothing of it.

  “This is not something I will discuss with you.”

  “You will not discuss it with Mother. You will not discuss it with me. William Shakespeare is dead, and you cannot discuss it with him. Mary does not know of it, but she senses the distance between you and Mother. She is a loving child, but that will disappear!”

  I looked at her then, astonished both by the maturity in her words and the passion in her voice. My child was becoming a woman, and I had nearly missed the transition. During my hatred and anger, my daughter had grown from playing with dolls to become a beautiful woman. But I still did not intend to speak to her of this matter.

  “Go, see to your sister. It is time to break our fast.”

  Margaret showed a last vestige of her youth then, stamping her foot against the floor and rushing off in a huff.

  I rose from my chair and went to get dressed and ready for the day. But though I would not speak of Shakespeare to Margaret, I wondered if, perhaps, she were right. Perhaps now, with Will dead, I should put him and the entire matter to rest.

  Chapter Two

  With the growing conviction that Margaret was right, I straightened my doublet and slipped through the door and away from all the questions and conflicts in my house.

  Morning in Stratford was always filled with a comforting blend of sounds and smells—greetings and grumblings. I could walk down Henley Street with my eyes closed and tell you which house I was passing from the smell. Goody Anne Badger made an excellent roasted joint of mutton, even if she and her husband could never eat it all, and Mistress Smith changed her rosewater every day.

  When Will and I were young, Henley was more prosperous, the houses filled with some of the most influential families in the borough, like my father’s and John Shakespeare’s. But now most of the wealthier families had moved on, and the upper storeys of the half-timbered homes sagged from lack of upkeep. Will had inherited the two adjoining houses upon his father’s death, and when his mother died several years later, he had let the larger of the two dwellings to Lewis Hiccox for an inn. And just the week before, he had moved his widowed sister, Joan, into the other. Peg had importuned me for years to move us closer to my cousin Hamnet on the High Street.

  I spoke to a couple of friends as I passed the High Cross, asking the whereabouts of one or two of their kinsmen, men I had warrants on at the Guild Hall. Hamnet lived further down, near the corner with Sheep Street, where most of my competitors lived and worked. In the distance, down by the river, I could hear the pleasant bleating of sheep.

  “Master Simon!” Matthew, the young man I hired to take care of my business, stayed ever agitated it seemed. “It’s the broggers again,” he proclaimed breathlessly as I entered the shop.

  I sighed. In the wool business, it was always the broggers causing trouble. Though the practice was illegal, broggers traveled the countryside freely, buying wool from sheep farmers and selling it to cloth manufacturers. I did both legally. As a licensed wool merchant, I had my own herd of sheep, but I also bought from other shepherds.

  “Which one?”

  “Ned Grayson. He’s mixing moss into his cloves.”

  Poor Ned. His wife had died the month before and left him with six children to care for. He was an ugly man and stuttered, lacking in self-confidence, so his prospects for remarriage were not good. But moss in his cloves of wool! Instead of buying a full seven pounds of wool, the weight of a clove, the cloth manufacturer would get perhaps two-thirds that much. Of course, Ned would claim it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t remember the last person who tried that.

  Wait.

  Yes, I could.

  John Shakespeare, in the wake of his financial downfall.

  It
happened not long after I met Will. I was no more than seven or eight years old, and I remembered my father in a rage one night. That by itself was worthy of note as he rarely ever became angry. But that night, he was furious. My mother tried to calm him, but even as young as I was, I understood that there was more to his wrath than some brogging. And I saw that my new friend’s father was at the heart of the matter.

  But back then, I didn’t understand the pain of trust violated, the agony of friendship betrayed. I just knew that John Shakespeare had hurt my father.

  “Master Simon?”

  Matthew’s voice shook me from my memories.

  “I will see the bailiff this morning and secure a warrant,” I reassured him. A few moments later, after a detailed accounting of the shop’s business, I was back outside, seeing that the laws of England and the corporation were followed. But as I served papers and tracked down recusants, two voices occupied my thoughts—Margaret’s plea to let go of Will Shakespeare and his betrayal finally and forever, and my oldest and dearest friend saying, “I think someone is trying to kill me.”

  ———

  As night began to fall about me on what had become one of the longest days of my life, I found myself walking back towards town from Holy Trinity Church. No one else was in the lane. The old college on my left was dark, and on my right the Dower House and the Reynolds farm were dimly lit. Only the singing of the robins joined me. In the solitude, I again found myself troubled by Margaret’s pleas and Will’s suspicions. So, rather than turn my feet towards home as I should, I found myself at Hall’s Croft, the home of John and Susanna Hall, Will’s daughter, and the silence was quickly shattered.

  ———

  “Simon!” John Hall raged when I related what Will had told me. “This is ridiculous!”

  “Were it anyone but Will, you would not be that certain,” I challenged.

  “Were it anyone but Will, I would not have followed his case so closely.” John was fiddling with one of his notebooks. He was forever writing in one. They chronicled each of his cases; I doubted not that Will’s death was described in one.