Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Is my mother at home?’

‘She is at the back, in the kitchen, sir. Shall I go to her for you?’

‘No. I will go myself.’

Mary Shakespeare, born Mary Arden, was supervising the baking of rabbit pies, little Edmund clutching at the hem of her skirt with one hand while the thumb of his other hand was wedged in his mouth. Mary’s surprise at seeing her eldest son did not last more than a few moments, before she flung her arms around him. He could feel her sobbing with joy, and stroked her hair.

‘Mother, have I been gone that long?’ Edmund started to wail, so Shakespeare picked him up and he wailed all the more. ‘And you, little man, I see you have learnt to walk.’

‘Oh, John, the house is not the same without you. So much has happened in the past few months.’

‘Then you will tell me all about it, Mother. I shall be here a few days, I believe.’ He inclined his head in greeting to the new kitchen maid.

‘This is Margery’s younger sister, Amy.’

‘Good day to you, Amy.’

The kitchen maid put down the skillet she was holding, then clasped her hands together in front of her linen apron, bowed her head like a hen pecking. She looked even more ill at ease than Margery.

Suddenly, Mary Shakespeare bustled. ‘What am I thinking of, John? You must be hungry. I am becoming a foolish old woman. All these children. .’

‘Mother, the day you become foolish will be the day the sun turns blue and the stars fall to earth. Now, do not be anxious on my part. I am as hungry as a horse, but I will save it — and take supper with the family. However, I will not trouble you for a bed, for I must stay at the inn. I am charged with certain tasks on this visit that would be best administered away from here.’

‘As you wish, John. We can always find space for you — though they all grow apace.’

There were five surviving siblings. William, of course, Gilbert, almost sixteen years of age and apprenticed to their father, thirteen-year-old Joan, eight-year-old Richard and, most recent of all, Edmund, two years of age and the baby of the family.

‘Where is Father?’

‘In the workshop.’

‘And all is well with you both?’

‘Between us? As loving as the day we wed. But-’

‘Has trade still not improved?’

She shook her head. ‘Nor is it likely to. But avoid the subject if you will, for it casts him into a pit of melancholy.’ She lowered her voice in case the cook should hear. ‘We have but Margery and Amy here to serve us now, along with two apprentices, one of whom is Gilbert.’

‘But men and women will always need good gloves and fine white leather. What has brought the old man to this pass?’

‘He has over-reached himself, buying property without the wherewithal to pay for it. Look around you: we now own all this house. But then he bought other properties in town with mortgages, which he could not pay.’ She sighed heavily, then mouthed four words. No sound, but Shakespeare understood them well enough. ‘ My inheritance is gone .’

His mother’s inheritance had been bequeathed by her father, Robert Arden of Wilmcote. It had always been the foundation stone that underpinned this household, this family. It was the bond that showed all was well and that the Shakespeares could be trusted by all shops and tradesmen within ten miles of town. How had the old man managed to lose that?

‘The money?’

She nodded.

‘And the land at Wilmcote?’

‘Everything.’

Shakespeare put down Edmund, who was by now mollified, then hugged his mother again. ‘All will be well, Mother.’

She managed to smile, and then laughed. ‘If only that was all, John. .’

‘There is something else?’

‘Your brother, of course. Will. Oh! You don’t know, do you? Well, he will have to tell you himself. He is presently at Uncle Henry’s.’

‘I met him on the road as he walked back. He told me of the trouble with Sir Thomas Lucy, if that is what you mean.’

‘Oh, that. No, it is the other thing.’ She turned back to her pies. ‘He will tell you soon enough, I am sure.’

Shakespeare found his father coming into the hall from the little workshop, wiping his hands on a rag. They embraced as warmly as he had embraced his mother. It was only since he had been away, first at Gray’s Inn and then in the service of Walsingham, that Shakespeare had truly begun to understand what a remarkable partnership his parents made. Their bond was as firm as the roots of an oak in good earth. If he had lost her money, then it had been done with the best of intentions, attempting to improve their fortunes. She might mention her fears to son John, but she would never make complaint to husband John. Their love and common purpose would endure, come what may.

‘What brings you home, John? Yearning for Mother’s pies?’

‘That and the stink of your tanyard, Father.’

His father laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Come, let us take a draught of beer. My work is finished for the day and I have a thirst.’

‘That is a fine notion.’

‘You will discover that there has been a rich harvest and all the town is merry.’ He raised a weary eyebrow. ‘Though some of us will reap more than we desired. Have you heard the young fool’s news yet?’

‘You mean Will? What is it? Mother alluded to something, but would say no more. Don’t tell me he has brought a girl with child-’

‘What do you think? Here he comes. Ask him yourself.’

The door opened and Will stepped inside.

‘John was just asking me if you had brought a girl with child, Will. What think you to that?’

Will looked at his father as though he might kill him, then turned around and strode from the house.

‘Well, is it true?’

The two brothers stood on the corner of Henley Street, close to the White Lion, beneath the jettied overhangs of the houses.

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘Who is she? Do I know her?’

‘You know her well enough, brother. It’s Anne — Anne Hathaway of Shottery.’

For a moment, Shakespeare thought his brother must be jesting. ‘No, Will, tell me true.’

‘I am telling you true. Why should you not believe me?’

‘But Will, she’s-’

‘Eight years my senior? More your age than mine? Indeed she is. But what of it? She is healthy; she has lost none of her beauty. And whatever you think of it, she is with child. We are to be wed.’

‘Well, this is unexpected news.’

‘But it is so, and I will not listen to any word but celebration. It is a new life, not a death, though to hear Father’s strictures and Mother’s sobs, you might think it so.’

‘How did it happen?’

Will sighed as though he had been answering these questions every day of his life and was mighty tired of them. ‘In the usual manner, John. How else?’

‘Be careful your wit does not cut you. I meant you and Anne — how did you fall for each other? When?’

‘The May Day revels. Too much cider. A dance around the pole, a kiss, a tryst. . a tale as old as love itself.’

Shakespeare shrugged in resignation. ‘Well, it has happened.’

‘John, is that all you have to say? “ It has happened. ” Do you shrug it away like spilt milk? Can you find nothing good in this? Do you not wish me well?’

Shakespeare forced a smile, then took Will in a hug. ‘Forgive me, brother. I am surprised, that is all. I had no idea that you and she. . but that is by the by. Please accept my heartfelt congratulations. Both of you. You are a lucky man — and she is fortunate, too. That is my honest opinion.’

‘Thank you,’ Will said, a little too stiffly. ‘And you will be pleased to know that there is no regret here. In truth, I had to win her. Badger Rench fancied himself in with a hope.’