The Death of Shakespeare (Part 1)

1.

 

 

On the tenth day of April, the year of our Lord 1616, I received a letter from my

father who, until that point in my life, had stubbornly remained unknown to me. It read:

“I have secured for you an audience with the esteemed playwright Mr William

Shakespeare and he is willing to pass judgement on your play, Lucan and Poppea,

with a view to financing its production.”

 

 

Mr Shakespeare, I knew, had retired from his career in the theatre but still retained

influence with London’s playhouses. That he was prepared to involve himself in

readying my play for production was heady news indeed.

“Suffice to say” my father continued, no doubt anticipating my elated reaction and

wishing to keep my stockinged feet firmly placed on the ground, “I should remind

you, as is common in such transactions, Mr Shakespeare will expect to receive

financial remuneration from any production – upwards of forty five per cent due to his

standing. What’s more, I will also expect payment for initiating the accord and acting

as your agent, as is customary.”

 

 

I responded at once, thanking my father for his good work and for the pleasure of his

contact after nineteen years of silence. I also confirmed that I would rendezvous with

him on the twentieth day of the month in order for him to escort me to Mr

Shakespeare’s residence and make the necessary preliminary introductions.

And so, on a bitterly cold day rendered bleak by squalls of rain, I prepared to travel

by carriage from the house I shared with my mother in Yorkshire to Stratford-upon-

Avon, a small market town some two hundred miles away where Mr Shakespeare lived in

retirement.

 

 

As I stood waiting for the carriage’s arrival, I made some hasty calculations. What

with Mr Shakespeare's share of the profits and payment to my father, as well as the money I'd

had to borrow (with interest) to cover travel, lodging, and the purchase of new clothes,

not to mention the generous sum my mother had promised to donate to the church in

order that the Lord would protect and bless me during my undertaking, I began my

journey not exactly filled with rapture but in a rather subdued frame of mind,

wondering if my play would ever turn me a small profit. Alas, the alternative was to

remain in Yorkshire and seek a position in the church, something that I knew,

courtesy of the sullen priests of our parish, led only to poverty, corruption, and

drudgery of spirit, a condition that my idea of God frowned mightily upon with fire,

brimstone, treacle, and the rest.

 

 

 

 

 

2.

 

 

As the carriage made its way through the English countryside I contemplated the

strange circumstances that had brought me to this pivotal point in my short life. I had

only recently, on my nineteenth birthday, discovered the identity of my father. My

mother had avoided all talk of the man who seduced her as a young girl although the

shame of her illicit liaison would occasionally rise up in a cry of despair as she told

me, whenever she had cause to scold me, that I was a snake and a reprobate just

like him.

 

 

Her decision to lay bare my father’s identity came after discussions with the local

priest. My mother, as I’ve already suggested, was a pious woman – another legacy

of her seduction – and it was in the presence of this old, papist cockroach, who I did

not trust to spit, that she unburdened herself of my father’s name. “He is Michael

Drayton” she said, “a playwright, although he is more regarded these days for his

poetic ambition than his work for the stage.”

 

 

“A playwright” I repeated to which the priest shook his head and made the sign of the

cross. “Yes” said my mother. “Fruit does not fall very far from the tree and in your

case it is certainly true. Mr Drayton would like to meet you in order that he may

assess your qualities and help you in your career. You have much in common and I

do not object to his future interference in your life. I have done my duty to the best of

my ability, God knows.”

 

The cockroach nodded and muttered: “Hallelujah.”

 

It transpired that my father had, since my birth, provided my mother with a stipend

each month in order that she and I would not fall into penury. The stipend was

enough to provide lodging, food and endow me with a solid education. The only

condition set by my father was that he occasionally receive news regarding my

progress, intent, no doubt, to benefit from any talent I might reveal. Otherwise he

wanted nothing to do with me and was content to remain wedded to his books. As I

journeyed to Stratford I wondered what my father looked like. If he resembled me

then I pitied him. As a young boy I was thin and pale, given to much coughing and

wheezing, so much so that whenever I was consigned to my bed with illness priests

from across the parish gathered in anticipation of my demise, wailing and yawling

against the great Satan who, they believed, had taken refuge in me from an early

age. Indeed, during my journey, the more I contemplated the fiery trajectory of my life

the more I marvelled at the fact that I was still living and on earth.

 

 

 

 

 

3.

 

 

My carriage arrived in Stratford outside the Windmill Inn on Chapel Street, which

acted as the market town’s terminus. I saw, through the window, my father waiting.

He was not thin, as I had expected, nor was he pale. He was portly and red in nose

and cheeks which at once alerted me that here was a man of copious drinking. He

was well protected from the evening’s cold by a thick cloak and heavy doublet. I

alighted and prepared for an emotional embrace. Nothing, though, could have been

further from his mind.

 

 

“Ah, boy - at last. There has been a change of plan. Your meeting has been

postponed due to an outbreak of pestilence and the most violent strains of catarrh.

Mr Shakespeare has been taken to his bed and is not expected to recover for a day

or two.”

 

 

He ushered me along Chapel Street’s roadway, a vile tangle of straw, mud and

steaming piles of horse shit. “Unfortunately I will not be able to remain due to my

commitments in London. Therefore, I have secured you alternative lodging for the

extra nights you will be required to remain here - lodging that, I hasten to add, has

cost my purse a pretty penny and will need to be reimbursed at the earliest

opportunity.”

 

“Father” I said, handing him two of my precious sovereigns, “I was hoping that some

time spent together would be amongst your concerns, given that it is the first time we

have met.”

 

He coughed and spat into his kerchief. “Not possible” he croaked. “There are

deadlines to meet, lines of verse to be written. Mr Jonson has secured

transportation to the capital and I am bound to accompany him. Have you brought the text of

the  play ?”

 

 

My father had requested a further copy of Lucan and Poppea for his friend, the well-

known playwright Mr Ben Jonson, who was also keen to read my handy-work. I

handed him my last copy and he flicked through its heavy pages. Satisfied, he stored

it beneath the folds of his cloak.

 

 

“Do you see that broad timbered house  ?” he said, pointing into the misty darkness.

“I think so” I said. “Go and introduce yourself. Mr Shakespeare will send word when

his illness has passed. Now I must take my leave. Mr Jonson has our horses ready.

Farewell, boy - I will be in contact soon enough.”

 

 

 

 

 

4.

 

 

When my father had disappeared into the night I made my way to the broad timbered

house and prepared to make myself known. However, due to the sound of a

tempestuous argument that was occurring inside, I reconsidered this course of action

and remained standing at the front door. The noise I heard was that of two women.

Slanderous and indiscriminate accusations were being hurled which, I gathered,

concerned a gentleman named Thomas and an amount of missing coinage. I stood

listening for a good number of minutes to the accusations and counter-accusations,

my ear pressed against the house timbers, until quite suddenly the door opened and,

my balance undone with surprise, I fell into the space immediately beyond.

“Thief! Retrograde! A vagabond accosts us!”

 

 

An implement came down upon my head, causing much terror on my behalf. I

managed to raise my arm so as to prevent a second blow and saw a rather austere

looking woman looking down on me, broom in hand. “Pray, do not strike me again!” I

gasped. “I am not here to do you harm, no matter how it might seem.”

 

 

The woman, pacified by my entreaties, lowered her weapon. Another, younger

woman, stood behind her – slender, wearing an embroidered green dress, who I

thought to be particularly handsome with long flowing auburn hair.

“Excuse my impertinence” I said, hoisting myself upright and brushing down my

breeches, “I am the son of the poet Mr Michael Drayton. He advised me to seek

shelter in this house with reference to my meeting with Mr Shakespeare, the

eminent…”

 

 

“Silence” said the older woman. “I know Mr Shakespeare well enough, young man –

and Mr Drayton and Mr Jonson who share his cups. We have suffered their

boisterousness for too many years and now my husband is paying the price of his

debauchery, just as I warned him.”

 

 

I was taken aback. “Why, madam, am I to assume that I address Mr Shakespeare’s

wife, Ann ?”

 

The woman said I was not wrong to assume such a thing and allowed me to bow

and kiss her hand. “Mr Drayton has arranged for you to lodge here with my daughter

Judith. Did he not explain the finer points of your stay ?”

 

 

I shook my head and bowed again, this time in the direction of Ann’s handsome

daughter, and took up her delicate hand. “I am honoured, ma’am, to be granted such

hospitality.”

 

 

She smiled at my unbearable affliction of humility, her smile invoking such warmth

throughout my person that my cheeks flushed a particularly strong shade of crimson.

“Was there mention of payment ? Mr Drayton gave me nought, so there is need for

you to cross my palm before you are shown to your bed.”

 

 

“Yes, yes - of course” I said, quietly condemning my father’s deception. From my

purse I took out a second pair of sovereigns which Ann Shakespeare examined and

bit in to so as to determine the worthiness of the metal. “Here” she said to Judith.

“Hide them in the herb bed lest they are discovered by kith and kin.”

 

 

Judith did as she was told. “As soon as my husband has recovered from his untimely

bout of sickness he will send for you. Now, I bid you goodnight. My daughter will

show you to your room.”

 

 

Judith ushered me up the narrow stairs. The house was dark and solid, made warm

by a large hearth, and infused with the scent of juniper and thyme. My room, which

contained a bed, chair and writing table, looked out onto the street. Judith lingered a

moment on the threshold. She was older than my nineteen years by perhaps five or

slightly more but retained the fresh complexion and simple honest features of a

sprightly English country girl. “I suppose that you think me a poor, ignorant wretch” I

said “a fool akin to one of the many fools and jesters that appear in your father’s

plays.” She laughed and ran her fingers through her hair, hair that now, in the light of

the candle she offered me, turned a sensuous golden hue. “I think you are a bright,

earnest young man” she said and then, in a sorrowful tone, “and like all men I

believe you have much to learn” whereupon she bade me good night and left me to

my own devices.