The Death of Shakespeare (Part 2)

5.

 

 

My sleep was delayed by the continued mutterings of the two women long into the

night. The violence of the argument I had stumbled upon had abated, replaced by

the occasional thump of a fist upon a table or stamp of a foot upon the floor.

Eventually Ann Shakespeare took her leave and I couldn’t help but peer out of the

window in order to see her fleeting form, well wrapped in a heavy cloak at such an

unfavourable hour, hurry along the street towards the house where her sick husband

lay. In my half-slumbers the sound of sweet Judith going about her business

downstairs seeped through the floorboards like a charmed air. Then, I heard her

quietly climb the stairs to her bedroom and take her rest leaving me to swoon in the

knowledge that only we two were contained within the house, the idea of such

intimacy caressing spheres of my mind with tenderness and hopefulness as to what

the future might bring.

 

 

I woke suddenly at first light, the sound of the door slammed shut breaking my sleep.

I dressed quickly and went downstairs. The hearth had been made up and a bowl of

porridge left on the table. Had my host seen fit to leave me sustenance ? I cradled

the bowl in my hands and began to eat, the meal as satisfying and rich as any

breakfast I had tasted.

 

 

No sooner had I finished than Judith returned. This time she was accompanied not

by her redoubtable mother but a short, rather rotund gentleman, ordinarily apparelled

in a suit of plain cloth that looked as though it had been run up by an ill country tailor.

Judith seemed surprised to see me, as did her male companion. I stood and bowed

and thanked her once again for her hospitality. Her gentleman friend, whose

demeanour now hinted at an offence against my presence, asked, in a voice that

was both sharp and untenable, who I might be.

 

 

Before Judith could answer I said, rather proudly: “I am the son of the esteemed poet

and playwright Mr Michael Drayton” and recounted the circumstances that had led

me to Stratford. My explanations, it seemed, only made matters worse and the

atmosphere more uncomfortable. Judith was asked by the man - who I was

beginning to dislike intensely - why my presence had not been transmitted to him.

There followed a number of short, rapier-like exchanges concerning the amount of

money I had paid and whether Judith had intentionally withheld it in order that she

might find profit for herself. Such was the bitterness between them – a bitterness, I

thought, that seemed all pervading within the House of Shakespeare - that I began to

yearn for the drudgery and quiet of my home in Yorkshire. Only the sight of Judith,

who was visibly upset by the manner and tone of the man’s accusations, prevented

me from packing my knapsack and fleeing to alternative accommodation. The

disagreeable individual, his countenance now swollen and reddish, began to shout

with a preposterous air, so much so that I, with all the height, weight and timbre I was

able to muster, bellowed: “Sir – you are a bawdy cad and I resent the manner in

which you address Mistress Judith. Pray, leave this house at once, you unearthly

wretch. I am sick of your foul, obstinate twitter!”

 

 

The room fell silent. Oh puck, what a look there was on both their faces! I am not,

sage reader, one of nature’s fighters and I must confess that I began to feel uneasy

when the man clenched his stubby fists and began to step in my direction in a most

threatening manner.

 

 

“I will refrain from boxing your ears” he said “although it is true that your loathsome

discourse deserves nothing less. You are a young upstart of little or no consequence

and, I fear, you know not to whom you are speaking. I, sir, have every right to

address this woman however I so wish, for she is my lawful wife.”

 

 

I looked towards Judith and she averted her eyes, signalling to me that yes, the brute

was indeed her husband, a revelation that pained me as if a dagger had been thrust

between my shoulders, rendering my arms limp and unusable. He was close to me

now, and his eyes growled with displeasure.

 

 

“I expect an apology” he snarled “or I will use my standing to have your brains

beaten out courtesy of the boys in the street.”

 

 

My fall complete, I apologised as he requested. Satisfied, he turned his attention to

his cowering wife, demanding she hand over the revenue that my stay had

generated. This she did, although it pained her to do so, I could tell. Then, with a

flourish, Judith’s husband pocketed my sovereigns and, after berating us for a final

time, departed the house.

 

 

 

 

 

6.

 

I had once, several years ago, when only a schoolboy, watched a performance of Mr

Shakespeare’s play A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A band of players erected a stage

in our town square and, unbeknown to my mother, I stole out of the house to observe

the proceedings. I say ‘unbeknown’ due to the fact that she had specifically forbade

me from watching the play. I can understand now why she had been so opposed to

me seeing the fantastical exploits of Titania, Oberon, Hermia, Lysander and the

impish Puck. She, of course, fretted that the experience would unlock the dark

nature of my father’s influences, influences that, she was sure, resided deep within

me. And my mother was not incorrect: I watched the play with mouth agape and

senses aflame, such was the wonderment of what I beheld. The magical forest and

its transformative power cast a spell upon my youthful mind, even when agents of

the church, sent to pursue me on my mother’s orders, dragged me screaming, much

to the merriment of the audience and players, to our house where I was locked in my

room and told to remain for three days, only to be served water and gruel in order

that I might be cleansed of the moral impurities I had witnessed.

 

 

Cleansed, dear reader, I was not; instead I recounted to myself scenes from the play,

declaiming speeches for my amusement as best I could remember them. It was

Hermia who, in mine eyes, shone brightest, no doubt because I was brutally taken

from the play just as it was revealed that Lysander was now in love with Helena. Oh

poor Hermia, distraught angel of the forest! What sadness overcame me upon her

behalf.  And it was now, in the aftermath of seeing Judith’s predicament and

recognising that she was trapped in a loveless marriage, that my tawdry being was

flooded with similar emotions. Such beauty, cast upon a jagged rock, held captive by

such an impure cur. After Judith’s husband left I sat in a state of numb hesitation,

unsure whether I would best serve her by taking my leave or, my preferred course of

action, by embracing her and pledging eternal protection to my dying day.

“Fair friend, I offer the most sincere apology for my husband’s outburst” she said. “He

and I recently quarrelled over certain grave issues that have befallen us. His temper

is high and my spirits low. With my father taken to his bed, and his condition

deteriorating rather than improving, fate has struck us the most discordant chord of

all.”

 

 

Her admission that the aged playwright was more seriously afflicted than had been

thought disturbed me. Not only was I concerned for Mr Shakespeare’s mortality, I

was conscious of my own situation, rendered now helpless in this drizzly country

outback of which I knew not whether to escape or remain. The thought of Mr

Shakespeare languishing in his bed for two, perhaps even three or four weeks, filled

me with consternation. I had budgeted for two nights only and my purse was bare.

Within hours, it seemed, I would be forced to return to my mother in Yorkshire and

corralled into a lifetime’s service in the church with all the attendant miseries that

entailed.

 

 

Just as I was consumed by these selfish thoughts, and as if she had gained

unfettered access into my mind, Judith placed her hand on my hand and said:

“Friend, do not concern yourself with thoughts of displacement. I will see to it that

you are able to remain here until my father re-gains his wits and strength. My father

is very generous towards me. There will be no further dramas, I assure you. My

estranged husband will bark at you no more.”

 

 

My estranged husband ? Tears formed in Judith’s eyes as she recounted the torrid

circumstances that had befallen her. The rogue Thomas Quiney, who she had called

her husband for these past two months only, had proved himself a malcontent of the

highest order. Not only had he failed to provide the correct marriage licence, leading

to his and Judith’s excommunication, but it transpired, after the nuptials were done,

that he had inseminated a common prostitute, who subsequently died during

childbirth, resulting in further approbation as the vile man was hauled before the

bawdy court and sentenced to open penance. “He seduced me under false

pretences” Judith wept. “He cast himself as a gentleman of means and there was no

reason for me to doubt him. His dress, his demeanour, his good treatment of me

during the wooing process, all led to my father and mother seeing him as an

honourable match for their youngest daughter. In truth, he has since been found out

to be a chancer and deceiver in business of the lowest kind. My mother last night

vowed to box his ears if he should ever set foot in this house again. Pray, do not tell

her he materialised. The sovereigns will tide him over for the next two weeks or so.

Until then she must not be told. Oh, promise me you will hold your tongue on this

matter.”

 

 

Overcome by her conflicting emotions and sensing, no doubt, that in me she held a

sympathetic and confiding ear, Judith lay her head on my chest in further search of

succour and contentment. I responded, of course, allowing my arms to embrace her,

which they did readily, gradually transforming the embrace into a substantial physical

intimacy that seemed to lock our souls on a single binding course. Judith looked up

and I dabbed her sullen, tear-filled eyes with my kerchief. It was then, I do confess,

that I was drawn to her, uncontrollably, inexplicably, aware of the giddy maelstrom

into which I was falling, but careless and inviolate of the consequences as my ardour

drove me forward. Oh, honest reader - my lips fulsomely met hers and I tasted the

sweetest and most succulent kiss that any man could wish for, a kiss so sweet that

we were unable to prise our lips apart for what seemed like a goodly hour as we

floated on silver crests of rapture. And when our lips did finally part, without words

being exchanged we slipped our mooring, climbed the narrow stairs, and took refuge

in Judith’s bedchamber where we remained for the immediate day and long

throughout the following night.