Page 85 of The Two Wills

Alas, just two days later, when he and the doctor were set to leave, the Poet received a second letter from Anne. Poor Hamnet, after much agony, had died. Anne and the other children, thank God, appeared untouched. She asked if the Poet would still consider coming home. Rather than return for his son’s saving, he would return for his funeral.

Thirty-NineAnne, the Shrew

Wherein Willy Hughes at last meets the Poet’s wife.

A man can die but once; we owe God a death.

—Henry IV, Part II

“I hate” from hate away she threw,

And saved my life, saying “not you.”

—from Sonnet 145

When any loving parent loses a child, they are rightfully distraught. It is most usual, my master Augustine had told me, for mothers and fathers to fall into a darkness for a time, but they usually grow past it. What was different about the Poet’s grief was the nature of the abyss into which he fell. He did not weep, nor did he rage against the moon.

On the way up to Warwickshire, Burbage and I rode in the carriage with him since we were the two members of the company upon whom he most depended. The Poet did not want either of us to come, but we naturally insisted, and he, this time, was too much in a fog to protest. During the entire journey, he would gaze out the window one moment, staring into the nothingness, and the next moment start scribbling into his small notebook. Whether it was a play or a poem I did not know, but I wondered: Is death also his muse?

Since few words were shared inside our coach, I tried to set my mind on memorizing my lines, but when it grew tiresome, I allowed my head to flit from thought to thought. I pondered whether the Poet or someone else would have alerted Rose of his loss. While she had been long absent from his life, she had been quite close to him for a time. Surely, Burbage would have told her. And if he did alert her, I wondered whether she had sent a note of regret or ignored the loss. Or perhaps she might still be jealous and even this most devastating tragedy would not assuage her bitterness. But then again, she might have sent a note, and I just didn’t know about it. The Poet spoke little to anyone after the terrible news. To bury things in one’s heart as he was wont to do concerned me greatly.

When we arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon, Burbage and I stayed at the Kings Arms Inn, while the Poet stayed at New Place, his family’s large house on Chapel Street. It became evident that for the period of deep mourning, he would not be sharing a bed with me. I did not complain, since I knew it was important for him to spend his time grieving with his wife and daughters. I did not attend the burial either, at Burbage’s behest. “We don’t want any awkwardness as they put the lad into the ground,” he said. “Your kindnesses will be needed after. You’ll remind him that life continues, and he will feel joy again.” It was the first time Burbage actually acknowledged, albeit in a subtle way, my importance to the Poet beyond that of an actor.

I spent the morning walking along the River Avon, tossing rocks and imaging the Poet as a youth. I wondered whether he had played there once, and whether I was wandering by the spots where he first met old Anne Hathaway who had been six and twenty years, while he was but a lad of eighteen. He had once told me that she seduced him in some bushes by a river. Surely it was the same stream along which I walked. It was on that initial encounter he believed he got Anne with child, and felt his fate was sealed.

I didn’t understand why the Poet didn’t like the country life, when I, who’d grown up amidst the filth of London, thought it seemed idyllic with its endless greenery, fields of corn and wheat, and minimal open sewage pits. Lucky for me, the Poet didn’t abhor the meanness of London.

When I heard the church bells chime ten, I knew the dirt would have finally been spread over the grave, and I would need to make my way back to New Place where I was to meet the Poet and Burbage out front. There would be a gathering of family and friends in the grand house, which I was not supposed to attend but wait for when the Poet was ready to return to London. Burbage insisted I not be late, since he supposed the Poet would be anxious to get back once the feast was done.

So, I stood on the street, staring at the front of New Place, and waited. The house was one of the biggest in Stratford and was painted white with black shutters and trim. I thought about the rich life he had given to his family—a family he almost never saw. I wondered about his feelings for his wife. Had he ever loved her the way he loved me? Or Rose? And what was it to love children you only saw once or twice a year over a decade? Anne wrote him of their progress of course, but still, in a way, they were strangers to him. And yet he had given them his wealth, the house, his loyalty, where I, the young man he loved, the one who inspired his greatest plays, only received eight shillings a week, along with his body (secretly, for two hours a night) and a handful of his honeyed sonnets.

Is this fair? I wondered with some bitterness. I’ve given him everything. Yet, I will get nothing, and his gnarled old wife will get everything. I immediately cursed myself, feeling ashamed for thinking such a craven and selfish thing as their son lay dead under the ground.

“Would you like to go in?” a woman’s voice said from behind me.

I turned and saw a handsome woman wearing black. I assumed she was possibly the Poet’s sister, Joan, or some other relative, or a wealthy neighbor from the look of her fine dress.

“I was told to wait out here,” I said, “so as not to bother the family.”

“Why? That’s ridiculous. It’s damp. Come inside and have something warm! You’re that young actor, right? The one he loves so much?”

I blushed, as if the woman knew everything. She then called off to some servants about checking the oven so as some pies would not be ruined. It then occurred to me, this had to be her, his wife, Anne. She was not at all as the rumors said. She looked to be nearing forty, though not unattractive, nor gnarled at all. In fact, with her auburn hair and fair eyes, she had clearly been a beauty when young and might still turn a head on the High Street. Her voice was kind, though one could hear the weariness of heartbreak. I suddenly felt aggrieved that I, along with so many others, had made a cuckquean of her.

“No, really,” I said, not wanting to disobey Burbage or cause the Poet any grief. “I’m fine out here.”

“Enough of that. I insist.”

Trapped and not wanting to appear even more guilty than I felt, I followed her into her kitchen, which was large and smelled of herbs and the pies that were still cooking. The cook greeted her with a kind and mournful smile. I could tell there was a friendship between them, and realized Anne was not even close to being the shrew of so much speculation. Funny that, how the minor characters in the play of life have their own plays they are living, far away from the view of our audience. Only, in Anne’s play she seemed to have heard far more about me, than I of her.

“Go, Margery,” Anne told her cook. “You’ve been working hard all morning. Go rest, before the guests get here. I’m just going to make some posset for myself and this young gentleman here—one of Will’s most beloved players.”

The cook curtsied and left.

“Thank you for the posset,” I said. “And I’m very sorry about your boy. It’s a wretched shame and …” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes momentarily not engaging, probably from having had to respond to the offer of regrets a hundred times that morning. “That’s very kind.” Then, with nearly a gasp, she shifted from the topic as if she were desperate to breathe. “I’ve wanted to meet you for ages. I really had hoped to get down to London to see one of his plays, but with the house and children, it’s never been possible. Not that Will would want me getting in the way. We both have our lives and well …” Her voice momentarily faded again. I was not sure if she was falling back in her grief or pondering what she was allowed to say to me. “But no matter,” she rebounded, “what you’ve done for my husband’s company is beyond compare. Really, what you’ve done for this family.” She gestured to the house. “I mean, even Will told me, he doubted his plays would have amounted to what they have in the last years without talent such as yours and Richard’s—”

“Untrue,” I said. “It is all Will’s words …”