Read Online The Secret Life of William Shakespeare by Jude Morgan - Free Book Online

the bottom. Suspicion, indeed, that Joan was quite capable of saying, No, let’s speak of it, let’s open the shutters on it.
    ‘Father, the players are here and I have never seen them yet. Can I go?’
    ‘Hm. A year or two older, Joan, and then we may speak of it.’
    Joan would have none of that judicious rumbling. ‘Bess Quiney goes. She’s younger than me, and the Quineys lose no reputation by it. And Mistress Sturley was married at fourteen. She was telling me of it.’
    Will caught a glance from his father that said, Your doing? But since dawn he had been making a full, dull, dutiful inventory of the Henley Street premises. And, besides, Joan would not be evaded.
    ‘I don’t often ask a boon, Father. Many a girl is forever pestering for trinkets and baubles. But you always find me plain and sober, I hope. Do I disgrace you with trumpery ribbons and bracelets? Lord, I pray not.’
    ‘That is a different question.’
    But the question was already lost. Joan was not to be refused what was granted to Alderman Quiney’s daughter. She could not, of course, go alone.
    So it fell out. Will looked at it as if it were a coin found in the street. Keep it, spend it: still it was not really yours, just a tainted chance. And only a fool would live the rest of his life looking for money on the ground.
    *   *   *
    Impossible, of course, not to feel it as they shuffled into the Guildhall and the warm wave of babbling sweaty expectancy broke over them. But Will tried to take his cue from Gilbert, who had come along because, as he said, it was better than swatting flies: Gilbert who, at sixteen, had suddenly become a lank, long yawner, wholly phlegmatic in humour, seemingly preparing himself for a lifetime of being unimpressed.
    Still Will’s senses roared, and at a twitch of the tiring-house curtain his mind went furiously questing like an unmuzzled dog – would there be rhymes and how would they use them? Stamp on them flat-footed or touch them in flight, like a squirrel leaping from branch to branch? Beware. Muzzle, muzzle. Will brought back the picture of himself running frantically towards an unreal horizon, in all its self-pitying absurdity. That did it.
    ‘What a crush,’ Joan was saying cheerfully. ‘Have a care for your purse: I see low, knavish faces. Brummagem faces, I’d venture. Day to you, day to you. Lord, she ’s aged. Shouldn’t we push forward? However will we hear?’
    ‘The players’ voices carry,’ Will said.
    ‘You mean they shout? I shan’t care for two hours’ shouting.’
    ‘No. Or only the worst. It’s different…’
    As he turned, the face turned, like a page in a book trying to bring the next with it.
    She was ten feet away. For some stilled, carved moments they looked at each other. Nothing of greeting or recognition. It was as if the look came in the middle of a deep discourse, at the posing of an unanswerable question.
    Joan prodded him. ‘What are you staring at?’ She followed Will’s gaze. ‘Oh, her.’
    ‘Mistress Hathaway. From Shottery,’ he heard himself say.
    ‘Aye, I know her. Well, we’ve often passed the time of day at the butter market. Her name is Anne,’ Joan said loftily. ‘Let’s give her good day, then. Lord, I wonder men ever come to know anyone.’
    True enough, thought Will, as Joan accosted Mistress Hathaway with easy nothings, joining the parties together. Such heat! Aye, but then the season – aye, so … The big boy was with her, round-eyed and damp-fringed. ‘My stepbrother,’ he heard her say – just: her voice was the very opposite of carrying, a leaf swept away by the swollen stream of noise.
    ‘Sweet chick. Never been at a play before, heart? No more have I. We shall look to each other.’ Joan took Will and Gilbert by the arm. ‘Now, these great burdens are my brothers. Was ever woman attended by two such loobies? Like overgrowing beans, and me the stick.’
    Anne smiled. Her name – ‘Mistress Hathaway, I pray you well’ –