Page 35 of Love, Will

Chapter 8

“My heart is turned to stone, I stroke it and it hurts my hand.” - Othello

I did not hear any news from Henry for the next month; but word reached the theatre that his ship had arrived in France and he would spend some time there with the Earl of Essex. I divided my days in between rehearsals and brothels with the men, getting back to my ways of using their free candles. While Richard and the others enjoyed company, I used the time to wet my quill and wrote everything I could never say on paper.

Whenever a messenger passed us, my heart stopped in hope to receive some news from Henry. I became so desperate to know of him that whenever I met other nobles at the theatre who sometimes approached me to congratulate my work; I slipped his name into the conversation, hoping they had any news from court about my love.

Sadly, none of them knew, or they did not show interest in Henry and changed the subject back to my plays. Richard was a guardian angel during these times. He understood my pain but never spoke a word of it; he kept me company and filled my belly with ale until the early hours of the morning, sometimes even renouncing the chance to accompany some fair maidens who wanted a piece of the actor for the night.

I spent my days hoping to receive a letter and, after months of waiting, on an August evening, a messenger called on me at the theatre. I could not be more content and jumped from the stage to welcome him. Even gave him three shillings for his delivery, and ripped open the paper with all the enthusiasm I thought had left my heart.

In my feverish movements I did not fathom that the Southampton seal was not the one protecting the letter nor that I did not have to break the wax, this was a simple envelope of cheaper paper covering a letter scribbled with thick ink and lack of attention. As soon as I laid my eyes on the folio, I realised it could not have been Henry.

“Dear William,

You must return home with imminence, your boy Hamnet has been taken sick by the Black Death. He does not have much time.

Leave as soon as you receive this and you might still have a chance to converse with the boy one last time. Anne and your mother are distraught and the girls have been living with the neighbours so they be kept away from the disease.

Come home soon, my boy.

With pain,

Your father John”

My knees failed, and I fell to the ground while holding the letter tight in my hand, tears flowing down my cheeks.

“Will, what is happening?” I felt more than saw Richard cupping my face, forcing me to look into his eyes and react. I remained silent, my eyes moving involuntarily from one side to another while my breath came out harsh and haste.

“Will, tell me what’s wrong!” Richard shouted, to which I simply put the letter in his hand and continued to lie there, shocked.

He read the words and swore, then passed it to the other men who read it in small gathered groups. It was easy to know when they finished reading, as all of them swore or looked in my direction with pity.

Richard accompanied me to the inn to take my belongings and money. He spoke to the innkeeper while I packed and walked me to the coach to Stratford, as I was clearly in no position to go on my own. My movements had become ghostlike, without sense or purpose, and my mind could not fathom the recent news.

When we arrived in Warwick, I paid to have a horse for a week and rode home as fast as I could, not caring if the animal needed a rest or that I hadn’t eaten in two days.

I finally arrived in Henley Street only to see the black sheet covering the top of the door. My stomach sank. I abandoned the horse right there on the street and pulled the door open to see the house I grew up in and my wife crying at the dining table.

I ran towards her and hugged her, but as soon as her eyes laid on me; she pushed me away. Anne scanned me with disgust, tears flooding her face and only said, “You missed the funeral, bastard.” Then went upstairs and locked herself into the room we used to share as a couple.

After spending a while paralyzed with pain, I focused enough to walk outside, into the garden, sat on mother’s favourite bench and cried. I must have been there for several hours. At sundown I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder and looked up to see mother, face covered with wrinkles and eyes red from crying, trying to master a smile in my direction. She called me back into the house for supper where I met father and my brothers, both my girls and some of the old help that had been a constant presence since my childhood.

We ate and drank, talking about Hamnet and the funeral. My father promised to take me to see his grave in the morning, while the girls played around us uncomfortably, missing the one who’d been their companion in the game. Anne was nowhere to be seen and when I asked about her, mother raised her eyebrows and only said, “You will have to give her an explanation or two.”

“Anne, you will need to talk to me eventually,” I said while closing the kitchen door. I had been home for two days, during which I slept in the attic with the apprentices, took my suppers with them and worked in the shop, so I could allow her and the girls the time and space they needed. But after being ignored for so many hours, seeing her passing me by like just another piece of furniture, I stopped her in her tracks and forced the conversation onto the wife I had not seen in several years.

“Fine, talk then,” she said, stamping the dough on the table.

“Is it alright if we go into the bedroom? Katherine is just outside, and she can come in any minute,” I replied, referencing the maid.

Anne did not reply but wiped the flour off her hands and passed me by while making her way to the door and stepped out. I followed her as she climbed the steps heavily and opened the door to the bedroom we once shared. I took the image in; it looked so different to what we once had. Now it was filled with wooden toys and yarn, small pots and dolls made of rag. The image of Anne’s way of life, the one I had forced onto her, hit me with the velocity of a falling star. While I’d been away in London, free to walk the streets, she remained enclosed in this room with three children. Now two. For years on end, following the same life, day in and day out.

I closed the door behind me and turned to Anne, prepared to cry an apology, but was hastily received with a slap. My neck turned from her strength and half my face burnt. I raised my browns in surprise as I did not expect my welcome to be so violent.

“Anne, what…” I did not finish when another slap fell hard on my other cheek. And then another. She was hitting me as hard as she could, using my years of absence as her weapon and motivation.

“Anne, stop!” I finally shouted and clasped her arms to prevent further attacks. My wife struggled to become free again, but I continued to shout and beg her to stop, until she finally did. Her muscles became less tense and she let herself drop in bed, head bowed, tears slowly dripping on her face.

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