Smythe was taken aback. “You have not abandoned her, surely? With children?”
“Nay, I would not do so mean a thing.” The poet shook his head. “That is to say, I have left her back in Stratford with the children, aye, that is true, but I have not abandoned her. Even though the marriage was not of my own choosing, ‘twas surely of my own making. Had I but held my piece, so to speak, instead of being too quick to dip my quill in her all-too-willing and inviting inkwell, I would have written a different scene entirely and married better and more wisely. And for love, unfashionable as that may seem. But for want of better timing, ‘twas another Anne I would have married.”
“You loved another, also by the name of Anne?”
“Aye. For while a rose may be a rose, and while by another other name it may still smell as sweet, it is only once the bloom is off the rose, my friend, that you discover what is truly at the root. The Anne I loved was young and innocent; the Anne I got was older, more experienced and much craftier. And relentless, untamed shrew though she may be, she is nevertheless my shrew and the mother of my children, who could have done better, certainly, than to have a besotted, weak-willed poet for a father, though perhaps they could not have done much worse.”
“So then you loved a younger woman whom you wanted to keep chaste for marriage, and thus your unquenched ardor made you succumb to an older woman who seduced you,” said Smythe. “And you got her with child, which forced the marriage, is that it?”
“Aye, but somehow, it sounds much worse the way you put it,” said the poet, frowning.
“Well, ‘twas the way you put it that got you into trouble in the first place,” Smythe replied, with a grin.
Shakespeare grimaced. “If you were not so large, my friend, I would give you sound drubbing for that remark.” He chuckled. “But prudence and my desire for survival dictate that I hold my temper.”
“Forgive me, I do not mean to make fun at your expense,” said Smythe, sympathetically.
“Yes, you do, confound you, but you do it well, so I forgive you. In any event, to resume my narrative, I knew that I could not, on a mere glover’s takings, make any sort of decent life for us in Stratford. I recall only too well how my father worked his fingers to the bone, cutting tranks and sewing stitches, and doing what else he could withal, but there never was enough. That is to say, we neither starved, nor did we prosper. We survived, after a fashion. He rose as high as alderman for his ambition, did old John Shakespeare, and then he fell from grace when his debts exceeded his ability to pay. I had hoped for rather more than that. Times are hard and people have less money now. And making gloves did not, by any means, ignite my fire.”
“So you decided to forego the glover’s trade and make your way to London to seek your fortune as a player?”
“As a poet, actually. At any rate, that would be my preference. Mind you, I shall take work as a player, if I can get it, for one must eat, after all, and working as player will allow me also to write plays. And writing plays and selling them will bring more profit, if the audiences come and I make a reputation for myself and become a shareholder of the company. And then, if I am fortunate enough to find a noble patron, that too can bring increase.” “How so?”
“How? Why, through poetry, of course. Poetry that extols the virtues of your noble patron, or a nobleman that you hope to have as patron. You make a dedication-it is considered proper to ask permission, of course, usually through some friendly intermediary- and then you find some scrivener to make fair copies for them for distribution to their friends, or else have it bound and printed, if ‘tis a longer work, although it seems that short Italian sonnets are all the rage among the fashionable nobility these days.”
“And for this they give you money?”
“Aye, if the work should please them. Which is to say, if it proves popular and reflects upon them favorably. Many of your honorable Masters of the Arts, such as Marlowe, whom I mentioned, receive small stipends for their laudatory scribblings about Lord This or Earl That or Duke The Other. It is a common enough practice.”
“But… why?” asked Smythe, puzzled. “Why would anyone pay money merely for being complimented in verse form?”
“They contend with poets nowadays as they once used to contend with arms in tournaments. Mine turns a sweeter rhyme than yours and what not. ‘Tis not, perhaps, such manly sport, but ‘tis considerably safer. Besides, what do you mean, ‘merely’ complimented in verse form, you great lout? Can you write a poem?”
“No. Well, that is to say, I have never tried writing any verses.” He shrugged. “But then, it does not seem so very difficult.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Right, then. Give me a rhyme for ‘orange.’ “
“Orange? Very well.” Smythe thought a moment. “Let me see… Orange… orange…”
“Well? Come on.”
“Hold on, I’m thinking.” Smythe frowned, concentrating. “Orange…”
“Mmmmm?” The poet raised his eyebrows. “Well? I am still waiting.”
“I… uh… that is… uh…” “Ummm?”
“Hmpf! I cannot seem to think of one.”
“Indeed? I thought you said it was not so very difficult?”
“Bah! It is a trick. I’ll warrant there is no rhyme for orange.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Well, you come up with one, then!”
“Door hinge.”
“Door hinge?”
“Orange, door hinge… it rhymes.”
“And you call yourself a poet? What sort of rhyme is that?” “A perfectly serviceable one.”
“Indeed? I would like to see what sort of poem you’d write with that!”
“Well, you merely asked me for a rhyme, not an entire poem.”
“ ‘Twas you who asked me for the rhyme! Knowing all the while a better one could not be found. Is that what poets do, then, sit up all night drinking and thinking of such things?”
Shakespeare nodded. “More or less, aye.”
“And they pay you for this?”
“Not nearly well enough, if you ask me.”
The sound of rapid hoofbeats from behind them caused them both to turn in time to see a coach come barreling around the bend, bearing straight for them. The driver made absolutely no effort to rein in and there was no place for him to turn, not that he showed the slightest inclination for so doing. It was only by diving off to the side of the road, into the thorny brush, that they avoided being run down.
“Aaaaaahhhh! You pox-ridden, misbegotten son of a sheep tup-perl” Shakespeare cried out.
Smythe winced as he extricated himself from the thorn bushes and then helped the poet out.
“God’s bollocks! I’ll be picking thorns out of my arse for the next two weeks!”
“Oh, stop it, you will not,” said Smythe. “A few scratches, a thorny splinter here and there… you will survive.”
“No thanks to that miserable cur! What in God’s name was he thinking, careering down the road at such a pace? The fool will shake that fancy coach of his to pieces!”
“That was our friend from the inn last night, unless I miss my guess,” said Smythe. “The one who took the last few rooms.”
“What, the grand, well-spoken gentleman with his retinue of servants?” Shakespeare asked.
“The same, I think. He rose much later than we did, but makes much better time. He seems in quite a hurry.”
“Well, I hope he puts that shiny new coach of his into a ditch and breaks his gentlemanly neck, the blackguard!”