Elizabeth Bear Hell and Earth
Promethean Age – 4
The Stratford Man – 2
Authors Note
This book is dedicated to William Shakespeare, Christofer Marley, and Benjamin Jonson –a glover’s boy, a cobbler’s son, and a bricklayer’s redheaded stepchild–for building the narrative foundations upon which we poor moderns now twist our own stories, as Ovid and others laid flagstones for them.
May this humble effort honor their memories, and what they have left us.
Touchstone:If thou beest not damn’d for this,
the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how
thou shouldst scape.
–William Shakespeare,
As You Like It,Act III, scene ii
Act IV, scene i
It is too Late: the life of all his blood
Is touch’d corruptibly; and his pure brain,
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling‑house,
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
–William Shakespeare, King John,Act V scene vii
London had never seemed so gray and chill, but Will was warm enough in the corner by the fire, at the Mermaid Tavern. He leaned back against a timber, a cup of warm wine in his hands, and sighed. A man taken by the Faeries can never truly be content again.And then he remembered Kit’s voice. You must not say such things
Nay, nor even think them, Christofer? I hope you’ve found us that Bible, my friend.
The wine was sweet with sugar and cinnamon, concealing the pungency of Morgan’s herbs. Will sipped a little, and held it in his mouth for the strength and the sting before allowing it to trickle down his throat. He stretched his feet toward the fire, dreaming, and almost spilled the steaming wine across his stockings when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
It was the playmaker Ben Jonson, his ugly countenance writhing into a grin. “An old man sleeping by the fire,” Ben said. He was gaining weight, and no longer resembled an over‑tall hat‑tree with a coat slung around it.
“A young cur snapping at his heels, ” Will answered irritably. He sat up and set his wine on the table, beside an untouched portion of beef‑and‑turnip pie.
Ben shrugged shamelessly and pulled the bench opposite out. “You’ve not been in London of late – ”
“Home with Annie,” Will said. It wasn’t at all a lie; he had been to Stratford. And before that, months in Faerie with Kit Marlowe, who had dwelled there since his murder. There he had met the Queen of Faerie, and another Queen, the redoubtable Morgan le Fey. Will cleared his throat, and continued. “But back now. Richard said he’d meet me. How went the construction of the new Theatre?”
“Dick’s calling it the Globe,” Ben said. He raised his chin inquiringly, searching for a servant. “‘Tis up. Have you seen the landlord, gentle Will? I’m famished–”
Will craned his neck but couldn’t spot the Mermaid’s landlord, who was also named Will. They heaped thick on the ground, Wills, as leaves on the streambank in autumn. “Here” –he pushed his pie to Ben – “I’ve no appetite tonight.”
“Pining for your lovely wife already? Will, you don’t eat enough to sustain a lady’s brachet.” But Ben took the food up and chewed it with relish; he was renowned a trencherman. “I hear you’ve a new comedy – ”
“You hear many things for a Saturday morning in January. Aye, ‘tis true. Not much like thine Every Man,though.” Will’s hands grew cold, and he retrieved his cup for the warmth of it. The worn blue door swung open, and a cluster of five or six hurried through it, unwinding their cloaks and mufflers just inside and shaking off the snow. “There’s the famous Richard Burbage now, with all his admirers.” Will waved to his friends, half rising from his bench. Morgan’s herbs made a world of difference; better than any cure the doctor Simon Forman could offer. “And there’s the landlord gone to take his wrap. Richard’s arrived in the world, Ben–what? Why’rt regarding me so?”
“Richard’s not the only one arrived,” Ben said. “And resting on his laurels, mayhap.”
Will deflected both flattery and chiding with his left hand. “Not after me to write a humors comedy again?”
“They fill seats – ”
“Aye,” Will said as if that ended it. “And so do I. Look, there’s Mary Poley. Can that great blond lout beside her be Robin?”
Ben turned to look over his shoulder. “In the apprentice blues? Aye, ‘tis. He’s the image of his bastard of a father, more’s the pity.”
Aye, he is.The lad–Will’s dead son Hamnet’s age, near enough, and Will pushed that thought firmly away–was growing from round‑faced boyishness into Poley’s sharp chin, his high forehead, and straight yellow hair that showed no signs of fading to honey‑brown with maturity. And should I tell Kit thus‑and‑such?
Mary’s eyes met his over Robin’s shoulder, and she smiled and tugged Burbage toward the corner.
– no.
Ben had turned on the bench and watched as Mary, Burbage, Robin, the poet George Chapman, the landlord, and the golden‑haired cavalier Robert Catesby made their way into the corner already occupied by Ben and Will. “Master Jonson,” Will the landlord said. “Ale, perhaps? Something else to eat?”
“Ale” – Ben coughed pastry crumbs and wiped his lips with the back of a hamlike hand – “would go nicely. Good morrow, Mistress Poley, Master Robin. George, Dick, Robert.”
“Good morrow,” Burbage said as the landlord departed, and slid onto the bench beside Will, who gestured Mary and Robin to sit as well.
“Good morrow, all.”
Robin Poley blushed his shy smile, too proud to step behind his mother the way he might have, a few years earlier. He bit his lip and rubbed calloused, burn‑marked hands on the wax‑stained blue broadcloth of his apprentice’s gown. “Master Shakespeare. Master Jonson.”
His voice cracked halfway through each name, and Will laughed. “Sit, lad. Master Catesby, I have news of your family from Stratford – ”
Robert Catesby, encumbered by his rapier, did not sit, but leaned against the wall on the far side of the fire. It popped and flared, spreading warmth, and he peeled off his meltwater‑jeweled gloves and tucked them into his belt. “You were home for Christmas, Master Shakespeare? Did you celebrate with my cousins, then?”
Will met the handsome man’s eyes, understanding the question. The Catesbys, like the Ardens and the Hathaways and the Shakespeares themselves, were among the Stratford families who clung to the old religion, and Robert Catesby was asking – obliquely–if his family had been to an outlawed Catholic Mass.
“All the families gathered,” Will said. “I understand your cousin Richard is betrothed.”
“Excellent news – ” Catesby grinned, showing good teeth, and Will looked down. “And all your family well?”
“My parents are growing old,” Will said. It galled him to admit it, and he hid the emotion behind a sip of wine. Time, lay thy whip down– “But my brothers and Joan are well, and mine own girls. My youngest brother Edmund is here in London, playing for Henslowe, poor fool – George, you look uneasy, sir.