The Late Mr Shakespeare (9 page)

To be a poet is to be one thing. Not so John Shakespeare. He was
on the make
.

So he did different jobs at different times. Then, in the end, he didn’t do much at all. He diced. He drank. He told stories, but nobody listened. He mortgaged his wife’s lands, and he passed his days in law-suits (which he lost). He became just a huge hill of flesh always warming his buttocks by the fire. He went about Stratford, where once he had been Chief Alderman in scarlet robes, wearing a ragged leather jerkin and an old torn pair of breeches, with his hose out at his heels, and a pair of broken slip shoes on his feet. He wore a greasy cap on his white head.

I like John Shakespeare. His life was chequered with vicissitudes. For a man on the make, he ended as an honourable failure.

Many instances of his benevolence are recorded. When not hiring it out at interest, he gave away his money freely.
A broken gamester, observing him one night win five guineas at cribbage, and putting the money into his pocket with indifference, exclaimed, ‘How happy that money would make me!’ John Shakespeare, overhearing this, turned and placed the guineas in his palm, saying, ‘Go, then, shog off and be happy!’

His gambling made him notorious even in those improvident days. I like him also for his philosophy to justify his gambling – that a man ought to have a bet every day, else he might be walking about lucky and never know it. Similarly philosophical, his excuse on one occasion, when his horse was beaten shortly, that the horse’s neck was not quite long enough.

And his extempore wit was sharp enough in his prime, lending credence again to the thought that his son found Falstaff in him. As when once, at the market in Warwick, on seeing the wife of the Puritan divine Thomas Cartwright go by riding on a pony, he remarked that no doubt it was the first time the lady had ever had fourteen hands between her legs.

The truth is that there was a wild streak in the Shakespeares. In John it took some years for it to come out, but when it did it took control of his life. His father, Richard Shakespeare, the poet’s grandfather, had a bad name all his days for cantankerousness. He refused to ring his swine and he let his stock run loose in the Clopton meadows. He was a husbandman, and lived by tilling the soil.

Richard Shakespeare lived at Snitterfield, to the north of Stratford, but he was not born there. The wildest Shakespeares came first from Balsall and Wroxall (where the prioress showed us her leg in the apple tree), and from a couple of
other villages in the Forest of Arden. I mean the hamlets of Rowington and Baddesley Clinton. Dick Shakespeare came from one of these – I am not sure which. When he died he left an estate that was valued at £38 17s. It is said that he bequeathed five shillings in his will specifically for his sons to get drunk for the last time at his expense.

Dick Shakespeare’s other son was christened Henry. He farmed at Ingon in the parish of Hampton Lucy, staying on the land after his father’s death (unlike his brother John). There’s plenty of evidence that Henry ran wild all his life. When young he was fined for brawling and drawing blood in an affray against the Constable. Then in his middle years he was fined again for wearing a hat to church instead of a cap. As an old man, he went to prison twice for not paying his debts. He was also involved in disputes over tithes and sued his own brother John. But after he died it was found he had money enough in his coffers, as well as a fine mare in his stable, and much corn and hay in his barn. This was our poet’s Uncle Henry, always known as ‘Harry’ or ‘Hal’.

I weary of these wild Shakespeares – But, note well, they had spunk in them. Also they were hardy men, makers, masters and sons of the soil. If you think poets do not descend from such strong lines, madam, then I have to beg to differ. I believe Chaucer’s father was a vintner. (True, Dante’s was a lawyer, but we’ll forgive that.) In any case, consider William Shakespeare’s total craft and trade. He was not just a poet. He was a playwright. And a playwright is a wright, or maker, like a boatwright or a cartwright or a wheelwright. Where they make boats and carts and wheels, he makes his plays. He leaves his mark, as they do, on the work.

Since I weary of the subject of this chapter, and swear
it will be positively the last word about whittawers in my book, permit me a little note concerning that earthquake which Mr Shakespeare must have remembered from late in his fifteenth year.

There have not been so many earthquakes in England that a boy would ever forget one he had felt with his own feet.

Not that the dead rose from their graves in Trinity churchyard, but on that evening of Easter Wednesday, 1580, the whole of the south of England felt the shaking of the ground. In London, the great clock bell at Westminster struck two with the shock, and the bells of the churches in the city were all set jangling. It is reported that the playgoers rushed out of the theatres in consternation, and that the gentlemen of the Temple, quitting their suppers, ran out of the Temple Hall with their knives in their hands. Part of the Temple Church was cast down, some stones fell from St Paul’s, and two apprentices were killed at Christ Church by the fall of a gargoyle during sermon-time.

This earthquake was felt pretty generally throughout the queendom, and was the cause of much damage in Kent, where many castles and other buildings were injured; and at Dover a portion of a cliff fell, carrying with it part of the castle wall.

So alarmed were all classes, so I’ve heard tell, that Queen Elizabeth thought it advisable to cause a form of prayer to be used by all householders with their whole family, every evening before going to bed: 

But you hadn’t said a word about whittawers in this chapter …

That, madam, is the point if you will take it.

What I’m really doing is avoiding my
next
chapter – the subject or ruler of which I introduced some few paragraphs above. I need more than a prayer against earthquakes to undertake with impunity what I have now to tell you.

Well then, now then, William Shakespeare, the matter of his mother, his real mother and was she Mary Arden. Some say she was not. Was she Juliet then, the miller's daughter? That is not likely. The mother of William Shakespeare could not have been a woman who lacked conversation. Given that John Shakespeare was a huge, heavy bull of a man, she must have been a woman of unusual capacity. Yet William Shakespeare's mother would be very pale and haughty. She would have hair that was yellowish-red, and beautiful hands. Her face might be pitted by small-pox, but her body would be sensuous and royal. No woman would ever have possessed to a greater pitch than William Shakespeare's mother that great feminine capacity for identifying her personal desires with righteousness and her personal needs with the justice of God. No woman could have been of higher degree. So then, now then, what if Queen Elizabeth was Shakespeare's mother?

The Queen spoke six languages. She hawked and she hunted and she played the virginals. She danced high and disposedly. Also, the Queen played at chess.

Elizabeth had in her life a kind of kinship with the method of Shakespeare's genius. You might say that in her reign three kinds of mind were evident in England – the Roman Catholic, the Protestant, and that third kind of mind which may be called Shakespearean, neither Catholic nor Protestant, capable of holding two quite different beliefs in balance at the same time. What better mother for the living embodiment of that mind than the Queen herself?

The babe must of course have been fostered. There's no problem with that. The Queen could do anything she liked, but she would not have wanted to keep by her at Court the product of a moment's passion in the Forest of Arden with a piece of rough trade. On the other hand, her agents might have assisted with the boy's education, and seen to it that the way was smoothed for him when he came as a young man to make his fortune in the capital. She took a lively interest in his plays. It is well-known that
The Merry Wives of Windsor
was written (in a fortnight) at her express command, she having sent word to Mr Shakespeare that it was her sovereign fancy to see ‘Sir John Falstaff in love'. The play was first done for the Court revels at Christmas, 1598.

I saw Queen Elizabeth for the first time then. She had very blue eyes and a queer sort of smile. Despite her age and her wig, I noticed at once the resemblance to my master. With both of them you saw their upper teeth gleaming when they smiled, and in fact they always reminded me of an animal's teeth – a fox's teeth, perhaps.

But to the logistics. If the deed was done, how was it
done? and when? Supposing Queen Elizabeth to have been Shakespeare's mother, how could his great begetting have come about?

Plague touched the edges of the Court in the summer of 1563. Elizabeth had been on the throne for just five years. She was thirty years old, and in her prime. Already the character of her heart was evident: chaste yet promiscuous. She entertained many suitors, but would marry none. There was not as yet a particular favourite in her affections, such as Lord Robert Dudley would become, or (later) Hatton and then Ralegh and then Essex. But that she would never submit to be married was quite apparent. As Burghley told her, ‘I know your spirit cannot endure a commander.'

It was Burghley, then plain William Cecil, who suggested Kenilworth to her as a haven from the plague. The Queen accepted his suggestion with alacrity. She knew that her principal Secretary of State had only her best interests at heart. He was uneasy lest her health should succumb to the foul distemper which presently laid London waste. So she went into the country.

Queen Elizabeth, at thirty, was a lively piece. In the phrases of John Harrington, translator of Ariosto and the privy, quoting Hatton: ‘The Queen did fish for men's souls, and she had so sweet a bait that no one could escape her net-work.' She was a perverse and wanton kind of virgin. Her Court hummed with lust. Ben Jonson (who had the intimation direct from Sir Walter Ralegh) said later that she had a membrana on her, which made her incapable of men, though for her delight she tried many. She wore a girdle made of kidskin under a foam of petticoats.

Lord Burghley prepared her escort. He was the sort of
Secretary of State who judges the truth of metaphysical principles by their moral consequences; in short, a rat. Twelve Maids of Honour accompanied Elizabeth from Westminster, and thirty Lords of the Royal Bedchamber. Having seen her safely dispatched, Burghley, with his principal catamites, retired to his own palace at Theobalds in Hertfordshire, where, isolated from the rest of the people, he remained until the plague had passed.

The Queen, meanwhile. The incidents of her progress were not auspicious. On the first night, at Windsor, she was so cold despite the midsummer weather that no less than ten of the Lords of the Bedchamber fell by the way. This might be thought appalling, madam, yes, but if Pickleherring uses that word then what is he to say of the completion of Elizabeth's second day's progress, when another ten noble gentlemen went under?

A score of defaulters, however, did not prevent Queen Elizabeth from continuing her journey, and she swanned on through England, shedding men all the way, until at last she arrived at Kenilworth, in safety, but with only one male attendant left to warm her.

This valiant gentleman was spent by morning. Then Queen Elizabeth, great Harry's daughter as well as daughter of the Essex witch Anne Bullen, went out for a walk on her own in the Forest of Arden, and while she is walking meets up with no less than John Shakespeare.

Now John Shakespeare, as your author trusts he has already made clear, was a bit of a man in his own right. By one blow of his fist he'd flattened a thunderbolt once, which he kept in his waistcoat pocket, in the shape of a folded pancake, rolled up, to show his enemies, if they felt like a fight.

When he sees Queen Elizabeth wandering, her hair so long, her breasts so high, he marches straight up to her in the bluebells and offers her the hilt of his sword.

His monarch looks him up and she looks him down.

She likes what she sees.

‘What is your name, my man?' says she.

‘John Shakespeare, if it pleases your majesty,' says John Shakespeare.

‘Well, Mr Hotspur,' the Queen says, ‘I will take you on, and you'll be well rewarded on one condition.'

Aha
thinks John, but it isn't aha at all, for Queen Elizabeth adds: ‘The condition is that you must never employ any low or dirty words in our regal presence. I can't abide a dirty word,' she explains.

True enough, it suits her character, sir, you will admit, for isn't she the great ice-maiden, the winter doxy, with snowflakes on it and the north wind blowing hailstones down her slot. Do not forget the thirty Lords of the Royal Bedchamber. Fallen. Not to speak, madam, of the twelve Maids of Honour skewered on that exceptional clitoris.

However, dear friends, John Shakespeare is nothing if not adventurous, and there are few adventures he prefers to those which test his verbal resourcefulness – and Queen Elizabeth's person, as your author has presented it, would seem to offer hope of those few too.

So John agrees to the Queen's condition, and is made her man.

They walk on side by side through the Forest of Arden.

As they come out of the oak trees above Stratford what should they see but an old white sow, with a boar aboard grunting away so vehemently that the foam is flying out of
his mouth and hanging on the summer breeze like spindrift.

Queen Elizabeth turns to John Shakespeare. She lays her lovely hand upon his sleeve. ‘Mr Cockspur,' she says, ‘Mr Cockspur, what do you make of that?'

John Shakespeare thinks for a bit, and he thinks how his monarch has forbidden him to use any low or dirty words in her presence and also how her grotto is said to be so particularly icy, and in the end he says, ‘What do I make of that, majesty? Well, it's staring you in the face, isn't it? The one underneath is a kind relation of the one on top, some sort of aunt I should imagine, and her nephew isn't feeling well, and she's carrying him home.'

Queen Elizabeth looks at Mr John Shakespeare sharpish. Then a laugh begins to tickle in her throat. ‘Yes, Mr Cockspur,' she says, ‘I think that must be it, my gentleman.'

They wander on. And as they come into Clopton Meadows what should they see but a herd of cattle, and the bull just making himself at home on one of his favourites.

Queen Elizabeth touches John Shakespeare's wrist with a long, sharp blue fingernail. ‘Well, Mr Prickspeare,' she says, ‘well, Mr Prickspeare, what's that then?'

John Shakespeare doesn't have to think so much this time. He's getting the hang of the game. ‘Majesty, I'll tell you exactly what it is,' he answers. ‘The poor old cow is pathetically short-sighted, and she's eaten all the grass that she can see. So the bull, who looks after the cows, is just giving her a gentle shove on her way towards some fresh pasture.'

Queen Elizabeth laughs again. ‘Indeed, Mr Prickspeare,' says she, ‘I think you must be right, my gentleman.'

They wander on some more. And as they're coming along
through the Welcombe cuckoo-flowers what should they see but a herd of horses, and a stallion busy working on a mare.

Queen Elizabeth fondles John Shakespeare's sword hilt. ‘Tell me, Mr Sexpure,' she says, ‘Mr Sexpure, tell me what's that then?'

‘That,' says John quickly, ‘is no doubt on account of the fire.'

‘The fire?' says his mistress, her left eyebrow raised.

‘Yes, majesty,' says John Shakespeare, and he points to a house with a blazing chimney in the Gild Pits below them. ‘The stallion wants a better view of it,' he explains, ‘so he's climbed up on the back of the mare, just to have a good look.'

‘I do believe you're right, Mr Sexpure,' the Queen says, though she can't stop her giggling, ‘I do believe you're right, my gentleman.'

They wander on. At last they arrive at those warm springs by Tiddington Mill which feed the River Avon. Secretary Burghley has recommended to his monarch that she should bathe here, for unspecified purposes, but no doubt as a prophylactic against the plague, so she offs with her clothes, kidskin girdle and all, and into the water with her high mightiness.

John Shakespeare stands watching at a respectful but attentive distance, under some willow trees which afford a green veil between him and what he should not see.

Queen Elizabeth splashes sportive in the springs.

Then she calls out very sweetly, in a little girl's voice: ‘Is it hard, Mr Ramrod?'

John Shakespeare can't believe his furry pointed ears. ‘Is what hard, O my sovereign liege?' says he.

‘Is it hard standing under those trees, Mr Prickley, while I'm in the water?' enquires Queen Elizabeth.

‘Well,' honest John answers, ‘yes, majesty, I suppose it is, somewhat.'

‘Some what?' asks the Queen, splashing him.

‘Somewhat,' says John Shakespeare, and puts his hat over it.

Queen Elizabeth splashes about some more, and then she says softly: ‘If you want to bathe with me, Mr Upstart, you had better undress yourself, hadn't you?'

‘Undress myself?' John echoes foolishly.

‘Strip off, my gentleman!' says the peremptory Queen.

So John Shakespeare takes off his green shirt, and his green boots, and his green breeches, and he enters the warm springs by Tiddington Mill.

As her new attendant comes into the water, Queen Elizabeth notes to herself with approval the length and apparent usefulness of his tool. Her breasts pout like pigeons. As a child she was teased and tickled, mentally and corporally rolled and spanked by her wicked step-uncle, Lord Seymour of Sudely. Times like these, she remembers it.

Now they are wading about together in the warm, clear, bubbling water, Queen Elizabeth and John Shakespeare, and it's soft and salt and lovely where they are. The Queen's mind goes flowing back. She remembers her step-aunt Parr holding her down, legs kicking, while big Seymour cut holes in her night-dress with a pair of silver scissors. So she puts her fingers to her lower lips and parts them, and she shows herself to this new man and she asks him, ‘What's this then, Mr Shagbag?'

‘A well,' John Shakespeare answers, as quick as you like. ‘It's a wishing well, madam.'

‘Yes, yes,' agrees the Queen, and she reaches down with her hands and makes a deft grab for him under the water.
‘And what's this then, Mr Shakespout?' she demands. ‘What's this thing between your legs here?'

‘That,' says John Shakespeare, gulping, ‘is called a donkey.'

‘A donkey!' exclaims Queen Elizabeth with delight. ‘And does your donkey have to drink then, sometimes, Mr Spigot, my gentleman?'

‘He does, majesty,' answers John, as dignified as you could expect him to be, with the hands that rule all England on his creature. ‘But only when he's thirsty,' he explains.

Queen Elizabeth's clever fingers move up and down the length of Mr John Shakespeare, and round and round the width of her royalty. Her one long pearl-pale hand is warming his member, while with her other long pearl-pale hand she is warming herself, and she thinks of the manhood she first felt concealed in the yellow magnificence of her father's lap, King Harry's great sceptre, and the water is warm, and the air is warm, and warm is her heart, and she sings as she plays, and she plays as she sings, and the hot springs bubble up incessantly, and the pool by Tiddington's full of good warm currents, swirling all about their naked limbs as she fingers him, and herself, and then both of them, and there's a sweet, rich scent of apricocks on the air, and purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries, and her thighs are white as wax through the clear water, and the Queen's fingers work upon him like sucking fish, and the day is warm, and the Queen's fingers pump, and the blossoms fall down, and the water frets and bubbles, and there's a smell of dewberries,
*
and John Shakespeare's lucky member gets bigger and bigger, swelling and lengthening under the royal command,
lengthening and swelling and thickening until he is half-scared that it might burst, but the Queen's other hand is equally busy, and just as good about its business, tickling and diddling, and stirring and stretching, and preparing and opening, though she needs no lubrication, what with all the warmth and the water, and the swooning airs of summer, and her womb turned inside out, and the skylarks high above them, and the flood and the fire, and the oxslips on the bank, and the warm warm warming water, and the whispering violet currents, and so: