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“Indeed,” he laughed, but then his look turned sheepish. “In truth, there be no new wife. Much changed after Mary was gone, and that’s why I also came to see ’ee. I need to thank ’ee, since I owe much of my good luck to ’ee.”

I puzzled my brow, for I did not understand. “What do you mean?”

“After I last saw ’ee at the play all those years ago, I thought about how ’ee had changed so much, going from mucking out privies to a fine actor on the stage. Then, if ’ee remember, during our talk ’ee reminded me how when I was a lad I always talked of becoming a brewer. I had almost forgotten. After I left that day, I start thinking about how, against my hopes, I did end up repairing barrels with my wife’s father—who, if I must speak truly, is a walking fart. Pardon my French and God bless his soul. Anyway, while the barrel-making business did allow me to become a freeman, and the money was fair, it wasn’t what I really had wanted to do, like ’ee reminded me. In all truth, that little nudge ’ee gave caused my mind to do somersaults that never stopped. And so, just months after we spoke, I went and talked to a brewer friend of mine …”

In vivid detail Barnaby went on to explain how, in whatever spare time he had, he’d assisted his brewer friend at his business and then tried his own hand at crafting both small beer and ale. He had a knack for it as it so happened. Before long he went into business and now was selling to taverns and alehouses in several northern counties and earned close to ten pounds a year—a comfortable fortune. Barnaby’s boy, my namesake, had grown and gone off to apprentice in barrel-making with his father-in-law in Oxford. And as I found him, Barnaby was still a widower living alone in a large cottage.

“Would ’ee like to see it?” he asked me shyly, his cheeks turning pink.

“Well, I’m not sure I have time today,” I responded, thinking he wanted to simply show me how well he had done in his life. “We need to pack up tonight and—”

“I really would like ’ee to come,” he spoke quickly, and there was a nervousness to his voice. Then his eyes lifted and met mine so curiously. “And if ’ee wanted to stay the night, it would be no problem. I’ve a very large bed, strong and well-made.”

It was then, after I caught my breath, I knew for certain he had, in fact, not forgotten our young entanglements like I had once suspected. I considered refusing him, saying something dramatic and melancholy about having missed our time, and how I had suffered two Earth-stopping heartbreaks, and how I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to love again for fear of the agony of loss. But then I thought, Oh bugger that. Just have yourself some fun, Hughes, for old times’ sake.

“I would like well to visit your cottage,” I said. “But I won’t be able to stay the night, for my company leaves in the morning.”

I need not share all the details, but suffice it to say, when we traveled to his delightful, small home, and the door closed behind us, that familiar spark from our childhood love reignited. When we kissed and my blond beard brushed against his black beard there was a vibration between us that proved our passion for each other had not dimmed over some thirteen years. Soon, we had doffed our clothing, and he stood there, his body, all black chest hair and sculpted angles, was both beast and Adonis.

“You’ve grown into a man,” he said, taking in my smaller, but well-proportioned body. While my chest did not display the same luxurious pelt as his, my few gold hairs had multiplied into a pleasant patch that proved my manliness. My legs and buttocks, thanks to all the tumbling and sword play, were equally shapely, and lured his large, callused hands to explore them fervently. “I like it well.”

We then retired to that well-made bed he was bragging about, and I will say his having been with a wife all those years had improved his love-making skills exponentially. There was a tenderness to his sport, he had not had before. Bless Mary for teaching him that there were ways to enter and please that did not resemble the battering ram at the Siege of Glouster. Though he could be pleasantly rough when I indicated for him to do as such. He seemed to most relish in pleasing me, and I in pleasing him. In between our five rounds at completing our pleasure we laughed and told stories.

“That’s ten bells. It’s nigh on time for ’ee to leave,” he reminded me, as we lay sweating and spent after our second round in the morning.

“’Tis. We go to Cambridge and then back to Dover for the fall. I’m not sure when we’ll be back this way.”

“I see,” he said, failing to veil his melancholy. “Such is life, I s’pose.”

“Such it is,” I repeated.

“Shall we have one more go at it then?” He offered with a wink. “I mean we should make it an even six, after all. Then I shall walk ’ee back like a gentleman.”

And so we did have another go at it, and then another, and then we fell asleep, but woke in the late afternoon to have another go at it and, well, I did not return to the Lord Strange’s Men that day or the next, and in fact, left the touring company and acting all together. I moved in with Barnaby, and our love story came full circle. I learned to help him in his brewing, and then later I also became a school master, teaching young boys to read. The fact of which, considering what a struggle it had been for my own latent literacy, would inspire me to burst into laughter in the middle of a lessons.

Life with Barnaby was good, and we became closer than any marriage. We, of course, had to keep all between us a secret. The neighbors assumed I was merely his childhood friend who moved in with him to loan him comfort after the passing of his wife. I eventually told Barnaby all that had transpired in our years apart, including about my year with Kit and also about the Poet, Rose, and the dark well of passion in which we all had fallen. I even read to him the few sonnets I kept that the Poet had written for me—though some I chose not to share.

After Barnaby and I were five years together, he surprised me at a county fair with a gift. He was there selling his most recent brew to which he had given a name invented all on his own. This was most significant, since I had only recently taught him to read and write. He called the special batch “My Sonnet For Ye.” I nearly wept at how tender and thoughtful he had been to do such a thing. The entire inventory sold out quickly—for being a March beer, it was extra strong.

Forty-TwoAn Unexpected Alliance

Wherein, many years later, we meet Mistress Rose Williams in the courtyard of Saint Paul’s Cathedral.

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow.

—from Sonnet 12

The courtyard of Saint Paul’s is exceedingly busy. Today, as usual, it is filled mostly with booksellers. Yet, I have come here seeking a wise woman who sells remedies for those, like me, whose humors are out of balance. It appears I am plagued with an excess of black bile that has caused me an unrelenting melancholy ever since my husband, Jamie’s, death last March and am in desperate need of this wise woman’s assistance.

As I near the spot where she locates herself, I see an older man fondling a large leather-bound volume at one of the booksellers’ tables. I am momentarily taken aback, for the man bears a striking resemblance to the Poet. Of course, it’s most unlikely. The Poet returned to Stratford-upon-Avon ages ago to live with his wife and surviving children. I’ve heard it said over the years that he rarely comes down to London even to see his own plays.

Besides all that, this man looks much older than the Poet would be. A number of years have passed, but how many? I count on my fingers and nearly run out. Oh, dear, it’s been far longer than I imagined. How cruel time can be. Just to be sure it’s him, I walk closer still and listen to his discussion with the bookseller.