Impossible Things (31 page)

She stood on tiptoe, her eyes round. “There’s naught in there but dirt,” she said.

Drayton laughed merrily. “Thou hast not looked well,” he said, and pulled a satin ribbon from out his ear.

“ ’Tis a trick,” Elizabeth said solemnly, “is it not, grandsire?”

“Aye, a trick,” he said. She climbed into his lap.

“He is not as I remembered him,” Susanna said, watching him tie the ribbon in Bess’s hair.

“Thou wert but four years old and Judith a babe when he left. Dost thou remember him?” I said.

“Only a little. I feared he would be like Aunt Joan, dressed in the fashion, playing the part of master of the house though he did not merit it.”

“It is his house,” I said, and thought of the name on
the deed, the name that they had cajoled my husband into signing that he might copy it. “And all in it purchased with his money.”

“Marry, it is his house, though he never saw it till now,” she said. “I feared he would claim the house for his own, and us with it.”

He fastened the ribbon clumsily, tying it round a lock of Bess’s hair. “But he plays not that part,” I said.

“No. Knowest thou what he said to me, Mother, when I brought him his sack? He said, ‘Thy father was a fool to ever leave thee.’ ”

John Hall came and stood beside us, watching the tying of the ribbon. “Look how her ribbon comes loose,” Susanna said. “I’ll go and tie it.”

She went to Bess and would have tied the ribbon, but she tossed her head naughtily.

“My grandsire will do’t,” she said, and backed against his knees.

“My hands are too clumsy for this business, daughter,” he said. The lines had softened already in his face. He looked to her, and she, leaning o’er him, told him to loop the ribbon so and then to pull it through. Judith came and stood beside, smiling and advising.

“Notice you aught amiss about your husband?” John said.

“Amiss?” I said. I could not catch my breath. I had forgot that he had been to Cambridge, and to London, a learned man.

“I fear that he is ill,” John said.

Bess ran to us. “Father!” she cried. “Look you at my new ribbon,” and ran back again. “Grandsire, is’t not pretty?” She fairly leapt into his arms and kissed him on the cheek.

“Sweet Bess, ’twas not my gift, but Drayton’s.”

“But you tied it.”

“Is he very ill?” I said.

John looked kindly at me. “This country air will
make him well again, and your kind ministrations. Shall we into the hall?”

“Nay,” I said. “I must go up to make the bed.”

I went out through the kitchen. The Fox and Frill stood by the stairs, whispering together. “You are mad,” the Frill said. “Look how his family greets him, his daughters gathering round him. It was an idle rumor, and no more.”

I hid inside the kitchen door that I might hear their conversation.

“His daughters were but babes when they last saw him,” the Fox said.

“The sister says he has changed not at all.”

“The sister is a fool. His wife greeted him not so eagerly. Saw you how she stood as a statue when first we came? ’Tis she should be the subject of our watch.”

I came into the hall. They bowed to me. The Fox would have spoken, but Drayton came and said, “Good mistress, I had missed you in the hall.”

“I’ll follow you in a little. I would make up the second-best bed.”

“No, I’ll accompany thee,” he said. “And you two see to the horses. They’ve not been fed.”

The Fox and Frill put on their cloaks and went out into the snow. Drayton climbed the stairs after me, puffing and talking the while. I went into my room and lit the candles.

He looked about him. “A great reckoning in a little room,” he said in a gentler voice than before. “I advised against his coming. I said it was not safe while any still lived who knew him, but he would see the daughters. Does the sister know?”

“Nay,” I said. I laid the coverlid upon the bed and looked to put it so that it hung straight. I set the bolsters at the head of the bed. “Who is he?”

He sat upon the press, his hands on his stout knees.
“There was a time I could have answered you,” he said. “I knew him long ago.”

“Before the murder?”

“Before the murders.”

“They killed others?” I said. “Besides my husband?”

“Only one other,” he said. His voice downstairs had been loud and bold, an actor’s voice, but now it was so low I could scarce hear him, as though he spoke to himself. “You asked me who he is. I know not, though he was but a young man when first I knew him, a roguish young man, full of ambition and touched by genius, but reckless, overproud, taking thought only for himself.” He stopped and sat, rubbing his hands along his thighs. “Walsingham’s henchmen killed more men than they knew that wicked day at Deptford. I saw him on the street afterwards and knew him not, he was so changed. I would show you something,” he said, and raised himself awkwardly. He went to the chest in the corner, opened it, and proferred me the papers that lay therein. “Read them,” he said.

I gave them back to him. “I cannot read.”

“Then all is lost,” he said. “I thought to bargain with you for his life with these his plays.”

“To buy me.”

“I think you cannot be bought, but, aye, I would buy you any way I could to keep him safe. He hath been ill these two winters past. He has need of your refuge. The London air is bad for him, and there are rumors, from whence I know not.”

“The young men you brought here have heard them.”

“Aye, and wait their chance. I know that naught can replace your husband.”

“No,” I said, thinking of how he had stolen my honor and my mother’s plate and run away to London.

“You cannot bring your husband back from the dead, if you tell all the world. You will but cause another
murder. I’ll not say one man’s life is worth more than another’s.” He brandished the papers. “No, by God, I will say it! Your husband could not have written words like these. This man is worth a hundred men, and I’ll not see him hanged.”

He lay the papers back into the chest and closed the lid. “Let us go back to London, and keep silence.”

Elizabeth ran into the room. “Come, granddame, come. We are to have a play.”

“A play?” Drayton said. He lifted Elizabeth up into his arms. “Madam, he has no life save what you grant him,” he said, and carried her down the stairs.

“The decoction will make him sleep,” John Hall said.

He slept already, his face less lined in rest. “And quench the fever?”

He shook his head. “I know not if it will. I fear it is his heart that brings it on.”

He put the cup into the pouch he carried. “I give you this,” he said. He proffered me a sheaf of papers, closely writ.

“What is’t?”

“My journal. Thy husband’s illness is there, my treatments of it, and all my thoughts. I’d have thee burn it.”

“Why?”

“We have been friends these three years. We’d drink a cup of ale, and sit, and talk. One day he chanced to speak of a play he’d writ, a sad play of a man who’d bartered his soul to the devil. He spoke of it as if he had forgot that I was with him: how it was writ and when, where acted. He marked not that I looked at him with wonder, and after a little, we went on to other things.”

He closed the pouch. “The play he spoke of was Kit Marlowe’s, who was killed in a brawl at Deptford these long years since.” He took the papers back from me and thrust them in the candle’s flame.

“Hast thou told Susanna?”

“I would not twice deprive her of a father.” The pages flamed. He thrust them in the grate and watched them burn.

“His worry is all Susanna’s inheritance,” I said, “and Judith’s. He bade me burn his plays.”

“And Marlowe’s?” he said, dividing the charring pages with his foot that they might the better burn. “Hast thou done it?”

A little piece of blackened paper flew up, the writing all burnt away. “Yes,” I said.

“Judith said we are to have a play,” Elizabeth said as we descended the stairs. She freed herself from Drayton’s arms and ran into the hall.

“Judith?” I said, and looked to where she stood. The Fox was at her side, his feathered cap wet with snow. He leaned against the wall, seeming not even to listen. The Frill squatted by the hearth, stretching his hands to the fire.

“Oh, grandsire, prithee do!” Elizabeth said, half climbing into his lap. “I never saw a play.”

“Yes, brother, a play,” Joan said.

Drayton stepped between them. “We are too few for a company, Mistress Bess,” he said, pulling at Elizabeth’s ribbon to make her laugh, “and the hour too late.”

“Only a little one, grandsire?” she begged.

“It is too late,” he said, looking at me. “But you shall have your play.”

The Fox stepped forward, too quick, taking the Frill by the sleeve and pulling him to his feet. “What shall we, Master Will?” he said, smiling with his sharp teeth. “A play within a play?”

“Aye,” Drayton said loudly. “Let us do Bottom’s troupe at Pyramus and Thisbe.”

The Fox smiled wider. “Or the mousetrap?” All of them looked at him, Judith smiling, the Fox waiting to snap, Master Drayton with a face taken suddenly sober.
But he looked not at them, nor at Bess, who had climbed into his lap. He looked at me.

“A sad tale’s best for winter,” he said. He turned to the Frill. “Do ye the letter scene from
Measure
. Begin ye, ‘Let this Barnardine.’ ”

The Frill struck a pose, his hand raised in the air as if to strike. “ ‘Let this Barnardine be this morning executed and his head borne to Angelo,’ ” he said in a loud voice.

He stopped, his finger pointing toward the Fox, who did not answer.

Drayton said, “ ’tis an old play. They know it not. Come, let’s have Bottom. I’ll act the ass.”

“If they know not the play, then I’ll explain it,” the Fox said. “The play is called
Measure for Measure
. It is the story of a young man who is in difficulty with the law and would be hanged, but another is killed in his place.” He pointed at the Frill. “Play out the play.”

“ ‘Let this Barnardine be this morning executed and his head borne to Angelo.’ ” the Frill said.

The Fox looked at Drayton. “ ‘Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favor.’ ”

The Frill smiled, and it was a smile less slack-jawed and more cruel than I had seen, a wolfen smile. “ ‘Oh, Death’s a great disguiser,’ ” he said.

“An end to this!” I said.

Both of them looked at me, Fox and Frill, disturbed from their prey.

“The child is half-asleep,” I said.

“I am not!” Bess said, rubbing at her eyes, which made the party laugh.

I stood her down from off his lap. “Thou mayest have plays tomorrow, and tomorrow, and the next day. Thy grandfather is home to stay.”

Susanna hurried forward. “Good night, Father. I am well content that you are home.” She fastened Bess’s cloak about her neck.

“Will you a play for me tomorrow, grandsire?” Bess said.

He stroked her hair. “Aye, tomorrow.”

Bess flung her arms about his neck. “Good night, grandsire.”

John Hall picked up the child in his arms. She lay her head upon his shoulder. “I will take the actors with us,” John said softly to me. “I trust them not in the house with Judith.”

He turned to the Fox and Frill and said in a loud voice, “Gentlemen, you’re to bed with us tonight. Will you come now? Aunt Joan, we will walk you home.”

“Nay,” Joan said haughtily, stretching her neck to look more proud. Her ruff moaned and creaked. “I would stay awhile, and them with me.”

John opened the door, and they went out into the snow, Elizabeth already asleep.

“Marry, now they are gone, we’ll have our play, brother.”

“Nay,” I said, kneeling to put my hands in his. “I am a wife long parted from her husband. I would to bed with him ere sunrise.”

“You loved not your husband so well in the old days,” Joan said, her hands upon her hips. “Brother, you will not let her rule you?”

“I shall do whatever she wills.”

“I know a scene will do us perfectly,” Drayton said. He spread his arms. “ ‘Our revels now are ended.’ ” He donned his wide cloak. “Come, Mistress Joan, I will accompany thee to thy home and these two to Hall’s croft and thence to a tavern for a drop or two of sack ere I return.”

Judith walked with them to the far end of the hall and opened the door. I knelt still with his hands in mine. “Why did you this?” he asked. “Hath Drayton purchased you with pity?”

“Nay,” I said softly. “You cannot leave. Your daughters
would be sad to have you go, and you have promised Elizabeth a play. You asked if there was aught that you could do for them. Be thou their father.”

“I will and you will answer me one question. Tell me when you discovered me.”

“I knew you ere you came.”

His hands clasped mine.

“When Hamnet died, and Old John went to London to tell my husband,” I said, “he came home with a coat of arms he said his son had got for him, but I believed him not. His son, my husband, would ne’er have raised his hand to help his father or to give his daughters a house to dwell in. I knew it was not he who did us such kindness, but another.”

“All these long years I thought that none knew me, that all believed me dead. And so it was as I were dead, and buried in Deptford, and he the one who lived. But you knew me.”

“Yes.”

“And hated me not, though I had killed your husband.”

“I knew not he was dead. I thought he’d lost us dicing, or sold us to a kinder master.”

“Sold?” he said. “What manner of man would sell such treasure?”

“ ‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Good night, good rest!’ ” Drayton called from the door. “ ‘Sweet suitors, to bed.’ ”

I rose from where I knelt, holding still to his hands. “Come, husband,” I said. “The bed at last is made, in time for bed.”

“The bed,” he said, so weak I scarce could hear him.

“What is’t, husband?”

“I have left you a remembrance in the will.” He smiled at me. “I will not tell you of it now. ‘Twill please thee to hear it when the will is read.”

He had forgot that I sat by him when he made his will.

“John’s foul decoction hath made me better,” he said. “I am as one again, not split in two.”