“Stop that,” he teased as I moved my hips against his. “Stop that by the time we have been wed forever and a day. Man and wife, two bodies and hearts and souls as one—that is our future. Let’s hie ourselves to Father Berowne to have him see our license is registered in Worcester.”
“And then in this land and in God’s eyes, William Shakespeare and Anne Whateley will be linked officially and eternally.”
“Amen, my love,” he whispered with tears in his eyes. “Amen.”
Just over two weeks later, on November 27, Will arranged for the bond for the grant of a marriage license for us to be recorded in the Worcester archives by the scrivener there, a friend of Father Berowne. He told me our names would read in Latin, Wm Shaxpere et Anna Whateley. On that same day, in the old church of St. Andrew’s in Temple Grafton, Father Berowne let us in through the side door at mid-afternoon.
Sunlight spilled in through the plain glass windows and the remaining stained glass one with Adam and Eve and the serpent. It was the only one in St. Andrew’s that King Henry VIII’s men had not destroyed, and it cast colors on the stone floor and even on Father Berowne’s old prayer book.
I had worn my hair loose and stuck in late-November blooms of goldenrod and marigold I had foraged for. We joined hands and plighted our troth, speaking the legal Latin words Will had said we must and listening to a meandering blessing from Father Berowne, who was so shaky that day that I believe he thought at one point he was marrying my father to my mother.
No matter. We were ecstatic, giddy with it all. Will put his ring on my finger; it was huge and I would have to wrap it. For the first time I noted that between his initials was a decorative knot—a lovers’ knot, I silently decided. I gave him The Writing of Artful Poesie I’d read him the first day of our reunion. We kissed before the bare altar and smiled into each other’s eyes. And we had plans—oh, we had plans.
But we had to move quickly, stay apart for a few days, until my father, who was due back with the pack train tomorrow, would set out again. We planned to tell him just before he left next time. If he would agree to find the Queen’s Men in London to give them Will’s agreement to work with them, we would go there the next time with the carriers. Will’s family we would tell either before if Will thought the wind blew favorably; if not, he might write them a full explanation from London and we would win them over later.
“Parting is sweet sorrow,” he told me, as he made ready to leave me at the church to hie himself back to Stratford for his daily duties. “We must both be the best of players until we can proclaim our love and union publicly.”
I smiled through my tears as he left me. At least I’d had a premonition when we were separated the day after Kat died, for I had not the slightest hint that the devilish destruction of all my dreams would soon befall.
CHAPTER FIVE
That afternoon I wrapped my wedding ring in yarn so it would fit my finger and hummed about the house for an hour, lost in reveries and hopes for a wedding night and lovely life yet to come. I hugged myself and spun about, dancing with my dreams. Will was going to tell his folks he’d promised Father Berowne he’d come to read to him and spend some time so that we could have an entire night together. That would surely work since John Shakespeare was tenderhearted toward the old clergy who had lost their place. Then Will and I would have a night together here on my narrow bed and plan how best to break the news to both our fathers.
I gasped when a loud knock rattled the front door. The cottage was small with only a front room and two tiny back ones, the latter which we used as bedchambers. I rushed to answer, praying it was Will at the door. He must have gotten nearly home, then come right back. He could not stay away. He wanted another kiss and caress or all of me. He would insist I go home with him to tell his family