whispered, feeling tears prickling her eyes. “But he did not, and I am in trouble. So please, we cannot marry and our families are respectable. Please help me.”
“I can,” the other woman said slowly, “but three months is late… Gi’ me y’r ’and.”
William had said that, in such different circumstances. Afraid, Anne laid her clean, shapely hand palm-up in the old woman’s filthy, hook-nailed one. The silence held and stretched until, at last, the wise-woman stirred and said, “Three children. Marriage. Deaths and journeyings. Great want, then money. A man you’ll love, who’ll break y’r ’eart; but bide an’ ’e’ll come back to you and love you at the end. Another love. Rivals. A golden man; a woman dark as night.”
For the first time her voice lost its drone, and with it the rustic blur. She sounded puzzled. “I see kings and queens and lovers dying. And your name will never die.” Abruptly she folded Anne’s fingers back against her palm and tossed the hand back in her lap.
Is that all? The common fortune she probably tells everyone? Money, love, a journey. A few vague warnings. Your name will never die – such stuff for fools! Not much for my silver coins. She must do a brisk trade with country simpletons, no wonder they say she has money put away.
Then the old woman said, still in that new voice, “Marry your boy, Anne Hathaway. Marry him, comfort him, let him go when it’s time. He’ll always come back to you.”
“I...”
“And don’t whine at me that you cannot. But if you will not, you can try this.” She stood up and went to the shelves that crowded one wall. Word was that the village carpenter had built those shelves for her, in exchange for – what? In her chair the old woman seemed all warts and knobs, her body twisted as an ancient tree. Standing, she was revealed as tall and straight and lithe of movement. Anne wondered how old she really was.
Almost contemptuously she dropped a screw of paper into Anne’s lap. “Pills. Put ’em up y’r cunny, one at nightfall, one at dawn, for three days. And drink this each mornin’, twelve drops in wine.” A tiny stoppered bottle followed the paper.
“Will they work?”
“I make you no promises. If they do it will ’urt, but not as bad as child-bed. You can pass it off as a bad flux. But y’r a fool, Anne ’Athaway. Y’r boy will love the child and ’e has need of you.”
“Love the child – perhaps. Need of me – I doubt that. Thank you, ma’am.” She bobbed a polite curtsy and took her basket. “Good-day to you.”
She was at the door when the wise-woman said, “’E’s an ’andsome boy, William Shakspere.”
Anne whirled about, her spine prickling again. “How did you know? Did you see it? In my hand? In a glass?”
The other woman laughed; not the witch’s cackle but a clear, ordinary, almost girlish laugh. “No, but I guessed and you just told me. I seen ’im. Comin’ and goin’ to Temple Grafton, eager in goin’, grinnin’ and whistlin’ in comin’ away again. You pleased ’im in bed, you know.”
Anne could have smacked her grinning chops. “So all that nonsense you pretended to see in my hand was simply that – nonsense. If you know of Will, you know of his ambitions, and you made it all up.”
“No. I saw true. Not all was clear, but I told you true.” Then, laughing again, she lapsed back into her crone’s manner. “If them pills and the nostrum doan work by the end o’ this week, you’ll no get rid of that child. It’s a girl, if you care. Marry young William.” The cottage door slammed shut. She was still laughing.
Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps the wise-woman had cheated her. The pills and potion did nothing except to make Anne rackingly sick. In fact, the child seemed to flourish on the witch’s brew, for in that week Anne’s body suddenly burgeoned. Her waist spread, her breasts swelled, her belly rounded. And with these changes she became weepy and tired.
“I can,” the other woman said slowly, “but three months is late… Gi’ me y’r ’and.”
William had said that, in such different circumstances. Afraid, Anne laid her clean, shapely hand palm-up in the old woman’s filthy, hook-nailed one. The silence held and stretched until, at last, the wise-woman stirred and said, “Three children. Marriage. Deaths and journeyings. Great want, then money. A man you’ll love, who’ll break y’r ’eart; but bide an’ ’e’ll come back to you and love you at the end. Another love. Rivals. A golden man; a woman dark as night.”
For the first time her voice lost its drone, and with it the rustic blur. She sounded puzzled. “I see kings and queens and lovers dying. And your name will never die.” Abruptly she folded Anne’s fingers back against her palm and tossed the hand back in her lap.
Is that all? The common fortune she probably tells everyone? Money, love, a journey. A few vague warnings. Your name will never die – such stuff for fools! Not much for my silver coins. She must do a brisk trade with country simpletons, no wonder they say she has money put away.
Then the old woman said, still in that new voice, “Marry your boy, Anne Hathaway. Marry him, comfort him, let him go when it’s time. He’ll always come back to you.”
“I...”
“And don’t whine at me that you cannot. But if you will not, you can try this.” She stood up and went to the shelves that crowded one wall. Word was that the village carpenter had built those shelves for her, in exchange for – what? In her chair the old woman seemed all warts and knobs, her body twisted as an ancient tree. Standing, she was revealed as tall and straight and lithe of movement. Anne wondered how old she really was.
Almost contemptuously she dropped a screw of paper into Anne’s lap. “Pills. Put ’em up y’r cunny, one at nightfall, one at dawn, for three days. And drink this each mornin’, twelve drops in wine.” A tiny stoppered bottle followed the paper.
“Will they work?”
“I make you no promises. If they do it will ’urt, but not as bad as child-bed. You can pass it off as a bad flux. But y’r a fool, Anne ’Athaway. Y’r boy will love the child and ’e has need of you.”
“Love the child – perhaps. Need of me – I doubt that. Thank you, ma’am.” She bobbed a polite curtsy and took her basket. “Good-day to you.”
She was at the door when the wise-woman said, “’E’s an ’andsome boy, William Shakspere.”
Anne whirled about, her spine prickling again. “How did you know? Did you see it? In my hand? In a glass?”
The other woman laughed; not the witch’s cackle but a clear, ordinary, almost girlish laugh. “No, but I guessed and you just told me. I seen ’im. Comin’ and goin’ to Temple Grafton, eager in goin’, grinnin’ and whistlin’ in comin’ away again. You pleased ’im in bed, you know.”
Anne could have smacked her grinning chops. “So all that nonsense you pretended to see in my hand was simply that – nonsense. If you know of Will, you know of his ambitions, and you made it all up.”
“No. I saw true. Not all was clear, but I told you true.” Then, laughing again, she lapsed back into her crone’s manner. “If them pills and the nostrum doan work by the end o’ this week, you’ll no get rid of that child. It’s a girl, if you care. Marry young William.” The cottage door slammed shut. She was still laughing.
Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps the wise-woman had cheated her. The pills and potion did nothing except to make Anne rackingly sick. In fact, the child seemed to flourish on the witch’s brew, for in that week Anne’s body suddenly burgeoned. Her waist spread, her breasts swelled, her belly rounded. And with these changes she became weepy and tired.
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