The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman by Jackie French

the kitchen door for soul cakes, of which my wife had ordered a good store baked, it being to our credit to give them freely.
    Later they played a game of eating soul cake hung on a string — which my wife and Judith missed entirely, but Susanna’s sharp teeth bit — with so much laughter that even I was called to join the fun.
    And so to bed. And yet this is still the night when the spirits of the dead return to eat and drink upon the earth. I could not sleep, and left my bed and took my candle to write here. Beyond our fine glass windows and their wooden shutters, the church bells toll and bonfires flame to eat the dark to keep the dead at bay, with food left on the doorstep lest the hungry dead should knock at the door.
    If a knock from long-dead knuckles sounded at the door tonight, would I open it? Would I truly shut the door against my father, even if he be a skeleton in rotting rags, my good mother, my brothers, cut before their prime, my friends who have gone before? Would I shut the door on Ned?
    Or would I have the courage to say, ‘Enter, ye spirits, eat and drink, for tomorrow with the sun you must vanish, into the silent confines of the grave or fiery purgatory’?
    No. Those I loved now walk in heaven. If there be wild spirits at my door tonight, they already know the path to reach me, whispering memories in my ears.
    And chief of memories tonight be Judyth. Judyth of the sea-green eyes, not the brown-eyed wench who sleeps in the room down the hall as I write this.
    Judyth: how can such a woman be held in one small word? And yet it was with words I met her, loved her, fenced with her, and with words she won me too.
    I had lost my right to write when I was writ apprentice on my bond. But my mind was too small a larder to contain the words within it. I must write. I had to write. Even in that cramped confined space allotted to a would-be glover, still I dreamt — and knew it but a dream — that one day my poems might be within a book, and on it be writ my name: William Shakespeare. Poet.
    It was as likely as a green-spotted pig. Yet still I wrote. Not in our own hall, not with my younger brothers and sister wailing, Mother bustling, my glover’s duty sitting on the bench waiting for me to stretch and stitch now that Father’s eyes were grown too frail. Instead that year I found my own hall, safe harbour for me except in winter’s depths: a giant beech tree outside the town, its leaves like a green fortress in summer, its branches wide enough to sit upon. And there I’d write, ponder, scratch out, write again and finally recite.
    Till one day, I had no sooner slipped under the green gate when I heard words from above my head:
    â€˜ Crabbed age and youth
    Cannot live together.
    Youth is full of pleasaunce
    Age is full of care . . . ’
    The voice paused, as if seeking another rhyme. It was clear, not a rustic’s burr. It sounded like a woman’s tones. But how could a woman have wit to craft a verse?
    I looked up, and saw a green that might be petticoats or a green coat, not leaves. I grinned. I had the next rhyme already from a poem I had writ upon a subject much the same as hers. What youth has not thought the same, even if they have not the words nor wit to say it?
    â€˜ Youth like summer morn,
    Age like winter weather.
    Youth like summer brave,
    Age like winter bare.
    Youth is full of sport,
    Age’s breath is short. ’
    â€˜My language! Heaven!’ A face looked down, but the leaves still hid too much to tell me if it was lad or lass. ‘Most sure, the goddess on whom my airs attend vouchsafed my prayer and sent me a companion for my words.’
    â€˜Perhaps. My prime request,’ I said, ‘which I do with thudding heart pronounce, is: oh, you wonder, if you be maid, or no?’
    A laugh from up in the branches. Then she slid down: a froth of petticoats, a glimpse of shapely leg in a blue stocking and an even more shocking flash of