The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman by Jackie French

sarcenet dress, not for a father.
    I may have put my books away but yet they follow me. The squire’s son and pretty
     Bess for Romeo and Juliet, for today I saw Bertram in the field below our house, and
     he was not there to milk our cows, but to stare at pretty Bess. Old Kneebone is our
     Lear; and it is whispered that Mistress Feathergale may be a witch, having no
     husband nor son to bring her meat to table, yet at three score and ten she still has
     all her teeth. And when she walks in thewoods, it be not just to gather firewood for her
     cottage. Does she mutter prophecy, like the hags in my Macbeth ? Nor must I
     forget Thomas Quiney, for he would make a right good Bottom, his handsome face
     hiding his true nature as an ass.
    Dinner: beef steaks with anchovy; hare, jugged; saddle of mutton, boiled then roasted; beef marrow bones with mustard; pickled artichokes; a jelly of pippins and rhubarb, and one of quince, of which I did not eat; cheese; May butter; raspberry wine of my wife’s making, two years old and fine.
    Bowels: steady once again, and waters clear.

Thursday, 19th November 1615
    To market with my wife, for naught but to receive the bows of gentlemen and to return them, for though Jem walked behind to carry our purchases, they were in truth small. The days when my wife must market and carry her own basket are long past. And the evenings when I sat at my table above the inn and shared my bread and cheese and candles with the rats have vanished too, like the spirits of the air.
    These days the traders call on us, not we on them. But my wife saw a fine brace of quails for Jem to carry, a dozen snipes and a hare, of which I am most fond. These wild meats are all we need that are not of our fields or from our tenants, except for venison that my Lord Sheriff makes me a gift of when he goes hunting, or boar from the squire.
    A small boy looked wistfully at the hot chestnuts, so I gave the seller tuppence for the boy to have his fill, and did not know till afterwards, till I felt the tears cold upon my cheeks, that I thought of my lost son, and how Hamnet ate those chestnuts each time we visited the market.
    Back here, to the warmth of my chamber fire, and to my book. In truth, even if the days grow short, there be not enough of interest to fill them.
    Deeds of the past give more delight:
    Their brightness doth make even winter bright.
    And tears, although they cleave the soul,
    Are yet the salt to make a memory whole.
    I see my father as clearly now as if he were not dead these fourteen years. I hear his voice long decades past as he did bid me forget Judyth and find myself an heiress to save our family from disgrace and homelessness and death.
    I wrote again that night. Words were the only sword to cut the anguish from my heart, and place it upon the paper. Words, words, words.
    At last, exhausted, I copied out my scribbles in a fair hand:
    Doubt that the earth doth move,
    Doubt that the stars are fire,
    Doubt truth to be a liar,
    But never doubt I love.
    I met her beneath the beech tree the next day, on the twelfth heartbeat of the great church clock. We kissed, as we had kissed each time before. I have supped with princes, ay, and a queen too, but no wine was as sweet as Judyth’s kisses then.
    I pulled the poem from my sleeve.
    She read the words, then looked at me. ‘Oh, William.’
    All my fine words fled, like a hare that hears the hounds. My soul stood naked as a newborn babe. I said, ‘We cannot marry.’
    She stepped back. ‘William! Do you mean to jilt me?’
    â€˜â€™Tis no jilting to break what never was.’
    â€˜And yet you say you love me?’
    Should I have said that I did not? It would have been kinder if I had, but I did not know that then.
    I said, ‘My father has lost all, will lose our house come quarter-day. I have no home to give you. Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever will. I will be a glover’s apprentice to a master who makes no