Nicholas and Bess - part 3

[girlyswot]

Author's note: some more historical fic too.  Am I spoiling you?

'Do you miss him very much, Nick?'  That was Bess, looking up at him through those clear grey eyes that demanded an honest answer.

                'Very much, when I remember him.  Only, it seems as though he died for me last year when I left.  I have grown accustomed to being without him.  But I forget, sometimes, that I shan't ever see him again.  I have grown so much into the habit of remarking strange things, comic tales, odd people, always thinking, "Will would want to hear that, I must be sure to tell it right when next I see him."  And then I catch myself up and feel the same pain once more.  Perhaps, soon, I will learn to remember.'

 

                As he explained this, he realised he had spent the last year storing up tales to tell Will, thinking how the writer would laugh or raise his eyebrows or urgently demand more specific details to give colour to his next play.  There would be no more plays from his pen, no more heart-wrenching sonnets, no magnificent soliloquys, no comedy, no tragedy, no more glorious celebration of love.  But there was someone who wanted to hear Nick's stories.  Bess asked him often about his days on the ship and the far-off places he had visited.  And, though he could not tell her all the things he might have told Will, he liked to talk, to see her serious, interested face, to answer her thoughtful questions.  That summer, it chanced that almost every Sunday was spent walking with Bess, exploring the city and beyond.  He did not think to tell Dickon of the hours spent sitting together with his daughter, holding her hands as often as not, laughing up into her calm grey eyes, smoothing her stray hair back from her forehead, carelessly running a finger down her soft cheek.

 

                He remembered his first drunken thought of marriage, years back, when he had woken in horror the next morning.  He smiled wryly at that, thinking how little he had known Bess then.  Just now, he felt, there could be no other woman who would suit him so well.  They had walked on this particularly fine day as far almost as Hampstead and were sitting on Primrose Hill.  There were no primroses left, of course, in August, but the air was heady with the scent of the dogroses and cornflowers which grew unchecked in the grasses.  He plucked a fine blue cornflower and tucked it gently into Bess' hair, smiling lazily at her and yawning as he lay down again on his back.

                'Are you tired, Nicholas?' she asked softly.

                'Mmmm,' he replied, reaching for her hand and pulling her down to lie beside him.

He shifted so that his face was very close to hers and their bodies were all but touching.  So gently, so slowly he traced her cheeks, her lips, her trembling jaw with his finger.  So gradually she would hardly have known when to protest even had she thought of it, he leant towards her and kissed her soft, soft lips.  His arm was fairly about her waist now and she found her own hand stealing up to caress the downy back of his neck.  Nick held her so for a long minute, kissing her reverently, she thought later, as he had once described Romeo's first encounter with Juliet.  Finally, reluctantly, he let her go and rolled away.

                'I can't,' he whispered.

                'Can't what, dearest?' she wondered.  Surely her Nicholas could do anything he set his mind to.

                'I can't marry you, Bess.'  He sat up and looked down at her ruefully.

                She struggled a few moments to compose her face then sat up and began picking the grass and flowers from her hair.

                'Why cannot you?'

                He strove to put into words what he had only just realised.  'Because you love me too much and I love you too little.  You would be getting a poor bargain, Bess.  And I care for you at least enough not to allow you to enter into what could only be a miserable match for you.'  He looked straight at her while essaying this speech, hoping that his directness would ease the blow.

                'May I not choose for myself such a match?'  He had never heard Bess speak so boldly or firmly in disagreement with anyone.

                'We both have to choose, Bess.  And... I am sorry for it, but I cannot choose you.'

                She paused, looking searchingly at him.  'Very well.  Will you walk me home, please?'

                He offered her his hand as she stood up and held hers a moment longer than was strictly necessary.  'But we will continue to be friends, Bess?  I may call for you next Sunday?'

                'No, Nicholas.  I don't think you should do that.'

                He walked home, having taken Bess to her lodging, conscious of a deep ache of loneliness.  It was grief for Will, of course.  He felt an enormous desire to tell the whole story to the older man, hoping for reassurance and prepared to listen to advice.  Humfrey would merely laugh or, worse, smile knowingly and tease him mercilessly.  Ned... Nicholas dismissed out of hand the notion of confiding in Ned.  Dickon was clearly out of the question in this case.  Moodily, he kicked the gutter as he mooched along alternately dividing his anger between the dead playwright, the luckless girl and when all else failed, life in general which seemed so entirely unfair.

                So he was glad when the Company left London behind and went touring.  Humfrey came with them, now August's boy and given the chance to play and sing his own music while they were out in the provinces.  He and Nicholas shared quarters with Sam and Lecky and the four boys revelled in their comparative freedom.  Humfrey, Nicholas noted, had developed quite an eye for girls during his absence and was almost as often as Ned seen with a different fair admirer on his arm.  Sam and Lecky were still too young to join in such sport and Nick was glad of their company as he tried to forget Bess' tearful face on the day he had bade her farewell. 

                They passed three days in Oxford, playing each afternoon in the broad street where a stone cross marked the spot where the great reforming martyrs had come to their death.  Nicholas paid the proper respect, remembering the day he had stood to watch Antony Merrick get his death at Tyburn.  He wondered idly whether any faith would be worth that price to him, or indeed whether anyone might have such a tie on him.  He would have died to save Will, he thought, and possibly Humfrey.  He dismissed the image of Bess's dark, tear-glistening eyes from his mind hurriedly and turned away.

                The plays were popular in Oxford.  Large crowds came every day to the St Giles' Fair and many stayed to watch the players.  They were bade each night to local manors to perform their best.  It made for long days, especially as the players were often invited to share in the revels even after their own part was completed.  It was here that Nick found himself dancing with one Kat, daughter of John Drewer, out in the village of Yarnton.

                Kat was tall and slender with dark curls that framed her rosy cheeks and highlighted the brightness of her blue eyes.  She was comely and plainly showed that she found Nicholas equally so.  Nick, without Will's watchful eye, had drunk more revel-ale than was wise and he struggled to mind his steps as he followed this vision around the room.  Before he well knew it, they had left the great hall and were out beneath the starlit sky.  Kat reached her hand up to touch his cheek.

                'I saw you before.  Last time you played here you made a pretty girl.  But I think I prefer the man.'  Then she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him soundly.  Without time for thought, Nick's arms were around her and he kissed her back with fervour. 

                'Come,' she whispered in his ear.  'I know a place where we may lie undisturbed.'  She took his hand and he almost followed her.  Stupidly he kept thinking there was something he had forgotten.  He felt as though he were playing on stage and he had not heard his cue.  Suddenly a door burst open and there were Humfrey and Ned and, he gulped, Dickon. 

                'I... needed some air.  Too much ale and Kat showed me...,' he turned to introduce Kat to the others but she had disappeared apparently into the night.

                'Still the boy hasn't learnt to hold his ale!'  That was Ned, cheerfully recognising Nicholas' old weakness and offering a strong hand to help him home.  Gratefully Nick took the support and refrained from attempting any other explanation.

                A month later, they came once more within sight of the City.  They stopped a week in Richmond to play the great houses there, all feeling as though holidays had ended and the term was about to begin.  There was still no word of a playwright to replace Will but everyone knew that it could not be expected the crowds would continue to flock to the old revivals.  Ben Jonson was out of favour with both the players and the court.  Nick wondered if perhaps Dickon would try his hand at writing, or even Ned if he would but put his mind to it for long enough.

                He was shocked, therefore, when Burbage came to him before a performance of Will's Twelfth Night play to ask him to think about setting down his own shipboard adventures in pen and ink for the company.        

                                'I don't say we promise to use it.  But we must have some new work, Nick.  I've tried and I haven't the knack.  Hemings won't even try, he knows it is not in him.  Ned, I daresay could produce a passable attempt if only he would sit at home long enough to write two words together.  You must have a story or two to tell.  And you're a bright lad, a scholar not so long past.  You may take only small roles in next week's Hamlet and Troylus to give you time.  Bring it to me as soon as you have a scene or two.'  He nodded dismissal and left Nicholas, mouth gaping in horror.  Me?  To write a play?  For the company?   But I couldn't, possibly. 

                He walked through his lines that night, hardly noticing whether the audience laughed or no.  Humfrey walked home with him and twice had to accuse him of not hearing a word he said.  He excused himself from going to bed, claiming there was a letter he must write urgently.  Sitting at the desk, Nicholas drew out a sheet of paper and dipped his pen in the ink.  Pausing for a moment, he thought of Will and was terrified that he should be presuming to emulate his master's achievements.  Almost, then he gave the whole thing up and decided to tell Dickon that he, too, did not have the knack.  Then, oddly, he recalled some words Geoffrey had said when he left this last time.  'Never say no to an opportunity, child.  It seems you have the knack of turning them to advantage.'  Well, Will's death had offered him this opportunity and he would take it.

                Resolutely, he began to write.

Comments

[leapingirbis.livejournal.com]

yes - a very interesting question! Why not wait until "The Player's Boy" has been reissued and then post the above question for general comment?