A/N: The "old, fat man" Leonard vaguely recalls in Act 1 is his father, but will become, at Shakespeare's hands, one of the greatest antiheroes he ever wrote: Sir John Falstaff. Similarly, Leonards tangled memories of the "merry war" between himself and Sara as they got to know each other would go on to fuel Shakespeare's imagination in the writing of Much Ado About Nothing and in the characters of Benedick and Beatrice, two of his more sensible lovers. Although as far as sensible lovers go in Shakespeare, that's not really saying much.
For anyone not familiar not familiar with British informal versions of names, Jack is the informal version of John, and Hal, or Harry, the informal versions of Henry. Obviously, Lizzie is short for Elizabeth and Will for William.
John Heminges and Henry Condell, along with, indeed, William Shakespeare, his family, and all the other players mentioned herein, were actual people; however, massive liberties have been taken with the portrayal of their lives and no insult or offence is meant to their memories or surviving relatives.
The Shakespeare Years
Act 1: The Christmas Foundling
Scene 1: Shoreditch
[Guillaume, lying on the cobblestones, vomits and sits up. Enter William Shakespeare, flanked by John Heminges and Henry Condell]
Shakespeare: What ho, man! Speak if thou dost live! Art thou drunken tinker or a slumbering lord?
Guillaume: Neither, but a poor pilgrim returned from the Holy Land. I fear the journey has
not agreed with me.
Shakespeare: A pilgrim, forsooth? Lying here? Knoweth thou what day it is?
Guillaume: My journey hath been long and difficult. I fear I do not even know the year!
Shakespeare: Why man! 'Tis Christmas! The new year draws nigh, but not so close as all that, for 'tis still the year of Our Lord fifteen ninety six.
[Guillaume reels.]
Shakespeare: What ails thee, pilgrim?
Guillaume: I merely balk at the time I have lost.
Shakespeare: Why, what day dost thou last remember, friend?
Guillaume: Of the day itself I cannot recall; but I know 'twas the first of December, not the twenty fifth.
Shakespeare: Come John, come Henry: help me raise our new found friend to his feet.
He burns with fever and I fear he has long been ill with all. Speak, pilgrim, and tell: what name hast thou, and of what town a son.
Guillaume: That is all I have in this world, my friend. Naught of great worth and little of ought else.
Shakespeare: And I will bear it faithfully for thee,
'til thou canst take it up again thyself.
Thy name and whither, sir, may we bear thee?
Guillaume: My name is William. No lodging have I but the bare stones from which thou didst raise me.
Shakespeare: William thou art? Why, brother, so am I!
To Bishopsgate, and there I'll see thee lie.
[Exeunt]
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Scene 2: Shakespeare's lodgings
[Guillame asleep in Shakespeare's bed. Shakespeare standing by the fire, out of his view. Guillaume awakes.]
Guillaume: Where am I?
Shakespeare: Thou art here, in Bishopsgate, without the City of London; in my lodgings in
Crosby Street at the sign of the Boar's Head, and in my bed. Art thou now answered?
Guillaume: London. London, England. Christmas day, fifteen ninety six.
Shakespeare: So it is.
Guillaume: I am William, and so are you.
Shakespeare: So we are. My comrades and I brought thee hither from whence we found thee, in Shoreditch.
Guillaume: Shoreditch?
Shakespeare: Where we were celebrating the birth of Our Lord and Saviour. We had begun such with holy mass at midnight in the Church of Saint Leonard, and from thence continued
our revels in the nearby taverns. It was upon leaving the last of these that we came across thy good self, reclining upon the piss-laden cobbles of two noisome alehouses.
Guillaume: Saint Leonard?
Shakespeare: The name is familiar?
Guillaume: Yet for a sinner, not a saint.
Shakespeare: All men are both, in equal measure. We choose which face the world sees, and rarely does it tell the full tale of our existence.
Guillaume: And what is yours?
Shakespeare: How say you, friend?
Guillaume: Your tale. Your name I know, but it says naught of who you are. If a name told all, we two would be twins.
Shakespeare: Yet, twin-like, I could ask the same of you.
[Guillame and Shakespeare stare at each other a moment.]
Shakespeare: I am a humble wordsmith, sir: poet and playwright, and player too when it serves.
Guillaume: I am a man of many trades and none. Put me to work and you'll not find me wanting. I am strong, or I was, and not unused to manual labour.
Shakespeare: Can you read?
Guillaume: In any language you care to write.
Shakespeare: Indeed? Your education is something finer, then, than you could purchase in a pilgrim's weary life.
Guillaume: My life has been my education. Come: put me to the test. What would you have me read?
[Shakespeare holds out a scroll, indicating the Latin on the seal.]
Guillaume: Lord, direct us.
Shakespeare: Know you what this is?
[Guillaume shakes his head.]
Shakespeare: 'Tis the seal of the City of London. This scroll gives my players and I leave to perform therein for this coming twelvemonth.
Guillaume: I have never seen it before in my life.
Shakespeare: Good enough. Can you learn a role and play it as if it were truly your own self?
Guillaume: Indeed, I do so every day!
Shakespeare: In truth?
Guillaume: My memory fails me. If a man cannot recall his own self, what else must he do but play the part he is presented with?
Shakespeare: A poor memory makes an ill player.
Guillaume: It is the past alone that eludes me.
Shakespeare: Mayhap we can use you then. What say you?
Guillaume: I will be guided by you, sir, of course. I have little else to repay you with. What few things I have are of paltry worth, and yet I trust they are safe in your care?
Shakespeare: They are, and such strange things they are indeed. I pray you will forgive the intrusion, for I am a curious man, i'faith. I seek in others the inspiration for all my creations, sinner or saint.
Guillaume: [looking and spotting sack] It is all there?
Shakespeare: [rising and indicating the sack on the table] See for yourself, William. I am no thief.
[Guillaume approaches the table, his hands eagerly closing on the open mouth of the sack. Once he has satisfied himself that its contents were intact, he reaches for the purse and knife that lay nearby, fastening them to his belt with practised ease. Behind him, William watches and wonders.]
Shakespeare: I cannot keep calling you 'William' or 'sir'. You have no trade, and you say you have no home. What then should I call you? Have you no family name by which you are known? What was your father's name?
Guillaume: I have no other name. Not that I remember. And I do not believe I would use my father's if I knew it. The word itself merely conjures up in me a feeling of disgust, and the memory of an old, fat man who lacked the courage and wits to be a good thief, but was happy to let another do his thieving for him.
Shakespeare: We cannot choose our parentage, William. Tell me of him and, if you wish it, I will write him in a character that will ridicule his soul before the masses.
Guillaume: I would not have his memory taint your opinion of me. And who knows when I may need to bargain such a tale for another night's board!
Shakespeare: Thou art a sly one, William of no place, no trade and no name. Sly thou art and sly I'll name thee. Why 'twas one of the first names I e'er gave a character of mine that graced the London stage.
Guillaume: What would you call me, sir?
Shakespeare: A Christian pilgrim you did come to me, and now I'll christen you anew. Arise, William Sly, and give me your friendship's hand. You'll pay me well in tales, or I'm a fool.
Guillaume: Be my guide and friend in this strange city, and I will tell thee tales to fill thy mind. Thy purse will follow. Give me your good hand, and give me your name. To whom must Sly bow?
Shakespeare: Both guide and friend I'll be to keep you here
and be my muse. My name is Will Shakespeare.
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Scene 3: A busy London street
[Enter William Shakespeare and William Sly, walking through the streets of Bishopsgate. Enter a ragged and muddy-haired urchin, who cuts Sly's purse then darts away.]
Shakespeare: My apologies, I should have warned you to keep one hand on your purse through these streets. I forget that, as a stranger here, you have no knowledge of the city and its surrounds. Fear not: I doubt the tailor would have accepted your strange coin anyway.
I have money enough to pay him for what we need now, and I'll warrant you have stories enough to earn me more later. Come: we shall see you properly attired and fit for company.
Sly: Speaking of company: I note you keep none, bar mine, these last two days. Have you no family to share the season with?
Shakespeare: I do indeed have family. They bide northwest of here, in Stratford-upon-Avon. Two daughters, under the care of my wife.
Sly: And yet you are here?
Shakespeare: A playwright needs an audience, and the best audiences are here, in London.
Sly: But even for these few days?
Shakespeare: I cannot. Judge me not: you know not of my sorrow.
Sly: Then tell it me. Not that I may judge, but that I may understand.
Shakespeare: Two children have I, but last year had I three. My boy, my son, the twin of my youngest daughter, was taken from me this very year, not five months since. So alike they were, I cannot yet look the one in the face without seeing the other.
Sly: To lose a child is a pain I do not believe I have ever suffered. Although I believe I have known another who did. The loss of an only son, still young. Just a boy. And it broke his father's heart.
Shakespeare: Sons often do.
Sly: In more ways than one.
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Scene 4: Eastcheap, Sly's new lodgings
Sly: What year is it?
[A chorus of groans.]
Sly: 'Tis now the first morn of fifteen ninety seven, or we have slept too long my friends.
Shakespeare: I'll wager we have not overslept here. John mayhap, but Henry would not sleep past his morning vittles.
Henry Condell: Not I, Will. An' there's a wench downstairs as knows my fancy for this hour o' the clock.
John Heminges: I'll warrant she knows thy fancy for more than that!
Condell: Hold thy peace, thou old letcher. Thou art ten years my senior, thou has a wife younger than mine, and still thy head turns at every comely bosom as floats by!
Heminges: Hark, hark! The married man! Come now, Hal, we'll not tell the dulcet Lizzie where you supped whiles she deserted you for an ailing aunt, and you'll not tell my bonny lass where my gaze doth fall of late.
Condell: Say what thou canst: my Lizzie's the finest cook this side of London.
Heminges: I'll not doubt it. [To Shakespeare and Sly] Shall we send thee a plate of kidneys or a cup of sack gentlemen?
Shakespeare: Neither an thou woudst not kill me by kindness. Go to. I'll follow thee presently.
Sly: I fear I do not need my memory to tell me I am unpractised in your revels, sir.
Shakespeare: Fear not, my friend, I am as ill-favoured as yourself this fine morning. Friend John is the exception, not we. The lad, Henry, took little enough ale to close his lids. 'Twas his elders that caroused until the midnight bell tolled the new year into life, not he. We have but our just desserts for our revels. Why our Jack feels it not is beyond my ken, and yet he never does. Belike he has made a pact with Marlow's demon! An I write a devil for thy
father, I'll make him a drunk and give him Jack's name!
Sly: A drunken, lecherous John to tempt an innocent Henry?
Shakespeare: Aye, and more than that! Between their two names and thy tales I'll weave a world of words that, in its history, bears a comedy, and in comedy lies a tragedy; for Hal will shake off his evil mentor, and will rise to be a greater hero than ever he was an egregious thief!
Sly: I fear that John's bad angel may be more believable than Hal's good ascendant. 'Tis a high bar to set for a poor man.
Shakespeare: Many a prince has been born a pauper. On my humble stage, all is possible.
Sly: Will you break your fast with me or will you stay?
Shakespeare: Lead on, I'll follow. I would hear some more of thy memories, friend William; for my false John takes malicious shape in my mind, even as we speak.
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Scene 5: Without a tavern
[Enter Sly, Heminges and Shakespeare, through the tavern door and at speed.]
Shakespeare: A man may remember nothing, and yet remember how to fight, so it appears.
Stand, Sly! Arise! Sir William Sly! Behold! England has a new champion this day! A conquerer like King Henry of old!
Heminges: There hath been eight thus far, Will. Which one is't?
Shakespeare: Guess, Jack. Which brave King Harry would you choose? He who won France or the he who lost it?
Heminges: Both the latter's grandsire and our fair Queen's won the kingdom itself from a Richard.
Shakespeare: Aye, 'tis true. As like as not we'll suffer the same fate an you continue to point thy dagger at ev'ry other man's wife!
Heminges: Why, Will, 'tis in my nature to smile at beauty in this world! God made me thus and, in his eternal wisdom, so too did he make woman. Thou wouldst not see me fight against my very maker, wouldst thee, Will?
Sly: You fight against everyone else!
Shakespeare: Ignore him William. He would steal not only my Jew's daughter, but his ducats, his bonds, his lawyer and her clerk!
Sly: Her?
Shakespeare: I forget! You have not yet read the play! Why, rehearsals will start after twelfth night. We must find you a copy if you are to be our book man.
Heminges: 'Tis finished then, Will?
Shakespeare: Aye, Jack, 'tis finished. The advent of our friend here provided the inspiration
to solve our little dilemma, and whom to cast for it. It is but a line, but every line must be said and every man must play his part.
Sly: And has this part a name?
Shakespeare: It has. [Bowing.] In honour of the holy mass, which, being Christmas, we had attended, and tempered by the Venetian setting, thy first role's name is now Leonardo. May he serve thee well.
Sly: If not, it will be my own fault. Come now: where shall we go from here? Tavern or home?
