Chapter 3 - Glory (Sonnet 91)
Will - Warwickshire - Friday, St. Andrews Day (November 30), 1582
The gamekeeper's grip is tight on Will's neck, pushing Will brutally uphill towards the house. This is a man, Will thinks, who delights in using his body's force. Will knows he's not strong enough to fight free, and not fast enough to run away, else he would not have been caught like this in the first place. Even if he were to get away, the bare winter trees offer no place to hide. He hopes that Richard and the others outran the boy chasing them; maybe they'll even manage to take back the buck.
They reach the house and the gamekeeper opens the door with his free hand. He pushes Will through the doorway and over to a warm bench on the far side of the room, near the fire and away from the door and windows. "Here" he says roughly, and forces Will down, finally letting go. He binds Will's hands with a length of rope, places his chair between Will and any path of escape. Will is chained to his spot by the warden's iron stare.
The boy comes in, out of breath. The game keeper's son maybe, or apprentice. The gamekeeper doesn't take his eyes off Will as the boy says "They've all fled," panting.
"Mmmm" the gamekeeper narrows his gaze at Will. "Well, we got one. The leader, I reckon. I've seen you on these lands before." Will looks away uncomfortably. The gamekeeper continues "This time it's not just trespassing. See, we found the buck you hid in the barn. Lovely shot, really. Glorious skill. Thought you would get a nice skin? Some meat to sell? Not today, poacher." Without moving his scrutiny from Will, he addresses the boy. "Edward, go find his worship. He should be out hunting this morning. He may want to question the prisoner." Edward leaves quickly and the gamekeeper leans back in his chair, evaluating Will.
Will holds his head in his hands. A single thought occupies his mind. How upset Annys will be. It causes a wretched sinking in his chest and belly. He pictures the look of disappointment on her face if she were to see him here now; her scolding, her disdain. He had promised her venison on their wedding table tomorrow. He had recruited Richard, for his skill with the bow and knowledge of tracking. He had promised Annys they would stay in the open forest; and they had, for a while. After frosty hours of finding nothing but hares and foxes, they had moved on upriver towards Charlecote and Fullbrook, where the big herds of deer are known to run. Deer are always easier to find in Sir Thomas Lucy's private reserve, though not always easier to take.
Will replays the events of the morning over and over in his head, thinking about how he can possibly explain this to Annys. He is so lost in thought, he cannot tell how much time has passed. The gamekeeper asks his name, his fathers name and occupation, then settles into heavy silence; tending the fire, sharpening an axe, adding wood to the fire again, restringing a bow. Will starts to worry about how long he will be detained here, surely not overnight, but if so? He cannot miss his wedding day. Annys would never forgive him. She would leave him for sure. Surely the news has reached her, he realizes with a wretched sinking. Richard would have to give her reason for Will's failure to return. But why should he be detained here so long? Woods were once open for all to use, even those near a manor house. But nowadays more and more the nobility are claiming ownership to the land; putting up fences and prosecuting those who try to live on the timber or game. Master Lucy, more than any other of the local gentry, revels in the glory of his high birth and wealth, and the power it affords him over others. He seems to be keeping Will here all day out of spite. Would Will act the same in his place?
Finally, Will hears a horn in the distance. The hunting party. The gamekeeper cracks open a shuttered window and blows his horn towards the forest in response. Will can soon hear hounds, then the hoofs and voices as the group of nobles draws nearer. The game keeper puts Will in his firm grip once more, and presses him out the door into the cold to face the knight.
Outside stands the group of nobles arrayed all their glory. Two men and two women on horseback; in garments of rich velvets and furs, embroidered with silken patterns and silver chains. Will marvels in the sight for a moment, he has rarely seen so many well-attired people together except when players come through Stretford. The Lucy's wear all black, a costly color that marks them as fervent puritans. The other couple is in crimson and green, with high ruffs and overly wide sleeves, cut to show the ornate underlayer. Will thinks the garments quite ugly and ill-suited to hunting, but supposes the style must be some new-fangled fashion from London. The wealthy and high-born always take pleasure in looking distinct.
Even the coursers the nobles ride and the hounds at their feet seem more fine and carefully bred than normal horses or dogs. And the fierce birds that Sir Thomas and Lady Lucy carry on their arms look wild but act tame. Lady Lucy, it is said, takes special delight in keeping and training animals for the hunt. Strings of dead rabbits hanging from the Lucys' saddles silently attest to the skill of the hawks and hounds.
Sir Thomas hands off his hawk to a servant, and paces his horse forward to look down directly at Will. Will stands, plain clothed and poor, hands bound, before Sir Thomas.
'You've been caught poaching on my land."
"I was caught on your land, sir, but not poaching."
"We found a dead buck in the barn, your worship. The men were in the woods."
"And the others?"
"All run off, sir"
"So, you admit to trespassing. But deny you you shot a deer?"
"I shot no buck, Sir. How could I with no weapons?"
"Did you capture any weapons on him?"
"Only a knife, sir. He must've given over his bow to his companion."
"Surely not, for I never had a bow."
"How came there to be a buck in my barn?"
"My friend and I were hunting in the open wood.."
"Not hunting, surely. What you do is not a hunt. A hunt is a noble pursuit." he says gesturing to his companions. "With dogs and horses, of which you have none. Do not speak of things about which you have no knowledge nor skill, poacher."
"I mean to say, then, that my friend shot at a deer sir, but not on your land. We saw him far off, in the open wood, and fired a shot from there. He ran off and we followed him, as is within the bounds of law.
"Not so, that buck was pierced with a single arrow, a skilled shot, Sir. It would not have been able to run as far as he says with that shot in his side. "
"He ran farther than you'd think, the buck had a lot of life in him."
"We found the spot where the buck bled out, he would have had to run 1000 feet from open wood"
"You found a different spot then. The buck we shot bled out within the open wood."
"And how did he get to the barn?"
"They stashed the buck, Sir, to track another deer amongst your herd."
"Not true, not true. You see, after the buck bled out, my friend and I turned for home. But, being outside our customary territory, and having no familiarity with your terrain, we got lost and wandered in the wrong direction. It was only when we caught sight of the barn that we realized our mistake."
"Then why put the buck in the barn?"
"Well, it was quite heavy, and we had been carrying it some time. We put it down to ascertain the right direction homeward."
"He lies. This man knows these woods, he's been caught here before, coney catching."
"Who is he?"
"William Shaxper, Sir. Son of John Shaxper of Stretford, a tanner."
"I know the family. Your father was once bailiff."
"Aye"
"Are you his boy I had whipped for stealing rabbits?"
"You exerted unfair punishment beyond the scope of the law."
"But clearly not enough for you to know your place."
"I did no wrong. The deer was shot in the open woods"
"So you claim. Who was your accomplice?"
"You have not even a license for deer. The buck was fair game."
"This is my land, and what's on my land is mine by right. Do not presume you have any skill with law you illiterate thief. Who was with you? What is his name?"
"Speak up!"
"Thomas Smith" Will lies.
"I shall find him and question him myself. I don't for a minute believe your story. You and your kind have no respect for law or God, and show nothing but contempt for your betters. Your father is a lawbreaker and a usurer, and you are no better; a poacher and a thief. Do not doubt that I will have you prosecuted."
"Bring your suit, sir. Any judge will find me innocent of your charges."
"Take him to the edge of my property and send him out." Sir Thomas says to the gamekeeper. Then he addresses Will "But do not think this the end. I will see you and your compatriots punished."
The nobles ride off towards the manor house, with their pomp and fine horses and hawks and hounds. The gamekeeper hands Will off to the boy, Edmund, and gestures for them to walk the other way, out of the woods. The boy unties Wills hands at the edge of the property, and Will continues the two hour walk homeward. The shadows of the trees are long, and the light low. Will takes off at a quick pace in order to make it home before dark.
Would Will act the same in Lucy's place? What is it, he wonders, that makes some people forgiving and others take pleasure in being cruel? The Greeks had a concept of humors, personality traits determined by a mix of bodily fluids, elements and seasons. The gamekeeper, earthen humor with his metal grip, taking pleasure in his body's force. Lady Lucy, alike in nature, delighting in the hawks, hounds and horses of the hunt. The other nobles, water humor, proud of their costly and pompous garments. Richard, all air, the glory of his knowledge of the hunt and skill with bow. The final temperament, fire, embodied in the fierceness and aggression of Lucy himself, wielding his high birth and riches like a weapon.
And which temperament, Will wonders, is he? Where does he find a joy above the rest? He considers the pleasure loved best by each humor; individually or mixed, all-and-some. He measures himself by none of these particulars: not birth nor knowledge nor wealth nor strength. The Greeks left something out, he realizes. There is something greater than the all-and-sum of these aspects together. His treasure is better, more general, it surpasses all these. A universal best.
He is thinking of Annys, their future together, the wedding tomorrow, the baby growing in her belly. The love they share is greater than any other glory or delight. He remembers the first time they kissed, the emotion-filled private vows that followed. The way their bodies melted together in these very woods, green with summer. The effort of getting his father to agree to a marriage, which only happened after a midwife confirmed Annys' pregnancy was three months along. The haste to journey to Worchester for the licenses. And Annys. Beautiful, virtuous, witty, capable Annys. A look from her can stir mens' pride (which is to say, desire). A wag of her tongue can put that pride in it's place. Her virtue seemed beyond possessing. And of all men, Will has now won that prize. Will now boasts that she will be his bride.
Many call it an unlikely pairing, and Will knows well why it looks that way. Even his father thinks him too young to marry. People in Stretford cannot understand how writing could lead to a living as rich as any trade, and the unimaginative think him a layabout for not pursuing an apprenticeship. Then, there was the diddy he made up while drinking in Bidford. He wasn't even the most inebriated of the young men of Stretford who set out to try the ale at every inn along the Avon, but since they all remember his song, the town credits him with drunkenness and vagrancy too. And now charged with poaching, which news is sure to have reached the whole of Stretford by now. Without Annys, Will's knows, his reputation is questionable at best. Her love has redeemed him, inwardly and publicly. He would indeed be wretched and worthless without her.
He reaches Stretford just as night closes in upon the earth. Candlelight and hearthfire light up the windows of the houses, including his family's house on Henley street. He enters his home, to the heavy air of paused sobbing. His mother and sister sit in the hearth room, with Annys and her friend, Susanna. Annys' looks up as he enters, her eyes red with tears, handkerchief in hand. She stands quickly, as if to denounce him; but a soon as her accusing eyes meet his penitent ones she runs to him and softens in his arms.
His mother stands up too "How could you, William. On the day before your wedding?" she says.
Susanna comes over to Annys, still in Wills embrace, and touches her back. "Shall I tell them the wedding is on, then?"
"Yes" Annys replies. She looks up at Will and says "I had worried you might be lost, or taken off somewhere, I know not what."
He replies "I had worried too. That you would take your self away, rather than marry me after today."
She buries her face in his neck again. "I could never." but he wonders whether her words are driven by her predicament or her love.
He holds her, her small body hardly showing any signs of pregnancy that the midwife confirmed. He feels the full measure of his tenuous glory in his arms. All his delight and worth tied up in one person, one delicate chest of treasure. One changeable heart, that could in an instant transform all his richness to wretchedness, leaving him a lonely and miserable man.
Sonnet 91 - Glory
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse.
And every humor has its added pleasure
in which it finds a joy above the rest.
But these particulars are not my measure,
all these I better in one general best.
Your love is better than high birth to me,
richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
of more delight than hawks or horses be,
and, having you, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone: that you might take
all this away, and me most wretched make.