Hamnet(53)

He sends two blows down on top of the post, both true and straight. The post seems to shudder and flinch, drawing into itself. ‘A man,’ he says, then strikes another blow, ‘needs work.’ He swings the hammer again, brings it down on the post. ‘Proper work.’

Bartholomew tests the post with a hand and finds it steady. He moves along to the next, already loosely dug into the soil. ‘He is all head,’ he says, swinging his hammer, ‘that one. All head, with not much sense. He needs work to steady him, to give him purpose. He can’t go on this way, an errand-boy for his father, tutoring here and there. A head like his, he’ll run mad.’

He puts a hand to the post, which doesn’t seem to his liking, because he takes the hammer to it again, once, twice, and the post is driven further in.

‘I hear it said,’ Bartholomew mutters, ‘that the father is free with his fists, particularly with your Latin Boy. Is that true?’

Agnes sighs. ‘I have not seen it with my own eyes but I don’t doubt it.’

Bartholomew is about to swing the hammer but checks himself. ‘Has he ever lost his temper with you?’

‘Never.’

‘And the child?’

‘No.’

‘If he ever raises a hand to either of you,’ Bartholomew begins, ‘if he even tries, then—’

‘I know,’ Agnes cuts in, with a smile. ‘I don’t think he would dare.’

‘Hmm,’ Bartholomew mutters. ‘I should hope not.’ He flings down the hammer and walks over to his pile of posts, stacked in a heap. He selects one, weighs it in his hand, holds it up and looks along it, to check its line.

‘It would be hard,’ he says, without looking at her, ‘for a man to live in the shadow of a brute like that. Even if it was in the house next door. Hard to draw breath. Hard to find your path in life.’

Agnes nods, unable to speak. ‘I had not,’ she whispers, ‘realised how bad it was.’

‘He needs work,’ Bartholomew says again. He hoists the post to his shoulder and comes up to her. ‘And perhaps a distance between him and his father.’

Agnes looks away, down the path, at the dog, lying in the shade, pink rag of a tongue unrolled.

‘I have been thinking,’ she begins, ‘that it might interest John to set up elsewhere. In London.’

Bartholomew raises his head, narrows his eyes. ‘London,’ he repeats, rolling the word over his tongue.

‘To extend his business there.’

Her brother pauses, rubs at his chin. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘You mean that John might send someone to the city, for a while. Someone he trusts. A son perhaps.’

Agnes nods. ‘Just for a while,’ she says.

‘You would go with him?’

‘Of course.’

‘You would leave Stratford?’

‘Not at first. I would wait until he was settled, with a house, and then I would follow him, with Susanna.’

Brother and sister regard each other. Susanna, on Agnes’s back, stirs, gives a small sob, then settles back to sleep.

‘London is not so far away,’ Bartholomew says.

‘True.’

‘Many go there, to find work.’

‘Again, true.’

‘There might be opportunities to be found there.’

‘Yes.’

‘For him. For the business.’

‘I think so.’

‘He might find a position for himself. Away from his father.’

Agnes reaches out and touches the cut end of the post Bartholomew is holding, tracing a finger around and around the circles there.

‘I don’t think John would listen to a woman in this matter. If an associate were to put the idea in his head – someone with an interest in his business, with a stake – so as to make it look like John’s idea in the first place, then . . .’

‘The notion would take hold.’ Bartholomew finishes for her. He rests his hand on her arm. ‘What about you?’ he says in a low voice. ‘You would not mind if he . . . went ahead of you? It could take some time for him to establish himself.’

‘I would mind,’ she says. ‘Very much. But what else can I do? He cannot continue like this. If London could save him from this misery, it is what I want.’

‘You would come back here,’ he jerks his thumb towards Hewlands, ‘in the meantime, you and Susanna, so that—’

Agnes shakes her head. ‘Joan would never take to the idea. And there will be more of us soon.’

Bartholomew frowns. ‘What are you saying? There will be another child?’

‘Yes. By winter’s end.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Not yet. I will hold off, until all is arranged.’

Bartholomew nods at her, then gives her one of his rare, wide smiles, putting his powerful arm around her shoulders. ‘I shall seek out John. I know where he drinks. I’ll go there tonight.’





gnes is sitting on the floor by the pallet, next to Judith, a cloth in her hand. She has been there all night: she will not rise, she will not eat, she will not sleep or rest. It is everything Mary can do to get her to drink a little. The heat from the fire is so great that Agnes’s cheeks have scarlet spots upon them; strands of hair have escaped from her coif to write themselves in damp scribbles on her neck.