He tried to banish these dark visions, but he feared to lose the better images Will had put into his head, as when we seek to banish the thorn, we lose also the petal. So he turned his mind to the bouquet of roses he had cut in Will’s garden and to the thorn pricking his finger.

The house of Thomas Rogers was one of the finest in Stratford, rising in three half-timbered stories, with great windows flung open on every floor. Rich man’s windows they were, overlooking a street wider and more welcoming than any in London. And there was no man in London or Stratford more welcoming than Thomas Rogers, alderman and cattle broker.

Next to cattle, good cheer was his stock-in-trade, but what man would lack for good cheer who profited from Warwickshire beef and ate it, too? His good cheer grew even greater when he learned the purpose of Harvard’s visit, for Rogers had seven daughters, and the girl in question had reached the ripe old age of twenty-one without a husband.

It did not surprise Robert, then, that they settled on a dowry more quickly than ever they had settled on a price for cattle. It did surprise him, however, that Rogers would honor the bargain only if the girl went willingly to marriage.

“Willingly … aye,” said Robert, “or not at all.”

He found Katherine in the garden, in a shaft of golden sunlight, and the shimmer of her flaxen hair caused him to forget all the words Will Shakespeare had given him. He nearly forgot his own name.

“Why, Master Harvard,” she said, “‘tis pleasure to see you.”

Rob reached for Will’s words, but the first image he found was of a deranged Moor, fingers twined round the neck of his flaxen-haired wife, an image to be banished yet again. And just as he feared, Will’s soft words went with it, so that he could only stammer, 1… 1…

“Roses?” said Katherine. “Roses are a joy.”

“Yes.” And now he found a few of Will’s words, hiding in his memory … old words, but good ones, and soft, spoken by the character of Romeo. “Roses they are, miss, but… that which we call a rose, by any other name would … would …”

“Smell as sweet?”

“Yes … though not so sweet as you, miss.” And that, he thought, was well said.

In taking the roses, she noticed the blood on his fingertip. “Why, good sir, you bleed for me? How noble.” And gently she touched him.

His hand trembled at her touch, and yet did her touch itself tremble, which he found strangely calming, for it meant that she was as nervous as he … and perhaps as willing. And a small measure of his wit returned. He said, “I bleed for love, miss.”

And she said, “I yearn for it.”

And Rob found a few of Will’s softer words to speak. “I bleed willingly for love, on a … a summer’s day.”

” ‘Tis a fine summer’s day that Robert Harvard brings me roses.”

“A temperate summer’s day.” And then did his wit return in full.

“I promise many more, even when the cold December of our lives has been lived to the solstice, even then shall I find a final summer’s day with thee, miss, should you say yes to marriage.”

And her smile spoke more eloquently than all the words that Will Shakespeare had ever written.

 

Two years later, if one were to ask Robert Harvard the season, he would say “summer,” no matter the angle of the sun, for no northern blast could cool the summer he knew in the bed of Katherine Harvard, a rose even sweeter now that she bore his name.

And no day was more June-glorious to him than the damp November afternoon when he and Katherine brought their firstborn son to St. Saviour’s in Southwark. Robert Harvard would never know with greater certainty of God’s love or his own immortality than at the moment when the tiny head was held over the font and the spirit-cleansing water poured down. Nor would he ever know better that the love of his fellow man reflected God’s love than on that night, when friends and neighbors went to the Queen’s Head Inn to celebrate the birth of the baby named John.

As Robert Harvard was a part owner of the inn, the presence of the babe brought no scandal to the taproom. In truth, there was little that happened on that side of the Thames that could cause Southwark to appear more scandalous than it already was.

City fathers reigned on the north bank, but their power did not cross the twenty-arch bridge. So here would be found prostitutes in their stews, selling favors to pay rents to the corrupt bishop of Winchester. Here cutpurses thrived in alleys, and convicts served in Clink. Here animal baiters brought beasts to fight in the pits, and when the beasts were killed, the baiters learned new skills from convicts and cutpurses, too. And here, performing by day in the theaters, carousing by night in the taprooms, were the actors.

But here also the bell tower of St. Saviour’s rose like a father confessor above his sinners. And here men like Robert Harvard, men of business and sometimes of property, saw sin for what it was and rose above it, too, though Robert believed in the Lord’s admonition that “what you do for the least of my brethren, you do for me.” So on that night of celebration, he opened the tap for all and asked payment of none.

Most brought good wishes. A few brought gifts of silver coin.

Others brought no more than their thirst. But one, who came in from the cold wearing a cape trimmed in rabbit fur, brought a gift of paper and leather that would prove more valuable than gold.

Will Shakespeare elbowed through the crowd, neither expecting nor offering ceremony to those who greeted him with shouts and handshakes and resounding slaps upon the back.

Rob called for Will’s tankard to be taken from the shelf and filled.

Katherine, no longer reed-slender, but a young mother in all the fullness of life, proclaimed, “Master Shakespeare, you do the Harvards a great honor.”

“I honor the child, ma’am.” Shakespeare bowed. “And his beautiful mother.”

“Many thanks, Will,” said Robert.

“Many thanks for all your favors,” added Katherine. “My husband has oft spake of your help one temperate summer’s day. Do you know what now he calls our son?”

“Aye,” said Will with a laugh. ” ‘Love’s Labours Won.’ ‘Tis a description to flatter a playwright. But the babe surely tells of love’s victory.”

“Aye!” cried Robert a little drunkenly.