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by responsibilities,
they could drink as much as they liked, say what they liked, and do
what they liked. They could go where they wanted to, within the
bounds of travelling possibilities, and chase whatever woman they
liked. It was all too easy.
    Here he was, chained to a harridan with the
strength of an Amazon, the tongue of a viper, and a temper that
knew no bounds.
    Even though his drinking mates had been
friends since Grammar School, he was now living in a different
world, and their conversations were losing their spark.
    Any talk of Susanna’s development plodded
along for a few sentences until it veered toward more
bachelor-related topics.
    Ah, but this night was different.
    For some reason, the concept of impending
fatherhood seems to excite the celebratory nerve in all men.
    “A drink for my friend Will, here,” shouted a
tall robust young man, with an almost rectangular face, as he
welcomed his pal to the table right in the middle of the crowded
smoky room. “He’s going to be a father again!”
    This was Harold Granville, one of William’s
best friends. Handsome, intelligent, mischievous.
    The serving wench came with the ales,
catching Harold’s eye as she put the tray down, bending down to
give him a good view of her breasts in the low-cut dress as she
placed the drinks before the group. There was a mighty roar as
Harold pulled her down onto his knee, and whispered in her ear.
“Not now, Harold! Later,” she blushed, got up and bounced away.
    “I wish I could do that,” said Will staring
gloomily into his beer.
    “Will, you’re a lucky man, you have your own
woman - every night!” said Harold. “Here I am, chatting up
bar-girls with no luck at all.”
    “The luck is always on your side,” said Will.
“And I can tell you, I have no luck any night, these days. Any
night at all.”
    “Will, Will,” said Harold. “You’re going to
be a father again, that’s a wonderful event. The rest of us can
only dream about that. Who knows, this time you might have a son!”
Grabbing his tankard he stood up and shouted, “Here’s to William
Shakespeare and his son. We think …”
    The mob stood as one, shouted “To William
Shakespeare and his son. We think!” They downed their ales, and
called for more.
    After four more rounds, William began to look
around and judge the time. “Two hours,” he said. “I’ve got to
go.”
    “What’s this?” said Harold. “Leaving already?
The night is but young.”
    “Yes, Will,” chimed in Charles Porter, a
young man with a pointed goatee beard and coal-black eyes. “Plenty
of time yet to have a baby.”
    “One more?” said Harold, his arm around Will,
his eyes sparkling.
    The serving girl arrived, and moved next to
Harold. “What will it be, gentlemen?”
    “One more, especially for my friend Will
here, who is going to have a son.”
    An elderly man at the next table turned
around, his big red face creased with a mighty grin. “What, young
Shakespeare, you’ve had a son? Have an ale on me!”
    “I actually haven’t had a son, yet ...”
    “But he will have one, that’s for sure,” said
Harold. “I have that feeling.”
    The man laughed, his giant belly flopping up
and down. “From what I understand, you’ve always got that feeling,
Harold!”
    The crowd roared with laughter, intermingled
with the phrase, “A drink for young Shakespeare, on me,” coming
from all quarters.
    “Two hours, Harold,” said Will, taking a sip.
“They told me two hours.”
    The next thing Will remembered was hearing
the laughter. The bell-like laughter! That girlish giggle that
enthralled him in ages past, in the good times before one stupid
mistake had ruined things forever. The laughter resounded through
his head, and he reached out to touch the image of Anne Whateley,
smiling, giggling, beautiful as ever, before him.
    And suddenly, she was gone, and he awoke, his
head ringing, his eyes scratchy, his mouth dry.
    He was lying on the floor, a dirty, smelly,
earthen