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floor. Next to him, barely a foot away, Charles Porter lay,
snoring through his pointed goatee. And beyond him a lay a girl
Will had never seen before, asleep on her side.
    The girlish giggle continued to haunt him,
and he turned to see that it was coming from the corner where
Harold and the wench from the inn were cuddled up in the only bed
in the room, a low-slung single sleeper made of rough logs and
straw. They were both obviously naked, but under a grubby sheet,
and Harold was tickling her nose with a piece of straw, lightly
touching it and just as suddenly, pulling it away, making her
laugh. That laugh.
    Will pushed himself up on one elbow. His
forehead felt sore and he brushed it with his hand. He felt a lump,
and examined the palm of his hand. There was blood.
    “Where … what?”
    “Ah,” said Harold from the comfort of his
bed. “Alive at last, young Will.”
    “What happened?”
    “Do you want the long version, or the short
version?”
    “Any version. Just tell me what
happened.”
    “Well, basically, you consumed lots of
ale.”
    “And ..?”
    “Which somewhat retarded your debating skills
…”
    “Debating?”
    “Yes, debating. To reply to the ungenerous
gentleman who, in a similarly debilitated state, commented that in
a perverse switch of the usual roles of nature, you had been taken
to the altar by an older woman. That is, you were
cradle-snatched.”
    “So I debated this?”
    “No, no. That’s what I’m saying. Your
debating skills had been dimmed by the ale.”
    “And so?”
    “So you elected to resolve it with your
fisticuffs skills. But, alas, they were similarly hobbled by your
intake of the Stratford Arms’ finest brew.”
    “So that’s how I got this bump on the
head.”
    “He belted you, my dear baby boy!”
    “The baby!” said Will suddenly shaking his
head. “Why didn’t you take me home!”
    “Will, you were indescribably drunk,
bloodied, dirty from being flung in the street, and smelling of
cow-shit where you landed. You were aggressive, nasty, and trying
to thump anyone who came near you. Charles and I made an executive
decision to carry you home here - after you mercifully passed
out.”
    “Passed out?”
    “Believe me, you were in no condition to be
hanging around a birth.”
    Will staggered to his feet, clutching his
head, stepped across the bodies on the floor and rushed out the
door.
    He ran the streets and lanes to the
leather-works, pushing people out of the way, swearing to himself
and feeling sickness rising to his throat through the excess of
alcohol and the realisation of what he had done.
    He reached the doorway breathless, threw up
over the steps, and went to the bottom of the rickety stairs to the
garret. A stopped, grey-haired old man, with a kindly wrinkled
face, one of John Shakespeare’s veteran leading hands, stopped
him.
    “I would take it easy, if I were you, young
Will,” he said calmly.
    Will looked at the old man’s gentle face, and
looked down at himself. He was filthy, bloodied and he smelled of
shit and vomit. “Is the … has she ..?”
    “You have a son,” said the old man.
    “Praise the Lord,” whispered Will.
    “And a daughter as well.”
    “Yes, I know I have a daughter!”
    “No, no, no. A daughter this time, too.”
    “You mean …”
    The old man nodded. “There are two
babies.”
    “Twins!” said Will, his red eyes opening as
wide as his shocking condition would allow them. “We’ve had twins!
Holy Jesus.”
    He began to stagger up the stairs, wiping the
vomit from his mouth and the blood from his head as he went. But if
he felt that his behaviour would be overlooked, or ameliorated by
the unexpected arrival of an extra baby, or that people would look
kindly upon this because he had put up with such a miserable
existence through most of his marriage, then he was wrong.
    When he got to the top of the stairs, he
looked down the far end of the garret to see Anne in bed holding
two little bundles wrapped in white