The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman Read Free

whichever form one prays with. But the quarrels of religions tear apart not only nations, but families and young lovers too.
    The squire could well do with my Judith’s dowry, and our family with the alliance to his, but I will not marry my daughter to a lad who is fool enough not just to pine for a blacksmith’s daughter, but to kiss her in the daylight where spying eyes like mine can see and make gossip thrust and stab about the town.
    Gossip is more sharp than any sword. It was gossip scalded my Susanna, saying she had a foul disease, disproved in court. She almost fell to gossip’s flames when for a while she refused to take Easter communion as the King commanded. But by God’s grace she soon repented, met Dr Hall, a man strong in Protestant faith, and all was well. Gossip was the weapon the alderman wielded more than forty years ago. His gossip could make our family outcasts.
    I can still see him clearer than the tapestry upon my wall. He turned to look at me as I came in from school that day, a thin man in rusty black, a bearskin cloak and tarnished chain of office.
    Our hall smelt of the rich comfort of leather stretching on the benches, kidskin, doeskin, calf, deer, lambswool and even chamois from France, as well as the pottage for ourdinner still steaming on the hearth. A craftsman’s hall is his family’s home. Yet today the gloves my father had been embroidering sat on his stool, abandoned. Mother seemed to have vanished like a ghost upon the light. Nor did the guest have even a tankard of ale, or bread to sop in it.
    â€˜William, away!’ said my father sharply.
    I stared at him. I was used to Father’s bear hugs when I came home from school. I bowed and backed away.
    â€˜Let the boy stay,’ the alderman pronounced.
    â€˜I would prefer —’ began my father.
    â€˜Let the son hear what his father has done.’
    The alderman spoke as if Father were a common woodcutter. Father was chief alderman, and had been high bailiff too. How could a mere councilman treat him like this?
    â€˜Soon the whole town will know your crime. Why not your son?’ The alderman gazed at me, a minnow in a muddy pool. ‘Your father is guilty of the foul sin of usury. He must pay the fine or go to prison. Till then he is excommunicated and may not go to church.’ Was there a faint smile on the thin lips as the alderman added, ‘By next Sunday all Stratford will know your family’s shame’?
    Prison? Father? No longer allowed in church? It was as if the swans on the river had picked up their white skirts and danced. What was usury?
    â€˜I will pay the fine by the week’s end,’ said Father quietly. ‘There is no need for this matter to be made an amusement for the town. Will you stay to dine with us, sir?’
    The councilman did smile then, the smile of a man who laughs as others are cut down. ‘When the fine is paid, you may dine with Christian men. I will not sup in a usurer’s hall till then.’
    I watched the door slam behind him. Father sat slowly on his chair by the fire, where the light was best on rainy days for sewing gloves. I stood uncertain. It was as if the earth trembled like water. Father not allowed to go to church? Every Christian went to church, even the papists, who, it was whispered, went to mass secretly as well.
    â€˜Father?’ My voice was a mouse’s squeak.
    He did not speak.
    Most sons never dare ask their father questions, but Father had always answered mine. Where did the jet beads that are sewn onto the gloves come from? Where did the swallows fly to in autumn? Now I ventured, ‘Father, what is usury?’
    It hurt to see his face shame-clouded, his bright eyes turned rain with gathering tears. ‘Usury is lending money and asking high interest. It is a sin for any Christian, and as a Christian I must pay for it. And yet I believed I did good, not harm!’
    â€˜Who did you lend the money to,