On November 27, 1582, the Worcester archives show a grant for a marriage license for one Anne Whateley and her groom, Wm Shaxpere. Yet several days later, William Shakespeare married a pregnant Anne Hathaway. Harper's slack latest takes this mystery as its subject, imagining Anne Whateley as Shakespeare's only true love. Friends from childhood driven apart by their families' antipathy, Will and Anne rediscover each other as they come of age, and the young lovers plan to wed in spite of their families' disapproval. When Will is forced into marriage with Anne Hathaway, Anne Whateley flees to London and throws herself into her family's business, but the two reunite when Will arrives in London, and Anne becomes his tireless promoter. The novel's chief pleasures derive from the easy intersection of Shakespeare's work, the history of Elizabethan England and the life that the author imagines Shakespeare might have had. Though the Bard's language infuses the story with life, the emotions underlying the lovers' ruptures and reunions feel repetitive, and because there is never any question about how the romance plays out, the central narrative feels flat. (Feb.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Mistress Shakespeareby Karen Harper
A bold and intriguing novel about the woman who was William Shakespeare's secret wife, by the national bestselling author.
As historical records show, Anne Whateley of Temple Grafton was betrothed to William Shakespeare just days before he was forced to wed the pregnant Anne Hathaway. Here, Anne Whateley takes up her pen to tell the intimate story of her/b>… See more details below
A bold and intriguing novel about the woman who was William Shakespeare's secret wife, by the national bestselling author.
As historical records show, Anne Whateley of Temple Grafton was betrothed to William Shakespeare just days before he was forced to wed the pregnant Anne Hathaway. Here, Anne Whateley takes up her pen to tell the intimate story of her daring life with Will. Obliged to acknowledge Will's publicly sanctioned marriage, Anne Whateley nevertheless follows him from rural Stratford-Upon-Avon to teeming London, where they honor their secret union, the coming together of two passionate souls. Persecution and plague, insurrection and inferno, friends and foes all play parts in Anne's lively tale.
Spanning half a century of Elizabethan and Jacobean history, and sweeping from the lowest reaches of society to the royal court, this richly textured novel tells the real story of Shakespeare in love.
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Read an Excerpt
LONDON, FEBRUARY 10, 1601
When I opened my door at mid-morn and saw the strange boy, Ishould have known something was wrong. I'd been on edge for threedays, not only because of the aborted rebellion against the queen, butbecause Will and I were at such odds over it—and over our ownrelationship.
"You be Mistress Anne Whateley?"
My stomach knotted. The boy was no street urchin but was wellattired and sported a clean face and hands. "Who wants to know?" Iasked as he extended something to me. He must have a missive sayingsomeone was ill. Or dead. Or, God save us, arrested.
"'Tis a tie from a fine pair of sleeves meant for you with othergarments too, once adorning Her Majesty's person," he recited ina high, singsong voice as he placed a willow-green velvet ribbonlaced with gold thread in my hand. In faith, it was beautiful workmanship.
"Didn't want me carrying all that through the streets," he added.
"'Tis all waiting for you at the Great Wardrobe nearby."
"I know where that is, lad, but have you not mistook me foranother? I have naught to do with the queen's wardrobe."
"Three figured brocade gowns, two fine sleeves with points andribbon ties, a butterfly ruff and velvet cloak for the Lord Chamberlain'splayers to use at the Globe Theatre. Since they be busy today, Iam to fetch you to receive the garb."
Of late certain nobles had given me donated garments to pass onto Will's fellows. I'd done many things for the players behind thescenes, as they put it. I'd once helped with costumes, and that at courttoo. In the disastrous performance but three days ago, I'd held thebook and prompted the players. I'd copied rolls for Will and his fellowsas well as taken his dictation. Many knew I had helped to providethe fine cushions that padded the hard wooden seats beneaththe bums of earls and countesses who graced the expensive galleryseats at the Globe. So mayhap the word was out that I was the Jack—or Jill—of all trades at the Globe.
Yet things from the queen's wardrobe? It was said she had morethan two thousand gowns, so I supposed she could spare a few. TheShakespeare and Burbage company had performed before the courtboth at Whitehall and Richmond, but after the catastrophe of theEssex Rebellion, three days ago, Her Grace was donating personalpieces to them? Surely, she had heard that they had staged Will'sRichard II, a play some whispered had intentionally incited the rebellionagainst her throne.
I'd told Will—another of our arguments—that promoting thattragedy at that time could be not only foolhardy but fatal, so thankthe good Lord the Virgin Queen valued her favorite plays and players.The promised garments must be an olive branch extended tothem. At least this would prove to Will once and for all somethingelse I'd argued for years. Elizabeth Tudor was a magnanimousmonarch, not one who should be dethroned or dispatched beforeGod Himself took the sixty-seven-year-old ruler from this life."One moment," I told the boy. "I must fetch my cloak, for thewind blows chill."
And blows ill, I thought, as I put away the pages of As You Like It,so-called a comedy, for it was larded with serious stuff. Will and I hadbeen feuding over what was love, and I was looking at a copy of hisrole as Jaques, the part he'd written for himself. Like this character,Will had been "Monsieur Melancholy" lately and, looking closer atJaques' lines, I'd been appalled by what I'd found. And though Willand I were not speaking right now, I meant to take it up with him too.More than once he'd stripped our tortured love bare for all London tosee, devil take the man, and he meant to do it again in this play!
"We're off straightaway then," the lad called over his shoulder asI followed him out the door into the courtyard. I lived in the largeBlackfriars precinct, but it was still a goodly walk to the Wardrobe.Ever since I'd set foot in London eighteen years before, I'd loved thisarea and Will did too. When we were young and even more foolishthan we were now at thirty-six years of age, Blackfriars was our fantasticalplace. We'd oft pretended we owned a fine brick mansion setlike a jewel in green velvet gardens among homes of the queen'snoblemen and gentry.
And to think that Gloriana herself had dined at Blackfriars earlierthis year in the Earl of Worcester's house! She'd been met at the riverand carried up the hill on a palanquin, I recalled with a sigh. AtBlackfriars too the queen's noble cousin, the Lord Chamberlain, theplayers' patron, lived in elegant style in Hunsdon House. Maybe, Ithought, his lordship had put in a good word for Will and his menin this Essex mess, so the queen had decided not only to forgive thembut to reward them.
Still hieing myself along apace with the boy down the public streetedging the area, I had to watch where I stepped to avoid the reekycentral gutter and the occasional pan of slop thrown from upperwindows. Others were abroad, but the streets still seemed greatlyforsaken in the wake of the ruined rebellion. The half-timbered facadesand their thatched brows frowned down on us, making thenarrow streets even more oppressive.
We entered through the eastern gatehouse I so admired. As ever,I craned my neck to savor the venerable grandeur of its three stories.Its diamond-paned windows gazed like winking eyes over the citywith fine views of mansions and their great privy gardens, old BridewellPalace across the Fleet to the west, the city walls and even thebustling Thames.
Will and I had once found the gatehouse's lower door ajar. Holdinghands, we'd tiptoed up the twisting stairs. Standing stripped ofgoods, the rooms were being whitewashed for new owners. Suchnarrow but elegant, sunny chambers!
"Next time 'tis offered, I'll buy it for you," Will had promisedgrandly, though he had but three pounds to his name after sendingmoney back to Stratford.
"Says you, the dreamer, my marvelous maker of fine fictions," I'dretorted. But our lovemaking had been very real, and I yet treasuredthe memory. Nor, I told myself, would I forget this one, for I'd neverbeen inside the vast structure that housed the queen's wardrobe, thatwhich was not of immediate need and kept at Whitehall Palace.
I'd adored Elizabeth of England from the first moment I'd seenher, gorgeously gowned, on a white horse, when I was but eleven andshe'd come to visit her favorite, the Earl of Leicester, near my homein Warwickshire.
The boy led me round the corner into an alcove hidden from thestreet. He knocked thrice upon it.
"Do you serve Her Majesty?" I asked while we waited.
"I serve those who serve her," he said only.
I meant to question him further, but the door creaked open andan old woman with face wrinkles like cobwebs stood there with hersleeves rolled up. She wore a broadcloth apron as if she were tendinga kitchen. "Follow me," she said, not waiting for introduction orcomment. The boy did not enter with us but closed the door behindme. It thudded nearly as loud as the beating of my heart, which Itold myself was only from our quick pace and my excitement to seethis place.
"Farthingales here. Watch your head," the old woman muttered.I trailed her through a narrow alleyway of swinging metal hoops,like lonely bird cages, over which the queen's elaborate kirtles andpetticoats would be draped. We plunged down an alley of sweetsmellingsleeves arranged by color, though the limited lantern lightmade the rich tawny, ruby and ivory hues all seem dusky. Bonedbodices came next, then an aisle of fur-edged capes and robes. Of asudden, the sweet scent of lime and lavender from the garmentschanged to some sharp smell that made me sneeze.
"Camphor to keep out moths," my guide said.
I jammed a finger under my nose to halt a torrent of sneezes. Themaze deepened: swags of green and white Tudor bunting lined theway, then dusty, draped flags and battle banners. Suddenly, my stomachclenched with foreboding. Why would not the garments to begiven me simply be ready at the door? We seemed to have passedfrom attire to military materials. As we rounded the next corner, myworst fears leaped at me from the shadows.
Within a dimly lit grotto of garments, behind a small portabletable sat a man simply but finely attired all in black; his amber eyesshone flatly, like an adder's. It took me but a moment to realize Iknew him—that is, I knew who he was. I had glimpsed him at courtthe time the players had taken me with them. His hunchback formwas unmistakable. For months, the whole city had talked of naughtbut the bloodless battles between this man and the Earl of Essex. Ifhe was here to see me—or I to see him—I dreaded to know why.
Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury, the queen's closest councillorand chief secretary, was the avowed enemy of Elizabeth's former favoredcourtier, Robert Devereaux, Lord Essex, and his compatriotthe Earl of Southampton, the men who had led the rebellion againsther. It was through Cecil that the two earls had been arrested andrightly so. It was through Cecil that Will's patron, the Earl of Southampton,was being held prisoner in the Tower under the same terriblecharges as his friend Essex.
"That is all," Cecil spoke to the woman, who scurried away.I remembered to curtsy. I was pleased it was quite a steady onebecause my legs were starting to shake. I saw we were not alone; twomen—guards or secretaries?—sat at another table off to my left side.Had I been snared in a trap baited with the promise of royal garmentsonly to be summoned to an inquisition?
"I do indeed have the pieces of cast-off wardrobe for the playersyou were promised, Mistress Whateley," Cecil said as if he'd read mymind. "I do not speak untruths or half-truths, and I pray you will noteither. I must inform you that, since Her Majesty much enjoys thetalents of the Globe's players, I can only hope they will be able toremain at large to put the royal items to good use as costumes in theirdramas."
After that initial assault, I could scarce catch my air. The memoryof my dear, doomed girlhood friend Kat leaped into my mind's eye,for I felt like that—trapped, floating face up, exposed, bereft of help,hope or even breath.
"Fetch a seat for Mistress Whateley, Thompson," Cecil said, anda man jumped to obey. It was some sort of folding camp stool. Iperched poised on the edge, telling myself to sit erect and to showcalm and confidence no matter what befell. Oh, yes, I could be aplayer too. And I was not such a country maid that I did not knowthis was to be a war of wits, and that this one the rabble called RobertusDiabolus—Robert the Devil—had the upper hand.
I tried to buck myself up: however much at odds Will and I werenow, had I not been so close to him and the players that I was wellarmed with clever turns of phrase? I knew how to listen well for cuesbefore responding. Yet this was the man who had inherited Sir FrancisWalsingham's dreaded web of intelligencers, who had broughtdown the lofty likes of Essex and Southampton and had made mincemeatof lesser men and women like Will's kin.
"Thank you for your consideration, my lord," I said before hecould speak again. The words, too many, I warrant, tumbled from mymouth. "For the seat, I mean, but I am also grateful for the gift ofHer Majesty's cast-off garments to the Lord Chamberlain's Men, notonly for them but for myself—to be able to merely care for them. Weall honor our queen."
"Do we all?" he parried. "Mistress, I need straight answers fromyou. I have not hauled in the players themselves—yet—because Icannot abide prevarications or histrionics offstage. I have it on goodauthority you are forthright and have spoken your mind to the Globe'sactors. And I will have you speak plainly here."
"Of course, my lord, but I cannot see why we must meet in sucha place, away from others—"
"I did not think," he interrupted, "knowing Will Shakespeare asintimately as you do, a covert meeting was something new to you."My insides lurched. He knew about me and Will. How much didhe know, from how far back? He must be punning upon the wordknowing in the biblical sense and be aware that Will and I had metsecretly off and on for years. And worse, that I had been questionedonce before by someone from Her Majesty's government about whereWill Shakespeare's loyalties lay.
I fought to compose my features. Our eyes met and held. His facewas not uncomely, but he was so misshapen in bodily form it was saidthe queen called him her Pygmy. I knew of nicknames that couldsting, for I was of half-Italian blood and had oft been called Gypsyor Egyptian.
Cecil's enemies called him simply the Hunchback, and duringthe rebellion, someone had scrawled on his front door, in a nearquote from Will's description of the hunchback King Richard III,HERE LIES THE TOAD! I well knew that playwrights had been imprisoned,tortured and killed for slanders stuck on doors in London."Let me speak plain, mistress," he said when I did not flinch underhis gaze and did not respond again. "It is well known that Shakespeareand his fellow players performed The Tragedy of King RichardII, at the behest of the Earl of Essex and his dear friend-in-armsSouthampton, just before the recent rebellion. I am certain I need nottell such a devoted friend of the playwright that scenes are in thatdrama that advocate the overthrow of a sitting monarch by a favoriteof the English crowds."
"It's just a play, my lord, employing the past and hardly predictingthe future." I saw where he was going now but had no notion of howbest to navigate the dangers. "Indeed, the Lord Chamberlain's Menwere paid a goodly sum for performing it," I continued. "They hadno political statement to make, but simply needed the money, fortypieces of silver, so—"
"It should have been thirty pieces of silver!" he exploded, smackinghis palm on his table, making it jump and shudder. "They are Judases,as much favor as Her Grace has shown them! And, yes, mistress, Ihear you repeat the name of the Lord Chamberlain, as they bear thequeen's cousin's name as patron. But," he said thrusting up both handswhen he saw me ready to protest, "I know Will Shakespeare's breadis buttered on the other side too, for he's been cozy with Southamptonfor years, and the Shakespeare family has a convoluted, questionablepast as Catholics and rebels!"
I was dumbfounded. He knew about Will's beginnings, familyconnections, his life from the earliest days. Then he could ruin Willwith this—ruin me too.
"All I can tell you of my Warwickshire friend Will Shakespeare inall this," I said, fighting again to control my voice, "is that he praysthat your lordship and Her Gracious Majesty will spare the life ofhis friend and sponsor the Earl of Southampton. He merely did afavor for him and for the needed money. He meant no politicalstatement."
I was lying and I felt myself begin a fiery blush from the tip of myears to my throat. I could only pray that the tawny hue of my skinhid that. And here I was fighting for Will when I could have strangledhim with my bare hands but three days ago.
"Both earls' coming trials will decide all that," Cecil said, "but wecan hardly claim that poets and playwrights are above such politicalfrays, can we? Praying we forgive Southampton, that's what he's beenup to, eh? More like, London's favorite playwright has been writingsomething else to stir up sedition. Ben Jonson went to the Marshalseaprison five years ago for a slanderous play," he went on, jabbing afinger at me like a scolding schoolmaster. "Thomas Kyd was questionedunder extreme duress and, sadly, died soon after. ChristopherMarlowe—"
"Was supposedly accidentally stabbed in a tavern brawl," I daredto interrupt. My Italian blood was up; I could not help myself. Atleast he seemed not to know of my past with Southampton or Marloweeither. "And," I plunged on, "it was said Marlowe was an informerfor Sir Francis Walsingham, so I'm not sure what it behoovesone to be an informer, as it's whispered his demise could have beenan assassination and not an accident!"
"Ah," he said, and his mouth crimped in either annoyanceor amusement. "The beauty does have hidden fangs as well as aclever brain."
We stared at each other in a stalemate but hardly, I thought, atruce. Air from an unseen source shifted a battle banner behind hishead. One of Jaques' lines from As You Like It leaped through mymind to taunt me: "The worst fault you have is to be in love."With a shudder up my spine, I realized then what I said in thenext few moments could save Will or damn him to torture, imprisonmentor even death.
"But tell me," Cecil said, leaning on his elbows and steepling hislong-fingered hands before his mouth, "before we go on, exactly whatis William Shakespeare to you? Here you are, an exotic woman, atempting vixen, when he has a wife and family back in Stratford-Upon-the-Avon. Tell me true, Mistress Anne Whateley, what is theman to you?"
That, I thought, was the question. For nearly two decades, sinceeven before the day he'd publicly, legally wed Anne Hathaway, I'd notonly loved but loathed William Shakespeare to the very breadth anddepth of my being. What was he to me and I to him? God's truth, inmy pierced and patched heart, I, Anne Rosaline Whateley, was aboveall else, the first Mistress Shakespeare, Will's other wife.
THE HISTORY OF ANNE ROSALINE WHATELEY
I would not have anyone believe I am untutored nor ignorantof how one's life's story is commonly constructed. I admit theprevious scene of dialogue with Robert Cecil in London is nottruly a prologue, for much of what I will write next camebefore. After all, an old adage says, "What's past is prologue."But you see, that confrontation with Cecil caused me tosearch my soul to record my life. What, indeed, am I to Willand to others? What and who am I to myself?
Having inspired characters in Will's plays and workedclosely with him in many ways—ah, both of us love to rhyme—I have decided to arrange the events of my story as if it were afive-act play, that is, divided into the major parts of my life andstory. As Will wrote for a play last year, "All the world's a stageand all the men and women merely players." And since I havethe London playhouses and their people in my blood as fiercelyas does he, I shall relate my narrative in such a pattern.
This tale will reveal not only my life but Will's, so entwinedare our plots, so to speak. Sometimes I fear his rivals will consignhis work to oblivion, or that theatrical tastes may shift yetagain and judge him of no account, or that plague or the pratingPuritans will shut down the playhouses permanently. If so,I pray this account will let others know him and his work evenbetter—and justify my part in his life too.
The rendering of my thoughts, emotions and experiences ispart comedy and part tragedy as well as history, for life is sucha mingling. And so, I write this report of the woman bornAnne Rosaline Whateley, she who both detested and adored aman named William Shakespeare.
Meet the Author
Karen Harper is a New York Times– and USA Today–bestselling author whose novels, both historical and contemporary, have been published worldwide. A former college and high school English instructor, Harper now lives in Columbus, Ohio, and Naples, Florida, and frequently travels around the country to promote her books and speak about writing.
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George Santayana warned leaders and citizens alike, "Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it." Karen Harper's Will Shakespeare goes one step further with a quote that deeply resonates throughout this novel narrated by his "real" wife, Anne Whateley, "The past is prologue. All is true."
Beginning with a youthful romance and secret wedding, Anne records her love/hate relationship with Will as he struggles to escape the glove-maker trade and become a poet/playwright in a world that sharply degrades and damns the latter trade. But creativity and love are the the true prologue that unites Will and Anne through multiple tragedies such as the suicide death of a beloved friend, Kat, over lost love; the death of Anne's father; Will's forced, loveless marriage to Anne Hathaway; and far too numerous other family member deaths.
Readers will enter the world of Queen Elizabeth I, the Gloriana monarch revered by Anne but mistrusted by Will. For it is widely believed that the Queen's Players, the dramatists Thomas Kyd, Ben Jonson, John Lyly, George Peele and especially Christopher Marlowe are perhaps spies for the monarch in one way or another. Still their talent places them in the forefront of Will's competition as he slowly but surely earns his fame as poet and playwright in his own right. The Earl of Southampton becomes Will's patron through Anne's mediation, a relationship that becomes a liability when the Earl's relationship connects him to the political rebellion led by the Earl of Essex.
These glorious pages teem with the creative process Will and Anne share in writing and producing Will's famous plays, beginning with Love's Labour's Lost, written for Anne, a tribute and tragic look at their relationship. Friends are innumerable who help Will obtain the monies he needs to begin his literary career which flourishes. Anne and Will survive the devastating Black Plague and the treachery of former friends and foes.
The tension never lags in this most tempestuous relationship fraught with fear of discovery and jealousy, the conflicts a catalyst for even more vibrant, vivacious plays and poetry that thrill and entrance theatre-lovers from the Queen and subsequent King James to the majority of common English citizens.
Yes, history is prologue, building and forging historical and personal relationships that endure because of Will and Anne Whateley's writing, a searing sword piercing every thought, word and deed to expose the truth defining the essence of human beings.
Mistress Shakespeare is a beautiful, well-plotted, intricately characterized novel that will become a classic for sure of superb historical fiction!
Reviewed by Viviane Crystal on February 16, 2009
Anne Whatley and William Shakespeare have been friends since childhood. On 27 November 1582 a marriage license in Latin between Anne Whateley and Wm Shaxpere is issued in nearby Worcester, England. However, their respective families object to their relationship. A few days later William Shakespeare and pregnant Anne Hathaway wed.
To escape from the reminders of her broken heart Anne flees to London. She occupies her mind with the family business. When Will comes to town, they meet up with both still attracted to one another, but he is a married man. Still Anne becomes Will¿s ardent advocate of his work and though their departures are sweet sorrows their reunions are passionate.
This is an intriguing biographical fiction that indirectly looks at Shakespeare¿s life through Anne Whatley¿s lens by combining fact and what if fiction. The story line provides a focus on the Elizabethan Era especially from the viewpoint of artists and their patrons. Although the romantic plot lacks suspense as there is only so much poetic license an author can take to fill gaps and reach the known end, fans will enjoy this solid glimpse into Shakespeare in love.
Wonderful and intriging, cant wait to start my next Karen Harper novel
What could've been a smoldering story of love, betrayal, religious and political strife in Elizabethan England just turned out to be a tepid book on the "wronged" mistress of William Shakespeare. Making Anne Hathaway an awful wife didn't endear me to "talented" and beautiful Anne Whateley. The glamorization of adultery, by painting the wife with hideous colors and by trying to convince us that the other woman is more deserving, has never worked for me. And I found it particularly irksome in this novel. It's not such a bad book, but it's not good either. Get it if it's on sale and you'll pay less than you would for a magazine. That's why I didn't regret buying it because it was really cheap.
I thoroughly loved this book. I've read lots of historical fiction and it goes without saying that some authors are better than others in creating a plausible and exciting story around a few known facts. It's my first reading of this authors work and with so few reviews i knew i was taking a risk but bought it anyway because i love reading stories about this period in history and more importantly, it was on the bargain page and I have no regrets! Mistress Shakespear has not only inspired me to read other books by her it has inspired me to dig up my Shakespear plays and try again to read them. The love story she imagines between Will and Anne is believable in that it was at times romantic and loving and at other times frustrating and impossible. The pacing is good there is plenty of suspense and i just loved it! I read it three days despite having to work. If I'd started it Sunday morning I'd have easily finished it by dinnertime.
Wanted to love this book as I love Shakespeare's works and anything describing Elizabethian times. And historical fiction usually intrigues me. i.e., Even if the writing is not the best, I'll still finish usually finish a historical fiction novel because I want to know how the author envisioned this "filling in" of the blanks or "alternate" universe. However, other than a few "gems" of insight every so often, I couldn't get into this particular story, even though the premise is one I usually love, and ended up putting it down in favor of another on my e-bookshelf. Maybe I'll try to finish it later....
I would suggest this read before you start to read his works..I would think you would enjoy and understand his style and art form allot easier than just jumping into "Shakespeare".. Very good book and very enjoyable...