I'll take your horse, sir.
Bring me some ale, boy, please.
We heard a theater burnt, sir.
Which one was it?
Mine.
You're Shakespeare, the poet.
- You tell stories. - I used to.
I had a story, but it was never finished.
Will you finish it for me, please?
I'm done with stories, lad. I wouldn't know how to finish yours.
Yes, you would.
Good night, husband.
Twenty years, Will.
We've seen you less and less.
To us, you're a guest.
And a guest must have the best bed.
Rest well.
I always thought he'd end his life in London. It's where he lived.
Doesn't matter where he lived or dies. All that matters is who will be his heir.
I am his heir. And our daughter, Elizabeth, after me.
Not if your sister gives him a grandson.
Or we do.
I was thinking perhaps I could make a garden.
We've got a garden.
I know, but not a kitchen garden or a flower garden.
A special garden for Hamnet.
Hamnet's in paradise. He doesn't need a garden.
Perhaps I do.
Bit of a change from making plays in London.
Well, in some ways, Maria. In others, really rather similar.
Similar? I don't see how.
Well...
like today, we take the measure of our stage.
A garden ain't a play.
Yes, but play, garden, loaf,
like the ones you bake every morning,
all of them begin with an idea,
from a compulsion to...
create something of beauty or of need.
Bread begins with yeast and flour.
Exactly. Ingredients. Now you're getting me.
Bushes, brambles, yeast, flour, verses, players,
and they all need a dream which will not be denied,
and which must weather all kinds of adversity,
because the weather will turn, the bugs will infest,
the oven will cool, the yeast will sour,
and in my case, your fellow workers,
like a brilliant lunatic actor called Dick Burbage, will interfere,
and they will demand a bigger show for a smaller budget,
and a shorter play with a much longer part for him,
and all of these trials must be overcome
without ever losing sight of the dream itself.
And what does it feel like when all of that works?
Well, what does freshly baked bread smell like?
What on earth are you doing here?
Now, here's what I need you not to pee on.
This is what you don't pee on, and this is what you don't pee on here.
Husband!
Thank you.
Digging up roots is heavy work.
You'll find that.
I once uprooted an entire forest
and moved it across the stage to Dunsinane.
Well, it's a bit different in real life.
He showed such promise, Anne.
You scarcely knew him.
I knew him through his poems.
- Well, you say "poems." - Well, poems, yes.
Childish scribble, perhaps,
but wit and mischief in every line.
Well, he'll write no more.
No.
And nor will I.
It's not Hamnet you mourn. It's yourself.
I mourn my son.
Now.
You mourn him now.
At the “me, you wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor.
Yes, I did.
Well, it's an adjustment.
She must learn to be a wife once more.
My husband thinks you've come home to die.
Really?
I've just bought a pension.
I can't die for at least 10 years, or I'll be ruined.
So why are you come home?
No more stories left to write?
Susanna, I've lived so long in imaginary worlds,
I think I've lost sight of what is real.
What is true.
Judith says, "Nothing is true."
Judith is 28 and a spinster.
That is true.
When Father dies, I shall be destitute.
No, child.
A third of his fortune comes to me while I live.
While you live.
You're older than him, remember?
Well, Susanna will never see you want.
Susanna will obey her husband.
I will get nothing.
Which is what I deserve.
Judith.
If you can't forgive yourself...
how do you expect God to forgive you?
I don't.
I ran here to this greenwood pond
on the day I was sacked from the school.
I know, Father.
You know, the son of an alderman has a free education,
but the son of a thief...
I thought my world had ended.
But I loved this place.
And you children loved it too.
Yes.
Yeah, well, we came here every day.
- Although Hamnet never went in the water. - No.
He wasn't bold like Judith.
Or even... Even me.
But his mind was bold.
I remember he brought me here once
to show me what he had written.
I told him then...
that I was the proudest father in the kingdom.
I still am.
Here, sweetheart.
- Your father's mind is on his legacy. - Your mind is on his legacy.
And therefore must be yours.
I'm your husband,
and what concerns me concerns you.
It's good, darling.
Eat some more.
Thank you.
Husband! It's Sunday!
Sunday?
This isn't London.
If you miss church here, they'll fine you.
Good morning.
I'm pleased to see you.
Shakespeare.
Another Sunday, and still you occupy your family pew.
I pray you'll never be obliged to vacate it,
as your father was.
I am not my father, Sir Thomas.
I joy to see you dig, sir.
At last, given up on your plays to distract the mob from our Lord.
Does the lark's song distract you from your God, John?
Of course not.
It is evidence of God.
Well, then, perhaps for some...
I was the lark.
Came to ask a favor, Father-in-Law,
but I'm loath to distract a man from his labors.
Will you call when you're done with your garden?
- Yes, I shall call, John. - Thank you.
Susanna is well, yes?
- She's well, sir. Thank you. - And Elizabeth?
- Also well, sir. Thank you. - Good.
- I’m glad to hear it. - Yes.
Yes.
Thank you, John.
Good day to you, Mrs. Hall.
Tell your sister I have a fine Rhenish wine delivered,
and she may have a bottle gratis,
for just a single smile.
I'll tell her, Tom.
- Morning, Lena. - Good morning, Mrs. Hall.
Package for you. Frank.
I'm sorry.
Mercurium, Mrs. Hall?
My husband is a doctor.
She said the parcel was for you.
Morning, Kate.
- Good day to you, Mr. Smith. - Mrs. Hall.
I need cloth.
A loose weave, to make a summer dress, black.
Black? For summer?
Perhaps this blue?
My husband does not approve of fancy stuff.
If your husband had his way, Mrs. Hall, my shop would be a very dull place.
All in mourning, and nobody dead.
Our Savior wore only simple cloth,
and he was divine.
As are you, Susanna, in any cloth.
Mr. Smith...
I am a married woman.
Unhappily-
That is not...
I should tell my husband.
Will you?
He knows.
Susanna.
Our neighbor's dog has taken a great interest in my gardening.
John Hall has asked for my help to remove the vicar.
I thought he knew me better.
- Well, he thinks you like him. - I’m a good actor.
And I try to like him, for Susanna's sake, but John is...
An hypocritical shit?
A Puritan.
That's funny, isn't it?
A Puritan who wants to close all the theaters
will get all of William Shakespeare's estate?
Well, don't you think that's funny?
I think that's funny.
For what it's worth, Judith,
I have no intention of leaving my estate to John Hall.
No. No, you'll leave it to the sainted Susanna,
and by law, her property is his,
As is her body. For all the use he makes of it.
Oh, you are grown hard, Judith.
There was a time when you were such a simple, joyful soul.
Was I, Father? And when was that?
Was that before Hamnet died? Is that it?
Is it before Hamnet died and I survived?
- Judith. - Well, it's what he thinks.
Every single time he reads one of them bloody poems,
which aren't even that good,
he thinks, "Why did she survive and not him?"
You know, "The golden boy's gone, and you know what?
I'm just left with a girl.
A useless, pointless girl.
Oh, she was a pretty thing once, that girl.
She was a simple, joyful soul, that girl,
but you want to look at her now, she's an angry bitch,
still hanging around.
Why did the wrong twin die?"
Well, thank you for our supper, Anne.
I never said an unkind word. I never gave her cause.
You spent so long putting words into other people's mouths,
you think it only matters what is said.
Sir Thomas, I...
The Puritans protest against the old ways.
Some of you resent this, I know.
But I charge you, remember Corinthians.
These good Christians act from an honest faith.
They are upright citizens.
- They are decent, pious-- - Are they, Mr. Woolmer?
Are they? Or are they fornicators?!
I have seen Susanna Hall creep from her husband's house
to Rafe Smith's chamber in the night.
- This slander will be answered! - This slander will be proved!
You'll no more tell us how to save our souls, Dr. Hall.
Not while your Puritan wives fornicate worse than whores!
I've instructed my lawyers. We shall sue for slander.
- A public trial? - It's a public slander.
John Lane is a dangerous man.
We can be sure he did not stage his attack without some idea of how to prove it.
- Prove it? - How can you ask?
Because your husband fears he can.
I mean, I fear he has constructed a convincing lie.
Well, now, what a disaster.
And that it should befall such a fine and blameless family as ours.
The Shakespeares will not be ruined twice.
Bring forth the accused.
John Lane is not here, Your Honor.
- Not here? - He has disappeared.
Susanna Shakespeare has been most foully used.
In his absence, John Lane is found guilty of slander
and excommunicated!
Why?
Why did this man slander our Susanna?
My guess is to damage her husband.
John Hall is a Puritan,
and he would make Holy Trinity and all the town likewise.
John Lane, on the other hand, likes his cakes and ale.
Then why did he not attend court and press his case'?
I...
discussed the matter with him.
Discussed? Discussed what?
I asked him if he'd ever seen Titus Andronicus.
What do I know of plays?
Get away from me.
I'll see you and your whore daughter in court.
Well, I'll tell you, it concerns, amongst other things,
a Moorish villain named Aaron,
and the African who played him was magnificent and terrifying.
To kill a man, or else devise his death,
To ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,
Set deadly enmity between two friends,
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and haystacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors.
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more!
I have seen that man
tear the heart from a fool that wronged him.
But he could be tender, too, this extraordinary man.
And one day, his wild heart was tamed,
and he loved my daughter.
Susanna?
Yes, but their love could never be, of course.
But he swore that if ever she had need of him,
then his sword, his claws and his teeth would be hers,
either to defend her or to kill for her.
Now, should I inform him of Susanna's current distress?
Will, I saw Titus.
Aaron was played by the sweetest chap you'd ever hope to meet.
He was a lovely fellow. But John Lane doesn't know that,
and I've never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
Do you think there's any truth in...
In what Lane says about Susanna?
Well...
There is coldness between them.
We've seen that.
It's five years since they had a child.
She knows this Rafe Smith.
And she did send to London for mercury. Mercury is a cure for the pox.
Will.
Susanna's not poxed. I'd know.
Well, he, then? I mean, a poxed man is always pissing.
He seems to be. Is that...?
Is that why she bears no more children? Is...?
Did she seek...
comfort elsewhere?
Susanna's a God-fearing woman.
She would not betray her husband.
Well, maybe it isn't a betrayal.
Judith?
Well, maybe he told her to do it.
Well, it's a thought, isn't it?
And frankly, Father, if you got a grandson by it,
would you care if it were true?
I care that Susanna is free from slander. That, you may be sure, is true.
Nothing is ever true.
I wrote you another poem today.
Would you like to hear it?
Hamnet?
Will?
Anne?
He was here.
He'll always be here, Will.
You know, in London now, the plays have just finished.
- Taverns will be full-- - If you're missing London,
-why don't you go back there? - Do you wish I would?
It doesn't matter what I wish, but what you wish, and it isn't to be with us.
- So, what do you mean, Judith? - You've come back to mourn Hamnet.
To mourn your blessed, departed son,
-and dig a bloody garden for him. - Judith.
No, we mourned him, Father.
We mourned him when he died, and we mourned him thereafter,
but now it seems like we've just got to begin again
as if his grave was freshly dug, because suddenly,
suddenly you found the time to mourn him too.
Will you hold your tongue?!
If you can't respect me, respect yourself at least.
And if you're done with mourning him, then try and honor his memory.
How can you say that I don't?
Then start living up to it. You can't match his talent,
then match his goodness and his diligence,
because you're wasting your life!
I know what you think's the purpose of a woman's life.
I know what you want from me.
Mr. Shakespeare?
- I don't want to pester you. - Good.
Excellent news. Cheerio.
I just wanted to ask you...
The best way to get started as a writer is to start writing.
- Could I just...? - I don't have a favorite play.
I admire my fellow dramatists equally,
and yes, I do think women should be allowed to perform female roles,
as is the practice on the continent. Now, please, if you'll excuse me.
I just wanted to ask how you knew.
- Knew what? - Everything.
My friend, I don't even know how to keep the slugs out of the hollyhocks.
There is no corner of this world you have not explored,
no geography of the soul which you cannot navigate.
How?
How do you know?
Just what I know...
if I know, and I don't say that I do, I...
have imagined.
But they say that you left school at 14. You never traveled.
-Imagined from what? - From myself.
Yourself?
Yes.
Everything I've ever done, everything I've ever seen,
every book I've ever read, every conversation I've ever had,
including, God help me, this one.
If you want to be a writer,
and speak to others and for others,
speak first for yourself.
Search within.
Consider the contents of your own soul...
your humanity.
And if you're honest with yourself,
then whatever you write,
all is true.
Now, if you can't save my hollyhocks,
please leave me to mourn the dead.
Then why?
Why did you stop writing?
Cheerio.
Morning, Tom Quiney. Barrel of huffcap ale
and three flagons of Malmsey wine to New Place, if you would.
Your usual order, and my usual reply.
Marry me, Judith. I would help bring back your smile.
Yeah, and every other maid in the county, as you chase them all.
- Yes, but I only ever propose to one. - I’d think you'd tire of it.
I remember a girl,
the prettiest and the happiest in town.
And I remember her laugh, and I remember kiss chase.
And I would like to see the woman that girl should have become.
Because it surely isn't you.
My lord!
My lord.
For you, sir, from the Earl of Southampton.
Anne? Anne.
The Earl of Southampton makes a progress north,
and he writes to me here that since he passes close by,
he will spend an hour or two in talk with me.
Did you hear me, Anne? The Earl of Southampton.
I heard you.
And I recall the first day I heard about your friend, the Earl of Southampton.
The same day as a book of poems was published.
Sonnets, they told me.
Suppose you thought, because I couldn't read, I wouldn't mind.
But plenty of people can read, even in our little town.
Including one of your own daughters.
Anne, those sonnets were published illegally,
without my knowledge or my consent.
But you wrote them, Will, and people read them.
And after they'd read them, they kept asking, "Who are they?
Who is this dark lady he's so in love with?"
- They were just poems. -"The handsome man?"
- They were just poems. - Don't answer.
I don't want to know.
I didn't want to know then, and I don't want to know now.
But I know who some people said he was.
Now it appears he's coming to my house a-calling.
All these years, Will...
worried about your reputation.
Have you even once considered mine?
I've heard word of your distinguished visitor,
and my men tell me he's even now approaching the town.
You will, of course, introduce me.
I shall suggest he comes on to Charlecote to take his ease.
Bit more what he's used to.
Naturally, I shall ask that you join us. Just you, I think.
We shouldn't wish to tire His Grace.
And you may go in.
We shall greet His Grace.
Welcome to Stratford-upon-Avon, Your Grace.
And you are?
Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote Manor, Your Grace,
and member of Parliament for this district.
May I have the honor of introducing my wife?
- Have we business? - Well, I...
Is there some petition which you've come to present?
Oh, no, no. I thought only to invite you--
Then kindly remove yourself, Sir Thomas. I want none of your company.
I'm here to visit the greatest man in the kingdom.
After His Majesty, of course.
Damn impudence. Grubby little member of Parliament.
They'll sell a knighthood to anybody these days.
He has snubbed me so many times.
Why do you let him snub you?
What is he? The son of a son.
Nothing more.
All his pride and strut comes from no greater achievement
than having been spat from the dick of a previous nonentity.
- Well, I'm the same. - No.
I'm the son of a son, Will.
Henry Wriothesley, son of Henry Wriothesley.
And if I were not the son of Henry Wriothesley,
then your Thomas Lucy, son of Thomas Lucy,
would not grace me with a sneer.
- You, on the other hand, are... - Are the son of a thief.
The son of Apollo, Will.
God of poetry, god of truth.
The finest...
the most complete...
and most beautiful mind, I warrant, that ever existed in this world.
So...
why are you so small, Will?
- Small? - Why are you such a little man?
Your Grace, I...
You can enchant the multitude with a scratch of your quill,
and yet you cringe before Sir Thomas Lucy.
- Cringe? - Your talent has a greater scope
than all the other poets combined,
and yet you've lived the smallest life.
I don't feel I've lived a small life, Your Grace.
Come now, Will. Compared to Kyd?
Or Marlowe?
Oh, what a man he was.
What a life. Spy, adventurer, fucked for England.
Boys, girls. Boys and girls.
He knew how to live.
He's dead, of course, my lord, so, you know, win some, lose some.
Yes, they are all dead, Will. Marlowe, Greene.
Who called me "upstart."
Oh, "upstart crow." You see, still you care, still it rankles.
Kyd, Nashe...
Spenser.
All dead.
Booze and passion, sex and violence, killed them all.
Life killed them.
But you...
You survived.
Yes, I survived.
- In your nice house. - Several houses.
And your coat of arms, how much did that cost you, Will?
- Twenty pounds. - Twenty pounds.
The man who wrote Hamlet and Henry V and Macbeth,
Romeo and Juliet, paid £20 for the name of "gentleman."
Will, why do you care?
My father was once fined for not attending church.
Can you guess why he didn't go?
Priest too Protestant?
Well, I've heard it rumored
there is a whiff of popery about you Shakespeares.
Nothing so spiritual. He could not attend church
because he owed money to half of the congregation.
Oh, I think I should have liked your dad.
Well, yes, people did.
I did.
You must write again, Will.
London needs you.
I need you.
We have only Jonson now.
Who laughs at me because I speak no Greek
and don't know whether Bohemia has a coast.
Christ, Will, why do you care what he thinks? You wrote King Lear.
I care because it matters, Your Grace. Well, in England, it matters.
I have what I have upon my own merit,
and for that I'm suspect.
Well, perhaps I'll always be suspect.
But I have my money, and I have my houses,
and I have my coat of arms.
And you have your verses.
Great Christ, man, you have your poetry.
Such poetry.
Such beautiful...
Beautiful poetry.
And some of it...
Some of it was writ for me.
Yes.
Yes, Your Grace.
For you.
I have grown old.
As you said in your sonnets that I would, you bastard.
But the beauty I inspired in you will be forever young.
And in a thousand years from now,
when people read those lines, I will...
Will be young.
Alive Still.
In the hearts of lovers yet unborn.
They were only meant for you, Your Grace.
Not for any other living soul, nor any yet to live.
Just you.
It was only flattery, of course.
Flattery that was my due.
Yes.
Just flattery.
Except...
I spoke from deep within my heart.
Well, I was younger then.
Younger and prettier.
Beautiful, Your Grace, as you will ever be.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,
and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Yes, well, as I say...
just flattery.
Not flattery, truth.
And I always dared to hope.
Hope?
- Will? - That perhaps in some...
small way, it was reciprocated.
- Reciprocated? - That perhaps you also...
- You forget yourself, Will. - I...
As a poet, you have no equal,
and I, like anyone with brain or heart,
am your humble servant.
But as a man, Will, it is not your place to love me.
And hanging a £20 shield above your door...
will never make it so.
Well, I must be off.
Farewell.
It was the poet that I came to visit,
and it is of the poet that I take my leave.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,
and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
William Shakespeare.
I noticed that your friend, the Earl,
didn't bring his wife with him on his travels.
Perhaps he doesn't find female company to his taste.
I'm sure His Grace and the Countess Elizabeth
are most happy in their marriage.
As I would wish you to be, Judith.
Why are you still unwed?
You are so pretty, I think.
- I don't. - Well, look in your glass.
I don't have a glass. I didn't like the person I saw in it.
Good God, daughter, that's a bleak thought,
since the only company you keep is your own.
- Yeah, but there it is. - And what of children?
- All women want children. - Apparently.
Well, don't you want a child?
Do you want me to replace Hamnet for you, Father?
I meant just as a... For your own sake.
A husband, children for companionship, comfort.
Perhaps she sees that marriage may not bring you either.
Oh, is that it, Judith? Is that it?
You've seen your mother's misery and you thought, "Oh, I'll be a spinster,
rather than get shackled to some man who neglects me."
- I did not say I was miserable. - No, you didn't, Anne,
but though I put words into other people's mouths,
I, too, can occasionally see beyond what is merely said,
and I'll have no more of this.
I've worked ceaselessly on behalf of this family.
- On your own behalf. - Yeah, and I'm head of this family!
And I've given you a fine house and servants,
sent you money all your life. Is not that comfort?
You have two beautiful daughters, you've got a brilliant son and a husband
who, though absent, kept you always in his thoughts.
Is that not that companionship in abundance?
I've risen this family up!
Through my genius, I've brought fame and fortune to this house.
Yes, yes, my genius. Would you have me ignore that as well?
Ignore a gift from God Almighty
so that I could stay here in Stratford
and be a bloody glove maker,
and you might feel a bit more appreciated?!
Hamnet died, and I wasn't here! I know that!
Hamnet died, and the plague took him.
But the plague's taken millions, and it would have taken him
whether I was in Stratford or London or on that godforsaken highway.
We just-- We lost our boy! I know that!
And I wasn't here!
How many times can I say it? I wasn't here!
We lost our brilliant, brilliant boy, and I wasn't--
Oh, Hamnet wasn't brilliant!
- What do you...? - Judith, don't.
- What do you mean? - He was beautiful...
but he wasn't brilliant.
Judith, I said don't.
- I wrote them. - Wrote... Wrote what?
The poems.
These verses that you hold so dear,
with wit and mischief in every line.
I made them up.
Hamnet only wrote them down.
She helped him a little. That's all.
No, I made them up. All of them.
- No. - Hamnet was sweet, and he was kind,
-but he was no good. He wasn't! - No. No, he was absolutely brilliant!
No, Will.
He was an ordinary little boy.
- What? - If you'd looked closer, then you'd see...
If I looked at my own son?!
- Yeah, if you looked... - I looked at my son!
You saw what you wanted to see. You saw yourself.
What of myself?!
You saw a boy with a mind who was as big and as bold as yours.
But happy, you know, with a father who appreciated his genius.
He wasn't a genius, but he was clever enough to know he could never live up
to what you wanted him to be. He dreaded your visits.
We didn't plan it, not at the beginning.
Judith was always making up stories and conjuring rhymes.
Hamnet heard one and...
And wrote it down one day for practice with his pen.
You found it and thought it was his and praised him.
So are they worthless now?
They're not his.
Will you read them no more?
You sit in the sun and chuckle at their wit.
Well, they aren't his.
No.
They're mine.
And so I will do what I bloody well please with them.
No! No, no, no!
No, no, no, you can't have them.
Judith tried to teach herself to write,
you know, after Hamnet's death.
But she never had the patience.
Not like Susanna.
I should have liked to have been able to write
a few letters of the alphabet, particularly married to you.
Remember our wedding day?
Me, older, pregnant...
and you a strange, clever lad of 18.
I know what people thought.
I couldn't even sign the register.
Just made a stupid mark.
I felt so foolish.
Then you went to London and became this great writer,
with a wife at home who couldn't read a word.
I often wondered if it bothered you.
But why should it?
You were hardly here.
I'm sorry.
You lost your son.
Any man would mourn.
A daughter is nothing.
They're destined only to become the property of another man.
We fade away.
No, Judith.
You mustn't fade away. Why don't you write again?
- Father, you know I cannot write. - I could teach you.
I have no verse left in me anymore.
- Why? - Because the wrong twin died.
No, it was the plague. The plague makes no judgments.
It's just a plague.
Well, I wish a plague had taken me.
Judith, why do you hate yourself?
I have stolen Hamnet from you twice:
Once by surviving him,
and now by taking your dream of him away.
You've given me a new dream.
My beautiful daughter, the poet.
A woman cannot be a poet.
A woman is put upon this Earth for one reason.
I know my duty now.
I will make amends for stealing Hamnet from you.
I promise I will make amends.
I'm glad Hamnet didn't write the poems.
- Glad? - I know him better now.
And it's love, not ambition, that will blossom in this garden.
Well, something has to. Not much else has blossomed.
I'm not a good gardener, it's true.
Found it easier to create things with words.
Well, you'll find that.
Would you like me to help?
And here. I think further.
- Over here? - Yes.
That one.
Make a really big hole. Oh, brilliant. So maybe we can put...
Good night, Anne.
Stay with me, Will.
For comfort.
In our second-best bed.
I will take that glass of Rhenish wine with you, Tom Quiney.
You know that I am not a good man.
There have been women.
Many women.
Look, I've seen too little of life.
You've seen too much.
But perhaps together we may begin again.
She was not ordering wine. She was drinking it with Quiney.
She was inside for half an hour or more.
If Judith is reaching for a little happiness, then I'm glad of it.
Sinning will not make her happy.
Really?
Then let us hope it makes her unhappiness
a little more bearable.
That is a wicked thing to say. Remember your scripture.
What I remember is a little girl who smiled a lot.
A reputation once lost cannot be refound.
- Mine was! - Yours was not lost!
It was defamed by a convicted drunkard and suspected Papist.
Judith must drop this Quiney. He's debauched.
If only those without sin were allowed to marry,
there would be precious few weddings.
I can't see you anymore, Margaret.
I'm sorry.
Because of Judith Shakespeare.
I never made you a promise, Margaret. You know that.
- If we sinned, we sinned together. - She's with child.
- Can you be sure it's mine? - You dare ask it?
Margaret has many friends at the tavern.
- Dare again. - I’m certain. I...
I think...
I believe it's yours, Tom.
Honestly, I do.
Francis Collins, come in, come in. You'll take some wine?
- Please. - Maria, some wine, if you please.
I'm relieved to see you in such high spirits, Will.
When a man sends for his lawyer, it is not always so.
- Judith is getting married. - No.
Congratulations.
It was a crime that such a spirited young woman remained unwed.
Well, crime no longer.
And so I would like to amend my will
to include my new son-in-law, Tom Quiney.
Quiney, is it'?
- Wine and tobacco. Good trade. - Can't think of a better.
And thus, we must also make provision for their male issue, my...
grandsons.
Many of them.
I should also like to...
To leave something to Anne.
Anne? Oh, if she survives you, she will have a third by law.
She'll survive me, no doubt about that. She's years older and 10 times tougher.
I don't mean money. She'll have more of that than she can spend.
No, I had in mind a...
A piece of furniture.
Furniture?
But surely Anne will live here and have the use of every stick.
A specific piece of furniture which,
when it is no longer ours, must be hers,
and when she is in it, I hope she will...
smile and think of me.
So...
So one son-in-law owns a wine shop, and the other one wants to close it.
Welcome to my family.
I know that sometimes we...
We Shakespeares have been our own worst enemies,
and sometimes we have had...
the worst of enemies.
If ever John Lane shows his face round here again,
he'll have his nose cut off!
Yes, we've had our ups and downs, but...
I flatter myself that...
That I have brought some small credit to my hometown.
And although I no longer ha--
Although I no longer have a son...
and show me a family in this town that has not lost at least one child,
I have two beautiful daughters.
And so perhaps one day, I shall have a grandson.
And for that, of course, I, in fact, look to you, Torn, and also to you, John,
so please be about your business.
Thank you very much.
For family is everything...
and today...
I could not be more proud of mine.
I saw Margaret Wheeler in the church today, Torn.
I know it, Judith.
And I cannot undo what is done.
I have confessed all to you.
All I can promise you is that her and her child will want for nothing.
We'll find him.
Where is he?
Is he over there?
- He's over there. - Everything all right?
Anne, is everything all right?
Yes, fine.
Then why the...?
Well, you see...
Father, we have some news.
- And that news is... - Yes?
That I'm pregnant.
Oh, no, my dear!
Oh, yes!
Mr. Quiney!
Well done, my boy.
My darling.
Sister, I'm truly happy for you.
Oh, this is so wonderful.
But where is John? John should be here.
He was called out to a confinement.
Quiney!
Margaret Wheeler has died in childbirth,
along with her baby.
The child has no name.
It will not enter heaven without one.
Well, well, Mr. Shakespeare.
How very unfortunate.
Seems your daughter's wedding was rushed for a reason.
Like your own, eh?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Damn me, you Shakespeares are a scandalous lot.
Perhaps being an illiterate farm girl,
your wife was unable to teach your girls morals.
Well, well. Must be getting on.
Can't loll about all day thinking pretty thoughts, like you poets.
I must to business.
- Business, Sir Thomas? - Yes, business.
A large estate like Charlecote doesn't run itself, you know.
Oh, I thought you meant real business.
Like building, owning and operating London's largest theater, for instance.
Actors, carpenters, seamstresses, crew to pay,
bribes to pay, security to mount, politics to navigate,
3000 paying customers to be fed and watered every afternoon,
each promised a spectacle greater than the last.
One hundred and seventy royal command performances for our queen and our king.
Have you considered the logistics of the Battle of Shrewsbury
in the banqueting hall at Hampton Court? Don't. It would make you so tired.
And yet, in all the years that I have run my vast,
complex and spectacularly successful business, Thomas,
I have indeed found the time to think and to write down
the pretty thoughts you mention and which, in my experience,
bring immense pleasure to those who seek mere diversion
or respite from this vale of tears,
without which, it would all be about as pointless as...
Well, about as pointless as you, Sir Thomas.
And since you mention her, my wife, Anne,
has more decency and wisdom in her daily shit
than you have in your entire body.
Oh, and I wish I had poached your bloody deer.
Quiney bequest removed, sir.
I take no pleasure in Judith's distress, Father-in-Law.
Or yours.
It grieves me.
I know that, John.
Will you work with me a while, husband?
You can put some beer out for the slugs.
By the look of it, Anne, you do better without me.
I think I shall walk a little.
She did it for you, Will.
You wanted a grandson.
You didn't attend the funeral.
I was on my way home.
The news reached London after I'd left.
By the time I got here, he was already in the ground.
It was summer.
No corpse remains unburied long, particularly a plague corpse.
This is the page.
August 1596.
Hamnet...
Shakespeare.
There he is.
I brought him a penknife.
It was a special one with a folding blade.
It had his initials engraved on the handle.
He'd have loved that knife.
I keep it with me all the time.
- Do you mind if I...? - Please.
Whenever I...
Whenever I trim a new quill...
I imagine that it's not mine,
but his hand, grown to be a man,
and there he is, trimming...
Trimming his quill with the knife his father gave him
on that joyful homecoming so long ago.
And then, when I...
When I dip the ink and make a mark, it's...
It's still his hand I see and his words that I write,
and then I imagine that it's not me
who thinks of him at all,
but that I am dead and Hamnet lives...
and it's him who thinks of me.
People often ask me how I've written so much,
how I've found the energy and dedication to sit alone at my desk,
writing play after play after play,
but the answer is quite simple.
I was always in the company of my son.
My boy.
You sent for me, Father?
Yes. Yes, Judith. Thank you for coming.
Your new home is comfortable, I hope?
Well, there's a lot of work to do, but my husband's working hard.
Despite all the shame he brought us, he...
He is a good man.
I visited Hamnet's grave today,
and I read his name in the register.
- Oh, I'm glad of it. - Anne...
I know the plague.
Many times in London it struck, all the theaters were closed, so I do...
I know the plague, and...
I was thinking today that...
the Black Death is a scythe.
It is not a dagger.
How's that?
Never once did I see it
strike a single person and then depart.
How did Hamnet die?
His death is recorded in the parish register,
but no mention of the cause.
Plague, husband.
The vicar pronounced it at his funeral.
Because that is what you told him,
and also, no doubt, what you told the gravesmen
who came to the greenwood
to find him already stitched up in his shroud.
But when I look at the graves
around about Hamnet's and the register,
I see that no scythe
swung through this town in the summer of 1596.
In fact, precisely, only five children were taken,
and three of them were newborns.
Not like the other plague years,
where dozens upon dozens and dozens
were struck down each time it struck.
So, Judith, Anne...
please tell me.
How did my son die?
He died of plague.
I woke Mother in the night with my cry.
Hamnet's bed was empty.
Mother searched the house.
And then she thought of the greenwood pond.
That was his favorite place,
even though he couldn't swim
and he'd never go in the water.
Around him...
torn and shredded,
were the final verses of the poems
that I had conjured and that he had writ.
We prepared them for when you came home.
Mother asked me to get threads and blankets
so that nobody would ever find out how he died.
That's Judith's story,
and she's carried it like a burden ever since,
but I say he died of plague.
The vicar spake it at his grave.
And God accepted it.
Millions of people died of it,
and Hamnet entered heaven amongst that host.
Jesus would never have denied him a place,
in spite of what Judith said we saw.
Well, of course.
Well, of course he's in heaven.
Hamnet didn't kill himself.
He only threw himself upon the water. It was I that caused it.
I killed him.
- Judith, it's not so. - I killed my brother.
You see, all he wanted to do was to please you.
All that you cared about was him,
and all he cared about was you.
I was jealous.
I was jealous...
because Hamnet went to school...
and I had to work in the kitchens because I was a girl.
But I wanted your approval.
I wanted your love.
And so I told him that I would tell you.
That you would finally know who'd writ the verse.
I didn't... I didn't mean it.
I didn't mean it.
He died of plague.
God accepted it.
It was only a little lie.
He was only a little boy.
You finished it.
Thank you.
My story's done.
I can rest.
Hamnet, please.
Stay a moment.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on,
and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
I'm sorry.
I think that...
perhaps I may have caught a chill.
Ben Jonson, it is good to see you.
Christ, Will, you've had a time of it.
Both daughters caught up in scandals.
Good for them.
Yes, retirement hasn't exactly brought the peace we might have hoped for.
In my experience, Will, no one gets what they hope for.
But they do tend to get what they deserve.
And you think I got what I deserve?
Well, not all of it, perhaps, but something, certainly.
You lost a son.
No man deserves that, though many men suffer it.
- I myself have lost a son and a daughter. - I know you did, my friend.
But you have two daughters still who love you.
And a wife to share your bed. I have none of that.
- Mine own Anne despises me. - Yeah, well, you do publicly insult her.
You call her a shrew, so...
Yeah, well, I didn't say she had no cause. Only that she does.
You told me that Southampton says you've led a little life.
What an arse.
Well, I mean, you conquered England, Will,
and returned victorious to the bosom of your family.
How is that little? Is it little?
Perhaps the second part.
Well, the second part is the best part.
You made it home, Will.
How many other conquerors can say the same?
What poets, huh?
Anyone can die alone and despised.
I mean, Marlowe was murdered.
No one knows which of his many enemies did it.
I mean, Greene, died in poverty, estranged from all who knew him.
Kyd, the same.
I mean, no one knows how Torn Nashe died,
but if his filthy dildo poems
are anything to go by, it wasn't in the bosom of his family.
I think not.
And me? Well, while I am not dead yet,
I may soon be, for I am out of favor with the king,
and none will speak for me.
But you, you made it home, Will.
So sorry. I'm fine.
You've had your friends and your family...
a full fire and a full belly.
And by the way, you've also written
the greatest body of plays that ever were or will be.
You bastard.
So, yes, my old friend...
I'd say you got what you deserved.
Father?
Today is a special day,
and Mother and Sue have prepared you a special present.
Goodness, what is this?
- It's our marriage license, Will. - What?
Thirty-four years ago, I put my mark on it.
And now...
"Anne Shakespeare."
You have a beautiful hand.
Sue is teaching me how to write also.
And by the time you are better,
I shall have written you a poem.
Well, you will need...
a penknife.
This is for you.
Thank you.
And what should you like to do today, Father,
on this special day?
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious Woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometimes of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight...
You probably know the rest.
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in
Fear no more the heat 0' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone,
and ta' en thy wages...
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown 0' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunderstone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.