A night like no other, I thought to myself as I struggled through the gales which moaned whilst bringing the blizzards to England from the Atlantic Ocean. I trudged across the roads which were covered with drifts more than five metres in depth. The naked trees, cloaked in white, seemed to be following my movements, whispering to each other noiselessly, as I marked my way across the deserted haunted crossroad. I tried to accomplish the remarkable feat of holding my chattering jaw in my blue frozen hands and hugging my shivering small body simultaneously as I plodded along.

I looked around me. I certainly could not carry on with my journey to Mama’s this snowy night. Looming in the distance was a dull yellow light. I decided to pursue it. Nearing it, I saw it was a small ramshackle cottage with one small round window half covered by a black curtain, with some fragments of light escaping. I reached the derelict door and knocked clamorously.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat! The old knocker rang so loudly I stepped back, half ready to run for committing the sin of shattering the moaning silence of the snowy night. I waited, praying for somebody to open the door quickly. Minutes passed. My hands felt so cold I figured that, if nobody came to the rescue soon, I would have to pee on them to defrost them.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat! Tentatively, I knocked again. After a couple more minutes, finally, the silhouette of a man appeared at the window. He was raising the tattered curtain and peering outside. Apparently, the man was unsure whether to open the door or not. He kept looking over his shoulder inside the cottage a couple of times, and finally, probably pitying my miserable condition, he came to the door and opened it.

I rushed inside quickly after cleaning my boots on the mat. Looking at the man while brushing away the dry snow on my coat, I smiled weakly. “Thanks, sire.”

The man seemed to be in his late thirties; well-built, with a receding hairline and dark brown hair billowing down to the lobes of the ears. A carefully cropped beard and a perfectly trimmed mustache gave his suntanned face a sophisticated look. His smile seemed genuine, though, for a second, I thought I could see his elfish green eyes glimmer with anxiety.

He played with his beard. “You’re welcome, mate. But I beg to inquire, where go you all alone this miserable freezing night? ‘Tis late and the night grows old.”

I rubbed my cold hands and looked longingly at the crackling fire burning in the hearth. The man bade me go near it with a whisk of his hand. Gratefully, I rushed forward and found myself unable to speak for a moment as I let the warmth caress me all over.

“I come from Leicestershire, sire. Name is Matthew Jacobson. Before I got caught in this storm, I was heading towards Nottinghamshire, where my dead stepfather, who I haven’t seen in twenty years, waits to be buried.” I contemplated the torn rug on the floor as the man shook his head sorrowfully and gave me his condolences.

A minute of silence passed. The man cleared his throat. I looked up. Again, I thought I saw anxiety flicker in his glittering eyes. But neither his body language nor his countenance betrayed his eyes. Interested, I started observing him closely.

“Sire, pardon me for being forthright, cut me up like a shaggy-haired villain if you desire, but I wonder if I have seen you somewhere before?” I inquired beseechingly.

“Oh! I am…you can call me Billy. As all my friends do. I’m not the sort who’s stiff as a cardboard and formal as a…as a pig.” He joked awkwardly. I snickered respectfully and waited for him to continue.

He coughed. “Oh, and I’m an actor. Theatre. Sometimes I also write plays for my Company.”

I was enthralled. Being a drama and arts slave, I begged him to perform something for me. After much hesitation (which I did not expect from an actor,really) Billy finally agreed.

It was at that moment I witnessed a miracle. From a stout, awkward quiet man in a lonely cottage, I saw Billy transform into an actor on the stage, as graceful as a swan, with a voice so strong and powerful it would have easily projected to an audience of three thousand people sitting as far away from the stage as possible.I marveled as he pronounced each syllable perfectly, his voice etched with pain, his eyes burning with disillusionment.

“There’s no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all are perjur’d
All foresworn, all naught, all dissemblers.”

I clapped till I could clap no more and squeaked, “Bravo!” (I lose my voice when I’m excited.)

The man took a bow, smiling broadly, his straight set of teeth gleaming in the pale light. But then, once again, I thought I saw the sparkle in his eyes dim and his smile waver. He came back and, instead of sitting on the stool next to me near the fire where he was sitting earlier, he sat on a chair next to a desk. He started shuffling a stack of papers, and, on my enquiring look, explained that he had been writing a sonnet before I had knocked. I was ecstatic to know he was a poet too, and asked him to read out the sonnet for me. Again, after hesitating, he gave in to my insistence and read out, “‘Two loves have I, of comfort and despair’ written on 10 December 1599.” But before he could carry on, he stiffened and looked up anxiously.

Somewhere from the inside of the cottage, I heard a dress rustling. Seconds later, a woman emerged from the depths of the shadows and, contrary to all etiquettes, I gaped at her. By Jove, in that one timeless moment, I couldn’t decide whether she seemed like a lost angel drifting from the heavens to the Earth or a carefully crafted glass doll, so dainty that she could break into tiny pieces of infinite beauty and splendor if sighed over too long. I observed her flowered satin pink gown with the puffy sleeves and ruffles which highlighted her small petite waist. If nothing else, I was convinced she was of royal blood and lineage (but in a dilapidated cottage?).

Her soft voice complimented her beauty and sophisticated quiet manner. “Billy?” She looked confused.

I hastened to introduce myself and beg pardon for the sudden intrusion into their cottage. She smiled graciously (just like a Queen) and nodded her head politely.

“My name is Mary. Mary…Washburn. Yes. It would be a great honor for us to help you on this wicked night. There’s husbandry in heaven tonight. Their candles are all out. Nature seems dead though the obscure bird has been clamoring the livelong night.” She shook her head, as if to come out of a daze. “Anyway, Billy. ‘Tis late and the night grows old. Come, lead your friend to the spare room and then let’s go to bed.”

I looked in awe at the woman. What a refined, elegant way to describe a night so unruly! She was a true poetess. I kept glancing at her every now and then as Billy led me to an empty room with a dirty brown couch. He pointed towards it apologetically and then left the room.

I lay down on the couch, trembling a little because of the cold. The last thing that floated in front of my eyes was Mary Washburn’s face, her lips wide open, reciting poetry. A calming heavy numbness flowed over me, and I smiled as I smelled daisies in my sleep.

Ten minutes later, I was awake again. A horrible nightmare, where somebody was trying to force a lady’s dress onto me, complete with the ruffles which rose in gauze wings, puffy sleeves and bodice. Pronouncing me as “Mrs. Sarah Alexander.”

I shuddered and got up from the smelly couch. Leaving the cool room, I went in search of water. I had barely taken a step out in the living room when from somewhere inside the cottage, I heard somebody weeping bitterly. Shocked, I crept to the only other room noiselessly, where I knew Mary and Billy were sleeping. Unhindered by any guilt, since I thought it was my right to know what was distressing Mary so much, I leant against the wooden door and tried to listen.

“I…I just don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” To my surprise, it was Billy who was sobbing. “He knows. I knew it was only a matter of time when he would start suspecting. Right there in front of everybody on the stage, he scoffed when I suggested that line in the play, “In the Person of Caesar”…’Ridiculous!’ He said. What if he tells somebody?” His voice trembled. “Even worse, what if he writes about it?”

Mary tried to hide the quiver in her voice. “Don’t lose heart. I don’t think he knows. Perchance, he was slandering you so as to assert his authority as the writer of masques for Your Majesty, King James’ court. Hope, cousin. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.” She paused, and then spoke again, anger slicing her voice. “But tell me; what in the name of heaven possessed you to try and create a new verse without telling me…in the presence of Ben, too? Don’t you know that he would have noticed immediately the difference in the style of that line and the poetry you…what was that line again?”

“Caesar never…” Billy ate the rest of the words so I was unable to hear him.

“Ah! Yes…Caesar never did wrong but with just cause. Oh Billy!” she suddenly exclaimed in a fit of passion. “Haven’t I told you infinite times not to try and create new lines till you have discussed them with me? Especially not on the damned stage in front of all the actors!” she added maliciously.

“I just suggested. It’s not my fault Ben Jonson is a smart man.” Billy cried out exasperatedly. “And it was your brilliant idea to start this anyway!”

Mary laughed mockingly. “After nine years of fame do I hear that? Eh, William?”

So that was Billy’s real name, I thought as I shifted and fixed my ear onto the cold keyhole.

“Don’t ‘eh, William’ me! You were the one who came up to me first and made that grand speech about not caring less whether it is me who gets the fame or you since your aim was only to strengthen and classicize the English language.” Billy tried getting back at her. He started speaking in his lofty actor’s voice. “What did you exactly say? Ah, yes! ‘I desire to simply express myself and present to the world my perception of what I think is evil, love, sexual passion, human goodness as well as the twists of human personality, nature and…” Billy’s sonorous powerful voice suddenly faded into a squeak (probably at a murderous look from Mary). I heard Billy shuffling uncomfortably inside the room.

“If you recall, cousin, you will remember how it was you who was in desperate need of money and who came a-begging at my door…” Mary spoke very quietly, coldly, probably through clenched teeth.

“Lets not fight, dear Mary. I apologize.” Billy cut in hurriedly. “I understand and appreciate your concern for me and your remarkably noble cause. Trouble is, I worry myself to death, my dear. What if all this comes with a price? What if one day you open the door and find that somebody…’ Billy’s voice was dangerously close, and before I could even move, I heard, rather felt, the door open. I toppled inside the room and fell on the floor. Billy cried out pathetically.

With my hair falling in front of my eyes, I refused to look up and face Mary. My heart abounded with sorrow and humiliation when she heaved a deep sigh and spoke.

“Oh. This was the only thing left to bake the cake. Welcome, friend. Get up and look me in the eye.”

My cheeks burning red and my eyes watery, I looked at her, my pale-faced beauty.

“Let me once again introduce us, friend. He,” she said pointing towards Billy, “is the man named William, the actor and the owner of the playing company, King’s Men. Also, the front-man for me. I,” she muttered bitterly, “am your famous poet and playwright, Shakespeare.”