London and Stratford, 1592

William Shakspere hurried out of the Mermaid Tavern. He had just seen the plague take one of the best hostesses in London. She seemed merely tired at first, but then the sweating began. Ben Jonson ripped at her bodice and sleeve to check her armpit for buboes. Sure enough, they were there. Large, ugly and festering. The death sentence, written on her skin. Jonson covered her up quickly, but it didn't take long for the tavern to clear and the news to spread. The Theater in Shoreditch would be closed – Shakspere was lucky to find a gelding for five shillings that he could ride the three days to Stratford.

As always, no matter what, William created poetry in his head.

Hidden in Death's layered cloak,

Hang foul vials that bear the stroke,

And implements of hewing bent

To open wounds, form fatal dents.

Sweats that waste away the flesh,

From its breath enrage, enmesh,

Hide, ye maidens, run, ye sparks*,

When Death unclasps its mantle stark.

William reined in the gelding as he neared his home. His wife Anne watched from the doorway, sniffing a nosegay. Oh, that was a bad sign. His two daughters peered through a window.

"Been trying to send word to you, William. Ellis Cordwainer, Avis Brook and Henry Billingsgate, all caught the plague. And all are close to Arthur's bosom, they say. Glad you're here, though. We need looking after."

This frightened Shakspere. He thought Stratford would be far enough away. Could this be like the gruesome events of the 14th century, when half of England died from the dreaded disease? So many perished. But no pestilence could quash the verses in William's mind:

From its garment, death unfurls,

Noxious notions, poxied pearls,

If these be not fit abhorrence,

Ink it spills, upon death warrants.

Children blithe and elders frail,

All succumb within its pale,

Hovered o'er the final breath,

Waits the billowed cloak of Death.

"Anne, we must get North with our parents and the children. Think about what we need to bring." William considered Leicester, would that be far enough away? The Earl was a patron of the theater, but he was long gone. Would his issue honor an erstwhile bond? Shakspere might be turned down at the foregate. And how would they get there? He took the very long walk to Lambert Miller's farm. Nobody had given Miller the news yet.

"I'm grateful for your concern, Will, but if it's God's purpose to take me, He'll take me. I won't leave m’corn untended. I'll say this, as you've been a good neighbor and friend, I'll lend you two horses and a wagon. You can see your family to Leicester. If either or both of the horses die for any reason, I'll want the manegeld, of course. I'm not a rich man."

William rode away upon the wagon, hoping Anne had the family ready. "God ye guden," he called back to Lambert Miller, "you're a generous man." Generous but foolish, he thought. To live is everything. Shakspere hoped to have a coat of arms one day. He wasn't going to let the black death trample upon that dream.

* Sparks was an Elizabethan term for “dudes.”