Shakespeare walked to Holy Trinity Church. One day each month he worked there, when it was used as a courtroom—a church court. Cases were heard there for Clopton, Dodwell, Ruin Clifton, Shottery, and other neighboring jurisdictions.
This church court dealt with religious offenses, such as failing to attend church, which was mandatory, and for illegally conducting business on Sunday. More commonly, the church court was known as a “Bawdy Court” since sometimes the cases involved blasphemy, drunkenness, and sexual offenses. Many cases involved adultery, which worried the judge, Vicar Richard Barton.
When Shakespeare first began to work with Barton, he told him, “William, you must know that most people are obstinate, stubborn to face justice, apt to accuse the court of injustice, and disdainful to be tried by the courts. It is our duty to judge them whether or not they want to be judged.”
Barton also frequently told Shakespeare that there was too much immorality and sexual promiscuity in England. He was also very worried by the coarse and lewd language that people commonly spoke, and how they even sweared in the court itself.
He was especially troubled by how frequently women slandered other people. To warn people against slander, he displayed a “brank” or “scold’s bridle” next to him, visible at all times. It was an iron cage-like frame, which was meant to be placed on a person’s head, with an iron muzzle to keep the person silent. Shakespeare had never seen him actually put it on anyone, but Barton frequently threatened people with it, in order to force them to be more compliant.
Barton especially did not want women to speak too much or speak out of turn. He once told Shakespeare, “If women talk too much and are given an opportunity to complain too much, there will never be an end to their complaining!”
The court always drew a good crowd, and the church pews were often full. People often came to watch, in the hopes of seeing cases regarding sexual matters.
Shakespeare entered, and hurried to sit down at his desk, where he had a stack of paper, a filled inkpot, and some quills. He was a notary, also known as a clerk, or scrivener. It was his job to write down a brief summary of who was facing the judge, on what charge, and how the case was decided.
When he was a schoolboy, Shakespeare was fascinated by the question of justice—how it was deliberated, and how it was delivered. He enjoyed discussing the matter with his schoolteacher. They discussed The Republic by Plato and how a society could be made more just. They discussed whether David was just, when he rebelled against King Saul—and whether Absalom was just, when he subsequently rebelled against King David. They discussed the case of Orestes, and how he should be judged in light of the other preceding murders, and the history of violence in his family, which inspired him to commit murder.
In school, Shakespeare also displayed a real talent for penmanship. He could write so quickly and clearly, he could probably write with his eyes closed, or in the dark. It distinguished him from his schoolmates, and impressed his teachers. Later, when it was decided that he would not go to Oxford, his schoolteacher recommended Shakespeare to Vicar Barton, to work as a clerk. Shakespeare asked his father for his blessing, and at first John did not reply.
After a day or two, John told him that he had his blessing. He did not say much. He only said, “I hope you will learn what justice is.”
Shakespeare’s teacher told him that some of the most famous people in history had been clerks. He said, “Before Petrarch was considered the ‘father of the Renaissance’ he was a clerk—and his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all had been clerks, too.”
Shakespeare’s teacher also told him that even though his role might seem minor, he would be doing something very important for his community. He encouraged Shakespeare to believe that he would be helping to serve justice, even if it was in a small way.
To inspire him, his teacher pointed to Saint Cassian of Imola—the patron saint of parish clerks. Cassian was also such a famous teacher, he later became a patron saint of schoolteachers also. He was murdered on the orders of Emperor Julian, who told Cassian’s own students to kill him. Every student obeyed the Emperor. With their pointed iron writing styluses, they stabbed Cassian to death. Shakespeare’s teacher told him, “I think Cassian’s death is a cautionary tale for teachers, and for everyone who seeks to teach other people. Every teacher should enlighten and inspire their students, as if their life depended on it—because it just might.”
He also learned about Saint Ivo of Brittany, a patron saint of lawyers, and abandoned children. Shakespeare’s teacher told him to look at people who came to the church court as if they were lost and abandoned—in spiritual and in secular terms. He said, “All people are in need of guidance and protection by the law and by God. Without divinely rendered justice, there is chaos.”
He learned about Saint Ivo, who was known as the “advocate of the poor.” Shakespeare’s teacher told him to look at the church court as a place where even the poorest people could have their voices heard—because all people were equal in the sight of the Lord.
He learned about Saint Genesius, another patron saint of lawyers—but also of actors, comedians, dancers and stage performers. Before he became a saint, Genesius was a pagan actor. During a performance, he tried to amuse Emperor Diocletian by mocking the Christian Sacrament of Baptism. Genesius had a wondrous vision. He even saw real angels. Immediately Genesius had a change of heart. He asked to be baptized as a Christian. Diocletian instead had him beheaded.
Shakespeare never expected to set foot on a stage, but he thought, “God can appear even in the unlikeliest moments, in the unlikeliest of places, and even to the unlikeliest people.“
When Shakespeare first went to work at the court as a clerk, he thought it would be a good diversion from his glove-making, especially since it was only one day a month. He also hoped that he would hear and see all sorts of exciting stories, like the tale told by the Clerk in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
At first, he was fascinated by all of the people, their stories, and their problems. He was completely mystified by how such decent and good people could commit transgressions, fall into sin, and become criminals. He found each case very compelling.
Little did he know that the court would have such a profound effect on him, and how the cases would preoccupy his mind so much. He spent many hours dwelling on the people at court. He carried them in his thoughts for days and weeks afterward. When he saw people cry, or display emotion, he too became emotional.
Those first days spent working at the court, when Shakespeare was in his early teenage years, before he went to Lancashire, were exciting for him. Every case was more interesting than the last.
In more recent years, after he returned to Stratford, he was shocked at how dull so much of it could be. Each case made him concerned and unhappy.
He sometimes thought, Many cases are often unseemly, undignified, miserable and mundane.
He thought that there was nothing compelling in most cases—unlike the extraordinarily dramatic story of Walter, who was cruel to his long-suffering wife Griselda—as told by the Clerk in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
After all the years he spent at the court, Shakespeare sadly realized, If Chaucer were alive today, he would not bother to include me, or any of the stories from the court that I know of.
Over time, it dawned on him that what his teachers and his father told him about justice and the law had little resemblance to what transpired in the church court. He became disenchanted by it all. He kept most of these thoughts and worries to himself. He did not want to trouble Anne with it. He could not discuss it with his teachers, who had left Stratford. He did not tell John, because he knew that his father had enough troubles of his own.
Yet, for all of Shakespeare’s worries about the court, he could not stop going to court. He thought he had a fundamental obligation to help other people, even if the people did not even know who he was or know that he was helping them.
What troubled him the most about working at the court were the cases of people who did not attend church, which was mandatory under the Recusancy Laws. He saw many of these cases, and the number of cases was only ever growing over the years.
He did not want to see anyone punished for failing to attend church. As a secret Catholic himself, Shakespeare was sympathetic to these people, especially when he knew that they were indeed Catholic, or likely Catholic.
But he also objected to the laws on principle. He often wondered—Why is church attendance enforced by laws? Church attendance is a good thing, but should such attendance be mandatory? Is there anything that is mandatory that is good?
He struggled to understand how laws could be applied to a church. People should be made to feel welcome in a House of God, not legally bound to it. People should not be forced to attend a church—any more than they should be barred from attending a church.
His father John once said that the purpose of the Recusancy Laws was not to discourage people from being Catholic, but to rid England of any Catholics. John said that the Church of England and the Queen wanted an England without a single Catholic person.
For many years, Shakespeare did not believe him. He did not want to think that the Church of England and the Queen would use churches as weapons against any Englishmen, even if they were Catholic. He thought it was unthinkable that they would be so cruel to their fellow countrymen.
But over the years, since the tragic events in Lancashire in 1581, Shakespeare began to see things differently. In the last two years—since the Parliament passed the act against Jesuits, seminary priests, and “disobedient persons”—he saw that John was not far wrong.
Shakespeare also had a strange feeling that the Recusancy Laws were having unexpected and unwelcome consequences. He saw many cases in the church court where people who had failed to attend church were punished with fines. He saw how many of these people were treated as if they were secret Catholics—when he was quite certain that they were actually Protestants.
It made him think, These laws seems to be creating a suspicion, and distrust between people. I fear that the longer that this law is enforced, the more it will poison everyone. Is it possible that there might come a time, perhaps very soon, when every Englishman mistrusts and hates their fellow Englishmen?
All of this shook his faith in the Church of England and his faith in the Queen. He did not want to question the authority of the Church of England, and he never wanted to question the Queen’s authority as the head of the Church of England.
He could not believe that it was the fault of the Queen or the Church of England. He assumed that the Queen’s Councillors were to blame. There was always gossip in Stratford about how corrupt these men allegedly were. Shakespeare had only to look at the Earl of Leicester to know that such men were not to be trusted.
Shakespeare thought, The Queen must not be aware of how harmful such Recusancy Laws are, and clearly no one is telling her the truth. I can only hope that some day, someone would deliver this urgent message to the Queen. Her Majesty must be alerted to the fact that such laws are so harmful.
Shakespeare prayed on this frequently, as humbly as he could.
He also had a suspicion that the laws had the effect of making people disregard and even scoff at the law. He sometimes could not sleep, worried by the thought, What if these laws are so flawed they are actually creating lawlessness?
He heard stories and rumors about bribery and corruption all the time—about how people paid bribes to avoid being punished, for not attending church. These kinds of stories were only ever growing. He did not know how much money changed hands, or how many people were doing it, but he guessed that it was far more widespread than anyone wanted to admit.
He often thought of the Summoner whom Chaucer knew—a lecherous man whose face was scarred with leprosy. Shakespeare knew several men who were Summoners. He assumed that they were probably just as sinful as Chaucer’s Summoner, who committed all kinds of crimes, including extorting money from people by issuing false summonses to appear in court.
Shakespeare also knew about the informers, eavesdroppers, and gossips. These people tipped off the Summoners, and got paid for such tips. From what Shakespeare heard, these people did not really care if their tips were accurate. He heard that people like that did not care if someone was truly guilty, they only wanted to make more money, by providing more tips—even if the tips were false.
He heard about how often the accused people would often pay bribes to the Summoners. It was easier to pay a little bit of money than it was to appear in court and pay heavy fines. From Shakespeare’s own experience, working in the court, it seemed that the only people who appeared in court were the ones who were too poor to pay a bribe to the Summoner.
Shakespeare thought that all of this bribery was horrible, and made a mockery of the court. He also knew that such lawlessness and corruption were as old as time. He had read books which described the same kind of problems, going back to the ancient world.
He remembered what Hesiod wrote about the law courts of ancient Greece. Bribes were accepted to escape punishment, and verdicts were bought and sold—even by the judges.
He remembered how the ancient Roman historian Livy wrote about a corrupt and lecherous lawgiver who twisted the legal system in order to abduct a beautiful fourteen-year-old girl from her father.
He remembered how Queen Clytemnestra murdered her husband, King Agamemnon. His son, Prince Orestes, avenged his father’s murder, by murdering Clytemnestra, his mother and his queen. At his trial, the god Apollo shamelessly tried to bribe the jurors not to punish Orestes, even though he was in fact a murderer.
Petrarch wrote that the courts of law was where justice was bought and sold.
In Alexander Barclay’s book The Ship of Fools, Shakespeare read about an evil judge who accepted money.
Shakespeare worried about all of this. He was worried about the court itself. He was worried about the effect this malfunctioning and corrupt legal system was having on his community. He assumed that Stratford was probably not any different from most courts across the nation, which meant that corruption and lawlessness were rampant in England as a whole.
Xxx
He did not know with whom he could share these worries. He kept them to himself, and tried to make sense of all of it. But the more that he sought answers, he only ever discovered more questions.
Is it possible to have a court without corruption? Is it possible that our laws are not solving problems—but creating more problems?
Do most people in England flout laws rather than follow them?
Is it possible that people are coming to this church court to receive judgment and justice from God—and are receiving neither?
Shakespeare pushed those questions and concerns aside now, as he quickly sharpened the quills, and as people filed into the church. Vicar Richard Barton entered, to serve as the judge.
Over time, Shakespeare came to know Barton very well. Sadly, over time, he came to admire the man less and less—as the Vicar and as a judge.
When it came to legal matters, Shakespeare found Barton to be too indecisive, and too impatient to finish cases. He often could not make up his own mind, let alone settle disputes between other people. He often rushed a case through as quickly as possible, especially if it involved any indecent behavior.
Shakespeare did feel some sympathy for Barton. It could not have been easy to hear cases of adultery, prostitution, and other sinful matters, in the same place where he preached to his parishioners.
Today in the church court, there were several cases that were heard and finished very quickly. As usual, most of them had to do with failing to attend church. Some involved public drunkenness. There was one case of a man who failed to appear for a prior summons.
But then a husband and wife entered, Henry and Agnes. Shakespeare noticed something different about them. They looked unusual in some way, and almost comical. He thought they might have stepped out of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
He thought, They are probably just as in need of redemption and salvation as the people whom Chaucer wrote about, who made that pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral.
But when Shakespeare got a closer look at Agnes’s face, he knew that there was nothing to laugh about. He could tell by the look on her face that she did not like the look of this court, and that she was marching towards her doom.
Barton was quick to show how irritated he was, as he read the charge against the husband, for adultery, “You have failed to appear twice before, sir!”
The husband was a very good actor, all smiles, very obsequious and proud. He wanted to make a show of this, “My name is Henry, Your Honor—“
Barton barked at him, “Do not waste the court’s time!”
Shakespeare knew how much Barton disliked sycophantic men who played games with him, and who thought they could outsmart him in the court. Barton usually referred to these people as “Fools who aren’t fooling anybody.”
Henry nodded and forced himself to smile. He was accustomed to ingratiating himself to men in authority. He adjusted his tone of voice, and manner, to appear less grovelling, “Your Honor, I am a busy man like you are, Your Grace and the charges be a waste of your time and mine, Your Grace—the charges are false, Your Honor! She made them all up!”
Barton shook his head, and muttered to himself, “Absque hoc nihil est.”
Shakespeare knew well enough not to record this Latin phrase, since Barton said it so often. Whenever Barton disliked what someone said in court, he would say those four words—or simply “absque hoc.”
When Shakespeare first worked at the court, he once asked Barton the meaning of the phrase. Barton became defensive. He said, “It is not necessary for you to understand it. If you had gone to university, you might understand such a sophisticated legal term.”
Shakespeare could not help but feel insulted, but he just smiled at Barton and went on with his work. He later learned that the term “Absque hoc nihil est” meant “Apart from this, there is nothing.” As far as Shakespeare could tell, Barton likely used the term to prevent any piece of testimony from influencing him too much. Barton used the term to oppose, or to traverse, something that was said in order to indicate that what was said should not be taken as proof.
Barton then looked at Agnes, and gave her a look as if he already had found her guilty in his mind.
He did not look at Henry, who immediately figured out how much Vicar Barton did indeed like being called “Your Grace” and “Your Honor.”
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Shakespeare did not trust Henry. He thought that he was performing for the court. He also found Henry’s voice odd and disturbing. It reminded him of the strange noise a moorcock makes, when it squawked—“goback, goback, goback.”
From what Shakespeare could see, Agnes did not appear to be acting. She seemed natural and unassuming. He heard the real emotion in her voice, and the tears that welled up in her eyes seemed genuine, as she pleaded, “Please, sir, Your Honor. My husband, he is very mean to me… and he cheats on me!”
Barton didn’t take her word for it, as he muttered “Absque hoc.”
Barton asked her, without real interest, “What proof do you have? With whom has your husband fornicated?”
From the disinterested tone of his voice, Shakespeare guessed that Barton was going to rule in Henry’s favor.
Henry laughed, like he was enjoying this.
Agnes looked desperate, and pitifully said, “I have no proof—“
The audience in the court loudly erupted—some of them were angry at Henry, but some laughing at how pathetic Agnes was.
Shakespeare could tell that Barton was about to dismiss the case, but suddenly Agnes raised her voice, “—but I do know it! I know he does it! I don’t know who he does what with, but I know that he does it! A wife knows her husband, Your Honor. I know my husband, and I know—“
Barton didn’t want to hear her empty claims, “Have you brought others to corroborate your charge, you silly woman?”
“Ha! He called you silly!” Henry said loudly, as he pointed at Agnes, as if she was the silly one.
The whole court erupted noisily, but Barton quickly pointed at Henry, “I could call you something far worse, you lout!”
The people in the court made even more noise.
Shakespeare disliked how Barton demeaned Agnes and Henry, but he knew that it was part of Barton’s strategy to test people, to force them to show their true colors. Barton once told him, “I found the best method to hurry a case along is to inflame both sides as quickly as possible. I want them to feel heat, as if the flames of Hell are near. I want to hold them there, as if over hot coals. Not enough to burn them, or hurt them—but long enough to make them feel the heat. As if I am only braising them.”
Shakespeare did not like this method, but he did indeed see many cases quickly decided, because of Barton’s braising.
Henry sensed that Barton was on his side. He said, “Your Honor, she has no one! Not one person, Your Grace! And if anyone be sleeping around, it is her. My wife always attracts men, men always sniff around her—and I see the way that men look at her!”
Agnes shook her head at him, as if none of what he said was true.
Henry pointed at her and slandered his own wife, “I know you, you only give me part of your love. You give the best parts of you to those other men—but they will never value you like I do! You damned silly woman!”
The audience in the court made noise, but Barton rebuked Henry, “I will permit no such contumely from you, sir!”
Henry looked confused. He clearly did not know the meaning of the word.
Barton snapped at him, “Just you watch your language!”—and he tapped the “brank” to warn him that he might use it on him.
Henry did not want to wear such a bridle.
The people in the audience were amused by Henry, who seemed so confident that he was innocent. Henry smiled at them as if performing for their benefit—and they ate it up.
Barton was confused. He now looked at Agnes as if she was the cause of their marital strife.
To everyone’s surprise, Agnes summoned a courage that no one thought she had. She would not stay quiet, and her voice quaked with emotion—“Please. Have pity on me. He gives me no money, not never. Especially not for a trial—“
Henry got red in the face, and shoved his chest out, “I make all the money, it’s my money! Why should I give her anything—especially when I done nothing wrong?”
The audience stomped their feet for him, and encouraged his arrogant behavior.
But Shakespeare saw some of the women in the audience—about half of the women were upset by Henry, while the others actually liked Henry.
Barton was frustrated. He clearly wanted this to end quickly. But Agnes had made a fair point, since a fee had to be paid for each witness to appear. Barton could not blame Henry for not wanting to pay for witnesses to appear to corroborate her charge of adultery against him. But Barton could not then blame Agnes for not having any witnesses. This complicated the case for Barton. He looked at Henry, “Tell me the truth. Can you afford to pay for the witnesses—for her?”
Henry laughed as if it was all absurd. He gave Barton a big forced smile, “I won’t pay for none—because there be none! Your Honor, she has no witnesses because there be no witnesses!”
The audience fell silent, and was thoroughly confused. They did not know what to think, or whom to believe.
Shakespeare studied the faces in the crowd. He could not be certain, but it looked as if most of them were against Agnes.
Barton was confused. Henry could be lying about the lack of witnesses.
Shakespeare could tell that Barton was opening his mouth, to say something demeaning to Agnes.
Agnes beat him to it. She trembled with emotion, “I apologize, Your Honor. I am a poor unhappy woman. I forget things and I make mistakes—but for some reason, our Father in Heaven, He made me the way that I am.”
Even Barton could not find fault in such honest reverence to God.
Shakespeare saw something in her that he had not seen before. When he first saw her, she looked like the common people whom he knew—his neighbors, or his family. There did not seem to be anything remarkable about her. But what struck him now was the fact that there was something else, some intangible quality within her that was not common at all.
She continued quickly, “Our Father knows what my husband’s done—and the women he fornicates with, they know what he’s done. But in truth I have no witnesses. How can I find anyone if he won’t pay for them?”
As much as he was touched by her words, Barton muttered, “Absque hoc.” He did not want to force Henry to pay for witnesses, especially if they did not exist. He chose to give Henry a chance to do the right thing, “It would be far more helpful if witnesses were to come forward. The right thing would be to offer to pay for the witnesses. If none come forward, then that is in your favor.”
Henry tried to look respectful, but he could not contain his laughter. The audience didn’t want to disrespect Barton, but they couldn’t keep straight faces.
Barton was stuck. He couldn’t consider the lack of witnesses as evidence, either for or against Henry, as an adulterer. He also couldn’t consider the lack of witnesses as evidence, either for or against Agnes, as a liar.
He had to ignore the matter of witnesses. But even without witnesses, Barton was still stuck. He muttered to himself, “Non liquet. Non liquet.”
Shakespeare was surprised. Barton rarely said these words, which meant “it is not clear.” It was a rare confession for him to make, that he was so confused by a case. It was also an indication that Barton was considering to defer making a decision today in the case. Barton had a habit of putting off cases until another day.
Barton gave Henry a hard look. He did not distrust Henry, but he would not mind punishing him. Yet, he could not punish him for adultery without any proof.
He considered putting Henry in the stocks or in a pillory. Barton had found that, for most men, it was the best remedy for sinfulness and lawfulness, since most men could not stand the public shame. However, he did not entirely believe Agnes either. He thought she was possibly just a common scold of a wife. He considered whether the “scold’s bridle” would correct her behavior. He also thought of chaining her up with some “jougs” or plunging her in the river with a “cucking stool” or “ducking stool.”
But then he thought of a “shrew’s fiddle”—which he found to be a most effective remedy for wives who complained too much.
With so much time wasted, Barton became angry, and decided to threaten to punish both of them—to see which would become more fearful. It was a gamble, but he did not think that he had any other choice. He wanted to be done with this case, and with these people as soon as possible.
Before Barton even spoke, Henry couldn’t resist the urge to get the audience riled up, “Your Honor, I am no fool! I would be a fool to pay for witnesses. I work hard for my money! Why should I pay anyone to lie about me?”
The audience was in stitches. Barton’s temper began to rise.
Henry forgot where he was, and swore, “God’s Blood—I am no fool!”
Shakespeare saw Barton’s temper flare up. He knew how Barton hated nothing more than swearing, especially in his church. He assumed that Barton would make the matter more complicated than it already was—by tying up Henry in legal appearances. It was Barton’s preferred method for punishing someone when it was difficult to prove their guilt.
Shakespeare disliked it when Barton punished people in this way. He did not think that anyone should have to suffer through even more court appearances, fines, and fees. He thought that it was too severe a punishment.
Barton raised his voice and pointed at Henry, “I will not have you swear by the name of God, not in my presence, and especially not in my church and court!”
Henry was about to speak, but Barton quickly displayed a very rare anger, and cut him off, “If you take the Lord’s name in vain again, you blasphemous common swearer, I will have no choice but to consider the matter of your excommunication!”
Shakespeare knew that the threat was empty. He knew that Barton did not want to have to go through the lengthy legal process of excommunication. Hardly anyone in the audience found Barton’s threat convincing, including Henry. Shakespeare was embarrassed for Barton, and he was mortified by the fact that Barton was about to make matters worse.
Barton wagged his finger at Henry, and tried to put the fear of God in him, as he raised his voice, to sound as stern as possible, “Tell the truth now, sir. Before me as the judge and Vicar—and before God and all that is holy, I ask you, do you admit to your crime of adultery?”
By the look on Henry’s face, he wanted to laugh. It was clear that he was not afraid of Barton, even in the slightest.
Xxx
Barton continued, but his voice was unable to maintain an intimidating tenor, “Admit the truth now, and face the punishment of Penance!”
It was not much of a punishment, and everyone knew it. Henry would have to stand in a church on Sunday, wear a white sheet, and openly confess to adultery. For some people it could be quite humiliating, but Shakespeare had a feeling that Henry would not mind in the least.
Shakespeare thought, Henry might revel in it. He might enjoy making a mockery of performing penance.
Henry knew that Barton had a losing hand. He stood as upright as he could, and tried to look as innocent as possible. He shook his head. “Before God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—I do not admit it, because I did not do it!”
Shakespeare thought Henry was a poor actor, but he was good enough to make the audience murmur excitedly.
When he looked at Agnes, Shakespeare was struck by how sincerely distraught she looked. He began to think that if she was a truly good and decent woman, then having to argue in court was like being tortured.
Agnes’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and her mouth opened, as if struggling to breathe.
Shakespeare had only seen that look one time before, when a woman was once fastened to the ducking stool and lowered into the water of the Avon river. Even before her feet touched the water, she cried out in terror, as if she was drowning.
Agnes looked like she was drowning now—and she even gasped for air.
Shakespeare glanced at Henry. He could tell that Henry knew that as long as he did not admit to a crime, then he did not have to perform penance.
He could also tell that Barton’s patience had run out. By the way that Barton squinted with irritation, and how he pursed his lip, he could tell that Barton’s goodwill was gone.
Just as Shakespeare expected, instead of solving the problem, Barton made the case more complicated. He stated flatly, with little emotion, as he gestured with a firm finger at Henry—“I hereby order you to purge yourself, and you must swear your innocence with the support of sworn witnesses, compurgators—“
Henry’s jaw dropped, in disbelief, and he immediately exploded, “Why must I have my neighbors support me? I’ve already sworn my innocence! Why can’t I swear my innocence alone?”
The audience had never seen Barton so stern, and their mouths were wide open in surprise. They did not expect Barton to punish Henry at all. Even though some of them were on Henry’s side, they loved to see him squirm, like an animal baited for their entertainment.
It never ceased to amaze Shakespeare how much people enjoyed watching other people punished by the court. It saddened him, and it made him even more sad now.
Barton ignored Henry’s pleas, “A proclamation will be made, giving you time to find people who will defend you.”
Henry was steaming mad. He knew this would require more appearances at court, and he would have to pay fees to the court for each of the compurgators. His case could get very costly, very fast, and last a long time. It could totally ruin him.
Barton reminded Henry of what he already knew, “I hereby warn you that if you fail to appear for the purge, or if you fail to enlist compurgators, then you could be punished with public penance at Church, where you will have to stand on a stool near the pulpit and wear the white sheet, and you will be made to hold the white rod, for the entire length of the service—“
Henry growled he was so angry. The audience was captivated by such rare explosiveness from Barton.
Barton was happy to threaten Henry more, “—or perhaps you would enjoy performing penance for more than one Sunday! Or perhaps you would like to perform penance outside in the Market Place!”
Henry stopped making noise. He looked defeated. He could not afford to fight the court any longer.
Shakespeare looked at Agnes, hoping to see some degree of satisfaction on her face. To his surprise, she looked even more worried, and her body began to shake.
It dawned on Shakespeare, Whatever punishment Henry suffers here and now in public, he will probably make her pay for in private.
Without even thinking, Shakespeare opened his mouth and gestured to Barton—he desperately wanted to stop him from humiliating Henry any longer. But it was too late, Barton was just now finishing up.
Barton said, “Pay the fees now, and be gone. I warn you not to ignore the severity of this case, or you will face further penance, and you could ultimately face excommunication—which I would be pleased to initiate against you!”
Shakespeare closed his mouth. His heart went out to Agnes.
Barton gestured to dismiss both of them—just as Agnes broke down in tears. She whimpered, “Please Your Honor, please…”
Barton didn’t want to hear a word she had to say now. She fell to her knees. The audience was astonished by the sight of how passionate she was.
Agnes struggled to speak, she was so afraid, “Please… Your Honor, you must do something more—or he will beat me!”
Henry, now enraged and embarrassed, tried to grab his wife to pull her away—but she broke free from him and scrambled closer to Barton and Shakespeare.
Powerless to do anything, Shakespeare froze as Agnes looked up at Barton, and cried, “Please, he will whip me! He is a very cruel man, and he will see me dead!”
Henry yelled frantically—“Lies! Lies! She lies! Damn her lies!” He rushed towards Barton, “Your Honor, she is a liar! Don’t believe a word she says!”
The audience was silent. Many women covered their mouths in shock.
Barton did nothing. He just sat there.
Henry seized the moment—he moved to grab Agnes, but Churchwardens blocked him, to usher them away. The sound of their scuffling feet echoed in the totally silent court.
Barton felt a strange obligation to hear her out, “Wait!”
The Churchwardens stopped, and made Henry and Agnes face Barton.
Shakespeare had never before seen Barton so torn, with his heart so divided against itself.
Barton asked her, “Speak plainly. What proof have you—that he in fact beats you?”
When Shakespeare saw terror written on Henry’s face, he thought it was proof of her claims of abuse.
Agnes pulled away from Henry and the Churchwardens. She moved towards Barton, with eyes wide open, with a glimmer of hope that he might give her some justice.
The audience was totally silent.
Shakespeare couldn’t move a muscle.
Agnes summoned all of her strength, and then slowly pulled on her collar to reveal bruises on her neck, bruises above her bosom, and bruises about her shoulders. She turned so the whole audience could see for themselves. It was clear to all that despite her shame in revealing her body publicly in the court, she wanted the truth to be known.
Unblinkingly, Barton watched her, admiring her for her bravery.
He was about to say something, but then she began to lift the bottom of her dress. She trembled, and it took all of her strength to reveal more of herself, and lay herself so bare in public.
Just as she revealed the bruising on her legs, Henry roared—“No! Lies! All lies! I never touched her! She gets those bruises around the house, and from work on the farm!”
Shakespeare saw how the audience was now almost completely against Henry—many people even hissed and booed at him.
But there were still some people who did not believe her, and suspected her of lying.
Agnes was so overcome with emotion, she openly wept.
The Churchwardens rushed to her.
Henry laughed nervously, with great relief, “Your Honor, she is a liar—she has no proof of anything—I never lay a finger on her—that shrew—that hag!”
Agnes groaned in pain, as if Henry’s words were like a whip to her body.
Barton held up his hand to Henry to silence him. He detested the sound of the man’s voice, and he did not even want to look at him. But Barton was totally perplexed. As much as he disliked the man that Henry was, and as much as he believed Agnes’s claim that Henry beat her, Barton thought that he could not just take her word, and a few bruises, as proof that Henry was the monster she accused him of being.
Barton did not want to ask her, but he had to ask her, “Do you have any conclusive and indisputable proof that your husband beats you?”
Shakespeare lowered his eyes. He did not want to watch any more, he was so ashamed of it all.
Agnes, through her tears, looked at Barton as if she was lost, as if the entire world had completely and utterly defeated her.
She made a soft whimpering sound as her chest heaved with emotion. The sound became stranger, a deeper mournful moan—like a swooning sigh, as if she was being suffocated, and might expire at any moment.
Shakespeare looked up at her again. She looked like an ember growing cold, as she slowly shook her head at Barton.
Barton closed his eyes, unable to help her, as much as he wanted to.
Suddenly—in her moment of defeat, Agnes turned her head and looked directly at Shakespeare. Her eyes pierced his.
The room seemed to become smaller, and more claustrophobic to Shakespeare. The pressure in the atmosphere around him seemed to quickly increase, like it was pushing against him from all sides.
In a brief moment that seemed like whole seconds, he could feel her pain as if it was his own pain.
Barton gestured to the Churchwardens who swept Agnes away, and Henry was escorted out.
Flustered, Shakespeare had to catch his breath.
The case was ended, for now. The audience was electrified—they eagerly chatted about Henry and Agnes.
There were many more cases that day. Shakespeare struggled to get through them all, when all he could think about was the pit in his stomach, and the sight of Agnes that was burned in his memory.
Later, after the court session had ended, Barton drew Shakespeare aside. He could tell that he was upset, “William, do not trouble yourself. I am sure that we will sort things out for Henry and Agnes.”
Shakespeare did not know how to respond. He was not so sure that it could be sorted out.
His silence worried Barton, who said solemnly, “Remember what I told you, William, about the woman accused of adultery, whom Jesus saved. Just because He rescued her from being stoned to death does not mean that she was not an adulteress. Just because He told her to sin no more does not mean that she never sinned again.”
Shakespeare nodded. He understood what Barton was saying. But it was not enough to make him feel any better. There was something different about Henry and Agnes that he could not put his finger on.
Barton said, “You just never know with these husbands and wives. A husband might be wicked on a Monday, but behave admirably for the rest of the week. A wife might be a very good housewife, but say wicked things to her husband. Husbands and wives might quarrel and scream at each other during the day, but then kiss and make up by nightfall. As I have told you, there would seem to be some degree of acrimony in every matrimony.”
Shakespeare nodded. It was true. He had never been able to figure out how wives and husbands could sometimes hate and fight each other as passionately as they loved and cared for each other. He had seen many such couples at court, punching and kicking each other, only to suddenly start kissing and wooing each other a moment later.
Shakespeare often thought how he could not understand such matrimonial acrimony, because he and his wife had never had a serious fight. They occasionally disagreed with each other, but it never turned into an argument. He never had the heart to fight with Anne. They had never even raised their voices to each other in anger.
Shakespeare thought he might never find an answer to this mystery about men and women. He thought, I probably won’t ever figure out why men and women love and hate each other the way they do, just like I doubt I could ever figure out why the Wife of Bath took so many husbands.
He also could not understand how the Wife of Bath could love her fifth husband so much, despite the fact that he beat her. Shakespeare often wondered if she was right when she said that women desire and crave whatever is forbidden, and flee whatever is forced on them.
He also could not help but wonder if the Wife of Bath’s fifth husband had in fact murdered her fourth husband.
Barton kept talking, for some time, complaining about all the men and women who could not settle their complaints without involving the court. Barton then mused, “Ever since Elizabeth became Queen, men and women have changed. Men have become poor masters to their wives, and many women have forgotten how to be a good mistress to their husbands. No one knows their place anymore, or how to be good and decent to each other. I have seen more adulterous men and women, and more cuckolds and cuckqueans, than I can count. You and I have seen them—the men who claim that their wives withheld affection, which made them seek affection with another woman. I have even seen a husband so inattentive to his wife, that she thought she had no choice other than to become an adulteress.”
Shakespeare nodded silently. He knew that there was much truth to what Barton said, as confusing as all of this was. But he believed that there had to be something that could be done to remedy this misbehavior, and bring order to this chaos. He just did not know what it was.
It was getting late, and Shakespeare had to interrupt Barton, to excuse himself. As he left Holy Trinity Church to go back to work with his father and brothers, Shakespeare became engrossed in his thoughts, as he remembered all of the people who had appeared in court that day. He added them to the long list of people he had seen in court over the years.
He mentally tried to put all of the cases together—to amalgamate all of the data, and to summarize all of the facts and evidence—as if he was creating one massive final and definitive legal record and reckoning, known as an “engrossment.”
Shakespeare did not fully understand why his mind did this, or why he was keeping a mental record of all the people he had seen, and everything he had witnessed them do. Even if he wanted to stop himself from doing this, he was not so sure that he could. He often thought, It is as if my mind has a mind of its own.
He often thought that he created this “engrossment” in order to understand the world in which he lived, and the people who inhabited it. He often hoped that this record would give him an ability to see people more clearly, and understand them better. Ever curious, he wanted to know what made good people good, and wicked people wicked. And he was especially curious to know how otherwise good people could become wicked.
He often thought, If every person is unknown and unknowable to me, then how can I know friend from foe, love from hate, kindness from contempt? Without such knowledge, without such vision, then every man and woman might as well be invisible to me. I want to be able to see people for who they are, if possible—perhaps with a clarity that exceeds my eyesight.
He had a strange belief that if he could take bits and pieces of insight and knowledge about people—like gleaning leftover grain after the initial reaping of the harvest—he could make some use of it. He did not know why he thought he could do this, or how this was even conceivably possible. He believed it because he could imagine it.
He walked slowly back home, feeling restless. He was relieved that his work at the court was over, for now. He was also relieved that he would not have to go back to court to work for one month. He began to wonder what would happen if the court were open more often—once per week, or open every weekday.
He asked himself, Would it alleviate more of the pain and suffering, and bring more justice to those who need it?
Or would it increase the amount of complaints and cases, and bring even more chaos to an already chaotic society?
On his way back home, he stopped and watched as a neighbor’s hen began to bathe itself in some dust. He was fascinated as he watched the dirty hen become dirtier in order to become clean.
Finally the hen shook off the dust, and was done.
Before the bird was clean, it looked common and unremarkable, and almost indistinguishable from the other hens around it. After the bird was clean, Shakespeare thought it began to behave differently than the other hens. He thought it seemed more joyful.
He wondered, Why do the other hens seem content not to follow that hen’s example?
Are the other hens not aware of the fact that they are dirty?