Willy the wordsmith

Verily, on this fair day of April in the year of our Lord 1564, within the walls of the house in Henley Street where I first drew breath, I take betwixt clumsy fingers this quill fashioned from a goose’s plumage, and inscribe my musings with iron gall ink upon parchment made of calveskins—or perhaps fashioned from a lamb my father skinned to make his finest gloves.

‘Twas but three days since I emerged mewling and puking into this realm, a babe of lamentations and expulsion of bodily humors upon my sire’s attire. Oh, the ignominy of befouling my father’s raiment with my infantile regurgitation on the very day of my christening at the hallowed abode known as the Holy Trinity Church.

My father, John by name, is a man of enigmatic beliefs—whether Papist or Protestant, it remains a mystery to my understanding. A craftsman in leather and trafficker of wool, he harbors aspirations of ascending to the dignified offices of alderman and high bailiff of our plague ridden hamlet.

Mary, the gentle mother who bore me in her womb, hails from a lineage of distinction in Wilmcote. Her gaze is suffused with a love so pure as she cradles me in her embrace. Yet, a dread seizes my heart when I raise my voice in ‘plaint, fearing my mother’s affections may turn to ire and my days be cut short by her swift retribution.

John and Mary Shakespear, the names of my forebears from the heart of the Midlands, a narrative so commonplace as to border on the mundane. Yet, they bestowed upon me the name of William, a name destined to echo through the corridors of time. O, how the threads of fate intertwine, guiding my course upon this mortal stage.

As I set down these words, a sense of preordained purpose stirs within me. What lies ahead for this babe of Stratford-upon-Avon, this William Shakespeare? Only the passage of time shall unveil, as I embark upon this journey of existence and eloquence.