You and I decide to wander around Cambridge in 1609, the year that George Herbert entered Trinity College and came to the attention of King James.
Indy Beagle, upon hearing of our journey, decides to go with us.
We wander first into The Eagle and the Child, a pub in Cambridge that William Shakespeare was known to haunt. The locals call it The Bird and Baby. It stands opposite the oldest building in Cambridgeshire, the Saxon church tower of St Bene’t’s church which dates from around 1025. A tavern has stood here since 1353, famous for selling beer “for three gallons a penny”.
I ask the bartender if he knows a young man by the name of George Herbert. Without looking up, he shakes his head “no.”
Behind me, I hear Indy say, “Can we buy you a pint?”
Shakespeare is sitting alone at a table scattered with ink-stained papers.
“Sit,” says Shakespeare, as he pours wine from a jug into three wooden cups. The cups slosh a little as he slides them across the table. He looks down at the papers. “This new play I am writing is shit.”
Indy leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Cymbeline.”
“It began as a tragedy but a comedy now emerges. Coming hard on the heels of Julius Caesar, Hamlet and King Lear, the audience won’t know what to think.” He takes the pile of papers off the table and drops them onto the floor beside him. Holding high the empty jug, he shouts, “We’ll have no more of this rancid red! My friends insist on the good Italian!”
The Italian red was definitely better; so good in fact that Indy and I do not remember leaving the pub.
Do you remember what happened?
Each week, we feature a new end-of-the-story written by a member of the Rabbit Hole Tribe. Today, Charles Huthmaker tells us what happened next.
As we quaffed Italian Red wine with Bill he explained why he frequented The Bird.
“You see that church across the street?” he said pointing out the door. “Sometimes the saints come after hours and whisper stories to me.”
Standing up, he grabbed the Italian Red and said, “Come with me if you have a care.”
I looked at you and said, “We are at a crossroads. I won’t look back at this and say, What If. What say you Roy?”
Indy answered for both of us and followed Bill out the door following Bill across the street into the open doors of the dark church. The dim outside lights reflected off the white interior helping us see our way. I looked up at the bare wood roof and wondered what was in store for us. We followed Bill to the altar where he pulled aside a carpet and revealed a hatchway. Opening this he led us down a spiral stair to a tunnel. Lighting a couple candles we followed him for what seemed an age. Finally we arrived at another spiral rising up. At the top we found ourselves in a dusty storage room.
Exiting the storage room we found ourselves in another pub. As we sat down I noticed that the voices around us were not familiar. As the barmaid brought a pitcher of Italian Red wine I realized I was hearing Italian murmuring. I noticed a mix of peasant dress mixed with some clergy. Looking out the front door I noticed a great square with a monumental church being built. I turned to Bill with a question in my eyes.
“They are calling it St. Peters. I come visit here when I need escape and inspiration.”
Indy looked at both of us and said, “This is some serious good wine!”
As we drank and chatted I realized that I could understand the words around us and it was lyrical and mystical all at the same time.
“We must go now! I have an appointment. Come with me if you have a care.”
Bill once again led us away out the front door across to the grand basilica. Winding our way through the construction debris we found our way to a small banded wood door off to the right side of the great space. Another spiral led us down down down. Candles lit our way for what seemed an eternity but was probably only 15-20 minutes. Italian wine has a way of stretching time.
As we found our way up a tightly wound stair, feeling the worn dished steps, a small door opened up on a quai with a river flowing in front of us. Roy stepped up next to me and said, “We definitely aren’t in Kansas anymore. Call me a horned toad but I believe that church before us is destined to burn.”
Bill led us down the quai to a long bridge crossing the river. Unlike all the other bridges, this one had no buildings on it. As we crossed the river on this new bridge we found ourselves at the entrance to a newly constructed park that Bill called Dauphine. There were soldiers in dress uniforms managing the entrance. Bill stepped up and in flawless French announced his appointment with Henry. As we entered the plaza it was obvious that a celebration was under way with servers offering hors oeuvres and what was understandably French wine. Indy looked at us and said, “We’d be fools not to”, and chose a French Red.
As we absorbed the day we noticed a man approaching that obviously was the center of the celebration. A young boy pranced around him.
“Henry, these are my colleagues from across the sea. Thank you for welcoming them to your son’s fete d’anniversaire.”
“Bienvenue a Paris,” said the King of France. “comment était ton vin d’Italie?”