Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  “He makes for England, here to claim the crown.”

  Richard’s hand went to his dagger. He half drew it from its sheath, as if he would bury it in Stanley’s throat. “Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed? Is the King dead? Where is thy power then to beat him back?”

  Fearfully Stanley confessed that his power was in the north. He begged leave to go and gather his friends. But Richard did not trust him. “Go then, and muster men,” he bade him, “but leave behind your son, George Stanley,” and his hand returned to his dagger.

  No sooner had Stanley scuttled away, than yet another messenger of doom approached.

  “My lord, the army of great Buckingham—”

  “Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death!” shouted Richard in a fury, and struck the messenger so that the wretch stumbled and fell. But he had been over-hasty. This time the news was good. Buckingham’s army had been scattered by storm and flood, and their leader had wandered away like a beggar.

  “I cry thee mercy!” laughed Richard, and flung the fellow a purse of money to heal his unjust blow. Then he turned to Sir William Catesby, whose news was even better: Buckingham had been taken!

  It gladdened Richard’s heart to hear it. He smiled in rare delight. Very soon, now, that ambitious gentleman’s smooth, sleek, nodding head would be nodded off his shoulders.

  But Catesby carried other news that was not so welcome. The Earl of Richmond, with a mighty army, had landed in Wales! At once, a fierce energy seized Richard. “While we reason here a royal battle might be won and lost!” he cried; and gave orders to march against the invader without delay. Then a little smile flickered across his face, like a fleeting ray of sunshine. He commanded that the Duke of Buckingham be brought to Salisbury, and put to death. Even in the turmoil of approaching war, Richard was not the man to forget his friends.

  The sun was setting in fiery glory as King Richard’s army pitched camp. In the nearby village of Bosworth, frightened inhabitants dragged in their inquisitive children, bolted their doors, and prayed for their lives and property. War had come to them: the Earl of Richmond and his forces were close at hand.

  Richard bustled to and fro. His soldier’s eye was everywhere, approving strengths, spying out weaknesses . . . “My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?” he asked reproachfully.

  The young man blushed. “My heart is ten times lighter than my looks!” he assured his king.

  With a laugh, Richard turned to the young man’s father. “My lord of Norfolk, we must have knocks—ha, must we not?”

  “We must both give and take, my loving lord.”

  Richard nodded; and turned to watch as soldiers raised his tent. With a cheer, it went up, like a great gold and scarlet flower, blossoming on the green. He hobbled round it, examining the silken ropes and iron pegs, satisfying himself that all was well done. “Here will I lie tonight,” he declared at length, “but where tomorrow?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, all’s one for that! Come, noble gentlemen,” he invited the lords and officers who accompanied him, “let us survey the vantage of the ground. Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay,” he warned: “for, lords, tomorrow is a busy day!” and he rubbed his hands together, in the manner of a sturdy workman approaching his task. War was his natural element, and he thrived in it. A man in armour has no hump. “Weak piping time of peace,” as he contemptuously called it, he had always despised . . .

  By nine o’clock, Richard and his nobles returned to the royal tent. The ground had been surveyed and the plan of battle decided upon. He called for ink and paper to draw up orders for his captains, and dispatched Catesby to bid Lord Stanley bring in his power before sunrise. If he failed, his son George would pay for it with his life. He turned to the Duke of Norfolk. “Hie thee to thy charge; use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels.”

  “I go, my lord.”

  “Stir with the lark tomorrow, gentle Norfolk,” he called after him; and then, ordering that his favourite horse, Surrey, be saddled for him in the morning, he retired within his tent.

  A single lamp burned on his table, making of the tent’s interior, a smoky, golden nest. The air was heavy, oppressive, and hard to breathe. Beside his couch, his armour had been set out. It lay there, gleaming dully, like a dead and empty King. He remembered that the visor of his helmet had been stiff; but the effort of going to make sure it had been eased was too great. A strange weariness had come over him. His limbs felt dull and heavy, as if they were already incased in armour, invisible and of immense weight.

  Someone had entered the tent. It was Ratcliffe, with ink and paper. He set them on the table and was about to leave. “Give me a bowl of wine,” said Richard, and frowned. “I have not that alacrity of spirit nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have.” Obediently, Ratcliffe poured out the wine, and, with a faintly troubled look at his master, withdrew.

  The wine did not refresh him. It failed to lighten either his spirits or his limbs. He tried to settle down to composing the morrow’s orders; but his thoughts were sluggish, and his pen like lead. He rose from the table and lay on his couch. Ordinarily, sleep avoided him, but now it seemed to be dragging him down, down into blackness . . .

  The tent-flap shifted as a sudden cold wind arose. The lamp flickered wildly; then the wind died and the flame burned steadily again. But its colour had changed, from yellow to a curious pale blue. The sleeper stirred. He was troubled. He had become aware that ghosts had entered the tent.

  They were clustering round the lamp, like weird, tall grey moths. They were a strange company, huge-eyed and bloodless: an old king and his son, lords and dukes in their prime, a weeping flimsy lady, and even two children, hand in hand. They were not unfamiliar to the sleeper. He had murdered them all to gain the crown.

  He struggled vainly to avoid them as they advanced upon him. One by one, they bent over him and, whispering their deaths in his ear, bade him, “Despair and die . . . Despair and die . . . Tomorrow in the battle think on me . . . Despair and die . . .”

  The sunset had given promise of fair weather; but the morning sky was thick and sunless. Many an uneasy glance was cast upward; but Richard, in armour and mounted up on Surrey, his beloved horse, was in high spirits. To be among steel and soldiers revived him wonderfully. “The sun will not be seen today!” said he to Ratcliffe. “Why, what is that to me more than to Richmond? For the self-same heaven that frowns on me looks sadly upon him!”

  Norfolk came riding up with news that the enemy had begun to advance. At once, Richard was all energy, all action: “Come, bustle, bustle! Call up Lord Stanley; bid him bring his power! March on! Join bravely. Let us to it pell-mell—if not to Heaven, then hand in hand to hell!”

  With a wave of his mailed hand, he galloped off to the hillside, where his forces were drawn up in line of battle. Up and down the ranks he rode, stirring his soldiers into warlike fury. “Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again,” he shouted, “these famished beggars weary of their lives! Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!”

  A horseman approached. Norfolk was back. “What says Lord Stanley?” demanded Richard. “Will he bring his power?”

  But even as he asked, he knew the answer. Norfolk’s face was pale, his looks were grim. Stanley had deserted and gone over to the enemy! “Off with his son George’s head!” screamed Richard, mad with rage. But even this satisfaction was denied him. “My lord,” warned Norfolk, “the enemy is past the marsh! After the battle let George Stanley die.”

  Richard stared at him. He grew cold. For a moment, it was no longer Norfolk there beside him. It was Buckingham, smiling and nodding his sleek, smooth, chopped-off head. “Despair and die!”

  The King’s forces met the rapidly advancing enemy on the lower slopes of the hill; and in an instant the morning was hideous with screams and shouts and raging steel, as a surging torrent of swords and axes set about hacking off arms and legs
and heads, and scattering brains like bloody flowers in the trampled grass.

  For a while, the contest seemed equal: the tide of conflict flowed to and fro, with neither side gaining an advantage. Then Lord Stanley, with all his great power, struck at the flank of the King’s army, and split it into a thousand warring fragments, of dying horses and leaderless men! The battle was won, and lost—

  “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”

  The hunchback was fighting for his life. His horse had been slain beneath him; but he fought on like a madman. Hopping and staggering in his heavy armour, he killed and killed and killed. He was searching for Richmond—

  “Withdraw, my lord!” pleaded Catesby, desperate to save his master; but the hunchback was past all hearing, past all reason!

  “Slave!” he shouted wildly, “I have set my life upon a cast, and I will stand the hazard of the die! I think there be six Richmonds in the field: five have I slain today instead of him!” and, thrusting Catesby aside, he stumbled rapidly away, like a huge iron insect, blindly seeking more Richmonds to kill. The last Catesby saw of him was as he vanished into the dark storm of war, madly shouting, “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”

  Another Richmond! Thin, milky, awkward fellow, more like a cautious girl than a prince of war! With a savage grunt, the hunchback lifted up his dripping sword—He cried out in rage and bewilderment. Richmond was no longer there. Suddenly, the whirling air was full of whispers: “Despair and die . . . despair and die . . .”

  Grim and dreadful shapes were advancing upon him: the old king and his son, bleeding from their wounds, murdered Clarence, Hastings and sleek Buckingham . . . even the two dead children and the gaunt, suffocating Anne! Wildly, he tried to strike at them, to kill them again! But he could scarcely move! The heaviness had returned: his limbs were like lead. “Despair and die!” whispered the ghosts. “Despair and die!”

  With a single blow, Richmond struck him to the ground; and his blood and brains rushed out of his splintered head. His mother’s prophecy had been fulfilled: “Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end.” Richard was dead.

  It was evening. Cautiously, the inhabitants of the village of Bosworth came out of their cottages and began to wander over the deserted battlefield. So it was all over, and there would be a new King: Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, of the House of Lancaster. It was said he was to marry the Lady Elizabeth of York, and so bury for ever the bloody rivalry of their Houses in a marriage bed. At last, there would be peace. The villagers sighed with relief, and began to gather up the spent arrows and broken lances, for staking out next year’s peas and beans.

  The Comedy of Errors

  Early one summer’s morning, in sunny Ephesus, the old gentleman who stood in the market-place under guard, told the strangest, saddest story in the world. Even though he came from hated Syracuse, women wept, grown men sniffed, and children left off picking their noses as he told of the cruel events that had brought him from happy prosperity to his present despair.

  It happened once, when he was a young merchant, that business took him to a distant town, far across the sea. He left behind in Syracuse, a young and loving wife. After six long months, she grew wearied of waiting; and though she was heavy with child, she packed up her possessions, said farewell to her friends, and sailed away to join her love.

  She reached him only just in time. No sooner had she arrived, than she gave birth to a pair of babes, sons, as alike as reflections in a glass. At the very same time, and in the very same inn, another woman, a poor simple peasant, gave birth likewise to twins, both alike!

  Surely it was the working of Providence! Straightway, the merchant offered the poor woman money, to take her sons and bring them up as servants to his. She, thankful to be relieved of her double burden, readily agreed; so he, together with his wife, their infant sons and infant servants, embarked on a ship bound for Syracuse. Then disaster struck!

  They were scarce a league out of harbour when a terrible storm arose! In terror of their lives, the sailors took to their boat, leaving the husband and wife, with the four little babes, to perish in the sinking ship. All blasted and shiny from the flying sea, the poor passengers did what they could to save themselves. Not wanting to put all their chicks into one basket, each took a pair of babes and lashed them, together with themselves, to either end of a broken mast; and prayed to heaven to be spared.

  Their prayers were answered: the ship sank, but the mast with its precious burden floated free! The storm abated and, presently, two ships were seen approaching, one from the east, and one from the west. Oh, how the parents’ hearts rose! and even the babes seemed to set up a tiny cheer! But Fate was not yet done with them.

  Before the vessels could draw near, the mast struck upon a rock, and split in two! Helplessly, the merchant watched as his wife and her two babes drifted away. He saw them being taken up by one of the vessels, which then turned and sped off. By the time that he and his two little ones were rescued by the other ship, the first had vanished across the wide sea, never to be seen again.

  Sadly, the merchant returned to Syracuse. There he brought up the two infants. His son Antipholus, and the other, Dromio; for that was the pair he thought he’d got.

  Often, of a night-time, he would talk to the boys of their brothers. Antipholus grew misty-eyed; but Dromio, who was too thick-witted to take in much more than his own name, only scratched his head and grinned.

  By the time he was eighteen, Antipholus’s curiosity about his lost brother knew no bounds, and be begged leave of his father to go out into the world to seek for him. Most unwillingly, that leave had been granted, and the two youths had set out upon their quest.

  From that day until this, the old gentleman had never seen them more. For five long years he had been searching for them, until at last he had come to Ephesus . . .

  His tale was done. A great sigh went up from the market-place, and every eye was a spoon of tears. Even the Duke was moved. But war was war, and business was business. Either the old gentleman, who was plainly as poor as a mouse, must find a thousand marks to ransom himself, or his head was to be cut off.

  But the Duke was a kindly man. He granted the old gentleman until nightfall to find the money to save himself. “Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus,” he urged him, “beg thou or borrow to make up the sum, and live.”

  The old gentleman smiled sadly. Then, with the gaoler’s hand upon his frail shoulder, and chains upon his shrunken legs, he trudged forlornly away. Where should he find a friend in Ephesus . . . ?

  The market-place was busy again. Merchants bargained, women gossiped, and children went back to picking their noses and thieving from the stalls. Among the bustling throng, two young men had appeared. Their eyes were everywhere, as they took in the sights of the town. Plainly, they were strangers in Ephesus. One was of a thoughtful gentlemanly appearance: the other was not. He was as round-faced as an apple, and his only response to the wonders about him, was to scratch his head and grin.

  They were the long-lost Antipholus and Dromio; and they had missed the old gentleman by inches!

  Said Antipholus to his servant, giving him a purse of money, “Go, bear it to the Centaur and stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.” He had heard strange tales of Ephesus, and he was too seasoned a traveller to risk being robbed in the street. “They say,” he warned Dromio, “this town is full of cozenage, as nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, soul-killing witches that deform the body . . .”

  Dromio scratched his head and grinned. Frowning, Antipholus watched him as he hurried off towards the Centaur Inn. Presently he turned a corner and was lost from view. Antipholus sighed, and gazed about him at the ever-shifting crowds. As in many another town, he was searching among strange faces for one that he would know. “I to the world am like a drop of water,” he whispered, “that in the ocean seeks another drop.” He shook his head. Strangers . . . strangers all—

  Suddenly h
is eyes widened and his heart beat fast! He could scarce believe it: his quest was ended! At last, in Ephesus, he had found the brother he had never seen since they’d both been babes in the sea! Deep in a doorway, staring at him with incredulous joy, was the long-lost other half of himself! As his father had told him, they were exactly alike!

  He held out his arms in greeting. So did his brother. He advanced towards him. So did his brother. He rushed forward to embrace him. So did his brother. Then, in an instant, his cry of joy turned to a howl of pain! To the shrieks of laughter of little children, he staggered back, leaving the bloody imprint of his nose upon the mirror he’d collided with!

  He should have remembered that he was in Ephesus. It was a conjuror’s shop, and the mirror had been set up to deceive. Angrily he wiped the tears from his eyes. When he opened them again, Dromio was back before him. He was amazed. “How chance thou art returned so soon?”

  Dromio stared at him. “Returned so soon? Rather approached too late,” he said and then, all in one breath, came out with: “The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit. The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell; my mistress made it one upon my cheek. She is so hot because the meat is cold. The meat is cold because you come not home. You come not home because—”

  “Stop in your wind, sir!” cried Antipholus, furiously. He was in no mood for Dromio’s stupid jests. “Where have you left the money that I gave you?” he demanded, for there had been no time for Dromio to have gone to the Centaur and returned.

  Dromio scratched his head; then he grinned. “O, sixpence that I had o’Wednesday last to pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper. The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not.”

  This was too much. A crowd of children had gathered, and they were all pointing at his bloody nose and laughing at him. “What, will thou flout me thus unto my face?” he shouted at Dromio. “There, take you that, sir knave!” and, with both fists, Antipholus set about the villain’s head.