“When he was ten?” Lady Cecil gave Edward an adoring look, followed by a wink.
“As you now realize,” Arthur said, “Edward is remarkable.”
Edward helped himself to more chicken. Their admiration, at least, was something he could get used to.
“I’ll say.” Nowell studied Edward. “Milord, what’s the subject of that poem?”
“Just a minute.” Cecil put down his drumstick, minus a large bite. “Arthur, I assume you did not publish that one under Edward’s name. What name did you use?”
“For Edward’s first published poem, entitled Ovid’s Tale of Narcissus, we used T.H.—the initials of the printer, Thomas Howell.”
Lady Cecil chimed in. “I assume, Edward, your poem uses material from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the large work you’re translating with the help of your uncle?”
“Correct, Lady Cecil. My Narcissus is only a hundred and ninety-two lines, mostly in pentameter.”
“It’s a fine piece of work.” Arthur’s pride was obvious. “He used the less risqué material—as you observed, he was only ten when he wrote it.”
Cecil wiped his fingers, laid his napkin aside, and rose. “I simply must see to those Russians. We can’t have Ivan the Terrible declaring war on England because I became enchanted with pen names. Arthur, do be careful. Edward is our premier and the Lord High Chamberlain of England.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “I will, Sir William.”
Cecil was hauling his body out of his chair when the door opened to admit a messenger in the queen’s livery, who handed him a red leather pouch with trailing red silk ribbons. He ripped off the seal and read. “God’s shoulders.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” Lady Cecil said. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“Elizabeth has smallpox.”
The room went silent. Lady Cecil hid her face in her hands.
Edward felt sick. Smallpox? The queen? He thought of her lovely face, her smile.
Cecil grabbed his cane and lumbered toward the door.
“Dear? Be careful. Don’t go near.”
“Yes, Mildred.”
The sound of his cane echoed down the hall as Lady Cecil spoke.
“Only yesterday the queen observed that the plague was subsiding, deaths in London down to fewer than fifty a week. Poor Elizabeth—she’s not yet thirty.”
“Poor England,” Arthur said, “with no clear succession.”
“Arthur!” She rose to her feet. “You know it’s forbidden to refer to the succession.”
She turned to Edward and forced a smile. “I know I speak for Sir William when I say how much we enjoyed learning about your writing. We look forward to many happy years in our home.”
“Thank you, Lady Cecil.” He paused but decided to risk it. “But what will happen if the queen—”
”Edward, please! Any comment on succession is forbidden on penalty of death. I beg you. Say nothing.”
“But I—”
“Edward, dear.” Her smile slipped. “No buts.”
As she swept from the room, Arthur, Nowell, Fowle, and Lewyn gathered around him. Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. The queen’s indestructible.”
“On the other hand,” Nowell said as he glanced around, “her death could be followed by civil war. Life in England could become a hell on earth.”
Arthur steered Edward to the door. “We’ve all had too much wine to talk about this sensibly. I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.”
Edward felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Nowell. He motioned him back into the dining room, now empty of guests, and shut the door.
“Milord, I thought you’d like to know about that little scene with Anne.”
“Cecil’s daughter?”
“Milord, she’s going to be your bride. Just an intimate ceremony of a thousand in Westminster Abbey, with the queen—assuming she’s still with us—in attendance.”
Just as Sir Thomas had warned him.
“How can you be sure—”
“Milord, this is indispensable for Cecil. He’s not a nobleman, and you’re the premier earl of England. If Anne is to marry you, the queen must elevate Cecil’s status. She’ll make him an earl or a baron.” He sighed. “I’m afraid it’s unavoidable.”
“But my father already made a contract for me.”
“Sorry, milord. When it comes to the queen’s ward, she can do whatever she wishes.” He lowered his voice. “And if you’re having trouble keeping up with Sir William, don’t berate yourself. Even with a cane, he’s two steps ahead.” Nowell opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Now, when shall we begin to translate Saxo Grammaticus? I can’t wait to introduce you to Amleth. He reminds me of you, you know.”
That night, a note from Arthur was slipped under the door of his room.
Tomorrow morning at eight, Sir William wishes us to meet him in the library. Bring Lewyn. If the last few weeks taught us anything, we may need a witness.
At eight, he appeared in Cecil’s library, Lewyn and Arthur in tow. Cecil soon joined them.
“I’ve revised Arthur’s tutoring plan.” Cecil sat down and placed his cane at his side. “Pardon my tardiness—I just received word of the queen’s condition.”
“How is she?” Edward said.
“No change, but I’ll tell her you inquired.” Cecil pulled Arthur’s schedule from his pocket. “I suggest you commence earlier than eight. Begin at seven, with an hour of dancing. Smith never acquired social skills, and he paid dearly.”
“Dancing?”
“Her Majesty loves to dance.” Cecil dabbed his eyes, studied the ceiling, and took a deep breath. “Poor Elizabeth. Where were we?”
“Dancing at seven?”
“Just so. After breakfast you’ll resume your studies in French, followed by an hour of Latin and a half-hour of writing and drawing. You’ve demonstrated a facility for writing, so exercise in penmanship is important—in italics as well as secretary script.”
Edward smiled. “Just so.” The old boy either didn’t mind or didn’t notice the mimicry.
“After lunch, you’ll rest. Arthur, your memo proposed cosmography at one. Smith believes mapping the heavens and earth is indispensable, and so do I. Likewise the study of astronomy, geography, and geology. After all, this is the sixteenth century.
“I noticed you added another hour of Latin at two and another hour of French at three. I agree. While his day is long, he shall also have another session of exercise with the pen at four.”
“Thank you, Sir William,” Edward said.
“I thought that might please you. This isn’t too strenuous, is it?”
“I already write two hours every morning beginning at five, and two every night before I retire.” He shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep.”
“Then I trust you’ll not object that I added another item. Each evening before supper, Lady Cecil and I insist he spend an hour in prayer. We think he should focus on the Epistles and the Gospels in English, Latin, French, and Greek.”
“I’ve studied the Epistles in the Greek,” Edward said. “Sir Thomas saw to that.”
Cecil’s lips tightened. “I didn’t expect otherwise, milord, though I dare say Sir Thomas’ purpose was to master the Greek language, not religion.”
“I dare say.”
“Now then, most of your free time will be devoted to horsemanship. The queen requires a young companion to ride with her every day. Dudley maintains three hundred horses for that purpose and you’ll be invited often.” Cecil handed the memorandum to Arthur, who scanned it.
“You added shooting, more dancing, walking, other commendable exercises, and additional time for prayer.”
“Quite.”
“A rather full day.”
“He’s swimming in deep waters. Lady Cecil was tutored by Roger Ascham, as was the queen. We can’t have him educated at the appalling level that prevails in our grammar schools.”
A knock on the
door was followed by the entry of a black-robed clerk carrying a leather pouch. A document poked out, ribbons hanging.
“Surveillance report from Paris, Sir William. Your son’s in trouble again.”
Cecil sighed. “You may go, Harold.”
“Very good, sir.” The clerk backed out of the room.
“Excuse me.” Cecil grabbed his cane and limped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. They caught a few muted, angry words.
Arthur shook his head. “He employs three spies just to follow his first wife’s son.”
The door opened. Cecil limped back to his chair. “Your suspicion was well-founded, Edward. Your income will be reduced by the third of your lands transferred to Dudley.” He sighed. “One of the properties in that third is Hedingham Castle.”
Edward fought to keep his voice calm. “He’ll account for the rents when my lands and castle are returned to me, yes?”
“Yes, but heirs seldom come out ahead.” Cecil shook his head. “Your father’s desk will be transported here, but that’s all I was able to do.”
After the meeting, Edward went to his room and stared out the window overlooking the Strand. He was now to live under the thumb of the most complicated man he’d ever met—stimulating, yes, but controlling. God only knew what would happen if he didn’t adhere to his schedule—a schedule that seemed built around a queen who might not survive. To top it off, he was to be married eventually to a mouse of a girl, and the man who murdered his father was living fat in Earl John’s keep.
He filled a tumbler with sherry, drank it, filled it again. He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket and glanced at a poem he’d been working on:
… like a woeful witch I wove the web of woe
The more I would weave out my cares, the more
they seemed to grow …
One thing was clear. He had to write.
Youth, the more it is wasted,
the sooner it wears.
Shakespeare
Henry IV, Part I
At Cambridge, Edward found himself surrounded by foppish young men who seemed to think they’d live forever. He was only fourteen but determined to treat every night as the death of each day—he never forgot that Earl John had died in the pink of health.
The frenetic regimen wasn’t new to him. At Cecil House, he’d followed Cecil’s schedule like a dog chasing his tail—until the day Lady Cecil gave birth to a baby with a humped, crooked back.
The tragedy plunged the household into a state of perpetual gloom. Even if little Robert could walk, doctors said, his gait would be hobbled. So rather than carry out his Cambridge studies at Cecil House, Edward decided to live on campus. Anything to escape the constant sadness and the confines of Cecil’s house. He still had to follow a schedule, but at least here he had a chance to think, to dream, to write without constant interference.
His day began when the bell struck 4 a.m. After private prayers and mass, he joined the others in the hall for lectures that continued nonstop, aside from a break for meals, until early afternoon, which was free for recreation. Edward’s favorite was archery, practiced on the field between the college and the River Cam.
Lectures resumed at three, followed by supper at five. On feast days he stayed with the other students to sing, talk, or play cards—dicing and gambling were forbidden—and then returned to his room to study. He seized every opportunity to separate himself from the others so he could write and explore his own ideas.
At times he missed Cecil House. He’d shared a suite of rooms with Ned Manners, the newest ward there. Until Ned, he’d not had a best friend—Arthur and Lewyn were as close as he’d come. When he’d made ready to leave Cecil House, he asked Ned to join him, along with his older cousin Tom Howard. As the three rode down the Roman road to Cambridge and approached the River Cam, Edward sucked in a deep breath of free air. It was good to be gone.
He couldn’t wait to see King’s College Chapel. A hundred years old, it was a place where things were changing. Erasmus, Europe’s leading scholar, had studied there before he produced a New Testament to replace the Latin Vulgate Bible. At last people were eliminating superficial ritual and expressing attitudes of the heart. Edward naturally thought of how this might spill over to matters other than worship. If he could escape the confining rules of rhyme and write in free verse, his stories would be more real, express more depth of feeling. A whole new world of communication might ensue.
On his first night at St. John’s, he toasted his freedom with Manners and Howard in their living room.
“When Nowell told Cecil he was returning to research,” Edward said, “he said he was leaving because he’d ‘done all he could do with me.’ ”
They all laughed.
“Let me guess,” Manners said. “Cecil decided you were a lazy lout?”
Howard snorted. “Isn’t he?”
“Of course not,” Manners said. “Cecil had to know he was joking. I heard him brag that Edward’s mind expands in direct proportion to his schedule.”
“Here we go again,” Howard said. “Basking in the glow of Edward’s brilliance.”
Edward grinned. “Jealous, are you?”
“No, just annoyed.”
“Don’t be offended, Edward,” Manners said, “but you do have a tendency to inflate.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Manners. As always, your conciliation is appreciated.”
“I know. That’s why Cecil insisted I accompany you to Cambridge.”
“As my good angel to fire out the bad?”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “When I commence the practice of law, I’ll send you an invoice.”
“Don’t overdo,” Edward said, “lest I kill you off with all the other lawyers.” He took a swig of sherry. “Starting with my sister Katherine’s.”
“Ah, here we go.” Howard refilled their glasses.
“Did I tell you how I plan to retaliate? I’m writing my own version of King John in which a bastard dominates the play. I’m also transforming my Romeus and Juliet into a play of similar name. At first I thought I’d model the friar after Nowell, but he’s really a blend of Nowell and Sir Thomas. As the queen says, ‘Two for the price of one.’ ”
“Name-dropper.” Howard drained his sherry and poured himself another.
“Gentlemen,” Edward said, “four years from today—if Cecil doesn’t force me to marry his daughter—I shall confirm my father’s contract and wed Mary Hastings.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I can picture it—her shapely form, her lips …”
“Cecil’s webs don’t break,” Manners said. “Besides, Mary Hastings is too tall for you.”
“I find being short an advantage. My deep voice makes more of an impression that way.” He was quite warm now, basking in the glow of freedom and sherry. “Did you know Mary Hastings’ father, the Earl of Huntingdon, is next in line to the throne by virtue of his descent from Richard III? If I wed Mary, our son could be king.”
“Any more bedtime stories?” Howard said.
“But it’s true.”
Just then Edward glanced out the window and saw Arthur galloping toward their building. “What’s he doing here?”
“I’m parched, Edward. Something to drink, please.” Arthur collapsed in one of the soft chairs as Edward poured water for him. “My boy, I bring good news. Not only has the queen returned to health, she quashed your stepsister’s lawsuit.”
Manners pounded him on the back.
“To Arthur.” Edward raised his glass. “For bringing such good tidings.”
“Thank you, my boy. Since our translation of Ovid wasn’t back from the printer, here’s a copy of my translation of The Abridgement of the Histories of Tragus Pompeius as a souvenir of the occasion. I dedicated it to you.”
He embraced his uncle.
“Now, if only I didn’t have to marry Nan, everything would be perfect.”
“Edward, I implore you. That’s a long way off. Accept your fate and go quietly.
”
“But Nan’s like a sister to me!” He shuddered. “Marrying her feels like incest—they can force me to marry her, but I’ll never sleep with her.”
The queen arrived in Cambridge on August 5, accompanied by an entourage that included Robin Dudley. He now possessed one-third of Edward’s holdings and was thus worthy of being elevated to the nobility, so the queen had appointed him Earl of Leicester.
To celebrate the Cambridge graduation of two knights, one doctor of divinity, and nine nobles including Edward, a ceremony in the chapel led by Cecil as chancellor of the university was followed by a play presented in Latin. The next day featured a debate on the superiority of a monarchy to a republic followed by a play, Dido. But before the last event, an anti-Catholic play, the queen claimed fatigue and the performance was canceled.
In the morning she made ready to leave. Undeterred, undergraduates followed her to the outskirts of Cambridge, pleading to entertain her one more time. The queen relented, and that night they performed an impromptu lampoon of Catholic bishops being held in jail. Actors paraded onstage carrying a lamb they ate as they walked, but when they fed a live dog sacramental Catholic wafers, the queen leaped to her feet.
“Didn’t I issue a proclamation outlawing discussion of religion and politics on stage?“
Edward’s eyes were fixed on her. Her reddish hair seemed on fire. She wore a new kind of cosmetic that made her complexion look like cream. She was slim, athletic, everything a woman should be.
Nevertheless, he felt as if her presence here was hypocritical—she’d issued a decree forbidding women from setting foot on the campuses of Cambridge and Oxford. He said as much to Manners.
“Edward, did you ever consider that maybe the queen doesn’t think of herself as a woman?”
“What else could she possibly see herself as?”
Manners grinned. “A hermaphrodite?”
“That’s absurd! The queen’s not—”
“She swears she’ll never marry.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 6
