Edward read. “‘My soul would sing of metamorphoses, but since, O gods, you were the source of these bodies becoming other bodies, breathe your breath into—my book of changes—’”
“‘And may the song I sing,’” Arthur continued, “‘be seamless as its way weaves from the world’s beginning to our day.’” He looked up. “You did such a splendid job. The words are beautiful.”
“We did a splendid job, uncle. You and I.”
“No, my boy, this translation is yours, though I must say you took more license than you should have. But after a few corrections, all will be well.”
“It’s finished, Arthur. I won’t change a word.”
“Do you forget my name’s on the manuscript? I’m the one who has to face the critics.”
“Arthur, it’s not my fault Cecil insisted you put your name on the cover.”
Edward stuck his thumbs in his vest, lifted his chin, stuck out his belly, and peered down his nose. “‘Edward, never forget you’re the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford and Lord High Chamberlain of England. The taint of commerce must never sully your noble name.’”
They both laughed at his imitation.
“He does worship a nobleman’s status too much,” Arthur said.
“He’s too damned eager to condemn me to anonymity.”
“England’s mores condemn you, not Cecil. But class is the cement that binds us. Consider my lot. I have to face the wolves of academia. You can’t possibly know how vicious they can be, but surely you understand the risk to me.”
Arthur leafed through the manuscript until he found the page he was looking for. “See here, you invented words.”
“What of it?”
“You can’t do that.”
“I know what I wrote, and—”
“That’s just the point, my boy. You didn’t write it, you translated it.” He looked down. “Is this how you show respect for our precious Publius Ovidius Naso? ‘In a land where corsies whewl, where orpid buggs sty awkly in the queach, where froshes yesk, and flackering pookes—’” Arthur put down the page. “How can I defend that against the backbiters of Oxford and Cambridge?”
“You said if I enhanced meaning I could take liberties.”
“Take liberties, not take advantage. Edward, no writer wrote more salacious material than Ovid. His Art of Love is—well, let’s just say you can’t add your excesses to his.”
Edward looked at his uncle and sighed. “Forgive me. I do understand the risk you’re taking. I also know your translations of the Geneva Bible and the works of Chaucer and Plutarch are classics. I’ll take another look at the manuscript.”
“Thank you, Edward. My colleagues resent the income I receive collecting your rents. The slightest mistake will bring them down on my head.” He patted his shoulder. “I know you’re a good boy. I’ll never forget the day Oxford awarded you a master of arts—proudest moment of my life.”
“And in the presence of the queen.”
“And we can’t embarrass her.”
“I showed her every racy passage. She laughed.”
“You’re two of a kind. Audacious and outspoken.” Arthur dug in his pocket and extracted a folded sheet of parchment. “Which reminds me. I was making an accounting of your rents. Rummaging in Cecil’s files, I came across this.”
He poured himself a glass of the sherry servants smuggled to the attic—Arthur rarely drank wine or beer—and scanned the paper.
“What did you find that’s so shocking?”
“According to Cecil’s appraiser, the value of your lands the queen gave Dudley is 809 pounds, nine shillings, and eight pence, including 178 pounds in increased rents. Now, the queen admitted she gave him a bit more than the one-third she was entitled to, so if the amount of income accruing plus the value of the lands themselves are projected over the nine-year period until you’re twenty-one, they’ll owe you over seven thousand pounds.”
“I hope I can get all that back from them.”
“You’ll be up against Cecil, Dudley, and the queen—a skilled lawyer, a skilled talker, and a polished thief. But that’s your money in their pockets.”
Edward realized his jaw was clenched. He also realized he’d forgotten about the inquest for the past few minutes and asked his uncle about it.
“My boy, I’ll never understand why Cecil permitted an inquest. He could’ve made this go away with the snap of his fingers. I think he wants to make you feel obligated—pretend to work a miracle on your behalf, then take credit for it.”
“Cecil told me Parliament’s always looking over his shoulder. He said he’s afraid of them and that’s why the matter couldn’t be dropped.”
“Afraid? That man has ice in his veins.” Arthur brightened. “You know, you deserve a gift to commemorate your first book. What would you like?”
“You don’t need to give me gifts. It’s enough God gave you to me as my mentor.”
“You, thanking God?” Arthur faked a swoon.
“But you’re right about the inquest. I’ve no peace of mind.”
“The queen’s also worried, though I told her what happened, why you weren’t to blame for what happened to Brincknell. She saw it my way.” Arthur grasped his shoulder. “You’re ready to move from translating to creating. Last time, we talked about your writing a long poem or another play. Visit Ovid, he’s a gold mine of plots. And Chaucer’s a bottomless pit for characters. What about writing your version of Troilus and Cressida?”
“Base something I write on someone else’s work?”
“If someone objects, remind him that using another author’s characters or plots proves you know how to read.”
Edward laughed. Then he began to make notes. “Troilus and Cressida. Titus Andronicus.”
“And Pericles,” Arthur said.
“What about Coriolanus?”
“And Antony and Cleopatra.”
“Don’t forget Julius Caesar;” Edward said. “Plutarch is filled with information and opinions.”
“Exactly.” Arthur glanced at the books on the floor and the bed. “I daresay this room contains enough material for a hundred plays. The queen will want to present all of them at court. Printers will clamor to publish them, producers will beg to stage them—”
“So what? I can never use my name.” He sighed. “I want recognition, Arthur. What writer doesn’t?”
“Don’t be glum, Edward. Who knows? Maybe the queen will help you. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, take a look at Boccaccio.”
“Boccaccio for characters,” he noted.
“And Dante. And Petrarch.”
“Dante and Petrarch.”
Arthur smiled. “On second thought, let Cecil take all the time he wants for his inquest. As the queen observed, isolation can be an opportunity.”
“This morning I felt so melancholy I considered jumping out that window and rowing to freedom.”
“Don’t even think about it! You could have broken your neck, you know.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“So when are you going to Italy?” Arthur said.
“Cecil says it’s too risky. Someone could take me hostage.”
“Cecil’s only interested in your marrying Nan and producing a grandchild. If he continues to oppose your trip, remind the queen Chaucer traveled. She’ll melt.”
“I know she wants me to go. She said so.”
“Then be patient. You’re always in such a rush.”
“I thought I’d write a long poem about the rape of Lucrece. People expelled a king whose son raped Lucrece—I want to write about the abuse of power. I also want to write a long poem about the love affair of Venus and Adonis.”
“Love and death. What else is there?”
He laughed. So did Arthur.
They were still laughing when Cecil entered the room.
“How hast thou purchased this experience?”
“By my penny of observation.”
Shakespeare
Love’s Labour’s Lo
st
Black robe billowing, Cecil swept into the attic room and walked straight to the window, where he stared out at the Thames as if he’d never seen it.
Edward glanced at the door. No soldiers—a good sign?
Cecil turned and faced him.
“You’re free.”
“Thank you, Sir William!” He kissed Cecil on both cheeks. Cecil patted him on the back. Behind Cecil, Arthur winked.
“However did you manage it?” Arthur said.
“I don’t take kindly to questions of technique.” Cecil sat at Edward’s desk and placed his elbows on galley proofs. “But I will tell you the verdict was felo-de-se, which, as you know is Latin for putting an end to one’s own existence, in this case running on the point of a rapier. In a word, the jury found Brincknell committed suicide.”
Arthur smothered a smile.
“The ways of the law are wondrous indeed.”
“Spare me your sarcasm. Now I’d like a word with Edward—in private.”
“Of course. But if you please, I gave Edward a list of books. Would you be so kind as to ask your clerk to purchase them?”
Cecil studied the list: Plato, Tully, Cicero, books in French.
“Is this all?”
Deadpan, Arthur said, “I’m fairly sure Edward has sufficient funds.”
Edward’s turn to swallow a smile. He owned more land than anyone in England, and thanks to Arthur, all rents were up to date. Of course, Cecil was always ready to spend it. The more of a ward’s funds he spent, the greater his commission. Yesterday, a mountain of extravagant items he hadn’t asked for had been delivered to the attic, from doublets of cambric, leather, canvas, and black satin to ten pairs of Italian leather shoes to God knows what they were but they were silk and there were a dozen of them.
“The inquest was … challenging,” Cecil said once Arthur had left.
“If you hadn’t ordered Brincknell to spy on me—”
“I’ll ignore that impertinence.”
“Don’t ignore it, do something about it! I won’t tolerate surveillance.”
“I’ll try to be less … thorough.”
“I’ll take that as a promise.”
“More important,” Cecil said, “Nan’s reputation could have been ruined. I insist you formalize matters.”
“Sir William, your daughter’s only ten years old.”
“You can wed her when she turns fourteen, which scarcely leaves me enough time to make arrangements. Not the least of which will be asking the queen to elevate me to the peerage.”
Edward slumped. He was no match for this man and never would be.
“Spare me the melancholia, Edward. I saved you from a murder charge. Be grateful.”
Anger surged through him, and he straightened. “I refuse to marry Nan because you crave advancement! I want to write, Cecil.”
“You promised that if I arranged the printing of your Ovid translation, you wouldn’t write for the public. Just compose some trifle and circulate it among your peers, there’s a good fellow—”
“I also have a long poem in mind.”
Cecil shook his head so hard his chin wobbled.
“Forget that. You’re studying law.”
“Arthur thinks the poem will find a large audience.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times! No one in your position writes for the public. It’s not done. Write for your peers—your forbears offer enough material for a hundred works! Write about them.” Cecil’s eyes were shining. “The first Earl of Oxford was descended from Charlemagne and rode by the side of William the Conqueror! The second—”
“Sir William, spare me. I’m well aware of my family’s history.”
“Very well, I’ve expended quite enough time on your affairs. I’ve work to do.” At the door, he paused and turned. “By the bye, Edward, while preparing for the inquest I found two letters you wrote. They appear to be drafts.” Cecil sighed and assumed a rather pained expression. “You signed the first with a flourish beneath your signature, which is entirely proper given your noble status. But beneath your signature to the second, you drew a crown over your name and slashed seven bars across the flourish.”
“Sometimes I dream I’m a philosopher king.”
“Flirtation with a claim to the throne is dangerous—not only to you but to Nan and your future children.”
Edward shot up from his chair. “If your servants would stop snooping in my trash basket, you wouldn’t be agitated!”
Cecil raised himself to his full five foot five. “You’ll never be Edward the Seventh. Is that clear?”
“You think I want to be?” He was shouting. “I want to be a writer!”
“What if some public theater staged your plays? They perform before inebriated louts in the courtyards of inns.”
“I’ll remain anonymous, but I refuse to stop writing. I can’t. I won’t.”
Cecil heaved an enormous sigh. “Well, thank you for meeting me halfway by studying law.” He paused. “And I must say, your Palamon and Arcite was memorable.”
Cecil was remarkable. He changed like the weather.
“I’m now calling the play The Two Noble Kinsmen.”
“Good. People don’t like foreign names.” Cecil sighed. “Just don’t use your own name.”
“I won’t.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “I’m used to disappointment.”
“Nothing a happy marriage can’t fix. ”
“A thousand times, but Nan’s not right for me.”
“Clairvoyant, are you?”
“I’m talking about love.” Abruptly, all the wind went out of his sails. “Maybe if you read some of my work, you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
He looked up. Cecil stood there, hands folded, patient. Was he serious?
Edward quickly cast about the room. Books on the floor. Metamorphoses on the desk. Cecil waiting expectantly. He grabbed a scrap of paper and read:
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged. a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
“Well, it’s certainly … poetic,” Cecil said.
Edward sighed. But what had he expected? Still, he had to try.
“I need a wife who’s … different from Nan. I wish I could make you understand.”
“She’s perfect for you.” And with that, Cecil turned and padded out of the room.
Edward slumped to the bed. As long as Cecil and the queen were his guardians, he was their prisoner, and before long Cecil would be his father-in-law. He pulled himself to his feet and settled into the chair Cecil had vacated—the cushion was still warm. He squirmed.
A mind troubled is like a fountain stirr’d.
He got to his feet, went to the window, and looked out. What a lovely country. One day he must write about England—but not yet. Too much de Vere blood drenched its history. Until then, he’d write about the Romans, the Greeks, the Italians.
The air was warm. Wasn’t it grand how the sun dispersed the darkest clouds?
He remembered he’d promised Bartholomew Clerke a preface in Latin to his translation of The Courtier. He sat down at his desk. He dipped a pen in the pot of ink and began a draft in English:
What more difficult, more noble or magnificent task has anyone ever undertaken than—Castiglione who has drawn for us the figure and model of a courtier—the highest and most perfect type of man—[H]e has been able to lay down principles for guidance of the very Monarch himself.
He sat back. The queen confessed her yearning to be a better monarch. Why not use this to instruct her, and in the process warn her about some of the people who surrounded her?
Castiglione has depicted persons who cannot be Courtiers— some notable defect—some ridiculous character—some deformity of appearance—whatever is heard in the mouths of men in cas
ual talk and in society—set down in so natural a manner that it seems to be acted before our very eyes.
He supposed he ought to flatter her as well. He needed her more than he needed Cecil. Again, he dipped his pen in ink.
Our translator has wisely added one single surpassing title of distinction to recommend his work—[in] dedicat[ing] his Courtier to our most illustrious and devoted Queen—for there is no pen so skillful—no—speech so clear—[than] obtain[ing] the protection of—our own Queen.
The devil with Cecil. Once and for all he’d announce he was a writer. He reached for another sheet of parchment.
He scrawled his signature across the top of his preface to Clerke’s translation and stared at his name and title: Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then he signed a personal salutation: “Lord Great Chamberlain of England, Viscount Bulbec and Baron Scales and Badlesmere, to the Reader—Greeting.”
Let Cecil chew on that.
Once his preface was signed with his own name and titles, his literary identity would be established. Publication of Clerke’s book was assured—he’d already paid the printer.
Feeling better, he was looking at the blank page in front of him, thinking what to write, when he heard soft footsteps. He opened the door—it was Cecil again, but this time he wore a smile. Now what?
“Edward, I almost forgot. I spoke to the queen. I don’t know when, or under what circumstances, but she’s told me she will permit you a brief period of military service.”
“Wonderful.” He wanted to write, but he had an obligation to his forbears. Besides, who knew what he’d witness on the battlefield. He thought of The Iliad. “Thank you, Sir William. When do I go?”
“I know you long for the sound of battle, so after two years of reading law at Gray’s Inn, you shall serve as aide to your uncle in whatever military matter he’s engaged.”
“You spoke to Sussex already?”
“I have. But I hope I won’t regret this. The Catholics in the north are organizing and it’s only a matter of time before they rebel.”
“I can hardly wait.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 8
