At sixteen, Nan still had her whole life ahead of her. It was future grandchildren bearing the Oxford name that occupied Cecil’s mind.
He knew he should go to the queen, but for once he felt tongue-tied, not to mention angry. He wrote a poem about her changeableness and commissioned William Byrd to put the words to music.
She read the poem. She heard the music. She didn’t say a word.
Back to Cecil? He’d just get more of the same.
So instead of confronting him, Edward staged a prank.
One day at lunch, after being elevated to lord treasurer, Cecil confessed he was worried about a shipment of gold being transported to London from the south.
“It’s guarded by only two men,” he said.
Edward looked up. “I’m sure they’ll take the safest route, Cecil.”
As soon as lunch was over, he went straight to Savoy House and sent messages to Danny Wilkins, John Hannam, and Denny the Frenchman to hold themselves in readiness. Their families had been in the employ of the Oxfords for years.
On May 15, armed with muskets and wearing masks, the four of them stopped the wagon of gold.
“Transfer the gold to our wagon,” Edward shouted through his mask. “Then you’re free to complete your journey on foot.”
The hapless guards did as they were told. When they reached the capital, Danny, John, Denny, and Edward were waiting for them on the front steps of Cecil House, the gold stacked next to them in packages tied with red ribbons.
“Bring the gold inside, ” Edward told the guards.
When Cecil saw what had happened, he surprised the four by laughing and inviting everyone inside for refreshment.
“You know, Edward,” he said, “I may have an opportunity for you to earn some gold.”
“You don’t say.”
“I still owe you fifteen thousand pounds for marrying Nan—a terrible embarrassment, but the affairs of state weigh heavily on my shoulders. In any case, the Spanish ambassador and I have been negotiating a treaty of peace between our sovereigns. When he learned of my debt to you, he suggested that in return for a more understanding approach by England, you could collect the sum I owe you directly from Spain’s agent in Dunkirk.”
“Sounds like a bribe.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds just happens to be the sum due me from Spain. This merely shortens the whole transaction.”
“That’s an enormous amount of gold to transport.”
“You wouldn’t have to do it yourself—you’d engage other persons of loyal disposition, such as the men who accompanied you to Gad’s Hill.”
“It still sounds risky.”
“You? Worried about risk?” Cecil laughed. “That doesn’t sound like the Edward I love.”
Cecil had never applied that word to him before.
“I do know someone who might help me,” Edward said.
“Who would that be, if I may be so bold?”
“Ned Somerset.”
“The Fourth Earl of Worcester?” Cecil said. “Splendid chap. Fine family.”
“Would the Spanish ambassador provide us with safe passage from Dunkirk to Calais, then back to England?”
“That goes without saying.”
“When would we make the crossing?”
“In summer, when the channel’s calm. I’ll contact you as soon as I can. In the meantime, we should organize a ship.”
“I can take care of that.”
“Good, good. That would be most helpful.”
“Thank you, Sir William.”
He meant it. The Court of Wards still hadn’t returned his lands. Every week he had to plead for funds. His debt to Cecil’s clerks was enormous, but with this sum he could pay his debt, obtain his lands, and finally free himself of financial concerns.
The next month, the queen summoned him.
“Edward!” Her smile was radiant. “I’m holding a reception for the French ambassador. Cecil says it’s important we ally ourselves with France more closely. Since the ambassador loves dancing exhibitions, I’d like you to perform at the reception. You’re the best dancer I know.”
“I’m not a dancing cow, Your Majesty.”
“I never said you were. I’ll be your partner—”
“It’s out of the question.”
Her smile fell. Under all that paste, he detected a flush of anger.
“Surely you can’t mean—”
“Try me,” he said.
She stormed out of the Presence Room.
He fully expected her to punish him, but instead she left on a progress to Cornwall and the West Country.
The next day, Cecil invited him to the library.
“You’ll soon receive a visit from Antonio de Gueras, a Spanish agent. The purpose will be to introduce himself. The next time you’ll see him will be when you collect the gold at the port of Dunkirk. Have you the ship?”
“Captain Frobisher’s holding himself in readiness. As is Ned Somerset.”
“Splendid!”
Three weeks after the queen left on her progress, Edward sailed for Calais with Ned Somerset and the Gad’s Hill three. They spent the night at Wivenhoe, his estate near the port.
“Edward,” Ned said as they lingered on deck after a light supper, “I’m curious. Where does one find ideas for plays?”
Edward glanced over at him. “I suppose my history plays are an excuse for writing about the Oxfords. The first Oxford fought by the side of William the Conqueror at Hastings, another fought with Henry Tudor at Bosworth Field, and so on and so forth.”
Ned nodded. “Sounds like a rich source—if you’re a gifted playwright to begin with.”
“When I was recovering from a fever I contracted during the Northern Rebellion, I spent weeks on my back reading Amyot’s French translation of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. I got some interesting ideas for plays from that.”
“I looked at Plutarch once. He wrote about lives, though, not history.”
“Plutarch wrote that character is revealed in small circumstances, not in glorious exploits.”
Ned grinned. “Between your family and Plutarch, you should have plenty to write about.”
“That’s only the beginning.” He looked over the rail, out toward the horizon. “After my father died, I became convinced he was murdered. I even know who’s behind it, but I have no proof. I’m going to write a play about that, too.”
“Didn’t the queen tell you to write comedies?”
“The play isn’t all dark. Cecil’s in it—I call the fellow Corambis, which means ‘two-hearted.’ Cecil’s motto is ‘one heart.’ ”
Ned laughed.
“Serves the old boy right, but it all sounds a bit much for one play, don’t you think?”
“As long as it holds their interest, I don’t think the audience will mind. Besides, if the queen likes it, I’m content.”
“That was quite a spat you two had.”
“She’ll recover, she always does. Besides, my play has a few choice words about Dudley that are sure to make her laugh.”
“I don’t know why you’re not in London writing.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’ve decided to give my marriage to Nan a chance. I finally realized I have no choice.”
“It’s about time.”
“Actually, that gave me another idea—”
“Enough!” Ned laughed. “You’ll make me sorry I asked. Write the ideas you’ve started working out—worry about the rest later.”
“Ned, I can’t stop ideas. I get them all the time. Some don’t work and I throw them away. The ones I turn into plays are the best.”
“I wish I had half your imagination.”
“Anyone who’s ever crafted a work of art will tell you the process is one part imagination and ninety-nine parts hard labor. You do more rewriting than writing, even when you’re using something that happened in real life. The Gad’s Hill gold robbery ended up in my Henry IV as a prank pulled off by Falstaff and his merry band, but it
took four drafts to get the scene right.”
Ned looked at him seriously. “You could use a vacation—or travel.”
“Meeting new people, finding new books, seeing strange places, learning foreign languages and customs …” He grinned. “Imagine how many more ideas I’d have if I traveled.”
“Then go to Italy. You’re always talking about it.”
“To me, Italy means freedom, beauty, everything. Cecil won’t let me go.”
“Maybe if you reconcile with Nan he’ll change his mind.”
“I feel as if I’m locked in a bottle, Ned.”
“Is that why you’re wasting time going to Dunkirk?”
“I told you, I’m broke. Cecil and the queen hold my lands. I need money to write, stage plays, travel, help friends. Cecil fights me over every little tract. Fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of gold sets me free.”
“But if Cecil gets in trouble, so will you.”
“Why didn’t you say that when I asked you to go with me?”
“You would have listened?” Ned shook his head. “You fight with the queen. You rob Cecil’s shipments. Sometimes I worry about you, Edward.”
“When I was young, my highs and lows lasted only a short time. Lately, they can go on for a month, even a season.”
“Edward, did it ever occur to you your melancholy might contribute to your artistry?”
“Aristotle wrote that great art comes from melancholy people.” He glanced at his friend. “As for the queen, I won’t let her yank my strings any longer.”
“What are you talking about?”
Edward sighed. “I’ve been in her bed.”
Ned let out a whistle. “Now I understand,” he said. “When I told her we were off to have a little fun in the Low Countries, she wrote me from Cornwall. Edward, she wants me to detain you in Bruges until a messenger arrives with her thoughts.”
Edward shook his head. “She’s as mad as I am.”
“She insists you wait for her messenger. For that matter, I insist. Don’t worry, the gold won’t spoil.”
The boat crossed the channel at its shortest point from France, and the pilot threaded his way through the swampy approach to Calais. Edward and Ned complied with the queen’s order and went straight to Bruges. The harbor there was silted, but storms created a natural channel.
“What’s that smell, Ned?” Edward said as they entered the bay.
“That’s a spice boat. What do you want to do till the queen’s messenger arrives?”
“I’d like to see the print shops. The first books in English were printed here by Claxton. I’d also like to see the Memlings and the Van Eycks. Scholars still write that Van Eyck invented oil painting, though we now know painters were using oils five hundred years ago.”
“Sometimes people can’t change their minds even after they’re beaten over the head with facts.”
A week later, he and Ned were drinking in a cafe on the dock in Bruges when Tom Bedingfield’s boat approached. Tom was standing at the bow, waving a leather pouch with red ribbons fluttering from it.
“Edward!” he shouted. “I’ve got a letter for you.”
Tom was thirteen years older, the second of Sir Henry Bedingfield’s five sons and the translator of Cardano’s On Melancholy. He and Edward had spent many an evening getting drunk at the Pye.
Tom leaped ashore. “I wish I could keep on going straight to Italy,” he said.
“No one’s stopping you.”
“I can’t—my book’s the talk of London. But you can.”
Edward stared at him. “What—”
“The queen wants to tell you herself. All I’m to say is forget about Dunkirk and return at once. Now, buy me a drink. I don’t have local money.”
Edward waved the waiter over and ordered another bottle of white wine. As soon as it was served, Tom drained the goblet.
“Now I feel better.”
“Stop stalling and give me that letter.”
“First, a few details.” Tom sat back and gestured to the waiter to bring a refill. “After Somerset here told the queen what you and Cecil were up to, she decided to make a few changes in your itinerary. She summoned me to Cornwall, gave me this letter, and ordered me to deliver it to you.”
“What changed her mind?”
“She said it was the poem you wrote in your preface to my translation of Cardano. You know, the one that—”
“Tom, I wrote it.” He began to recite:
The laboring man that tills the fertile soil,
And reaps the harvest fruit, hath not indeed
The gain but pain, and if for all his toil
He gets the straw, the lord will have the seed.
So he that takes the pen to pen the book,
Reaps not the gifts of godly golden muse;
But those gain that who on the work shall look.
And from the sour the sweet by skill shall choose;
For he that beats the bush the bird not gets.
But who sits still and holdeth the nets.
“Now tell me,” Edward said, “what does that have to do with the queen?”
“With pleasure! When I entered her Presence Room in Cornwall, On Melancholy was in her lap. She said she didn’t want Edward to till the soil and never see the gain.” He handed over the letter.
“She said to tell you she has plans for you.”
Her cursive handwriting was like his, the letters even and well-formed: “Edward dear, please come home, but just for a moment. Then, you’ll be off. I promise. And this time I intend to keep it.”
He tried to conceal his elation. It was time he and the queen were discreet.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shadows and in miseries.
Shakespeare
Julius Caesar
The queen’s guards opened the door to the Presence Room. Edward entered, glanced around at the packed room, and smothered a laugh. Colors clashed. Jewelry dazzled. Floppy sleeves competed with sparkling doublets, cumbersome capes with pleated ruffs. Stockings stretched tight over bulging codpieces. Fops and social climbers vied for the queen’s attention alongside the judgmental, the puritanical.
Which was worse: a monarch with unchecked power or a monarch hamstrung by Parliament? Was there something better? The Greeks had democracy, but he didn’t see how that could work in a country where four out of five people were illiterate. It was a miracle these courtiers, these administrators of the realm, got anything done.
After three years in the House of Lords and two decades in the libraries of Sir Thomas, Sir William, the Inns of Court, Cambridge, and Oxford, he felt separate from all of this. Despite his titles and ancestry, at heart he was an outsider. He was from this world, but it was no longer his. At first this understanding had made him feel sad—until it occurred to him that being an outsider had its advantages. He could know these people but not waste his time with them. He could listen to their schemes without participating, be privy to their plots without taking them seriously. And he could use all of it in his work.
The queen sat on her throne. Slowly he broke through the wall of people, through bouquets of perfumed ladies and knots of perspiring men. September in London seemed hotter this year—or was it his apprehension? At the last minute, would she change her mind? He tried to imagine Venice but couldn’t.
Standing on tiptoes, he looked over the heads of the courtiers and maids of honor toward the queen and quickened his pace. Christopher Hatton towered over a group near the dais. As the queen’s newest dancing partner, Hatton’s fortunes were rising. Ten years older than Edward, he seemed to work hard at appearing youthful and attractive. His only profession was being seen.
He’d modeled a character in a prose poem after Hatton and included it in a collection about to be published. Would it temper the queen’s infatuation with the man she called Sheep? He ha
dn’t identified himself as the author—the satire was too scorching.
He passed more people and studied more faces. So many stuffy men to parody. So many balloons to burst. He’d almost reached the throne. He saw Francis Walsingham, the queen’s new secretary of state, and waved. Walsingham waved back.
He reached the dais. The queen, holding papers, was talking to someone. Had she noticed him? She pointed to the captain of the guards.
“Everyone but the Earl of Oxford, out!”
The captain raised his spear. “Clear the room!”
This wasn’t how a monarch should behave—so blunt, so melodramatic, singling him out like that. But the room was already nearly empty, and she was pointing to the chair beside her.
Edward sat.
At last, she looked at him. Her eyes sparkled.
“I have your itinerary. First you go to Paris, as my personal representative to the coronation and wedding of the king of France.”
“May I ask when?” He would brook no more delays.
“The coronation is February 15, the wedding the seventeenth. That leaves you ninety days to put your affairs in order. Which brings me to my one condition.”
What now? He didn’t trust her.
“Edward, your wife has asked me for help. You must father a child before you go.”
“Your Majesty—”
“God’s shoulders, Edward! It’s not complicated.” She shuffled her papers. “Now, this is what I’ve arranged. Don’t interrupt.”
She needn’t have warned him. He was too angry to speak.
“I ordered your Uncle Tom—he’s the new Lord Chamberlain now—to arrange a gala at Hampton Court. Ostensibly it’s to wish you bon voyage, but as soon as the festivities are over, you’ll escort Nan to the room overlooking the hedge my father called a maze. Having contemplated the labyrinth of trouble you’ll be in if you’re kidnapped without fathering an heir, you will take your wife by the hand, get on that bed, and copulate until you make a boy.”
He wanted to laugh in her face. “Your Majesty,” he said in as even a tone as he could manage, “I can hardly guarantee the sex of the child.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 11
