For weeks the queen delayed signing the warrant of execution. Afterward she claimed she hadn’t known what she was signing. She imprisoned her secretary, saying she would never execute a fellow queen. But in February 1587, Mary Queen of Scots lost her head. The executioner had to swing the ax twice before he killed her, and her dog was permitted to lap her blood.
The whole thing sickened Edward. He had no doubt the Spanish invasion was only a matter of time.
In May 1587, little Susan was born. Now he was the father of three daughters. What riches! But celebration was impossible—he was scheduled to go on tour.
Then there was news: Francis Drake delayed things by raiding Cadiz and destroying thirty Spanish vessels, but Walsingham’s spies confirmed that the Spanish armada was preparing to head for the Channel.
England possessed no formal naval force—the queen refused to spend the funds—but many Englishman owned boats. Edward demanded he be allowed to sail with a hundred other private boats against the Spanish galleons. To his surprise, the queen agreed.
Since Nan had been running a slight fever since the birth, Lopez was personally tending her in the queen’s palace at Greenwich. Little Susan was flourishing.
Edward ordered the Edward Bonaventure fitted with guns and added more men to the crew. The cost was enormous, and he had to sell two more tracts of land. He arrived at the port of Plymouth prepared to resist the mightiest navy in the world. He was about to weigh anchor when he received a letter from Cecil.
Nan was dead. Puerperal fever had claimed her. Edward didn’t even know what that was.
Grief tormented him. His sweet wife, his strength, his steadying force, was gone. Worst of all, now he’d never know what their growing closeness might have become. He walked up and down the pier, aimless, miserable. A small consolation was the news that Robin Dudley had died.
He knew the English boats could wait no longer—Spanish galleons had been sighted in the channel. Should he remain with his men or return for Nan’s funeral?
The matter was settled by another letter from Cecil:
Edward, I know you are suffering, but I also know Nan would want you to sail against the armada. So I’m pleading with you. Take the Edward Bonaventure and help defeat the evil empire with every ounce of strength you possess. Nan would want it. So does the queen. We’ll mourn in the Abbey. You fight in the Channel.
The Baroness and I will take care of the girls at Cecil House. As you know, we have a competent staff. When you return there’ll be plenty of time to sort out their future and yours. Live for England. Live for the queen, the girls, Nan, and me.
So the Edward Bonaventure, along with the hundred other private boats that constituted England’s entire naval defense, raised anchor in the port of Plymouth and sailed into the channel.
The Spanish fleet had size and number in its favor—137 of the largest galleons ever built. But in the confines of the channel, the advantage fell to England: their boats had more speed and maneuverability, could turn on a penny, rode low in the water, and offered a smaller target. Each boat towed a small craft devised by Francis Drake that was filled with explosives.
Drake called them fireboats. Edward called them floating missiles.
A storm arose. When the galleons found harbor in ports on the other side of the channel, the English struck. Clustered at anchor like a flock of ducks, the galleons were a perfect target. The English boats towed their fireboats into the galleons, also crammed with explosives and ammunition. Galleon after galleon sank.
The surviving galleons fled north around the top of the English isles, where they were ravaged by more storms. The Irish destroyed still more of them. Only a few made it back to Spain.
Spanish troops never set foot on English soil, and not a single English boat or soldier was lost.
The queen proclaimed November 24, 1588, a day of thanksgiving for that year and every year thereafter. Edward escorted her into St. Paul’s Cathedral and carried the royal canopy over her head.
The next day, Walsingham’s spies reported that the Catholics in England still needed tending. So again, Edward prepared to tour the English countryside.
He was hurrying along Bishopsgate High, tending to a few final errands, when he saw Emilia Bassano walking on the other side of the street.
“Emilia!” he called. She was older now, perhaps nineteen, no longer a pretty girl but a beautiful young woman.
“Milord.” She crossed the street. “I was so sorry to hear about the countess. How are you managing?”
“Melancholy is my permanent state. Why does one fail to appreciate the value of another until after they’re gone?”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m glad to see you, but my company of players is touring in just two days and I have much to do.”
“May I be of assistance?”
He looked at her and thought for a moment.
“I could help with the scripts, deal with the letters,” she said. “And I play the lute.”
He’d never taken a secretary on tour—Lyly came from a long line of humanists, not troupers. But he could use someone like her.
“Actually, Emilia, I’d very much appreciate it.”
He was heading for Warwickshire, seated in the first wagon of the caravan with Emilia Bassano by his side. The first performance was scheduled for Stratford-upon-Avon. When they crossed the river and entered the town, the trumpets blared.
The crowds cheered.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Stratford harbored pockets of Catholic resentment, and one failed Spanish invasion hadn’t eliminated all dissent.
“Milord, is it always like this when you enter a town?” She glanced around. “The noise, the screaming?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t like mobs.”
“I felt that way at first, but now I’m used to it.” He waved an arm. “This is no less England than London.”
The caravan had rolled up Henley Street heading for the square when he spotted a glove shop. His kid gloves had holes in them, and a reception at Whitehall was scheduled for his return to London.
“Pull up here, driver. Lead the caravan to the square and I’ll meet you there.”
He swung his good foot down and followed with the other.
“Would you like a pair of gloves, Emilia?”
“No, thank you, milord, but I’ll be happy to accompany you.”
Shakspere’s Glove Shop was a dark little place that seemed sad. No one was there but a fellow in his early twenties, stitching gloves—small, unshaven, with thinning brown hair. He looked Edward up and down but didn’t stand.
“Can I help ye, milord?”
“Yes, thank you. I require kid gloves.”
“Don’t have no call for kid gloves in Stratford. I’d have t’ order skins.”
“Very well, but they must be delivered to London in two weeks.”
“That’s a long way to go for gloves,” he said. “I’d have t’ charge extra.”
“Perfectly reasonable, and I’ll take six pair to make it worth your while.”
The fellow’s eyes narrowed. “Six pair of kid gloves? That’ll cost a pretty penny.”
“I think I still have a few left.”
“I’ll have t’ ask Pa what to charge,” he said. “He’s not here just now.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fair. Just send the bill with the gloves. Mind you, I need them in two weeks. If they’re late, I won’t pay.”
“Of course, milord. Can I get you and the lady a small beer?”
“That would be nice. By the way, I’d like my gloves to fit—you’d better measure my hands.”
“I’ll get paper.” He rummaged under the counter. “Ye have to excuse me. An order for six pair of kid gloves comes as a shock. Pa’ll never believe it.”
“Work with your father, do you?” Emilia said. “That must give you a warm feeling.”
“Yes, ma’am. With two brothers, Ma and Pa and me, it gets very w
arm.”
“All of you in one house?”
“Milady, we’re lucky t’ have a roof over our heads.”
“Would you mind if we sit down while you measure my hands?” Edward said.
“Please do, milord, and I’ll get the beer.” The young man scurried to the back room and soon returned with three mugs full of beer. “Sorry I don’t got nothin’ more comfortable than them stools.”
“They’re fine.” Emilia smiled. “The bench in the wagon was harder.”
The young man laid two pieces of paper on the scarred table and traced the outline of Edward’s fingers.
“Married, are you?” Edward said. “With children?”
“Yes, milord, I’ve got three. Susannah’s five, and Hamnet and Judith are three. They’re twins.”
“I’ve three daughters myself,” Edward said. “That’s a lot for someone so young.”
“Yes, milord. Well, I got your measurements. We’ll order the kid and get started soon as it’s here.”
“Two weeks, don’t forget.”
“Right, milord. What’s the address?”
“Bishopsgate, just beyond the city wall. My house is Fisher’s Folly. Everybody knows it.”
“Fisher’s Folly. Got it.”
“Don’t you want to write that down?”
He shook his head. “I’m not good at writing, milord. But I won’t forget Fisher’s Folly.”
Edward extended his hand. “I’m the Earl of Oxford.”
The glover’s eyes widened. “I heard of him. You brought them perfumed gloves t’ the queen!”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
The young man shook his hand. For the first time, he smiled. “My name’s Will. Will Shakspere.”
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.
Shakespeare
Macbeth
When he returned to London he went straight to Cecil House to see the girls. It was after nap time and they were in the library. Susan was playing on the rug with Bridget while Elizabeth, now ten, watched over them.
Cecil was already arranging Elizabeth’s marriage. He had several promising wards, but Henry Wriothesley was the current prize. The new Earl of Southampton, twenty-year-old Wriothesley was under Cecil’s control and his estate was enormous.
But for now Elizabeth was still his, as were Bridget and Susan. He was playing with them on the Turkish rug when Cecil entered.
“Girls, go to the kitchen. Nurse has treats. I must speak with your father.”
Edward smiled as Elizabeth shepherded the younger girls from the library. She was so good-natured, even when her grandfather treated her like a toddler.
“Edward, the Court of Wards completed the appraisals of Earl John’s properties. All your sales over the years made the task somewhat difficult, but with Nan gone, there’s no reason to delay collecting your debt.”
“How much do I owe?”
“Three thousand six hundred pounds.”
“Good Lord! It’ll take me years to assemble that sum.”
“You have five. The queen concurs.”
“What about Nan’s dowry?” Edward tried to project a stern tone of voice. “You still haven’t paid me.”
“Nan’s dowry is a different matter, Edward. What I refer to now is your obligation to the queen.”
Such arrogance. But he could hardly sue the man—even more than the queen, he held the country’s purse strings.
“That sum could take everything I have. Only twenty-five tracts remain.”
“You’ll find a way. You’re a bright young man.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m thirty-seven!”
“And in fine fettle. You’ve been writing and staging plays for twenty years and you still haven’t prospered.” He turned toward the bell. “Sherry? I have oysters.”
“Why not? It’s time for my last meal.”
Cecil laughed and rang the bell.
“Why don’t you find a wife with money?”
“Too soon,” Edward said.
Just then a servant arrived with a package.
“For the Earl of Oxford from Richard Field, milord.”
Edward unwrapped the package.
“Know Field, do you?” Cecil said. “He prints Walsingham’s propaganda. Mine, too. Very reliable.”
Edward examined the book. Written by George Puttenham, it was titled The Art of English Poesie. He was flipping through the first few pages when a paragraph caught his eye.
In her Majesty’s time … are spring up another crew of Courtly makers, Noblemen and Gentlemen of her Majesty’s own servants, who have written excellently well as it would appear if their doings could be found and made public with the rest, of which number is first that noble gentleman Edward Earl of Oxford.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said.
The oysters had arrived. Cecil speared one and popped it into his mouth.
“How’s that?”
“Another member of our literati has let the cat out of the bag.” He handed the book to Cecil, open to the page he’d just read.
Cecil scanned it and handed it back. “I wanted to censor it, but the queen said the comments are a tribute to you and insisted it be published,” he said. “We had quite a spat about it, but you know how she feels about you and your plays.”
Afterward, Edward went to Fisher’s Folly.
“John, ask the Wits to come down to the dining room while the evening’s young and they’re still sober.”
In ones and twos, the Wits thundered down the stairway and took their seats around the dining-room table. They were already laughing and drinking—they never seemed to get anything done until after they’d attained a certain state of inebriation.
Christopher Marlowe, the newest among them, had finally arrived. The young man was brilliant, admitted to Cambridge on a scholarship. His Tamburlaine the Great was taking London by storm. Edward rang the bell. A servant entered at once.
“Wine for the Wits, Mr. Christmas.”
The servant soon returned with two carafes of wine.
“Gentlemen, I regret I am compelled to interrupt your labors. I’ll get right to the point. As you know, I lost my dear wife, Nan. Now her father is calling in my chips.” He paused. “I must pay his Court of Wards three thousand six hundred pounds.”
Greene whistled.
“I have five years to make payment in full.” The Wits glanced at one another.
“So, I have to sell some properties. The first will be Fisher’s Folly. It costs the most to maintain and will fetch a good price.”
Greene ran his fingers through his unruly red hair. The others sat in silence. He hated to turn them out. Until now his English atelier had been only a success.
Thomas Kyd, another new addition, laid his head on the table. A shy fellow, he roomed with Marlowe and had flowered in the hothouse atmosphere.
Peele sighed and shook his head. “What a blow, Willy.”
Lodge, Watson, and Nashe remained silent.
Mr. Christmas knocked on the door. As was their rule, he opened it without waiting and entered. Emilia Bassano entered after him.
Greene whistled. Peele licked his lips.
Edward didn’t blame them. He’d restrained himself on the long summer tours, not wanting to take advantage of his position. He’d been content enough to have her by his side.
“Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Signorina Emilia Bassano. Emilia assists me on my tours. She’s also a fine writer. She has taken it upon herself to wage a writer’s crusade in pursuit of respect for women in this land of ours. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a worthy endeavor.”
They laughed, though he hadn’t intended his comment to be funny. Edward shook his head. She’d showed him her recent work, poetry and prose combined into a remarkable manuscript. She really was a fine writer, and he respected her goal.
She moved toward an empty chair along the wall, but he dragged out the chair ne
xt to his at the head of the table.
“Emilia, I was just telling the Wits that Cecil’s calling in my rather large debt to the Court of Wards. I have to pay it within five years and it requires me to sell property. I’m starting with Fisher’s Folly.”
“Where will you live?” she asked. “You said you couldn’t face living in Savoy House.”
“I still have Bilton Hall, on the Avon River in Warwickshire. It’s a lovely place, adjoins the Forest of Arden. After I sold Wivenhoe, I found Bilton Hall more than suitable for writing. Plenty of peace and quiet. Still, I shall miss Fisher’s Folly and these fine fellows.”
A few laughed. Good. They were young, they could handle a shock like this.
“How long do we have?” Nashe said. “Here, I mean.”
“I’m not sure,” Edward said. “But I plan to give you each a going-away present of twenty pounds.”
The cheers were nearly deafening. He summoned Mr. Christmas for more wine.
By ten o’clock the Wits were back in their rooms and he and Emilia were alone in the dining room. She hadn’t touched her wine, though he’d matched the Wits glass for glass.
He felt as nervous as a boy.
“Emilia, would you come to Bilton Hall with me?” He spoke quickly. “Nothing improper, mind you—you’ll be my secretary. My fingers don’t move the way they used to, and we could talk about writing. “
She smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
He left the sale of Fisher’s Folly to Russell and rode to Warwickshire with Emilia—him astride his old reliable, she on the young filly he purchased for her. Although she was a city girl she rode with ease, her carriage magnificent, as if she’d grown up riding through the country. Her black curls escaped her riding cap and her breeches clung to her shapely figure. The sight of her excited him.
She spotted Bilton Hall first and stood in the saddle to point. “How beautiful!”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 22
