The Shakespeare Mask

by Newton Frohlich

  Now he saw the place, handed down to him from the Trussell side of his mother’s family, with fresh eyes. Bilton’s structures were old, but he’d kept them in good repair. All that was left of the original 600 acres were the twenty that surrounded the main house. Still, they offered privacy.

  He pointed to the north. “That’s the Forest of Arden. Not another house for miles.”

  “It looks homey.”

  “I feel that way, too,” he said. “I’m going to hold on to this one.”

  He kept no servants at Bilton. They bought eggs and cheese in the village, and he set the fire while she made omelets. They took their plates into the parlor and sat on the rug in front of the fire.

  He saw her glance at the virginals in the corner.

  “After dinner, we could play together.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said with a warm smile.

  After they ate, he leaned over to fill their glasses. His lips brushed hers. She didn’t turn away. He took her face in his hands and kissed her—a real kiss, his lips opening hers.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said a minute later.

  She went upstairs. He heard water splashing and soon she returned, wearing a robe. Her hair was wet, and the delicate fragrance of Nan’s lavender soap teased the air.

  They made love in front of the fire. As physical as Anne, as loving as Virginia, as innocent as Nan—and Emilia’s passion outstripped them all.

  Afterward, they lay together in the fire’s dying light. He ran his fingers over her skin.

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve thought about this moment,” he said.

  “I’ve always felt so attracted to you. But I thought I’d have to worship from afar.”

  “I’m nobody worth worshipping.” The fire hissed and cracked. “Strange. I miss my wife, yet this feels right. I suppose that’s a tribute to Nan—she always wanted what was best for me.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “When you invited me I felt guilty—though, of course, that only lasted for a moment.”

  They made love again. She was petite but curvaceous, and when their bodies locked together, she smiled. Love came naturally to her, as naturally as breathing.

  He felt grateful he’d lived so many years before this moment. Otherwise, he might not appreciate it. He’d been given a second chance. Funny—when she slipped off her clothes and mounted him, he thought of the queen.

  “Emilia, I tried writing about you in my book of sonnets, but I could never invent a moment like this. ”

  “Are your sonnets like a journal?”

  “I find sonnets the best form to express my secret thoughts. Some of them aren’t nice, but a sonnet makes them sound almost acceptable.”

  “Were your thoughts about me acceptable?”

  “Only if you find this acceptable.” They laughed—he hadn’t laughed in so long. “I’m always honest in my sonnets.”

  “I’d love to read them.”

  “I’ll have to inspect them first. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt by something I wrote in an unguarded moment.”

  “You could never hurt me. I love you too much.”

  “And I love you. Isn’t it strange? I hardly know you, yet I’m as sure of my love as if I’d known you forever.”

  “At the Bertie estate when I told you to go back to your wife? I knew it was the right thing to do, but my heart ached.”

  He felt as if he were twenty-five and in Venice all over again. Their time at Bilton Hall was delightful. They rode, he worked, and they made music together, literally and figuratively. He thought it would never end.

  Once, after they made love in the drawing room, she went up to the bedroom. It was a long time before she came down.

  “I’ve been reading your play,” she said when she returned.

  “As You Like It?”

  “No, the one that’s more finished. You were revising it.”

  “Othello.”

  “You still feel so guilty. Edward, you didn’t kill Nan. Puerperal fever did.”

  “If you think Othello reveals my sense of guilt, you ought to read my Hamlet.” He laughed, but he wasn’t joking. “Every time I work on the play, it gets darker and darker.”

  “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself.”

  “I’m not very nice.”

  Bilton Hall was the only place where he’d ever washed a dish, but with Emilia it was fun. After he put the dishes away, they settled onto a couch by the fire and read.

  They both jumped at the blast of a horn. Not just any horn but the queen’s horn, heralding her arrival. He went to the window and stared out. Emilia stood beside him, watching the enormous caravan approach. As they looked through the glass, he held on to her hand as if it were a life preserver.

  When the queen entered he tried to look pleased.

  “What a pleasant surprise.” He was about to make introductions when she kissed Emilia on the cheek.

  “I’ve known this young lady since she was a little girl. I promised her father I’d take care of her, and that’s one reason I’m here.”

  The queen wasn’t looking him in the eye.

  “Your Majesty, Emilia’s my secretary. She’s been helping me with a play—”

  “I didn’t find you here by chance, you know. I had Walsingham’s men follow you.”

  “After my tour I felt the need to get away, to write on site.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  He offered wine. She must have a reason to be here, but what?

  “When Walsingham told me you two were alone, I made arrangements. I hope you both take what I’m about to say in the spirit in which it’s intended. You know I wish you only the best.”

  Dread washed over him—cold, sickening, overwhelming.

  “I spoke to Elizabeth Trentham, my most loyal lady of the bedchamber of marriageable age. Her family’s from Staffordshire and very rich. Her father manufactured drapes. Her brother Francis invests in real estate. I can’t think of a better family for you to marry.”

  Edward stared at her.

  “She also writes and her poems are superb. She’s been with me ten years and is mature enough to live with someone … creative. I told her all about your personal history and she’s seen every one of your plays at court. She assures me she’s ready, willing, and able to cope with your, ah, complexities. And she’s not yet thirty, so she has ample capacity to bear children.”

  If she weren’t the queen, he’d have hit her.

  She turned to Emilia. “I also spoke to Henry Carey. Lord Hunsdon’s my dearest cousin and most faithful courtier. He assured me his wife is tolerant of his mistresses. When the time comes for you to marry someone of your class, which I’ll also arrange, he’ll help establish you in a manner befitting a lady of means. Now, I’ve said what I have to say and don’t wish to discuss it further. They’re expecting me at my next stop by nightfall, so I’ll say goodbye.”

  And out swept Her Majesty.

  “I won’t stand for it.” Edward paced the room. “She’s the queen, but I have my limits.”

  Though she was standing by the fire, Emilia rubbed her arms as if she were cold.

  “One arranged marriage is enough. It took me years to accept it—I don’t have that kind of time now!”

  He stopped pacing and took Emilia’s hands, warming them in his. He racked his brain. Why was she doing this? Did she feel slighted? Was she still angry about Anne Vavasour? With the queen, you never knew.

  “She doesn’t care about my marriage—or your future,” he said. “If she did she’d have done something about it before now. She’s jealous of us. She—”

  Emilia put a finger to his lips and spoke softly but firmly.

  “Edward, you can’t defy her. She’ll take the Queen’s Men from you and throw you in the Tower.”

  “I don’t need my own company. I’ll leave court and take my chances in the public theaters.”

  “What about your freedom to write? The queen’s censors permit you
to write whatever you want, but if she orders them not to approve, they won’t.”

  “How can you accept what she’s proposed?”

  Emilia sat down and drew him into the seat beside her.

  “She’s not proposing. She’s the queen. She’s ordering. You may not see it that way, but—”

  “I should have fought back when she was here.”

  “Edward, don’t berate yourself. She’s the queen.”

  “You’re willing to be Hunsdon’s mistress?”

  Emilia’s expression turned to stone. She stared at the fire for a long time. “First and foremost, we must think of you.”

  “Dammit, don’t you want us to be together?”

  “Of course I do, but you’re a great writer.”

  “Why should that—”

  Again she put a finger to his lips. “Edward, I hoped I’d play a large part in your life, but your life means more than mine, and your writing means more than your life. I’ve seen how people respond to your plays.”

  Now he was the one who turned to stone.

  “Remember when I told you once that my father said his Bible was his connection with his soul?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, on those tours, I saw how your plays provide a connection for Englishmen and women to their souls. They responded to your characters, they laughed, they cried, they thought. Through your plays, they learn about their humanity. And your plays will be helping them learn long after you and I and the queen are gone.”

  “I won’t give you up,” he said. “We’ll go to Italy—”

  “Your place is here, in England.”

  “What’s that got to do with me? With us?”

  “Edward, don’t you see? You give people another way to consider morality, love, hate, loyalty, righteousness, politics, kings, queens—themselves.”

  “Does that have to mean I can’t live my own life?”

  “In Elizabeth’s England it does. If you rebel they’ll crush you just as they have other writers. You have power over people’s minds, but the queen has power over you. It’s as simple as that.”

  No, it wasn’t simple. A queen who helped him with one hand and slapped him down with the other wasn’t simple. But Emilia was right about who had the power. He had power over words and minds. The queen had power over him.

  “How can you go to bed with Hunsdon? He’s an old man, likable enough, but he doesn’t read! ”

  “You think I want to?” Her cheeks flushed. “I have as little choice in this as you. The difference is that you haven’t accepted it.” He pulled away, but she grabbed his hand. “Edward, we can still see each other, you know. When your plays are presented at court, I’ll be there. And I don’t know Elizabeth Trentham as well as I know other noblewomen, but she’s educated and refined—broad-minded. Maybe we can be together sometimes. But above all, your life as a writer will not be ruined because of me. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I refuse to let you to go to bed with that boor.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” She forced a smile. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Emilia, I was going to marry you. I was.” He looked at her, hoping against hope. “You really think we’ll be able to see each other?”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “I’m not ready to give in. I’m going to fight. She can’t always have her way. I’ll convince her she’s wrong.”

  “Fight if you must, but don’t fight the queen. She can be vindictive.”

  She was right. She was right about everything.

  In the old age black was not counted fair

  Or if it were it bore not beauty’s name;

  But now is black beauty’s successive heir,

  And beauty slandered with a bastard shame.

  Shakespeare

  Sonnet 127

  For a long moment after the queen left they stood looking at each other. Edward could think of nothing to say, no words to express his anguish.

  “I’m going to pack,” Emilia said.

  He followed her, silent, watched her gather her belongings and then opened his arms.

  They made love. It was no less passionate, but something had changed—they clung to one another, intense, desperate, committing every second to memory.

  Afterward, he ordered a carriage for her. When she climbed in and closed the door behind her, he feared he’d never see her again. Not unless she was tethered to Lord Hunsdon, and he didn’t think he could bear that.

  He dragged himself to his study, where he scanned the latest draft of As You Like It. He wanted to finish it here, while the Forest of Arden was nearby and the Howard-family tragedy fresh in his mind. Yet his mind wandered—for the first time, his plays and poems seemed thin, insubstantial. What pleasure would he take in their success without Emilia by his side?

  Down the road was Plaistow House. He knew it was for sale. It would take years to pay off his debt—what difference would a few more pounds make?

  He hired two servants to close up Bilton Hall and arrived in London a day early for the meeting with the queen. His rooms in Newington Butts weren’t far from Shoreditch, so he walked to The Theatre, where his players were presenting Richard III.

  He was limping along Bishopsgate High when his good leg began to ache. As he paused to rest he saw a poster for the play nailed to a tree. Tarleton had died, and now Armin, who usually played a clown, was the lead. Edward wondered how he’d handle the role.

  He resumed his tortured pace. Trumpets blared, announcing the show. He pushed on. Soon he was trapped in the crowd, with gallants, merchants, prostitutes, and housewives all trying to enter the amphitheater at the same time. A ticket-taker recognized him and waved him in. He struggled up the steep stairway to the gallery, where he saw another poster. The author was listed as anonymous.

  He sighed, took his seat in a box, and surveyed the house. In the cockpit below, a gallant and a commoner were arguing—it looked like the gallant was refusing to remove his wide-brimmed hat. The commoner threw a nut, which struck the gallant square in the back of the neck. Along the wall, a commoner relieved himself in a piss pot. His pound of flesh was so large it caught the attention of a prostitute who sidled over and whispered something. The man laughed and nodded, and together they left the theater.

  Edward sighed again but caught himself. This might be a far cry from the palace theater, but at least his work was being shown. Good thing he’d sent Henry VI to The Rose, in Henslowe—the neighbors here were already complaining about the trumpets.

  The play was beginning. “Now is the winter of our discontent …” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  The next day he went to Westminster. He marched through the Presence Room and straight into the queen’s private quarters, where he sat to wait. She still worked through the night, but she slept later these days.

  At last the door opened. The queen entered, leaning on Elizabeth Trentham’s arm. A tall man he’d never seen before followed them.

  Edward rose. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

  “Good morning, Edward. You know Eliza—this is her brother, Francis.”

  “Hello,” the Trenthams said in unison.

  In the ten years Elizabeth Trentham had been a maid of honor, he’d spoken to her only once. She seemed to be the only lady in London who didn’t flirt.

  Her brown hair wasn’t striking, but her silky complexion made her look younger than her twenty-nine years. Not that her age bothered him—he was forty-one. And at least she was shorter than him.

  Her features were plain, but that was just as well. Presumably she’d be more apt to be faithful—though you never knew with women. Her gaze was knowing, which he liked. And her posture suggested restraint—he could use some of that.

  The queen sat on the sofa and patted the place next to hers. The Trenthams took seats facing him.

  He managed to come up with a smile.

  “Edward,” the queen said, “you and Eliza need time together. But
before Francis and I go, he has some thoughts to share with you. I understand he’s been meeting with Cecil, the better to understand your finances.”

  “Your Grace,” Francis said, “I’ve reviewed your properties. I haven’t inspected them, but it’s clear that Cecil’s knowledge of London values is outdated. You owe the Court of Wards thousands, but your lands and buildings are worth much more.”

  Francis pronounced lands and buildings as if they were eighth notes. It was all Edward could do not to laugh.

  “Your Grace, after you pay off the Court of Wards, I suggest you protect your future heir,” Francis said. “You wouldn’t want them abusing Oxford Eighteen the way they’ve abused you.”

  Edward glanced at the queen, but her eyes were closed.

  “I also suggest you develop your ten acres in Covent Garden—at least 130 town houses.” Francis paused. “Are you with me, or do I go too fast?”

  “Not at all. I know you have an eye for land. I also know I haven’t devoted myself to my real estate as much as I should, but—”

  Elizabeth Trentham placed a hand on her brother’s arm and turned to Edward.

  “Edward, please don’t apologize. Your plays are far more valuable than lands or buildings. Francis is pleased to assist you, but you’ll always make the decisions.”

  “We’ll make the decisions together, Eliza—you, Francis, and I.” He smiled at her. She smiled back. Francis reached for Eliza’s hand.

  “Every time I’m in a meeting with her, I understand again why Father put Eliza in charge of his estate. Of the eleven of us, she’s the smartest.”

  “You really think we could build 130 town houses on ten acres?” he said. “London clerks are conservative.”

  “Covent Garden’s in the center of London, largely ignored. We’ll have no problems.”

  “How do you suggest I protect my future heir?”

  “Place the property in trust. Every nobleman’s doing it. That way the Court of Wards can’t touch it.”

  He glanced at the queen. Was she really asleep? He turned back to Francis.