“Of course, Will’s behavior did give me an idea for a play.” Jonson grinned as he ordered another beer. “I call it Every Man out of His Humour.”
“I’d like to see it. Perhaps I can get Burbage to put it on at The Theatre.”
“I’d like that, milord. In my play, a country fellow buys a coat of arms with money he claims came from someone important. But the best part of the script is the motto.”
“Which is?”
“When the College of Heralds first denied Will’s father a coat of arms, they scrawled ‘No, Without Right’ across the top of his application. But after Will bribed Dethick and the application was approved, they altered the words to Not Without Right.”
“I didn’t know heralds were so creative.” Edward chuckled. “But what’s the motto in the play?”
“ ‘Not Without Mustard.’ ”
Edward laughed so hard he peed his pants, something he was doing on occasion now. He’d ask Ruy—
Damn. He sighed.
He summoned Will to meet him at The Pye. Edward got there first and chose the booth he and Francis Walsingham had shared fifteen years ago.
He studied his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His hair was gray, his face lined. What did he expect? He was probably lucky to be alive. Thank goodness for Eliza and little Henry. They were another kind of love, without passion but satisfying nonetheless. The boy was beautiful, and Eliza’s care and attention to his health enabled him to continue writing. He’d finally finished Hamlet and started King Lear. He was pouring himself a second glass of sherry when Will arrived, out of breath.
“Sorry I’m late, milord.” He took off his expensive cape and enormous hat and plopped himself down on a bench.
“Everything all right?”
“Trouble with tax collectors, milord. They say I live in London even though I told ’em I live in Stratford. This is the third time they cited me. Said the parish needs money.” He grinned. “Everybody’s hurting but me.”
“Doing well, are you?”
“I am, milord. I’m lending money, trading grain—”
“I heard you were cited for hoarding grain. In a drought.”
“I weren’t the only one, milord. They cited about ninety of us, all told.”
“And nothing about this strikes you as wrong?”
Will dropped his eyes to the table.
Edward sighed. “What would you like to drink?”
“Small beer’s fine. One of these days you ought t’ let me pay, milord.”
Edward ordered a small beer and another sherry. “You’ve been causing quite a stir when you come to London.”
“Doing what exactly, milord?”
“You flaunt expensive clothing, smoke expensive tobacco. The public will wonder how you got all that money. I can’t have them knowing I pay you to be my go-between. There’d be a scandal at court.”
Will looked troubled. “Hadn’t thought of it like that, milord. ’Preciate you warning me.”
“The warning’s born of self-interest. You’d be out of a job, but I’d be disgraced.”
“Sorry, milord. I didn’t mean t’ cause trouble. I ain’t never had no money to show off before.”
“Just don’t let it happen again.”
“You got my word, milord. You been good t’ me, I won’t forget.”
“Good boy.” He smiled. “Though I suppose you’re not a boy anymore.”
“Not hardly, milord. I’m near thirty-four.”
”Good Lord! My time’s out of joint.”
“Nice way of putting it, milord.” He drained his beer.
“Can you keep a secret?” Edward said.
“You can count on me, milord.”
“Burbage built The Theatre, but he doesn’t own the land beneath it. Now his landlord refuses to extend his lease.”
“You told me, milord. Them trumpets is hard on neighbors.”
“So are the crowds. The scene’s colorful. I like it, but others don’t.”
“What will Burbage do?”
“Remember, you’re sworn to secrecy.”
“Mum’s the word, milord.”
“He’s going to take apart the theater plank by plank, move the pieces across the river, then construct a playhouse in Southwark under a new name. He’s calling it The Globe.”
“The whole place, piece by piece? Can he do that?”
“His lawyer says the pieces are his property, though I have my doubts, since they’re affixed to the land. But he says the lawyer told him to do it and pay a fine when they catch him. He’s asking all the shareholders to help.”
“What’s the landlord do while all this moving goes on?”
“We’re waiting till he goes north for his winter vacation. What do you say? Will you help us?”
Will grinned. “Have you ever knowed me to run away from a good thing?”
Edward smiled. “Burbage intends to make The Globe the personal playhouse for all my plays.”
“I’ll keep a lid on it, milord. My head got big, but it’s down t’ size now.”
Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
Shakespeare
Sonnet 146
Edward received word: Cecil was confined to bed and failing fast.
He left King’s Place by sedan chair. At Cecil House he hurried up the stairs as best he could. He’d worked all day and most of the previous night—he was exhausted, yet increasingly he felt driven of late by a burning compulsion to finish everything he could.
He entered Cecil’s bedroom and found the queen trying to push a spoon between Cecil’s lips. Soup dribbled down his chin. The physician in the corner made no move to challenge her.
He limped over to the bed and touched Cecil’s hand. He was as cold as ice. Edward laid a gentle hand on the queen’s shoulder, but she wouldn’t look up from her task. He left the bedroom and hobbled down to the library. Robert was waiting for him in Cecil’s chair.
“Edward. Take a seat.”
It had taken forty years to win Cecil over. He didn’t have a hope of winning Robert, who didn’t look troubled in the least by the fact that his father was dying, most likely already dead.
“Your mask seems to be working well, Edward. Don’t you agree?”
He didn’t. This farce would bury him, but he felt too weak to resist. Had he ever been strong? No. Sooner or later he always gave in. Like Earl John, he was all bark and no bite.
“I was thinking of publishing eight of my plays now,” he said, “before the pirate copies are published unannounced.”
“Good idea. Francis Meres, an author up north, requested permission to publish a book naming contemporary writers and their works. He calls it Palladis Tamia, ‘Wit’s Treasury.’ I’ll have him include Shakespeare as the author of your previous plays.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
He must work faster. No time to mourn the man he’d loved more than he hated.
He returned to Hackney and went straight to the library. .
A law forbade comment on royal succession, but after today he had to say something. To be safe, he had set Julius Caesar 1,500 years earlier in ancient Rome.
He was also working on King Lear. The transfer of Hedingham still rankled, especially now that he had a son. Like Lear, he had given away his castle when he was alive. He was thinking of transferring Hedingham to a trust for the three girls.
He took comfort in what was happening with “his” theater. On a snowy night in December, Burbage and the shareholders took apart The Theatre and carried the pieces to the south bank. Two months later, The Globe was standing between a brothel and a bear-baiting pit. Not one neighbor complained.
Bridget, now fifteen, married Francis Norris, the soon-to-be Earl of Rycote. Cecil was barely in his grave, but they went ahead with an understated wedding. Several weeks after the wedding, he met Ben Jonson for drinks at The Steelyard.
“Did you know your man Will is going around town asking nobles if he can be their mask?�
�� Jonson said.
“I’m taking care of him in my own way. I give a line to a character, Touchstone: ‘to have is to have.’ In Italian, it’s avere e avere. A Vere is a Vere.”
Ben shook his head. “You’d better find another, less subtle way to handle him,” he said.
“Ben Jonson tells me you’re offering your services to other noblemen,” Edward said the next time he saw Will. “Just because your name’s similar to my pen name doesn’t mean you’re me. You’re my mask, Will, and that’s all. Do you understand?”
“Guess I got carried away again,” Will said. “I’ll do better, milord.”
“There’s a good fellow.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, how are those children of yours? I heard the school in Stratford only has one room.”
“I didn’t put ’em in no school, milord. Working was good enough for me, so I figured it was good enough for them.”
Rather than fight the Irish, Essex lost most of his men to illness. Then, without warning or authority, he declared a truce and came home. The queen and Robert were so furious they canceled his only income, a monopoly on the import of sweet wine. Essex called the queen crooked, said she must be replaced, and, with only three hundred men, including Henry Wriothesley, marched on the palace.
Essex and Wriothesley were captured and charged with treason. To Edward’s surprise, the queen appointed him to the jury of lords hearing evidence. When Henry entered the courtroom, he walked up to Essex and kissed him. Edward caught his breath as old feelings surged.
The trial was over in time for lunch. Both men were sentenced to beheading.
Edward went back to King’s Place and dreamed of Henry that night. They were naked, in bed, just as he’d described in those steamy sonnets years ago.
He woke, startled, aroused.
He couldn’t bear to let such a beautiful young man die for such a stupid mistake.
He went to see the queen. He sent no warning, made no formal request. He simply arrived at the palace early one morning and waited.
Finally, the clerk brought him before the queen.
“Your Majesty, I’ve come on a matter of grave importance,” he said. “I’m sure you’re aware that Henry Wriothesley is to be beheaded tomorrow.”
Her breathing was heavy, the silence interminable.
“I beg you to commute his sentence to life imprisonment, Your Majesty. He’s young, he was under Essex’s influence. He deserves your mercy.“
She fingered the hairpiece woven with pearls. He thought of Lopez—hardly a day went by that he didn’t.
“Last night I read your preface to your tutor’s translation of The Courtier.” She looked directly at him. He was glad she couldn’t see his clenched fists. “You said a monarch must be merciful.”
“I did, Your Majesty.”
She sighed, and he thought he’d never heard a wearier sound.
“I’ll commute Henry’s sentence,” she said. “Now go home and write.”
He limped out of the palace. He should have been ecstatic—he’d saved Henry’s life.
This was the second time he’d pleaded with a capricious queen to spare the life of a man who should never have been condemned to death in the first place. He could only hope it would be the last.
The next time he saw Will, he was pleased to see him in modest clothes. He handed over his scripts for Hamlet.
“Morning, Will. How’s the family?”
“Morning, milord.” Will sighed. “Pa passed on this week. Family’s going t’ miss him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Edward said. “I know how much he meant to you.”
Will thrust his jaw out. “Milord, I’m going t’ show ’em. I’ll erect a statue for Pa in Holy Trinity Church.”
Edward leaned in. “What of?”
“It near killed Pa when they made ’im stop trading wool. I’ll have his bust mounted on the wall, with a woolsack in his lap.”
It was almost poetic—Edward liked it.
“Would you permit me to make a contribution?”
“I’d sure appreciate that, milord, but it’s going t’ take time.”
“I’m sure dealing with the leaders of a small town is difficult.”
Will hesitated. “Milord, Ben Jonson asked if I want t’ act in one or two of his plays.” He almost looked bashful. “He’s got some short parts, so I don’t need t’ read.”
“Well, that was kind of him.” Though he strongly suspected an ulterior motive.
“He said you was behind it, so I wanted to thank you.”
The first performance of Hamlet was staged in the auditorium of Middle Temple, one of the Inns at Court. At four thousand lines, the play was twice the length of any other play he’d written—too long for The Globe, Burbage said, but not for the audience at court filled with law students and courtiers.
Edward sat between Eliza and the queen, Robert Cecil on her other side, behind them Bridget and Elizabeth with their husbands.
“Father,” Elizabeth whispered in his ear, “I’m glad I never married Wriothesley. William and I fight, but at least my William doesn’t start revolutions.”
His daughter Susan entered with her fiancé, Philip Herbert. Philip’s brother William was the Lord Chamberlain now, thus in charge of the queen’s entertainment. His favorite cousins, Horace and Francis Vere, on furlough from their army unit in the Low Countries, entered behind them.
He wished Uncle Arthur were there. In his sixties now, Arthur was failing. So many had gone now.
Sic transit gloria mundi—thus passes away the glory of this world.
James Burbage’s son Richard played Hamlet. Edward always thought he’d play the part himself, but he could hardly make it to his seat now, let alone drag himself across the stage.
Not once during the entire four-hour performance did the queen close her eyes. She seemed riveted. At play’s end, bodies littered the stage but the applause was thunderous.
He took a bow. To hell with anonymity.
At the reception that the people at Temple Inn put together, the queen surprised everyone, chatting and laughing, more alive than she’d seemed in years. But the greatest surprise was Robert.
“I enjoyed it immensely,” he said with a smile. “Heartiest congratulations.”
William Russell was next.
“Edward, my boy, I loved it, especially the part about the pirates. Those were the days, weren’t they?”
Edward laughed. “If you like wandering the beaches of Dover for hours, begging for clothes, then, yes, I suppose they were.”
After everyone had moved to the refreshment table, Susan and her fiancé approached. She kissed Edward on the cheek—she hadn’t done that since she was a little girl.
Before Nan died, discussion of his playwriting had been kept to a minimum at Cecil House—Lady Cecil saw to that. But after she died, he’d begun inviting the girls to his performances. Susan in particular was fascinated.
“I can’t wait to act.” She clung to his arm. “Philip asked his brother William to stage more of your plays at court. William said the queen was too tired, but we’re wearing him down, aren’t we, William?”
“Tonight the queen surprised me,” William said. “I’ve been too protective. I shall put plays on her agenda once again.”
“The next thing I’m going to do,” Susan said, “is convince you I should be allowed to act in all Father’s plays at court. A woman can’t perform in public, but why not in the palace? A woman can be queen—why can’t she be an actor?”
At last he had a child to follow in his footsteps. He was so proud of her.
Horace and Francis approached, swords gleaming, their leather like mirrors.
“Edward,” Horace said, “Francis and I want to thank you for putting us in your play. What a treat for us to be Horatio and Francisco.”
“And don’t worry,” Francis said, “we’re going to take the last lines to heart. The world shall know your story, never fear.”
He glanced over his shoul
der, wondering if Robert had overheard, but he was on the other side of the room, laughing for the first time in years.
Ben Jonson stumbled over. He reeked of beer. “Much too long, Willy,” he said. “You could’ve blotted a thousand words.”
“Didn’t you like any of it?”
“Of course.” He grinned. “But if you want to entertain the public, do yourself a favor and ask your gardener if you can borrow his ax.”
“The world of drama is changing,” Edward said. “I think the people can afford to elevate their tastes.”
The queen walked over. “Edward dear, thank you for waiting until Robin was in his grave. I couldn’t have borne it if he’d tried to take revenge on you.” She cocked her head the way she had a million years ago at Hedingham. “And it’s past time he had a little punishment for what he did to your father and Tom.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Edward astonished.
One afternoon Robert arrived at King’s Place escorted by a company of guards.
Edward greeted him at the door and brought him into the library. Robert settled into an easy chair.
“What I’m about to say must be kept in strictest confidence. Do I have your agreement?”
“You do.”
“I have been in contact with King James in Edinburgh. Half a dozen claimants to the throne are polishing their armor. If we don’t arrange a peaceful path to the throne, we’ll have civil war. I saw your Julius Caesar, so I know this troubles you, too.”
Edward waited. This could be a trap. As soon as he agreed, he’d be violating the queen’s own edict not to discuss the succession, at which point Robert’s guards would drag him off to the Tower.
“I’ve asked James to be our king.”
“And?”
“He’s suspicious. After what we did to his mother, who could blame him? But he’s the logical choice. He’s descended from Henry VII and he agrees to keep England Protestant despite his mother’s Catholic vows. We must encourage him.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 27
