The Shakespeare Mask

by Newton Frohlich

  There was the cheese. Should he bite?

  “What have you in mind?”

  “I’d like you to write a letter to James,” Robert said. “Anonymously, of course.” Robert smiled. “Just sign the letter forty. I’ll supply the courier.”

  “Forty?”

  “Four zero. Thirty-nine others are already in contact with him. You’re next. When I see him, I’ll reveal your identity personally.”

  Edward took a deep breath.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “We’ve had our differences,” Robert said. “I can understand why you’d be hesitant. But Edward …” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m begging you. If you won’t do it for me, do it for England.”

  “I’ll offer my encouragement.”

  Robert stood up and balanced himself on his twisted frame. “Thank you, Edward. You won’t be sorry.”

  He wrote to King James and held his breath. James replied. Formal letters grew into a warm correspondence. All the while Edward, hearing time’s hooves at his heels, worked on his plays.

  News from the palace turned ominous. The queen refused to eat. She insisted on sleeping on the floor. The end was surely near.

  He couldn’t bring himself to go and see her. They’d laughed together too many times—he wanted his last memories of her to be happy.

  A week later, on March 24, 1603, at two in the morning, the queen died. He left for Richmond Palace as soon as he heard. Sitting in the sedan chair, he was numb—frozen, body and mind.

  When he arrived at Westminster, Robert hugged him.

  “I had to cut the coronation ring off her finger.” His voice trembled. “In the forty-five years she reigned, she never once removed it.”

  “Where is it now?” Edward asked.

  “On its way to Edinburgh.” His voice was even shakier now. “With any luck, James will be here in sixty hours, put the damn thing on his finger, and we can put this all behind us.”

  Edward returned to King’s Place, the depression coming over him now too dark to bear. The queen was gone. Her death was more than a void—it was a sword through his heart. He remembered holding the canopy over her head to celebrate England’s first day of thanksgiving for the victory over the Spanish armada. That day he’d walked beside her. Now he’d walk behind her casket.

  He sat in his study. He wanted to write, but what could he say?

  He’d long since stopped blaming her for their failed affair, for Nan, for Ruy Lopez, even for what she’d done to Emilia. But he couldn’t find it in him to forgive. Yet there were a thousand things she’d done for him. Her unwavering support of his writing. Italy and the plays he wrote there. Venus and Adonis. All the plays he’d staged in her palace, without which nothing meant anything.

  He reached for his Bible.

  And underlined a passage in Revelation 14:13: “Blessed be the dead for they rest from their labors and their works follow them.”

  Eighteen days before the queen’s funeral, by order of King James, Henry Wriothesley was released from the Tower.

  Edward was working in his library when Henry came in unannounced. They embraced. As Henry’s body pressed against his, for an instant he was back in the cockpit of The Rose, the day he gave the boy those seventeen birthday sonnets.

  “Edward, I’m free.” His face was wreathed in smiles. “My jailer said I have you to thank.”

  “I only wrote a letter or two.”

  “That’s not all you did. I heard about your meeting with the queen. Edward, I owe you my life.”

  Henry’s affection warmed him but came too late. Those feelings were only a bittersweet memory.

  “I’ve been unkind,” Henry said. “I never thanked you for those lovely dedications. I was caught up in my infatuation with Essex. Can you forgive me?”

  He felt so weary. What did Henry want from him? “Of course,” he said. “I’m just glad to see you free.”

  “So’s my wife. She just gave birth, you know. I can hardly believe I’m a father.”

  “I’d heard,” Edward said.

  “I’m happy. I hope you are, too.” Henry glanced around the library. “I‘d like to meet your son if that’s all right. I heard you named him after me.”

  “He’s with his tutor.” He felt uneasy for some reason, but Henry showed no indication of leaving. “I’ll summon him.”

  Waiting for his son, he struggled to remember. Why had he written those dedications, those sonnets? He must have cared deeply— he just couldn’t recall why.

  His son entered the library. Young Henry was nearly ten now. Indeed, time was out of joint.

  “My boy, this is your Uncle Henry.” He watched the two shake hands. He felt a mild wash of nostalgia, nothing more.

  “Henry, I hope you and my son will be friends.”

  “Of course we will.” He smiled. “Won’t we, Henry?”

  Little Henry was holding a small sword. He assumed the stance Rocco Bonetti had taught him and then made a perfect riposte and lunge.

  “Till death, won’t we, Uncle Henry?”

  “Indeed we will.” Henry glanced up at Edward. “And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”

  It should have cheered him. Instead he felt only a quiet dread. “Henry, return to your tutor. I’ll let you know when lunch is ready.” He watched his son run down the hall, toy sword dragging the ground behind him. “I’m trying to be a better father to Henry than I was to my daughters, though one of them does seem fond of me.”

  “One out of four. Not bad at all.”

  “There you go, Henry. Always the gambler.”

  “Some people never learn.” He laughed.

  “Try, Henry. You might live longer.”

  Henry finally left. For the first time since the queen had died, Edward cried—not a tear or two but a torrent of them. He cried as he remembered the day he’d met the queen at Hedingham, when he first smelled her musk. He cried as he thought of her constant encouragement. He’d done everything she wanted, play after play, a never-ending reciprocation. Even when she took Emilia from him, even when she executed Lopez, his affection for the queen hadn’t ended.

  He had to forgive her—he’d made too many mistakes of his own.

  But now that she was gone, who would forgive him?

  My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

  That all particulars of duty know,

  And in the most exact regard support

  The worships of their name.

  Shakespeare

  King Lear

  The queen was interred in Westminster Abbey. Edward had his name removed twice from the list of official mourners—he didn’t think he could bear it—but relented. He had to march behind her casket. He was Lord Great Chamberlain of England.

  The succession, like everything Robert had a hand in, went smoothly. When King James promised that he and England would remain Protestant, opposition crumbled.

  A gala coronation was planned, but the king delayed entry into London until the bout of plague subsided. In the meantime, death bells tolled, body carts rumbled, and passersby sniffed healing herbs.

  Edward was summoned to Whitehall two months after the coronation. Once more he entered the palace, climbed the steps, and limped down the corridors. Every day, walking was more difficult, and today was the worst—there’d be no queen at the end of it.

  Thirty-seven-year-old King James was seated on the throne. Edward had learned much about the man during and after their correspondence. James had taken his mother’s death hard, as well he might. Since then he’d learned to play off one Scottish lord against another. Every day, he was terrified of being assassinated. Although he yearned for peace with Spain and aspired to religious tolerance for English Catholics, he knew those goals were not Parliament’s and he’d have to struggle. On the personal front, though his marriage was a success—he had several sons he’d lost his heart to George Villiers.

  “Welcome, Great Oxford.” King James’ voice was st
rong. “I want you to know that waiting for a letter from Number Forty was often the high point of my day.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Now then,” he said, “here it is. Your annual thousand pounds shall continue so long as you live. Robert presented the decree and I’ve signed it.”

  “Very generous, Your Majesty. You have my thanks.”

  “I’m also informed the queen delayed returning to you the Forest of Essex and Havering-atte-Bower. That, too, has been accomplished.”

  That really was generous. Edward could only bow.

  “Henceforth,” James said, “I shall personally be the patron of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The company’s name is being changed to The King’s Men.”

  “You’ve no idea what that means to me, Your Majesty.”

  “Now then.” He clapped his hands. “Mary Sidney invited my wife and me to visit her family’s country estate—Wilton, I believe. Her son, my Lord Chamberlain, suggests a performance of As You Like It. But I think the evening would hardly be complete without the presence of the playwright.”

  “I’d be delighted to attend.”

  “Mary told me she already erected a sign over the door to the room at Wilton where you will stay. It reads ‘Shakespeare’s Room.’ ” James smiled. “I hope her enthusiasm is acceptable.”

  “It is, Your Majesty.” He found the king’s willingness to ignore his anonymity refreshing.

  “Now I have a request, Great Oxford.”

  “Anything, Your Majesty.”

  “May I call you Willy? I’ve been informed your writer friends do, and since I intend to organize an English-language version of the Bible, that may justify my being called a writer, don’t you think?”

  “I believe it does, Your Majesty.” He swallowed a smile. “I’d be honored if you call me Willy.”

  Susan played the role of Cordelia in a court performance of King Lear. She was sixteen and a natural on the stage.

  King James attended the performance. Afterward, Edward asked if they might meet in private.

  Again he was ushered into the room where so often he’d met with the queen. The king had already refurbished it in bright colors and rich fabrics.

  “Willy, you don’t look well.”

  “I’m feeling poorly, Your Majesty. It’s that foot of mine.”

  “Shall we sit on this love seat? You’ll feel more comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I want to talk to you about my daughter.”

  “She was remarkable. Before I was introduced to your plays, my interests inclined to philosophy and theology. But now I’m an aficionado of drama, and a performance like Susan’s only adds fuel to the fire.”

  “I’m so pleased. She tells me she wishes to be married next year during the Christmas season. Why she wants to wait a year and a half is beyond me, but she loves Philip, he loves her, and I want to invite you to be my guest at her wedding. I’m taking the liberty of making my needs known far in advance since your schedule is so crowded.”

  “When the date is fixed, let me know and I’ll be there—on one condition. I’d like six or eight of your plays to be performed on the days before and after the blessed event.”

  “You’re too kind, Your Majesty. To stage so many different works so close together will be an enormous undertaking, especially before the king himself, but it will be my honor to try.”

  He selected Othello, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Measure for Measure, The Comedy of Errors, Henry V, Love’s Labour’s Lost, The Merchant of Venice, and The Tempest. He also chose two plays by Ben Jonson, Every Man out of His Humour and Every Man in His Humour to give Ben a boost.

  Then he returned to The Tempest. He added some personal lines, an adieu to the world in dialogue.

  My charms are all o’erthrown … and what strength I have’s mine own, which is most faint… . Let me not … dwell in this bare island…release me from my bands… . Let your indulgence set me free.

  He’d written what he had to write. There would always be more to say, but for now, for himself, he’d said enough.

  He summoned Eliza to the library.

  “When the wedding is over I should like to go and live in Hedingham,” he said, “but it’s fifty years since I lived there and the caretaker tells me it needs work. Would you take Henry and all the servants to supervise the renovations?”

  She studied him. Theirs had never been a passionate marriage, but she knew him intimately.

  “Please, Eliza—I need you to do this for me.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Not immediately. I have a few more works to finish here.”

  “Edward, don’t you think cook should stay here with you?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Take everyone with you—I can fend for myself.”

  In two days Eliza and Henry were ready to leave with the servants. Edward kissed her and hugged Henry. The boy was muscular, getting taller every day. Oxford Eighteen would win tournaments.

  He worked all day and that night slept soundly. The next morning, he limped into town to buy bread, eggs, cheese, butter, and milk. The walk felt longer than usual—his foot pained him constantly. If only Lopez were there.

  In the market, he said hello to people out and about—fewer than he expected, thanks to the current devastating bout of plague. His presence was a curiosity, most of the nobility having fled to country houses. The villagers wished him well or bowed or shook his hand. He slipped a few pounds into one old man’s pocket.

  He limped home and wandered through King’s Place, appreciating how tastefully Eliza had furnished everything. He walked about in the garden, smelled the roses, and then came in and sat down at his desk in the library.

  He stared at the bookshelves. He knew every book, had read them all in the original Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Italian. They were his oldest friends.

  He thought about Sir Thomas’ library, what a treasure and a comfort it had been to him. He thought about the happy hours he’d spent learning French at Cecil House and translating Ovid’s Metamorphoses with Arthur. Between kisses with Virginia he’d even improved his Italian.

  His life had its bright spots. His plays would last, and Cervantes was right—he shouldn’t whine about anonymity, the compromise that had made performing them possible. A line in one of his sonnets expressed how he’d felt about it: “My name be buried where my body is…though I (once gone) to all the world must die.”

  For days he followed the same routine. He worked most of the night, napped all morning, and in the late afternoon took a walk in the village.

  One evening he leafed through his manuscripts. The pile was huge: thirty-seven plays, 154 sonnets, two long poems, and his prefaces to Bedingfield’s and Clerke’s translations. Also the short poems he’d written, some published, some not, and the Henry VII play he’d begun. He was satisfied with his oeuvre, if not always with his life.

  A week later he realized he needed to add something to Macbeth, the title character a fellow much like himself: basically decent, determined to do the right thing but unable to because he hadn’t the strength. He fell asleep thinking about Macbeth and in the morning wrote a soliloquy for him:

  To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

  To the last syllable of recorded time,

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more: it is a tale

  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

  Signifying nothing.

  Two more weeks of writing, wandering in the market, shaking hands. Then one night he felt the lumps in his groin and armpits.

  He put himself to bed and waited.

  In a few days, black dots surrounded by red circles appeared. The plague took no more t
han three days, for which he was grateful. His plays would live even if his name were buried with his body.

  He prayed his daughters and son would be well. He wished he could have been at Susan’s wedding. Still, the reception would be full of people he’d spent his life dodging. Given his current frame of mind, he’d probably insult one of them, and he didn’t want to spoil her day.

  He thought of Francis Trentham. His brother-in-law had made him rich again. After he’d given away almost everything, they developed Covent Garden. How many working writers did something like that?

  He thought about the queen. Had she found another kingdom to rule? He laughed out loud at the thought of her trying to boss her way around heaven.

  The chills came, followed by pain. He heard himself scream Emilia’s name. She was incredibly strong. She’d endure anything, including his death.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Another day, another night. In the morning he heard young girls singing in the garden. They must have slipped in to play.

  He listened. It was that song children sang whenever the plague came.

  Ring around a rosie,

  Pocket full of posie.

  Ashes. Ashes.

  All fall down.

  On June 24, 1604, Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, died.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Six months after Edward died, King James gave away Edward’s daughter Susan to Philip Herbert, Earl of Montgomery. The king added substantially to her dowry and celebrated her wedding by having ten plays performed, eight by Shakespeare and two by Ben Jonson.

  Five years later, Shakespeare’s Sonnets were published. No one claimed authorship. The printer dedicated the Sonnets to the “ever-living” poet, a term used to honor someone deceased.

  The Sonnets state that the author is lame, “carried the canopy,” and was forty years old when the Sonnets were written. Will Shakspere was not lame, never carried the canopy, and was in his twenties when the Sonnets were written.