Shakespeare No More

by Tony Hays

  “Yes, and he could have just as easily brought this all down about our ears. You are too accepting, Edward.”

  “No, Francis, I care only about the results. You care more about how the results are achieved. That will forever separate us.”

  “As you like.”

  “Master Saddler, I assume that you held some letters back, as insurance.”

  “You assume correctly, sir.” Malcolm had erred in his prediction. But I saw no reason to lie.

  “The king will want to deal with you personally. We will hand over the letters that we have as, truly, they have no bearing on the case against Somerset. He will go through them and realize that some are missing. We will find it necessary to tell him that we suspect that you retained some of the letters.”

  “He will know who I am?”

  This time, both Coke and Bacon laughed. “The king knows your entire history, Saddler. He leaves little to chance. Do not fear, Constable. I believe that he will deal fairly with you. He has been afraid of two things for several months now. First, that these letters would somehow become public. Second, that Somerset would say something in court that would either implicate him in Overbury’s death or embarrass him. You have now, cleverly, eliminated the first concern. The king is, if anything, an appreciative man.”

  “Come, Edward. We have work before us.”

  And again, I was alone.

  ———

  They came for me sometime past the midnight. I was trussed up like a pig, blindfolded and tossed in the back of a wagon, a wagon that had recently carried horse manure. We rumbled and bumped through the streets of London for what seemed like hours. When we came to a stop, I heard my guards dismount and the sound of their feet sloshing in mud.

  “Look, Alec, he’s still awake.”

  “I’ll fix that.”

  And then a dizzying pain burst in my head and all was black.

  ———

  When I awoke this time, it was in an apartment of a palace. That much I could tell from looking about me. Which palace, I had no idea. But the arras were fine and the rushes on the floor fresh, and the smell of rosewater hung heavy in the air. And such was only the case in palaces and the homes of the most wealthy. Even I had been cleansed and perfumed. Since I had been arrested on the king’s orders, it seemed likely that I was in one of the palaces, though why I had been taken from the Tower was a mystery to me.

  “Och, man! You air a difficult one to deal with.” The Scottish accent left no doubt about my companion’s identity.

  I rolled off the couch and took a knee. “Your Majesty.”

  “If I had a sword handy, I would cleave your head, you ­rascal.”

  He circled about in front of me, a parchment in his hand, and bade me arise.

  James was a good-looking man, bearded. His Scottish brogue lay heavily in the air. “Let us deal as men; I dinna wish to tarry long with this matter.” He had broad shoulders atop a slim frame. “Here, you may sit.”

  “As you command, Your Grace.”

  My head throbbed as I found a seat near him. “So Shakespeare was your friend?”

  “From childhood.”

  King James nodded. “He was a likable sort.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  James was silent for a moment. Then he waved the parchments at me. “These are not all of them.”

  “No, Your Majesty, they are not.”

  “You chance a meeting with the axe, Constable.”

  I nodded. “I do, Your Majesty.”

  “Coke and Bacon tell me that you think someone murdered Shakespeare.”

  “His son-in-law, Doctor John Hall, says it is so. I came to London seeking his killer. I did not come to involve myself in this matter.”

  “Yet you have.”

  “It seemed unavoidable.”

  “You have done all of this to find justice for your friend?”

  “Every man deserves justice, Your Majesty.”

  “Be careful, Constable. You are a man of morals, and men of morals usually have short lives.” The king paused. “But I do owe you my appreciation for bringing me at least this many of these notes. They were a worry.”

  “Your Majesty, I think that I have a solution to this problem.”

  James raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Tell me.”

  “Lady Somerset will confess her guilt in the death of Overbury, if you promise to commute her sentence, which is bound to be death. Lord Somerset refuses to confess, but will make no ‘damaging’ statements in court. One year from today, assuming that we are all still alive, I will bring you the remaining letters.”

  “You would blackmail the throne?” Fire shot from his eyes.

  “No, Your Majesty, I am bargaining with the throne.”

  “Six months from today, you will present the letters to me.”

  “Agreed.” Though James could not see it, I breathed a sigh of relief. But I had one more issue to deal with. “I would also like to know what information you might have of Shakespeare’s death.”

  He calmed at that. “None. It did not profit me to have him killed. He was a good and true servant, and I am sorry that he is gone.” The king paused. “Somerset and his wife have agreed to this?”

  “I could not have found the letters without their guidance.” To tell him that ’twas Lady Somerset who took command for her husband served no one and probably would not have surprised him.

  The king nodded. “You have read the letters?”

  “Only enough to ensure that they were what I sought. I have no desire to pry into Your Majesty’s private life.”

  “You are a wise man, Master Saddler. A weaker man would not have been able to resist.”

  “A weaker man, Your Majesty, would be more the fool.”

  The king threw his head back and laughed. “You have something of Shakespeare in you, Saddler. Do you have this agreement with Somerset in writing?”

  “Your Majesty, you know full well that such a document would be as damning as those letters.”

  “Coke said that you were clever. Very well. I could have you tortured to reveal the location of the other letters, but not all men break under torture. I understand that you served in the Low Countries.”

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “Battle-tested men are all the harder to break. I will honor your service by not testing your resolve.” He paused. “I will have to tarry a bit before commuting their sentences. But I set the time and date for executions, and they should not be concerned. I will honour my word.”

  “Your Majesty, a question if I might.”

  He nodded curtly.

  “If you had no involvement in Shakespeare’s death, why did you have Southampton dispatch men to Stratford to go through John Hall’s notebooks?”

  King James laughed again. “You are bold. Yes, I am responsible for that visit. When I learned that Shakespeare had been poisoned, I had Southampton send them there to find Hall’s notebooks to see if they could shed any light.” He looked away for an instant. “When you are king, sometimes acts are committed in your name or for your benefit that you do not sanction.”

  “You were afraid someone killed Shakespeare for you?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  At that, the king stood. “I learned more than I wanted to know, but nothing I will tell you. Your bargain is satisfactory. I will have my men take you back to the Tower. You will want to advise Somerset that the bargain has been struck. After that, you will be free to return home.”

  Disappointment did not begin to measure my feelings at that moment. “You will tell me nothing?” My entire reason for coming to London had been dashed upon the rocks like a ship on an angry sea.

  “William Shakespeare is dead, Constable Saddler. Leave it at that. I do not mind telling you that I have been impressed with your abilities in this matter.”

  I wanted nothing more than to strangle the man, but I was no fool. “Your Majesty is too kind.”

&nb
sp; “And you are a cheeky fellow,” he answered with a wink. And he was gone.

  ———

  Moments later, his guards fetched me and returned me to the Tower. But this time I was allowed to enter under my own power, and the warders treated me with a deference prisoners rarely saw.

  The countess joined me in the front room of her small suite. Her eyes brightened when she saw me there. “You have made the bargain?”

  “I have, my lady. As long as you can keep your husband from saying anything embarrassing, then His Majesty will respect the agreement.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Have you this in writing?”

  “As I told the king, only a fool would put something like this in writing. But I held back a handful of letters as security against anyone reneging on the bargain.”

  “Very wise of you. And my sentence will be commuted?”

  “It will, but the king said he would have to wait a bit before doing so. To prevent any talk of impropriety, I am sure.”

  Frances nodded. “Of course. I trust the king’s word. It is too bad, Master Saddler, that you and I did not meet under other circumstances. I would have enjoyed knowing you better, and more intimately.”

  Despite the burning under my collar, I turned my most withering glare on her.

  “I am not of this city, my lady. I am of a town where people have secrets, but the only lives that those secrets would destroy are their own. Here, it seems, everyone has secrets and each of those secrets could hurt hundreds or thousands. William Shakespeare was my friend nearly from birth. He had a wife and children, but more than that he was in love with words and how he could use them to make people happy.

  “Then he came to London to pursue that dream. And your lot seduced him with your gifts and patronage and scarlet clothing. And you twisted him to your ways of debauchery. And you ruined him for decent people. I do not mourn the man he became. But I mourn greatly for the boy he once was.”

  I spun about and left, without seeking her permission.

  She said nothing.

  ———

  The day was almost come, but I knew that I was far too exhausted to begin my journey home. I would go to the George and spend the day and night resting, then start for Stratford on the morrow. At that moment, I yearned for nothing more than home, and I realized with a start, Peg. Though I had not discovered who killed Will, something had broken his hold on me. I was ready to love my wife again.

  Without a horse, I trudged wearily across London Bridge, dodging the occasional dumping of water and garbage from above, the din of hawkers selling their wares and tinsmiths at their craft lost to me.

  The innkeeper did not seem surprised at my appearance.

  “Do I still have my room?”

  He smiled. “Of course, Master Saddler. Your credit has always been good here.”

  “Then I will pay you double for uninterrupted rest. Can you assure me of that?”

  “As long as you stay within the George. Out there,” and he indicated the frenetically active street, “I can offer no guarantees.”

  “Good enough.” I had been gone for more than a week now, over a week since I had seen my girls, and my Peg. I was anxious now to see them all. I had tired of London and the court.

  After a cup of strong beer, I went to the room he had let to me. It was at the opposite end of the inn from my original room, but the stench of burning wood and a sweeter, more sickly odor still stung my nostrils.

  I was exhausted, and I stripped off my clothes and lay down, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of lying still on a soft bed.

  But I could not sleep.

  I twisted and I turned.

  Yet that blissful state would not come.

  I sat up. Too much sun streamed through the window. Too many thoughts still rattled through my mind.

  After an hour of fruitless search for sleep, I arose and dressed again. I knew full well that leaving now for Stratford was a mistake. The events of the days had taken a heavy toll on me. I would be careless, and our roads were not a place to be anything but extra-vigilant.

  The innkeeper gave me a puzzled look but said nothing as I wandered out of the George, my feet moving me aimlessly into the frantic noise and constant movement of the Liberty-of-the-Clink.

  I found myself before Bishop Andrewes’s home. To this day, I do not know why. Though it was yet before noon, I knocked at the door. The same servant who had appeared on my first visit answered the door this time also, but upon seeing me, cocked his head as if he had a question but then thought better of it, and he bade me enter.

  When the bishop came down the stairs, he raised his own eyebrows at me. “Master Saddler! I had heard that you were dead. But I see that you have not yet entered the heavenly gates.”

  A smile leapt onto my face. There was something soothing in the old man, with his pointed white beard and flat hat peculiar to clerics. He took me by the arm and directed me into his sitting room before the great fireplace.

  “Now, sit, and tell this old priest what brings you to my door again.”

  I stared at my hands, scarred from years of working in the wool and from years of fighting in the Low Countries. “Your Grace, do you know His Majesty well?”

  “As well as any of us do, I suspect. Who truly knows the mind of a king?” He paused, sensing that I wished no light tones or jovial comments. “My experience with him indicates that he is a man of his word.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  Andrewes steepled his fingers together in front of his mouth, almost as if saying a prayer. “That is a difficult question to answer. What makes a normal man good is not the same thing that makes a king a good man. They are measured with different rulers.”

  “Let me be frank. I have entered into a bargain with His Majesty.”

  A smile lit the old priest’s face. “And you wish to know if he will be faithful to his promise?”

  “Aye.”

  “King James is many things, but I believe that when he makes an agreement he remains faithful to it.”

  “Truly?”

  Andrewes nodded so vigorously that his beard brushed his chest. “It is in his nature.”

  “There are other, less holy, things in his nature, I am told.”

  At that the bishop smiled again softly. “Different rulers, my friend.” He stopped smiling and leaned forward. “This bargain you have entered into, does it have aught to do with our friend Shakespeare’s death?”

  “No, I was pursuing that when I was swept up by other events. I hoped to use my involvement in that affair to force out information about Will’s murder, but the king would not tell me what I wished to know. He said that what he knew of it, I would not want to know.”

  “Master Saddler, I know something of that other affair that James mentioned, aye, and your involvement.”

  My eyebrows then raised.

  “I have many ‘friends’ at court. A bishop must have if he wishes to remain a bishop. You have worked against forces far greater than you. And you have shown great courage and daring in pursuit of your quest. Were Will Shakespeare to speak to you one last time, he would praise what you have done to fulfill his last request. If the whispers I hear are true, you have done far more than almost any other man would have. Sometimes you cannot succeed, but that does nothing to devalue your effort. I suspect that your fervour in seeking Will’s killer, whether you know it or not, sprang from guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Aye, guilt that you never forgave him for the wrong he did you.”

  At that, I drew back as if struck. “You know of this?”

  Bishop Lancelot Andrewes nodded. “He sat where you sit now and confessed to me his sin. He hated himself for being so weak. He tortured himself for betraying his one, true friend.”

  I hung my head. “I came to London to find Will’s killer, yes. But I wanted to learn also how my friend could change so much that he would risk losing his oldest friend for a moment’s pleasure.”

  “And
have you?”

  “Forgive me for saying this, Your Grace, but customs and behaviour at court do not always conform to the edicts of the Church. There is a freedom, a liberty to do what one pleases. I think that Will was seduced by that.”

  “But surely you knew that many nobles respect only power and money? You are far from an innocent. I see in your hands that you have been no stranger to hard work, perhaps even war. The scar on your face looks as if you were marked by a spear point.”

  “Under Sir Francis Vere in the Low Countries,” I confirmed.

  “Then the liberties taken by the nobility should not surprise you. Ask me if this pleases me, and I will tell you that no, it does not. Ask me if I can change it, and I will tell you no, I cannot. Will Shakespeare wanted one thing above all others—acceptance. Acceptance as a poet, as a playwright. He never understood that he had achieved that. And that he did not need the court to confirm it.”

  The old bishop was right. I thought about how hard Will had strived to become a respected citizen in Stratford, to repair his family’s reputation after his father’s misfortunes and bad judgement brought disdain to them. Even in his birthplace, he wanted badly to be accepted. For, nearly from birth, he was different, and people saw that.

  I still suspected, as did the king, that someone had killed Will to prevent him from embarrassing James over the notes to Carr. I believed that either Wilkins or Ben Jonson had administered the poison. Both were connected to Southampton, and both were in a position to commit this horrible deed. Southampton needed to further secure himself in the king’s favour. But I would never be able to prove it. I rose.

  “But I failed him. I did not find his killer.”

  “My lad, the William Shakespeare that I knew would forgive you this failing, if only because you risked so much in pursuit of his charge to you.”

  “Thank you, Bishop Andrewes, for helping me to settle my mind on these questions. I think that now I can return to Stratford and take up my life once again. I have been away from it too long.”

  The bishop stood, more slowly than I, and clasped my hand in both of his. “You are a good man, Simon Saddler. No one, including William Shakespeare, would deny that. I suspect that whilst you follow the law on church attendance, you do so only because you must. But if you would listen to the lessons that the Church would teach you, you might find more solace.”