by Tony Hays
“Perhaps,” I replied, with little conviction.
“Occasionally, my path takes me to Stratford. Someday I might chance to visit you, and we can discuss this further.”
Lancelot Andrewes had a way of speaking, a soft, yet firm tone, that was pleasant and agreeable.
“I would welcome that, Your Grace. Thank you for listening to me.”
The old man spread his hands out and gave me a simple bow. “That is what an aging bishop is for.”
It took little imagination to see why Will found comfort talking to Andrewes. A weight had been lifted from me, and I felt suddenly weary, and sleepy.
I do not remember going back to the George. But I remember waking up in the late afternoon from a dream of Peg. A good dream.
Chapter Thirteen
I sent one of the stable boys to the Globe to fetch Burbage. This would be my last night in London for a long while, and I would spend it with friends. Night was beginning to fall, and the players would be finished for the day. I found a table in the tavern and drank a mug of ale while I waited. God help me, but I was feeling very satisfied, not smug, but satisfied.
Though Will’s murderer still walked at liberty, I had done my best. But be it Jonson or Wilkins, both had the patronage of Southampton, and they would be difficult, if not impossible, to bring to justice. If I admitted the truth to myself, Will had given many men reason to kill him. Since coming to London, I had given John Davenant no thought. Nor Thomas Quiney for that matter. I could not rule either out, but at the same time I did not feel their guilt strongly. Too many pieces of this puzzle seemed to have their genesis in London and the royal court.
Returning to thoughts of Jonson and Wilkins, I considered simply killing them both. No one would miss Wilkins; he was a despicable creature. But with the king about to settle a pension on Jonson, he would have many powerful friends looking to avenge his death. And, after recent days, no doubt suspicion would fall on me immediately. I had no desire to be imprisoned or hanged for killing the likes of Jonson. He too had been seduced by the court, and he, like Will, had learned to hold friendship cheap.
“Simon!” It was the increasingly frail Richard Burbage, answering my summons.
“Richard. Sit with me. I’ll treat you with an ale.”
The old actor shook his head in amazement and sat. “In a short week, you have arrived in London and set the town on its head. Will had nothing on you. Then, you are said to be dead. Then, you are not. And now, after I hear tales of you being thrown in the Tower, I find you drinking at the George, appearing for all the world carefree.”
I could not help but grin at his recitation. “It has been an eventful few days, Richard. But for the grace of God, I would be dead now, aye, several times over.”
“Tell me, please.”
And though it was horribly indiscreet of me, I told him most of it, saving but the nature of the notes that Will wrote for the king. No one else needed to know that. I cast them only as notes aimed to discourage Carr from marrying Frances Howard. But Richard had been to court innumerable times, and he could hear what I was not saying. After all, it had been Burbage who had first explained Carr’s relationship with the king.
“What of Ben Jonson?”
“What of him?” I answered, a bit more sharply than I intended, and I quickly softened my tone. “I have been unable to discover in whose service he has acted.” I paused. Burbage must deal with Jonson regularly, and it did no one any good for me to muddy the waters between them. The Thames was quite muddy enough. “Ben is beholden to both Southampton and the king for his pension. Like Will, he will act on their orders when forced to, even if it might go against his better nature. Perhaps, one day, he and I will reconcile our differences, but that day has not yet come.” No purpose was served by telling Burbage of my suspicions that Jonson may have had a hand in Will’s death.
But Burbage simply nodded and accepted my words. “We are all servants of some master, though our apprenticeships ended many years ago. That is the way of it.”
He looked at me then, his eyes old and watery. “I remember when we first met, Simon, in Stratford. You will pardon me for saying this as I mean no insult. After I had read that bit of Will’s work, and realized that he truly was a writer of no small talent, I looked you over and wondered how a man of that intelligence and wit could cling to you as his friend. You seemed but a simple lad. I understand now. You have great depths, depths that Will must have sensed from the beginning. I see you in many of the characters he created. His best characters. There’s even a touch of Lear in you; madness seems a trait you both share.”
And that would have angered me, but for a moment, the briefest of seconds, I saw those watery eyes become bright and alive again, much as they had been that long-ago day in Stratford. To see that flashing glimpse of the actor that Burbage had been was worth a minor slight.
Moments later we were joined by his brother Cuthbert, John Heminges and Henry Condell. John’s beard reached down nearly to his chest. Henry was a taciturn man, his face unadorned with a beard. These four men were Will’s oldest and best friends in the theatre world. They had trusted him enough to make him a partner in the Globe. They had loved his plays well enough to make him their lead playwright.
“Simon returns to Stratford on the morrow,” Richard told them.
“Did you find who killed Will?” Cuthbert asked. He was not a player; he was saltier and more common than his famous brother. But he managed the Globe as if it were a child that needed extra attention.
“No,” I said. “I did not. I can guess whom his death profited, but I could never prove it. And unless you can bring the guilty to account, what good is knowing? That way lies only disappointment and frustration. Will is gone. I am not sure that the how and why are important any longer.”
Heminges and Condell nodded their agreement, but I saw doubt in Cuthbert’s eyes. He was more a man of the streets than a player at court. He sensed that I was leaving much out, but said not a word. Richard would keep my confidence, of that I had little doubt.
My words put us in a dark humour, and we sat silent for several minutes, drinking ale and contemplating our tankards.
Finally, Condell broke the silence. “I suspect that you will not be returning to London for a while, Simon. We will miss your antics. The stories that have been told about you over the last week have been entertaining indeed. Aye, neither Will Kemp or Richard Armin could hold a candle to you in playing clowns.”
His voice was soft and joking.
I tipped my mug to him. “I am glad that I supplied you with some laughs, Henry.”
“Tell me, Simon. I have heard rumours that you struck Ben Jonson. Did you truly?” asked Heminges.
With a chuckle and dropping my head in feigned embarrassment, I nodded. “I did. But ’twas not the first time.”
At that, all jaws dropped.
“I do not believe it,” crowed Cuthbert. “I have heard naught of this. Unless you did it in Stratford, for Ben is not one to announce when he has been bested.”
“Neither here nor there,” I answered, feeling the warm glow of the beer in my stomach. “ ’Twas in the Low Countries, with Vere.”
“You served with Ben?” Heminges asked.
“Aye, I did.” And for the next two hours, I passed the time pleasantly, telling stories of Vere and Jonson and the Low Countries. I rarely even spoke of those times, but after what I had endured in recent days, it seemed a quite peaceful time. But I still did not talk of the fighting, the dying. I told only those tales guaranteed to make my audience laugh.
And laugh they did. They obliged by telling tales of Will Shakespeare. Of “William the Conqueror,” who bested Burbage in the pursuit of an admirer. Even that old story did not dampen my humour.
I retired to my chamber late that night, genuinely tired from laughing. As my eyes closed, I realized with a smile that it had been years since I had truly enjoyed myself. The world was a better place that night than it had been f
or a long, long time.
———
On the morrow, with my head still ringing a bit from drink, I rose and dressed early, intent on returning to Stratford swiftly. I had much to set right, and I wished to waste no more time doing so.
But when I opened my door, I saw that it was not going to be that simple.
Ben Jonson was standing there.
I dropped my bag, in case he should attack. But he just raised both hands, open.
“I did not come to fight you, Simon. I came to make my peace with you.”
Something in his eyes told me that he was sincere, so I stepped back and bade him enter.
“You should know,” he began, “that I refused to take part in Southampton’s plans.” We were sitting on opposite sides of the chamber. “When he suggested that Wilkins cause you to cease being any trouble, I walked out. I have never been your enemy in this, Simon.”
“You have said that many times over the last fortnight. But if that is so, you have hardly been my ally.”
Jonson shrugged. “I have simply attempted to keep you from getting yourself killed. If that is reason for your anger, then so be it.”
My face flashed red. I felt the heat rise. “You have been kissing Southampton’s arse, attempting to ensure that you get your precious pension. Do not class your meddling as something innocent. It is not.”
“Am I trying to protect myself? Certainly. But that does not mean that I am your enemy. What Southampton wanted to do was wrong, but he is obsessed with securing preferment with the king. You speak of me meddling, but it is Southampton who meddles in matters that he should stay out of.”
“That’s a pretty speech, Ben. But you did nothing to stop Wilkins from trying to burn me within my room.”
“I assumed that you could handle scum like Wilkins and would not need my help.”
“Such is a facile answer.” But then something occurred to me, something that I had not stopped to wonder about in the hurry and panic of recent days. “Who was the man burned in my place?”
Again, Jonson shrugged, but this time his movements played him false. He knew something of it. “That is unimportant.”
And then I understood. “Where did you find him, Ben? A drunk in the streets? Or did you steal a body from somewhere?”
“Your life was in danger! I did what I did to protect you.”
“And yet here I am. It would seem that your protection wasn’t required.”
Jonson laughed uneasily. “Your life was not worth a penny. Though I hoped to hurry you out of the city before it was discovered that you yet lived, you played it to even greater advantage. You have more than a little of the dramatist in you.”
“Perhaps,” I answered, suddenly weary of all of this. “And now I will take my leave of you. I have a long ride ahead.”
“So you will not be seeking Will’s killer anymore?” He seemed relieved, and I thought once again that he might very well be the man that I sought. But there was no proof, nothing with which to arrest him.
“No, I will not. My friend is dead before his time, and the only one that can be held to account is him. If he had stayed with us in Stratford and never come to this cesspit, he might have lived a much longer life.”
At that, Ben Jonson scowled. “You never really knew him. He could never have remained in Stratford. It was too small to hold a man of his dimensions. It would have choked the life out of him.”
“Hmmph! Seems to me that ’twas his life in London that choked his breath from him. Ben, we have known each other too long to lie. I am not interested in your evil deeds. I suspect that whoever you threw into a burning room deserved it. But that doesn’t make you less guilty. If I could prove it, I would move heaven and earth to bring you to justice. But, I cannot. So now I will go home. But occasionally, just occasionally, I will think of you and of Will’s death. And I will wonder just what hand you had in that affair.”
Jonson rose. “Well, at the very least, this time we did not strike each other. I am sure, however, that our paths will cross again. And I repeat, I am not your enemy.”
He could repeat that until the heavens broke open and spilled souls out like raindrops, and I would not believe him. And if it weren’t him, if it was Wilkins, they were both scum, skimmed from the same pond. Someday, yes, someday when I had repaired the fabric of my family, I might return to the chase, to see if I could catch Ben Jonson in my snare.
“Prosper, Ben Jonson. That is the least I can do, wish you prosperity.”
And Ben was gone.
As I went down to the tavern to settle my account, I noticed yet another acquaintance, seated with his back against the wall and smoking a pipe of this tobacco from the New World. Southampton, dressed more common than usual. He took the long pipestem from his mouth and used it to motion me over.
Sighing, I paid my bill and then joined the earl.
“How may I be of service to you, my lord?”
Southampton frowned at me. “You are an annoying man, Saddler. I try to warn you away; you ignore me. I send men to kill you; you escape with your life. What is the source of this confidence and your incredible luck?”
“My lord, I am simply a common man trying to fulfill the oath I took as constable. Whatever good fortune Providence has given me must be from God himself.”
Southampton shook his head at me. “Please, Master Saddler, do not assault my ears with such phrases as you learned at Bishop Andrewes’s knee. Don’t speak!” He said with a raised hand, stopping my words in midflight from my mouth. “You are a fool if you don’t think that I have you followed. I know that you made a bargain with the Somersets, and I know that the king has agreed to it. The king holds tightly to his word, but others are not so trustworthy. You have made a number of powerful men very angry. Your safety is not yet ensured.”
“My lord,” I began, the frustration growing heavy within me. “What do you hope to accomplish with this diatribe? You cannot frighten me. You cannot intimidate me. I am going home to Stratford and do not intend to trouble you or your city any longer.”
At that Southampton leapt to his feet, and for a moment I thought I would have to defend myself. But he stopped short. “At first you were merely a meddlesome country constable, poking his nose about where it did not belong. But now, you know things, things that others wish to keep hidden. That is what killed your friend Shakespeare. And it will kill you too.”
He blocked my path, but I had heard enough of his blustering. I lowered my shoulder and bowled him out of the way, just as if I were opening a recalcitrant door.
Southampton went flying, his long-stemmed pipe spinning across the room leaving sparks in its wake, and he slammed against the wall with an oomph! I just shook my head at him as the other patrons looked on astonished.
Stopping at the bar, I flipped a coin on the counter. “Buy my Lord Southampton something to ease the sting.”
And I left the George behind me.
———
For some reason, I did not hear the noise and din of the city. My mind was one hundred miles away, in the quiet lanes of Stratford. Though I had not succeeded in my quest, I was at peace with myself. I believed that I knew what had occurred.
At first, King James was strongly opposed to Carr’s marriage. He did not want to lose his favourite to Lady Frances. A wife might very well spell the end of the king’s “special” relationship with Robert Carr. With either a sense of urgency or a sense of desperation, James turned to Shakespeare to help him woo Carr back, for which he paid Will handsomely.
Oddly, in this matter, Overbury was the king’s ally. He wanted Somerset and Lady Frances together even less than the king.
But no matter how hard Will had worked on the king’s letters to Carr, the efforts failed, and James reluctantly agreed to the marriage, or perhaps George Villiers had already caught his eye and he had lost interest in Somerset. Certainly the king began to see wisdom in an alliance with the Howards.
But when the king’s mind changed, Ov
erbury’s did not. And he continued his objections to the marriage privately and publicly, leading the Howards to concoct the scheme to send Overbury to Russia as ambassador. In his inimitable way, Overbury destroyed that opportunity, giving James reason to confine him to the Tower. Even there, however, Overbury continued to be an obstacle to the marriage. Enter the Howards in the person of the former Lady Frances. Events move swiftly. Overbury dies on 15 September 1613. By September 25th, the king has arranged the annulment of Frances’s marriage to Essex. In December, Carr and Frances are married.
Then all is quiet for a spell. Until rumours begin floating throughout the city that King James himself is complicit in Overbury’s death. Coke is forced to launch an investigation to finally sort out the affair.
The most likely scenario from this point was simple: the Somersets are imprisoned. James worries aloud about what Carr might say; perhaps he even expresses concerns about what Shakespeare might say. Some noble, like Southampton, who was not completely secure in James’s circle, sees an opportunity to better secure his position in the King’s favour. He dispatches Ben Jonson to Stratford, and there begins the poisoning, though King James is oblivious to it.
But the poison acts too slowly, so Wilkins is dispatched with various documents and to finish off the job. Which succeeds. Then word spreads in London that a Stratford constable is asking uncomfortable questions. Of the attempts on my life in London, I suspected that Southampton had a hand in those, but I could not be certain of any but the fire at the George. Unfortunately, striking Ben Jonson and bowling over Southampton were the only acts of revenge I could commit for Shakespeare’s murder.
The one most important thing that I had learned in London was that both Will and I were its victims. It was London that made Will what he ultimately became, and it was that new Will Shakespeare that had violated the trust of our friendship. London was power and fame and money, and those were the most seductive mistresses in the world. Will had slept with each of them, and he found them good.
