by David Elias
“And I suppose you will want to call me Elizabeth.”
“If’t please, I should be glad for it.”
By the fifth act a troubling drowsiness had come over my brother. I saw his head nod forward in sleep, after which he tore himself awake, only to fall again into slumber. I took up his hand in mine and found it cold as ice. When I examined it more closely I discovered an unusual greenish hue at the base of his fingernails, at which he stirred and turned to look at me in surprised exhaustion.
“Hamlet is preparing for his duel with Laertes,” said the Palatine.
“They sense that tragedy is about to befall,” Henry murmured.
“Horatio counsels that Hamlet shall see fit to decline this challenge.”
“You will lose, My Lord,” said Laertes.
The audience had grown strangely quiet.
“I do not think so,” Hamlet replied, “since he went to France I have been in constant practice. I shall win at the odds.”
“I have often witnessed our Prince Henry,” Lady Anne whispered to Count Schomberg, “in long and arduous practice with foil and lance.”
“What think you of this Horatio fellow?” the Palatine asked Henry.
“The two are good companions,” he answered. “Indeed he has been throughout the play Hamlet’s closest and perhaps only ally, steadfast in’s loyalty, and given to honest counsel always.”
“Just so,” said Count Schomberg.
“And yet am I not entirely certain Hamlet’s best interests lie at the foundation of his heart,” said the Palatine.
“Why do you say so?” Henry asked. “He bids Hamlet forgo the match.”
“But wherefore does he so?”
“For fear Hamlet shall come to harm, naturally.”
“But what reason have he to think so?”
“That Laertes is the better swordsman.”
“He knows otherwise. Hamlet himself is surprised to hear he think not so.”
“What is your meaning?”
“Perhaps Horatio knows more than he lets on.”
“You think him guilty of duplicity?”
“Is there a man incapable of betrayal?” said Lady Anne.
“I say such a man exists,” said the Count.
She turned to him. “Can you name one?”
“In all honesty, Madam, such a one is Prince Frederick.”
I looked past him at Henry, who sat ill and pale but now utterly absorbed in the play. “Hamlet’s about to be poisoned,” he said.
“And by the man who is brother to the woman he loves, no less,” I added.
“Some would argue Laertes has just cause. Hamlet did greatly wrong his sister, Ophelia, even unto her tragic and untimely death.”
“Indeed, what can be more just,” the Palatine added, “but that a loyal brother should seek to defend the honour of his sister?”
“It’s a little late, if you ask me,” said Lady Anne.
“He feels remorse,” the Palatine looked at me, “and seeks to atone with revenge.”
“He chided her that Hamlet’s vow of love should not be trusted,” I said.
“Out of love for her did he so caution.” Henry’s eyes remained fixed upon the stage. “In fear for her heart.”
“Yet Hamlet did forsake her,” I said.
“Because he thought her guilty of betrayal.”
Henry spoke quietly. “Hamlet takes this duel for an entertainment.”
“He knows not that the tip of Laertes’s sword is poisoned,” Lady Anne whispered to the Count, “as is the goblet of wine set by for him.”
“Look how he stays yet a while.” Henry seemed to be speaking to himself now, as much as to anyone of us. “Sits in quiet apprehension of some unknown fate that awaits him.”
Up on the stage, Horatio strode toward Hamlet, knelt before him.
Hamlet lowered his head, placed his arm on Horatio’s as he spoke quietly to him, “But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart.”
Henry leaned forward, as though the actor upon the stage were speaking directly to him, and moved his lips along with the actor’s as the lines were spoken. “It is no matter. If it be now, ’tis not to come,” he mouthed; “if it be not to come it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all . . .”
I glanced in my father’s direction just as Hamlet’s mother drank the poison, and thought I saw there in his visage an expression not unlike that which came over the King in the play.
When the performance ended Henry came out of his trance and did his best to make himself as amiable as was ever his nature, but I was not convinced. He seemed to be in the clutches of some nagging augury that tortured him, and even as he managed to pluck up his energy and take his leave of us, it was plain to me he was putting up a false front, fighting to maintain his cheerful demeanour. Something was amiss, but even in my darkest misgivings I could never have imagined what it would come to.
Chapter Three
I had hoped my brother, having seen to the previous night’s performance of the play, should see to some much-needed rest, but my mother wasn’t going to allow it. She remained oblivious to such considerations and summoned him next day to Somerset, where she was making frantic preparations for another one of her hideous masques. Henry asked if I would accompany him, and so we made our way along the north bank of the Thames, seated side by side in a carriage.
“I admit I had imagined your debut upon the stage more like to occur in a play at the Globe,” I said.
“A small role in one of the tragedies, perhaps,” said Henry. Though he seemed somewhat restored, there persisted about him an aspect of disquiet.
“A comedy should do as well,” I said.
“I could play the part of the fool.”
The name of this latest production was Oberon, the Faery Prince and my mother had goaded Henry into playing the title role. She had commissioned the design of a suitable costume for him, and I had agreed to accompany him to the fitting to offer my opinion on it.
“I always thought you would make a creditable Hamlet.”
“Indeed there are times” — he looked over at me — “I feel myself in possession of such sentiments as would befit the Danish Prince.”
“And this Oberon, how are your sentiments inclined toward playing that character?”
“Thankfully I have no need to affect any.”
My brother had insisted that his role in the production should amount to no more than a brief appearance upon the stage, and that he should not suffer the indignity of reciting so much as a single line. My mother had reluctantly acceded to his wishes and arranged for him to make a grand entrance dressed as Oberon himself in the finale.
“This latest masque promises to be even more extravagant than the last,” said Henry, “and is sure to bring the exchequer ever closer to bankruptcy.”
“Such matters are of little concern to the Queen.”
“The same can be said for the King.”
It often seemed to us that our parents were living in a dream world, condemned to one day find themselves most rudely roused from their slumber. They considered it beneath their station to show restraint or to heed any warnings that their profligacy would one day lead to dire consequences. We were equally appalled at their frivolous pageantry and undisguised self-aggrandizement, but soon Henry should be free to realize his own vision at St. James’s Palace, where his tastes were sure to distinguish him as a more sophisticated patron of the arts.
“I take it the script has been written by Ben Jonson, as usual,” I said.
Henry nodded.
“The scenery and costumes designed by Inigo Jones, naturally,” I added, “and of course Alfonso Ferrabosco has composed the music.”
My mother regularly commissioned those three for her masques, and they were
a triumvirate to be reckoned with, an alliance of avarice and vanity, all of them invariably short of money and scheming for more. Eager to prop the Queen up as a champion of the arts, they shamelessly flattered her vanity for the sake of their own advancement, which was reason enough to dislike them.
“Now that you are starting up your own court, the three of them are doubtless among those eagerly seeking appointment,” I said.
“Indeed they have presented me with all manner of entreaty, not to mention the attendant jealousies and petty insecurities so familiar to their nature.”
“They know only too well that the money is bound to run out where the Queen’s masques are concerned. I trust you have some other candidates in mind when it comes to court composers. Tobias Hume, for one.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Nothing will please the Captain more than to find himself in your employ. He has been trying for so long to obtain a position at Somerset, only to be turned away time and again by the Queen.”
“She cannot see past mere appearance to appreciate his talents.”
“Never were a man and his music a less likely match.”
Captain Hume, as he preferred to be called, was a gruff man, not prone to flattery, and in his dress and manner the very antithesis of men like Alfonso Ferrabosco and his associates. But his music was unassailable, and my brother never tired of listening to his compositions, which the Captain often had occasion to play for him in private. In addition to being a brilliant composer he was also a highly skilled soldier, and had distinguished himself on a number of lengthy military campaigns. Though his swordsmanship was unequalled and his musicianship impeccable, his personal mannerism tended to put people off, as he exhibited a general disregard for decorum, whether it be in his attire or the language he used, and this caused him to be treated as something of an outcast by those at court, who considered him too ill-mannered and shabby to be seen with.
“Those other courtiers shall be more than a little chagrined to find you have chosen the Captain.”
“I received some correspondence from Monsieur Ferrabosco regarding that very matter only this morning.” Henry smiled wryly at me. “In fact I have it here with me. I thought you might find it amusing.” He pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to me.
To His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales on this seventeenth day of August, 1612
Your Majesty,
It has recently come to my attention that you may be considering Tobias Hume for a position at the court you are initiating in St. James’s. Though I had held out hopes for such an appointment, I nevertheless beseech that if there can be but one beneficiary in the matter you find in Captain Hume’s favour. Rest assured I fear not for my future, neither for the recognition of my works in posterity. Though his compositions are less likely than mine to bring glory and honour to their patron, and while it is a far more precarious undertaking to pin your hopes upon the Captain, let us set aside such considerations for the moment.
I grant his works lack originality, as he is wont to filch entire movements from other works and pass them off as his own, and that your ear may not be privy to his slanderous remarks, which are numerous, but let mercy be your guide. In the unlikely event that the appointment should fall to me I ask that you offer the Captain some small gesture of recognition, a token of remuneration, if only for my sake.
I remain ever your loyal and faithful servant,
Alfonso Ferrabosco
“Do you see how they stick the velvet knife?” Henry said.
“Indeed there are those,” I answered, “who would commit such acts of treachery and deceit as make this letter seem tame by comparison.”
When Henry turned to look out through the window, I allowed myself to inspect his features, told myself it was only the overcast day and lack of light inside the carriage that made his complexion seem so pale.
“The very reason,” Henry turned back to me, “we must both seek to remain yet in the good graces of our father.”
“And I suppose you will say upon that premise stands another, which dictates that our mother must be appeased as well.”
“We are neither of us in a position to do entirely as we please.”
“I doubt that day will ever come,” I said. “Just the same, I intend to defy them at every opportunity.”
“I would bide my time yet awhile.”
“You have more to lose than I.”
“If by that you mean the throne, neither of us is far removed from it.”
“Our younger brother Charles is closer than I,” I said. “Such are the laws of accession.”
“The laws are changeable.”
“At any rate when the time comes the crown shall be yours for the taking, Henry. I have no wish for any other outcome.”
“Sir Raleigh says a sovereign’s first duty must be to the people.”
“Who acknowledge even now that you will make an excellent king.”
“‘For though you may seem at a great remove from them,’ he said to me once, ‘you must rule as though their collective breath were upon your neck.’” Henry offered me an unconvincing smile.
The horses had set a good pace, following along the tree-lined avenue where here and there couples strode arm in arm. A carriage went by in the opposite direction, and as the sound of the hooves clopping faded into the distance, it seemed to me all of London was awaiting some event of unknown import.
“I doubt not the wisdom of this last,” I offered, “for often enough it is the neck that must be looked to.”
“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.” Henry raised a hand to the window to pull the curtain back a little wider. “So writes Mr. Shakespeare.”
“And how for the head that stands to inherit it?” I added.
“There are times when it’s wise to capitulate.”
Off to our right were groups of well-dressed young men and women with mallets in their hands, some of them striking at colourful wooden balls lying here and there upon the lawn.
“What game do they play at?” I asked.
“Pall Mall, they call it,” said Henry. “It is all the rage in Paris. You see those hoops arranged upon the grass between the trees? The idea is to use the mallet to strike at the coloured balls and drive them through the hoops.”
“To what purpose?”
“None other than any sport, dear Sister. Merely amusement.”
“For my part it looks both frivolous and tedious.”
“It is a leisurely game for gentlemen and ladies,” said Henry, “but I prefer golf.”
Now I could make out the tiltyards of Whitehall off to the right, the chalky spires of the palace in behind, and the winding Thames beyond. I thought it the most pleasing in appearance of all the palaces in London, and imagined for a moment what changes my brother might see fit to make should he chose to live there after his coronation.
Henry coughed with a little heave of his shoulders and chest.
“You still have that cough,” I said.
“Only the last remnants, which shall soon pass.”
We had just taken the curve in the road that signalled our arrival upon The Strand when a young man ran up beside the carriage and stuck his head in the window.
“Is this that same noble majesty whose father we call yet King?” the man rasped, his hair tousled and a wild look about him. “Mark well, good Prince.” He ran alongside, gripping the window ledge of the carriage with a pair of pale hands. “It shall be you who rules soon enough, if we have aught to say about it.” One of the footmen kicked at him until he released his grip and fell back. “Mark my words,” the man shouted after us.
“There, you see?” I said. “Just as I’ve told you before, the people are for you.”
“It is no more than one discontented pauper.”
“This speaks of some intrig
ue afoot.”
“You make too much of it. They are no more than the ramblings of a malcontent. There’s nothing new in that.”
“Those who would see you crowned seek to hasten circumstances to their favour.”
Henry looked over at me. “You give credence to utterances better dismissed for idle threats.”
“Would our father felt as much,” I declared. “This young man’s sentiments are the very reason he forbids you from travelling abroad.”
“He will say it is for my own safety.”
“More like to keep an eye on you.”
“You really think he believes I would plot against him?” Henry seemed genuinely surprised at such a notion.
“Or he might fear that you should come under some foreign influence.”
“The history books side with him on that. Reason enough to keep me close at hand.”
“He has nothing to fear, as you have ever been a faithful son.”
“All the more reason I should acquiesce in this matter of the masque.”
The conversation ended there. We had arrived at Somerset and the carriage made its way through the gates into the courtyard. When it came to a stop, Henry hopped out before the footman could jump down and offered me his hand. “No need,” he said to the attendant.
“I had not seen this latest,” he said as I stepped down. We stood for a moment, looking up at the grand columns that lined the façade of the palace. “I see Mother has commissioned a new entrance. Florentine, by the look of it. I might have guessed her ambitions would lean to that architecture.”
We made our way up the marble steps, lined on either side by enormous statues. “For myself I should have chosen Doric for the capitals on these columns,” said Henry. “This Ionic is a bit ostentatious, don’t you think?”
“If you think this is too much,” I said, “wait until we get inside.”
We made our way across the foyer to the east wing, where our mother would be waiting, and found her in the drawing room seated at a desk, with Alfonso Ferrabosco leaning over her, the two of them going over some sheet music laid out before them.
