Noah smiled a knowing smile. “It’s the women who baffle us that stay with us,” he murmured.
“I trust her with my life,” Charlie continued, crossing his arms over his chest. “After Heath was shot, she was really the only person I knew of that did not cross me or act dishonorable.” He stopped, his eyes drifting back up to the stars. “I don’t want to lose that feeling.”
Noah took a long drag and then clapped his nephew on the back. “Then don’t, boy,” he told Charlie. “It seems you care about her more than you let on.”
“Noah!” Nora exclaimed, causing the birds that were resting comfortably in the trees to disperse rapidly in the night sky. “Supper’s ready!”
“That woman’s going to be the death of me,” he muttered, quickly taking another puff on his pipe before putting it out. He glanced up at Charlie, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, but I wouldn’t die by any other hand.”
Supper was interesting, to say the least. Brooke fit Charlie’s clothing quite nicely and he happened to like the way she looked in them. Nora questioned her nephew mercilessly while Noah inquired more about the Dead Man’s Tale. Charlie, while answering his aunt’s every question as charmingly as he could, promised to divulge more information about the treasure the next day. Everyone was quite exhausted, and after supper, decided it was best to retire to bed. Brooke and Kenneth both thanked Noah and Nora for their kind hospitality, but instead of going to bed, Kenneth decided to take a quick walk around the property.
Charlie and Brooke proceeded up the stairs and to her bedroom. Charlie was quite diligent about walking her to her room, and in that gesture, they both knew that something had changed between them. They were not merely friends, but something more, and yet neither took the presented opportunity to act upon such feelings.
“If you need anything, you know where I am,” Charlie told her seriously, looking at her.
Brooke nodded, and she smiled. “And you know where to find me as well,” she returned. Then she disappeared into her room and shut the door softly behind her.
Although they were both tired, neither got much sleep that night.
16
The next morning, after the group had finished breaking their fast and the dishes were cleared, they gathered in the sitting room. Noah and Nora each had their personal chairs that sat side by side. Charlie and Brooke shared the couch, while Kenneth sat on the arm of the couch, his hands shoved into the pockets of his breeches. Charlie was running the envelope through his fingers while the parchment sat securely in his lap.
“So,” Noah said after a moment. He cleared his throat and peered across the coffee table at his nephew. “Tell us about this treasure.”
“Well, Brooke found the map,” Charlie began, nodding his head in her direction.
Brooke, nodded, confirming Charlie’s statement.
“Apparently my father had it, and kept it with my close friend, Joel,” she continued. “Joel is a mapmaker. The map was to be part of my dowry, which I believe Sutherland knew and was quick to agree to marry me in return for Charlie’s freedom.”
“That was a very admirable thing you did for our nephew,” Nora told Brooke sincerely.
“Oh,” Brooke said, glancing down at her folded hands in her lap, “I am sure Charlie would have done the same thing if he was in my place.”
“I would have,” Charlie told her quietly, and then looked back to his relatives. “We got to where the map led to—a deserted island close to Cuba, actually. Luckily for us, Diablette had the accompanying parchment that spoke of where the treasure was precisely.”
“It was more of a riddle than directions,” Brooke corrected gently.
“Well, it turns out the map, along with the riddle, led us to a tree trunk where, believe it or not, a chest was in,” Charlie said, and handed his uncle the envelope and the piece of parchment. “This was all that was in it. Brooke figured out what the quote meant; two lines from a Shakespearean sonnet. We believe it’s a clue to where the actual treasure is.” He paused, watching as his uncle looked intently at the envelope. “See, we have not yet figured out whose seal that is.”
“This, my dear nephew,” Noah began, setting the envelope down on the coffee table, “is the seal used by Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford.” The old man got up and went to a nearby bookcase. His fingers grazed the spines of the hardcover books until he pulled one out and went to sit back down. He rested the book in his lap and began to flip through the pages until he stopped at a page where a regal looking man with a long nose and traces of a mustache was pictured. His brow was plucked thin, and his eyes were dark.
“Edward de Vere was highly favored by Queen Elizabeth,” Noah went on, his eyes skimming the small print of the book. “He was a playwright, a poet, and a patron of many writers during his lifetime, although he was also known to be fickle.”
Below the picture of the seventeenth Earl was a replica of the seal of the lion holding the spear in his paw.
“This is the Bulbeck crest that de Vere adopted as his own,” Noah said, tapping the picture of the crest. “His family’s crest was originally that of a boar.”
“Why would de Vere’s crest be on this envelope?” Brooke asked, tilting her head. Her eyes were glued to the book in Noah’s lap, her curiosity piqued. She wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, but as soon as they answered one question, three more seemed to pop up.
“A good question,” Noah said, nodding. “You should also ask yourself why a Shakespearean quote is written on a piece of parchment, eh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “And why are there random numbers on the back of said parchment?”
“We don’t believe they’re random, Uncle,” Charlie said quietly.
“May I borrow that book?” Brooke asked.
“Of course,” Noah said, grasping the book in his hands and handing it over to Brooke.
She glanced at the page number before shutting the book and glancing over at the bookshelf. “I was also wondering if you had any of Shakespeare’s work.” She raised her brow, hopeful.
“Yes, we do,” Noah said. He jutted a thumb at his wife. “This one over here absolutely adores Shakespeare; everything from The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet to Hamlet, and all of the earliest editions of the plays. If Shakespeare wrote it, we have it.” He got up and led Brooke to the bookcase. “She has a special shelf for Shakespeare,” he told her, his eyes scanning the books thoroughly. When they reached the fourth shelf from the top, he tapped his finger. “Here they are. Feel free to read them, and if you have any questions, Nora knows everything about everything.”
“Thank you very much,” Brooke said quietly, her mind already swimming with thoughts. She was concentrating so much on the books before her that she did not notice Noah had left to sit back down. Her fingers grazed the spines of the books lightly, almost afraid of putting any pressure on them or they would disintegrate. She stopped when she found what she was looking for, and very carefully, wrapped her fingers around the spine of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and pulled it out so that it rested on the book Noah had already given Brooke.
“If you will all excuse me,” she said, turning to the people in the sitting room, “I have some reading to do.”
They all nodded, and Charlie watched her leave, wondering what was in that head of hers.
Two months went by rather quickly for Brooke. She healed well, and by the end of the second month, her bruises had disappeared and her cuts had faded. While Charlie went out with his uncle every night, Brooke stayed in with Nora. When the two weren’t talking, Brooke was either in her room or out in the backyard reading a book. Charlie was somewhat annoyed with it, having lost the presence of her company, but knew that what she was doing was important.
One April afternoon, Brooke was lounging in the backyard, feeling the cool, Caribbean breeze picking up her dark blonde hair off of her shoulders. She was rereading the biography on Edward de Vere with Shakespeare’s Sonnets in her lap as well. There was a piece she was missing and sh
e knew that she was missing it, but she did not know what it was. In the two months, she read many of Shakespeare’s plays and had read the collection of his sonnets at least nine times. Her mind was exhausted, and yet there was this small piece of her, urging herself onwards, promising that what she was looking for would not take long to find.
She yawned, and wiggled her bare toes, enjoying the sunlight that cascaded down upon her. If she was not forcing herself to read, she would probably be asleep by now because she was so comfortable. She flipped the book of sonnets open, and her eyes skimmed to the first page. It was not a poem, but a dedication.
Her brow furrowed, as she reread the words “ever-living poet.” She continued to glance through the poems, having nearly memorized each one, as her free hand grabbed the parchment. Instead of staring down the quote, she flipped it over and skimmed the numbers. There were two rows; the first row had the numbers one through seventy-seven, while the second row had seventy-eight through one hundred and fifty-four. There were correlating numbers next to only some of the main numbers, and one number had correlating numbers as well as a broken phrase next to it: “An Assu.” Suddenly, her mouth dropped open, and she rushed inside, gripping the book tightly to her chest. The parchment and envelope were slipped between the pages securely, so she did not worry about them as she made her way into the sitting room.
“Charlie!” she called, her voice cracking with excitement. “Charlie!”
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and soon, Charlie had made his appearance. His face looked tired, and his eyes were half-opened. Obviously, Brooke had awoken him from his late slumber. He lazily stepped to her side and looked at her expectantly.
“And what do I owe this great honor of being called to your presence?” he slurred with sleepiness.
“I figured something out,” she said, not bothering to address his sarcastic remark with one of her own. “Sit with me.”
Charlie blinked a couple of times, starting to feel himself wake up at Brooke’s words. She had figured something out? He followed Brooke to the couch and sat next to her. She immediately threw open the book in her hands, and her forefinger underlined the words “ever-living poet.”
“It refers to Shakespeare,” Charlie said lazily, stifling a yawn. “It is said the dedication was not written by Shakespeare himself.”
“An educated assumption, yes,” Brooke said, her eyes filled with excitement. She could not keep the smile off her face if she had tried. “However, one would not write ‘ever-living’ to someone who is already living. Usually, that refers to someone who has passed on, but is still living because of a legacy, or in this case, through his written word.”
“But Shakespeare was alive when his sonnets were published,” Charlie said slowly. Where, exactly, was Brooke going with this?
“Right,” Brooke said with a mischievous tone to her voice, “but Edward de Vere was not.”
Charlie sighed. His head was beginning to hurt.
“What does Edward de Vere have anything to do with Shakespeare?” he asked tiredly, leaning back into the couch.
“Everything,” Brooke told him firmly. “Edward de Vere was Shakespeare. He wrote his works under Shakespeare’s name!”
“How do you figure that?” Charlie asked skeptically.
“I am glad you asked,” Brooke said, and cleared her throat to prepare her small lecture. “Well, let’s start with the obvious; Edward de Vere was an educated and wealthy man. He was highly favored by Queen Elizabeth herself, and loved the written word.”
“Yes, we know this already,” Charlie said.
Brooke gave him a dry look. “Shakespeare was not educated and was not wealthy,” she told him. “It is highly unlikely that a man with little education could write so fluently the way the real Shakespeare did. Also, Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets reveal a thorough knowledge of court life, law, and wealth, among other things. The imposter Shakespeare, the one who is known to have written these works, would have no such experience in the matter.”
“Darling, while I appreciate your thorough research, if this is your only evidence of such a claim then I highly doubt you have proven your thesis,” Charlie said, looking at Brooke sympathetically.
Surprisingly, Brooke rolled her eyes.
“I have much more evidence, you dolt,” she chided him. Charlie’s brow rose at her juvenile name-calling, but it was hard to stay mad at her when she was so excited. Truth be told, her excitement caused him to get excited.
“Take his crest,” Brooke said, motioning to the envelope with the broken seal. “It is of a lion holding a spear, correct?” When Charlie nodded, curiously looking at the envelope, she continued. “Some view the lion as not only holding the spear but moving the spear. To be more specific, the lion is shaking the spear. A nice little play on the name Shakespeare, hmm?” She paused, watching Charlie’s reaction of what she had just informed him. His face looked passive, and while he wasn’t as eager as she wanted him to be, at least, he did not completely doubt her. “It was not uncommon for poets to write under false names, especially in de Vere’s case. He was part of Elizabeth’s court, and as such, could not criticize the court openly without consequence.”
“You are starting to sway me,” Charlie murmured after a moment. He was fully coherent and articulate now. “Is this all the evidence you have gathered?”
Brooke shook her head. “I have read nearly every single play Shakespeare wrote in these past two months, and now that I have gotten this figured out, it’s all starting to make sense now.
“Take the play Hamlet, for example,” she continued, shifting her weight so that she was more comfortable. “There are many telling autobiographical similarities found in Hamlet that pertain to de Vere’s life. First, let us start out with the most basic point: de Vere’s father died suddenly, and his mother remarried shortly after, much like Hamlet’s parents.
“Also, when de Vere was fifteen, he was placed in the household of Queen Elizabeth’s most trusted advisor, Lord Burghley. The character Chorambis seemed to have been inspired by Burghley. In fact, the name Chorambis is even a sort of jab at Burghley’s motto which is…” She quickly ran outside to retrieve the book containing Edward de Vere’s biography and then reclaimed her position on the couch, flipping through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “…cor unum, via una, which translates to ‘one heart, one way.’”
“What does Chorambis translate to?” Charlie asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.
Brooke smirked. “Two-hearted,” she said quickly, and then glanced back down at the book. “But that is not all; Hamlet was engaged to marry Ophelia who happened to be Chorambis’s daughter just as de Vere was engaged to marry Anne Cecil, who happened to be Burghley’s daughter. Speaking of Burghley, his son, Robert Cecil, received a similar list, much like Chorambis’s list given to his son Laertes, of maxims. Both fathers sent someone to spy on their sons while they were away.” She quickly caught her breath before continuing. “Hamlet had a best friend named Horatio; de Vere had a best friend named Horace which is also another name for Horatio. Both Horatios are well-known for their outgoing personalities, as well as their calmness during all different conditions. Finally, when de Vere was returning home on the English Channel, his ship was raided by pirates who stripped him naked. It was only after hearing of his noble status that they agreed to set him free, albeit without much of his possessions, much like Hamlet’s story to Horatio.”
“Those seem to be more than mere coincidences,” Charlie said, his full attention now on Brooke. “But what does this have anything to with our treasure?”
“Well, the parchment was found in an envelope with his seal on it, correct?” Brooke asked. At Charlie’s nod, Brooke removed the parchment from the pages of the sonnets and set the book containing de Vere’s biography on the coffee table. She shifted back to her place, before turning over the parchment so the numbers were faced up. “And the quote on the parchment comes from Shakespeare’s forty
-eighth sonnet.”
Brooke paused, her eyes scanning the two rows of numbers very carefully. She knew that what she was proposing was nearly sacrilegious, and if she was not presented with a detailed biography of Edward de Vere and Shakespeare’s works at the same time, she would never have believed that anyone but Shakespeare wrote his work. And yet, here she was, trying to prove to Charlie that Shakespeare did not write his plays but someone else did.
“I believe the first numbers pertain to Shakespeare’s sonnets,” she began, her voice quivering slightly. “Shakespeare wrote one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, and the numbers go up to one hundred and fifty-four.” Charlie nodded, his eyes scanning the parchment. “I believe the numbers that appear next to some of the main numbers refer to the lines of the sonnet.
“For example,” she continued, “take sonnet seven, where he is describing a man with ‘strong youth in his middle age.’” Again she paused, hesitating, but managed to work up the courage to continue. “I believe he is speaking of Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton. In fact, I believe he is speaking of Southampton in the first seventeen sonnets.”
“How does the Earl of Southampton have anything to do with de Vere?” Charlie asked. He was sincerely curious now, not skeptical.
“De Vere wanted Southampton to marry his daughter,” Brooke explained. “These seventeen sonnets are dedicated to him in hopes that he will marry her.” She read Charlie’s inquisitive glance as need for further proof, so she opened the book of sonnets and flipped to number ten. “In this one, de Vere writes that ‘Make thee another self, for love of me’ which can refer to de Vere’s birth into high nobility, compared to Southampton. I mean, the way he writes these first seventeen sonnets indicates that he is of the same birth as Southampton is.
“Also,” she continued quickly, flipping back to the first page with the dedication on it, “Mr. W.H. probably refers to Henry Wriothesley with the initials reversed in order to conceal Southampton’s identity. This switch was most likely made by the publisher.
To Marry A Marauder Page 24
