The Shakespeare Mask

by Newton Frohlich

  Sir Thomas leaned forward over his desk. Fowle pulled up. Edward waited.

  “Both of you are going to Cambridge, which occasionally admits special children called ‘impubes’ who aren’t required to attend classes with the older students. They take their meals in their rooms and can bring a personal tutor with them. Would you like that, Edward?”

  “Yes, sir.” He didn’t know what life would be like at Cambridge, but he had faith in Sir Thomas. Besides, Fowle and Lewyn would be with him.

  “Good. I’ll write to your father for permission. As for you, Fowle, I assume you’re only too pleased to return to our alma mater.”

  “Yes, sir!” Fowle was beaming.

  “Then it’s settled.”

  Sir Thomas beamed. Edward wanted to cheer, but he was nine years old now. He nodded and smiled.

  Edward’s time at Cambridge proved short. He and Fowle shared a room, while Lewyn lived with servants below stairs and joined them for meals. The routine was similar to that of Ankerwycke, except here there were other students.

  One afternoon he heard one of them say a girl and her “fellow” had spent their time together halecking.

  “What’s that mean?” he asked the boy.

  “Don’t you know anything? Means fucking.”

  “Oh,” Edward said. After dinner that evening, he asked Fowle about it. Fowle’s face turned red, but Edward knew he’d give him an answer.

  “Haleking is when a man and a woman copulate. To copulate is to make a baby.”

  “I know that. But how?”

  “You’re very curious for someone so young.”

  “I’m nine.”

  “All right.” Fowle sighed. “A man and a woman make a baby when he takes his member. That’s this”—Fowle gestured at his crotch—“and puts it in a hole in a woman’s body near where she pees.”

  “And out comes a baby?”

  “It takes time. Nine months, to be exact.”

  “Then out comes a baby?”

  “Not always. Sometimes people halek and it’s fun, but no baby comes.”

  “How do you know the difference between when it’s just for fun and when a baby comes?”

  “You don’t, but if you want to be sure you won’t get a baby, you put a venus glove over your penis.”

  “What’s a venus glove?” Whatever it was, it sounded intriguing—but awkward, considering where it was supposed to go.

  “Rich men use it mostly. I’ll show you pictures—Sir Thomas has a book of them. If I recall correctly, the book contains over two dozen illustrations of the different positions a man and woman can use.” For some reason, that seemed to amuse Fowle. “You can try them when you’re older.”

  “Can I see the book?”

  Fowle dragged the stepladder to a row of shelves, climbed it, selected a book from the top shelf, and climbed back down.

  “This contains sketches made by an Italian painter and sculptor, Giulio Romano, who studied under Raphael.” He handed Edward the book. “You remember Romano?”

  “He worked for the Gonzaga dukes in Mantua.” He opened the book and studied a few pictures. “Luigi Gonzaga murdered the Duke of Urbino by pouring poison in his ear.” He frowned, turned the book sideways. “Is that what’s happening in this picture?”

  A few months later, they were in his room at Cambridge when Fowle told him Queen Mary had died.

  “She said she was with child. The ‘baby’ turned out to be a tumor.”

  Sir Thomas, who was waiting in his house in Canon Row, in London, for the position Cecil had promised, wrote often.

  Edward, I have good news. Your father escorted Elizabeth to London to be crowned. As Lord High Chamberlain, he held the canopy over her head at the coronation. Lady Elizabeth told Cecil she’d make him her principal secretary, so it’s only a matter of time before I hear good news, too.

  Every day, Edward badgered Fowle about Sir Thomas’ appointment.

  “I don’t understand why it’s taking so long. What could have happened?”

  “What often happens at court, Edward. Sir Thomas made the wrong enemy. He humiliated Queen Elizabeth and she never forgot.”

  Edward let out a frustrated breath. “What could be so bad she wouldn’t forgive him?”

  Fowle sighed. “An affair. When she was young.” He pushed a book across the table toward Edward. “Now, focus. I want to discuss this translation with you.”

  Finally, another message from Sir Thomas arrived. Edward opened it with excitement.

  I’m on my way to Cambridge to collect you, Edward. The renovation of Hill Hall is complete …

  Edward scanned the rest of the letter.

  “He didn’t get the appointment.”

  Fowle put his hand on his shoulder. “I know how sorry you must feel for him.”

  Edward thought for a minute. “I’m not, really,” he said. “I get to go back to Hill Hall with Sir Thomas, and I’ll only be thirty miles from Hedingham and Earl John.”

  Walking along the Cam, he heard more news. On her first tour of her realm, the new queen was going to visit Hedingham.

  Why then,

  The world’s mine oyster,

  Which I with sword

  Will open.

  Shakespeare

  The Merry Wives of Windsor

  Edward, now twelve years old, was on his way to meet the queen. As soon as he was out of sight of Hill Hall, he stuck a hawk’s feather in his cap.

  As they approached Hedingham, the castle looked dressed for a party—flags fluttered on the turrets, long banners hung from the walls. Servants, farmers, and villagers waved and shouted his name. He felt as if he were a king.

  He’d visited Hedingham before, on May Days and for Midsummer and Twelfth Night celebrations. But today Earl John and his mother stood outside the gate waiting to welcome him—and the queen.

  Edward jumped down from his horse. His mother kissed him on the cheek and dabbed her eyes. Earl John crushed him in a hug.

  Even the servants looked grand. Every one of them was clad in the livery Earl John had bought last spring, Oxford blue and tawny colors with the boar’s head insignia on the left shoulder.

  Musicians blared sackbuts, pounded drums, blew trumpets, strummed lutes. Jugglers and acrobats formed human towers. Maidens handed out cakes and ale. He couldn’t remember feeling so happy to be home. Even his stepsister Katherine smiled at him.

  Mary, his eight-year-old sister, grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the Great Hall. “Father’s players are rehearsing, let’s watch.”

  He looked across the hills. The queen’s caravan of three hundred wagons was just now making its way over the farthest rise. He took Mary’s hand, and into the castle they went.

  At once he recognized the morality play his father’s men performed every Christmas. The plot wasn’t original, but people said the queen loved all drama. He spotted Yorick, the actor who always played the clown in productions of The Earl of Oxford’s Men. When he was little, he’d cling to Yorick’s back while he circled the hall on his hands and knees.

  “Yorick, what happened to all your hair?” he shouted. “You haven’t got a strand left for me to hold on to!”

  The actor gave a whoop.

  “That’s because you pulled it all out when I gave you piggyback rides!” He ran to Edward and gave him a bear hug.

  He was wrapped in Yorick’s arms when the queen entered the Great Hall.

  Escorted by an entourage of way too many to count, the twenty-nine-year-old queen circled the room, turning this way and that, her green gown trailing, her curly red hair dancing.

  Edward thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  When she reached him, she smiled. “What a handsome buck you are. You must be Edward.” Her jaw tightened. I see you survived Sir Thomas’ whip.”

  “Sir Thomas taught me well, Your Majesty. He didn’t need a whip.”

  She smiled and touched his cheek. “And what have you learned?”

&n
bsp; “I read books and write stories, Your Majesty. I can create English words and phrases using Greek and Latin roots, using hendiadys and the other tricks of Greek rhetoric.”

  She cocked her head. “Law and order,” she said.

  ”Pomp and circumstance, Your Majesty.”

  “Sound and fury.” She slapped her riding crop on her sleeve.

  “The long and the short,” he said.

  “Delightful!” She beamed. “We’ll resume our duet at supper. You shall sit on my right.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “And in the morning, unless I’m too tired, we’ll go riding. Last month the doctors thought I had smallpox. Sometimes I think I’m going to fade.”

  “You could never fade, Your Majesty.” He smiled.

  “Thank you, kind young sir.” She curtsied. “This morning, I felt weary. Now, not at all. She turned toward the door, curls bouncing.

  As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes followed her. He could still smell her scent. Only a woman as beautiful as Elizabeth would have the nerve to wear such a heavy musk. She moved gracefully through the crowd and then stopped, turned, and stood on her toes. Was she looking for him?

  The sound of music distracted him from his reverie. A young boy was playing a lute and singing a madrigal about love.

  April is in my Mistress’s face,

  And July in her eyes hath place.

  Within her bosom is September,

  But in her heart a cold December.

  Seated on the queen’s right at the banquet, Edward gave up trying to follow the play. She kept touching his cheek and feeding him sweets.

  “The last time I saw you, you were a baby,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember that,” he said. She laughed, but his attention was caught by the string of pearls entwined in her hair. He told her how grand she looked, and she blushed.

  “Edward, what are you reading?”

  “Ovid’s Metamorphoses.”

  “Have you read his Art of Love?”

  “No, Your Majesty, I haven’t.”

  “You must, even if you’re too young to make love. Have you read Fasti?”

  Before he could say he had, the lute player began another madrigal about love. The queen touched his fingers.

  “Edward, you must read Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece.”

  “I will, I promise.” He glanced down at her hand. “Right now I’m reading Cardano’s On Melancholy.”

  “Everyone’s talking about it. Tell me what he says.”

  “He writes about guilt and sadness, Your Majesty.”

  “I know about that.” She gazed across the sea of faces in the Great Hall.

  “I’ve met Cardano, Your Majesty. He visited Sir Thomas. He told me he worries about people who suffer from melancholy—he said they don’t know if it’s better to live or die, to be or not to be.”

  “What a dreary thought for someone as young and handsome as you.” She flipped her curls and grinned at him. “Have you read Ronsard?”

  “‘The world’s a stage’.”

  She took his hand.

  “Sometimes I think all I do is act.” She looked away until a passing servant brought more wine. Then she fed him another sweet.

  “Edward, have you considered traveling to Italy when you’re older?”

  “Sir Thomas wants me to study at the university in Padua.”

  “I wish I’d gone when I was young. Promise me you’ll live in Venice and when you return you’ll tell me all about it.”

  “I will, Your Majesty. But first I want to fight for England and bring honor to my name, just as my forbears have!”

  “If not for the Earl of Oxford, Richard III would never have been defeated at Bosworth Field, and I wouldn’t be queen.” Her expression was serious as she raised her cup of wine. “I, Elizabeth Regina, hereby promise to grant Edward, Earl of Oxford, his wish to go to battle—but not too soon. Battles are stupid and wasteful, even if the blood spilled is for me.”

  People in the dining hall were watching. At once, they stood and began to chant, “Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!”

  When the chant was over, Earl John, seated on the queen’s left, followed with a chant of his own. “To the queen! The queen! The queen!”

  “Edward, you must promise to visit me in London.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I will right after I return to Sir Thomas.”

  The queen frowned.

  That night, unable to sleep, he thrashed in bed

  “Lewyn, are you awake?”

  “Now I am,” he said from the other side of the room. “By the way, I heard the queen said you were the handsomest, brightest young man she’d ever met.”

  “She told me to read Ovid’s Art of Love.”

  Lewyn howled with laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Don’t you remember the book of sketches Fowle showed you? The one by Giulio Romano with all those positions?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Ovid’s Art of Love tells you how to perform each position. The emperor exiled him from Rome over that.”

  “I want to see the book as soon as we return to Hill Hall.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Sir Thomas.” He grinned. “When the queen says she likes a lad, he’d better prepare!”

  “Prepare for what?”

  “For haleking.”

  “I’m only twelve!”

  “I didn’t say you’d see her tomorrow. But later …”

  “You really think she meant me?”

  “She wasn’t talking about the clown.”

  “You’ve got her wrong, Lewyn. She said she banned women from the Cambridge and Oxford residence halls because women distract men from their learning.”

  “Now do you understand why people say she’s fickle?”

  Edward lay back and thought. Earl John had said the queen was twenty-nine, but there was something childlike about her. He also said that after King Henry executed her mother, she lived in isolation with her governess. Only now was she coming alive.

  Maybe it was as Sir Thomas said, that most people had two sides to them. If that was true, which one had he met tonight—and which one would he meet next?

  He was about to depart from Hedingham when Earl John summoned him to his study, a large room with a deer’s head hanging over the fireplace and a stuffed boar standing on a heavy table. The bookshelves were full, but the books looked dusty.

  Earl John was seated at his desk holding two documents, fingering the red ribbons that fastened the pages together and rubbing the red wax seals beside his signatures.

  “Dudley’ll soon be here, Edward. The queen wants me to make peace with him.” Earl John pulled a chair next to his. “Sit here. My lawyers told me to make a will. I want to explain it since mostly it’s about you.”

  He sat next to his father. They hadn’t been this close since Earl John taught him to kill boars.

  “I won’t bother you with the details. I take care of your mother, sisters, uncles, and leave everything else to you. One hundred sixteen parcels and enough income for you and for them, as well as everyone living on the properties. You’ll have two thousand pounds of income a year, and by the time I die—which let’s hope won’t be for years—there’ll be more.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “The document’s endless, but the thrust of it is, if I die before you reach twenty-one, you and the property will be under the control of the queen. That’s the law. But she’ll turn you and the property over to William Cecil, her principal secretary and master of wards.”

  “I know Cecil.” Edward made a face. “He’s tedious.”

  “He’ll take care of the cash and two-thirds of the land and buildings until you’re twenty-one. The queen will give the rest to Dudley to hold until you’re of age. She and Dudley are lovers, but that’s neither here nor there. By the time I die, you’ll be old enough to inherit everything without Cecil or Dudley getting their h
ands on any of it.”

  Edward glanced at the stuffed boar on the table.

  “As I said, the queen wants me to befriend Dudley. I agreed because if something happens to me before you’re of age, I don’t want him bothering you. I’ve also completed a contract of marriage for you. When you’re twenty-one, you’ll marry one of the Hastings girls—Mary or Elizabeth, whichever one you choose. Your sister Mary told me you liked them.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Treat it as something to take care of later. Their family’s good as ours. As for the rest of my will, I appoint you executor of my estate. By the time I die, you’ll have read law and will understand everything.”

  Edward returned to Hill Hall. A few weeks later he was studying in his room after lunch on a hot August afternoon when the elderly servant who’d welcomed him to Ankerwycke eight years before knocked on his door and entered. He seemed upset.

  “Is everything all right, Robert?”

  “Yes, it is, milord. With me. And thank you for asking.” He paused. “Sir Thomas wishes you to come to his study.”

  As usual, the dog and the cat were asleep under the table when Edward entered the library. Sir Thomas put down his pen, dragged a chair next to his, and walked over and put his arm around Edward’s shoulders. Edward could count on one hand the number of times Sir Thomas had embraced him.

  “A messenger from Hedingham just brought word.” Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “No one’s sure of the cause, but … I’m so sorry to tell you, Edward—Earl John is dead.“

  The study was suddenly stifling.

  “I … that can’t be right,” Edward said. “We just …”

  “There’s a rumor he was poisoned.”

  “No!” he shouted. “Earl John’s too clever for that!”