“Try to be strong, son. I know how hard this is.”
“He can’t be dead!” He struggled to lower his voice. “When’s the inquest? I want to be there.”
“The queen’s advisers say an inquest is unnecessary.” Sir Thomas looked away for a moment and then turned back to Edward. “The funeral will take place as soon as you return to Hedingham.”
“Everybody loves Earl John.” Edward’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Everybody.”
“No one gets through life without making a few enemies.” Sir Thomas rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “I suggest you go to your room and rest. We’ll meet at five, drink sherry, talk.”
Edward was vaguely aware of being steered toward the door.
“I don’t drink sherry.”
“I can’t think of a better time to start.”
He felt as if someone had thrown him into a river and he didn’t know how to swim. Sir Thomas had told him to rest, but he couldn’t even close his eyes.
He stared at the books on his desk. One was open. Had he been reading it? He couldn’t remember. He stared at the ceiling for hours.
Eventually he got up, descended the stairway as if he were sleepwalking, knocked on the door to the study, and stepped inside.
The dog licked his hand. Edward reached down to scratch its ears. The cat rubbed against his legs and purred.
Sir Thomas filled two goblets with sherry.
“You must return to Hedingham,” he said. “You’re the Earl of Oxford now. You won’t be able to stay, of course—you’ll go to London, live in Cecil House.”
The sherry burned Edward’s throat.
“Cecil’s house is a veritable dormitory for young nobles.” Sir Thomas glared into his sherry. “They lose their fathers, Cecil gains wealth and power.”
“It’s so hard to believe,” Edward said. “Earl John … dead.”
Were those tears in Sir Thomas’ eyes?
“Edward.” He blinked. “If I had a son, I’d want him to be you.”
Edward hadn’t—he wouldn’t—allow himself to cry. Earl John had said boys don’t cry.
“Thank you.”
“Now, I must prepare you for Cecil. You’ll be under his control and it won’t be easy.”
“May I have more sherry?”
Sir Thomas filled his goblet. “I tutored Cecil at Cambridge, but he taught me things I’d never have learned on my own.”
Edward tried to pay attention. He couldn’t. Instead he studied the elm tree outside the window. The leaves didn’t move. No breeze today.
“The balance sheets for Cecil’s marriages are better than mine,” Sir Thomas said. “His first, to the daughter of our favorite professor, opened doors for him. His second, to the daughter of the famous Cooke, was even more helpful. His wife, Mildred, is the most brilliant woman in England, after the queen. I also respect Cecil’s audacity—it was his advice that caused your father to send you to Ankerwycke.”
“Why won’t there be an inquest?” His voice was loud again, but he didn’t care.
“In a moment,” Sir Thomas said. “First, I must tell you about Cecil. My madness is obvious. His isn’t. And neither is he harmless.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cecil is my friend, but his loyalty is to himself.”
“Isn’t that true of everyone?”
“Perhaps, but he’s deceptive and sanctimonious. Beware.”
“I will. Why won’t there be an inquest?” He pushed his goblet toward Sir Thomas, who paused before he refilled it.
“Easy, Edward. Sherry has a way of biting you in the arse.”
“Like Cecil.”
He smiled. “Never lose your sense of humor—it’ll get you through life’s rough patches. Now, a few principles. For Cecil, there’s no such thing as education for its own sake. He thinks a young noble’s mind must be focused on serving the crown and protecting his property. He’s going to train you to perform like a puppet. You’re about to enter combat.”
“Sir?”
“A mind like yours comes along once in a hundred years. To limit you to administering laws, however important, and dealing with property, no matter how vast, is a waste. All issues must be your issues.”
“How can that be when I’m under Cecil’s thumb?”
“He can’t control your thoughts,” he said. “Neither can he stop you from writing. Eventually you’ll leave his house to study at Cambridge and Oxford and read law at Gray’s Inn. A renaissance is sweeping Italy and France, but it hardly touches our shores. You must go abroad and bring back what you learn.
“Study languages and street life, new and old writing, food and music, military affairs and customs, the best and worst of whatever passes for culture. My year in Padua was the most important of my life, but your time there should be longer. Do you remember when Bartholomew Clerke spoke of a manuscript—The Courtier, by Baldassare Castiglione?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It describes the matters every courtier must master to educate his sovereign. My hope is you’ll produce a work of similar import for England. Let Cecil clutch his copy of Cicero’s De Officiis. Your perspective must move beyond duty. One day, you may advise the queen.”
“It seems there’s an awful lot for me to do.” He was trying to take in what Sir Thomas was telling him, but he still felt numb.
“Continue your study of Greek and Roman drama, politics and rhetoric. When Cecil objects, don’t fight him. He’s too powerful—work around him. And when the time comes, write anonymously. That’s what noblemen do.”
He drained his goblet and refilled it. Edward sat sipping and thinking as Sir Thomas continued.
“And be careful of the queen, Edward.”
“What? Why?”
“She’s precocious and brilliant, but she’s unstable. Considering what happened to her mother, that’s understandable. Nevertheless, be careful. More dangerous to you is the fact that Robin Dudley’s room adjoins the queen’s. They have other lovers, but their relationship endures. I wish she’d marry him and ensure a stable succession, but she refuses. In any case, watch out for Dudley.”
“My father tried to make peace with him.”
“Dudley wasn’t interested in peace. Earl John had more land and money than Dudley, the queen, and Cecil combined. Now you’ll be Dudley’s target, and don’t expect Cecil and the queen to help you. They’re in awe of Dudley’s venality.”
“I’m not worried,” Edward said. “The queen likes me.“
“Of course she does. You’re a likable fellow and she adores men, especially the young ones. Maybe she fantasizes you’re the child she never had. Who knows? To understand her requires more skill than I possess, and God knows I’ve tried.”
“I’ll never be able to handle all three of them.”
“I didn’t tell you to handle them.” Sir Thomas gave him a sharp look. “I told you to watch out. And remember, no man wins by being outspoken. Look where that got me.”
“But I want to be like you.”
Sir Thomas astonished him with a kiss on the forehead. “I’m not the best model. Be like Cecil—no one can deal with the snakes at court better than another snake.”
Edward felt as if he’d fallen into a pit. “You don’t give me much hope.”
“I’m sorry.” Sir Thomas looked across the field and then faced him. “Never stop studying. A life of the mind is the only life worth living. Write, and watch the outrage fly from your soul.”
“I don’t know if I can. This is …” He closed his eyes. “This is too much sadness to write out.”
After a long moment he opened his eyes. His grief would have to wait.
“Sir Thomas, what about the inquest?”
“The inquest will take care of itself. Now, one more thing. A month ago, your father signed a contract of marriage for you to wed one of the Hastings girls. He wrote me the property aspects were attractive and thought it was a fait accompli. But don’t expect Cecil to honor it—he
has a daughter of his own.”
He hated his new life already.
“I know how you feel, Edward, and after Earl John arranged it all so well. But when he appointed Dudley a trustee of your lands, he put a fox in charge of the henhouse.”
Edward looked straight at Sir Thomas. “Dudley killed my father, didn’t he.”
“Poison is his preferred method.” Sir Thomas sighed. “Someday maybe you can speak out. But not now—it’s far too dangerous.”
“I feel so … lost.”
“Then let me offer you one ray of hope. Eight years ago, when I lost my position at court, I thought my life was over—until an amazing five-year-old boy came into my life.” He smiled. “Edward, hope has many fathers. One day it can fly in on swallow’s wings.”
We know what we are,
but we know not
What we may be.
Shakespeare
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
Accompanied by his uncle Arthur, Thomas Fowle, and William Lewyn, twelve-year-old Edward still felt alone. Earl John’s death weighed on him like a stone.
Behind him rode 140 Earl of Oxford servants, villagers, and farmers in two long columns. The blue and tawny colors seemed more somber now, the boar’s head shoulder insignia less cheerful. Each man wore a black sash and armband.
At the funeral he suffered a new wound. As his father’s body was lowered into the grave, his mother leaned on Charlie Tyrrell, Earl John’s administrator. His sisters were worse. His stepsister Katherine, who was married and lived nearby, refused to visit. His sister Mary refused to even admit Earl John was dead.
“Father went away,” she said. “And mother took a trip.”
The villagers were restless, agitated.
“Tell them their lives will go on as before,” Arthur said.
My God—these harvests are the worst in memory. How can I tell them everything will be all right?
Edward turned in his saddle. All escorts were in the Strand, and Arthur was pointing to Cecil House. Four turrets and a dozen statues decorated the walls. The gardens were lavish. He tried to study the plants, but he felt as if his brain were wrapped in fog.
He shook his head and took another look. Now he understood what Sir Thomas meant when he said Cecil was nouveau riche. Fishponds and gaudy statuary were scattered all over the lawn. Across the street from Cecil House was a mansion once owned by Lord Somerset, and next to the old Savoy Hospital was an apartment house for the well-to-do. The law courts, Whitehall, and Westminster were all within walking distance. The Strand was too valuable for the poor.
England’s economy was dead, but the people were well-dressed. Protestants in the Netherlands and France flocked to London for employment and safety. On his way there he’d seen former Catholic churches with their stained glass windows whitewashed, and he knew stolen Communion chalices now graced the tables of the rich. All trace of the old religion had been extinguished, and these once-colorful houses of worship were now puritanically drab.
He’d been shocked at such desecration but knew he was fortunate. Though Earl John was Catholic, he hadn’t supported Bloody Mary, for reasons of faith, and his Protestant mother limited her devotion to making sure he said his prayers. Sir Thomas had taught him that religion was an intellectual exercise, and now he understood.
A light rain began to fall. He handed the reins of his horse to a Cecil House valet and watched servants lug his bags of books inside. Cecil’s library was the best in England, but Sir Thomas said having one’s own books in one’s room was an advantage. His servants unfastened the saddlebags of sherry Sir Thomas had given him as a going-away present. The elixir worked like magic when sleep eluded him.
The rain began to pelt, and still Cecil failed to appear. Arthur refused to let him dismount.
“Protocol demands he greet you personally. Your superior rank requires no less.”
Edward thought it absurd, but he waited. Surely life was more important than pomp. If it were it up to him, he’d march up and pound on the door.
Sometimes his loss hurt so much he could touch it. His father seemed to be everywhere he turned. Sometimes he swore he could smell Earl John’s sweat after a day’s hunt.
“No sign of plague here.” Fowle ran his fingers through his soaking red hair.
“My boy,” Arthur said, “we should never have come here. Cecil was wrong to insist.”
“Did you see those slums outside the city walls?” Lewyn said. “My uncle in Antwerp told me they’re a breeding ground for sickness.”
Edward frowned. “So why doesn’t the queen build proper homes for the poor?”
“Because her clerks say the land can’t support more wells.” Arthur shrugged. “I think they don’t want more poor folks in the city, but what do I know? I’m just a scholar who translates religious texts.”
“Why do they lock the gates of the city every night? Who would want to enter a plague-ridden city?”
“It’s not about keeping people out. It’s about keeping people in. Folks in the country don’t want city people to bring their disease.”
Edward looked across the street. Behind the grand buildings was the Thames. And Arthur said Ivy Lane, at the corner, ran down to a boat stop where wherries picked up passengers. If he had his way, he’d escape right now.
At last the front door opened and two liveried servants emerged. One invited him and his companions to enter, and the other said Sir William Cecil was engaged in matters involving the queen.
Edward ordered his men to deliver the sherry to his room and then entered Cecil House and followed the servant up the staircase. Fowle was staying the night and then going on to Cambridge to become a Protestant minister. Arthur and Lewyn would remain with Edward.
“Milord,” the servant said, “Sir William requests that you meet him in the library after you’ve settled.”
Edward and Arthur followed the servant to Cecil’s library. Five times the size of Sir Thomas’, it was furnished with upholstered chairs and Turkish carpets. The bookshelves were said to hold two thousand books and manuscripts. A gallery with a ladder on wheels made the books accessible. Arthur stood there, staring up, hands clasped as if in prayer.
A huge desk commanded the room. A fire blazed in the fireplace and framed maps hung where the walls weren’t covered by shelves. The servant invited them to sit in the two chairs facing the desk and said Sir William would be with them shortly.
Cecil entered a few minutes later. In his mid-forties, he leaned on a cane with a silver handle. His black beard and thick head of hair were flecked with gray. His black robe, in the style popular in Puritan London, didn’t hide his large belly.
“Milord,” he said with a smile, “welcome to London.”
“Thank you, Sir William. This is my uncle, Arthur Golding.”
Arthur bowed.
“Welcome, Arthur.” Cecil’s voice reverberated as if he were delivering a sermon. He patted Edward’s back and limped to the high-back leather chair behind the desk and sat with a groan. Sir Thomas had told Edward that Cecil suffered from gout.
“Milord, I hope your journey wasn’t too wearing,” Cecil said.
“It was wet.” He knew his tone was curt but didn’t care. He was chilled and soaked to the bone.
“Milord, I’ve some matters to bring to your attention. Under the law of guardian and ward, when a lord of the realm such as your dear father dies leaving an underage son, the queen may give one-third of his property temporarily to whomever she chooses.”
“My father told me.”
“Her Majesty is giving that third of your land to Robin Dudley.”
Edward sat up straight and looked directly into Cecil’s eyes for the first time. “Can she really do that?”
“Yes, but only until you’re twenty-one. She also has the right to sell her power to make decisions concerning your marriage. But in your case, I think Her Majesty will make that decision herself. Questions?”
Yes, but he’d think first and spe
ak later.
“Good!” Cecil clapped his hands. “Then let us proceed to matters which, I assure you, are important for the maintenance of good order. I know the sumptuary rules are not respected in the countryside, but now you live in the capital, where such rules are strictly enforced.”
Edward slumped. “What sort of rules?”
“First, clothing. You possess more than twenty pounds per year of income, so you may wear satin doublets but not satin robes. You also possess more than a hundred pounds per year of income and you may wear velvet but only in doublets and outerwear, and neither crimson nor blue. Those colors are reserved for knights of the Garter and nobles of similar rank. I intend to nominate you for election but only when the time is right. Clear?”
“Clear.” His brows drew together—this was essential for the maintenance of order?
“I will leave for another occasion the rules pertaining to other fabrics and to the issue of pleats. Instead I shall issue a word of caution: under no circumstances may you wear a hat. Caps are made in England, hats are not. To encourage consumption of locally made products, Parliament requires that everyone wear a cap.”
“I’m so glad you’ve told me,” he said. “I should hate to have worn a hat by mistake.” If this were a play, the audience would be rolling in the aisles.
Cecil was smiling, but Edward was certain he wasn’t amused.
“Milord, you may ask why I deliver an exposition on matters that appear trivial.”
“I was wondering.”
“As the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, you are England’s premier nobleman. Your title dates back to the birth of our nation. In England’s firmament, no one else is the seventeenth of anything. What you do and say are subjects of study and emulation. Need I say more?”
“I think I’ve quite a clear understanding.”
“Now then, let’s move on to the rules pertaining to food. If your income were ten pounds a year you’d be limited to two courses per meal plus soup, but owing to your generous income, you may dine without limit.”
To think that the queen did nothing without first consulting this man.
The Shakespeare Mask Page 4