“As for fish—”
“Fish?”
“Yes, milord. I have no doubt you are acquainted with the fact that since Henry VIII, no one may eat fish on Friday without risking three months in prison. Our church will agree to treat veal, chicken, or any other fowl as fish, but only for a fee.”
“How accommodating.”
“Now then, the plague. Milord, the plague is rampant in London. Every year there are more deaths than births. London’s geographical area is only two miles from north to south, traversable by foot in less than an hour, and you may be tempted to flee. But do not—I repeat, do not. Avoid crowds. Follow the law. Set an example. You’re the Earl of Oxford. Never forget.”
“I won’t.”
“Good, good. Now, I’ve not yet had the opportunity to make an inventory of your lands. At this time, I should like to ask your uncle if he would do that. Arthur, will you oblige?”
“Of course, Sir William.”
“I’d also like you to collect all rents due Edward and deposit them in his account. Will you oblige me in that regard as well—for a generous fee from Edward’s account?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Good, good.”
Edward smiled. Finally, Arthur was being paid for his efforts. Earl John had given him precious little. As the youngest of eleven children from the poor side of the Golding family, twenty-two-year-old Arthur hadn’t a shilling to his name. He had to give Cecil some credit.
“Now then, Earl John owned more than a hundred parcels of land running into the thousands of acres and containing numerous structures of varying sizes and purposes—”
“My father told me.”
“Did he also tell you to expect two thousand pounds a year in income from those lands even after expenses?”
“Yes, but is the two thousand before or after Dudley’s third is subtracted?”
“Good question, milord. I’ll investigate and advise. Now, I suggest we move to a less agreeable matter. My informants advise that your stepsister Katherine intends to challenge your right to inherit Earl John’s titles and property.”
Edward’s temples began to throb. He felt as if he’d been in this meeting for hours. “On what grounds?”
“Bigamy. She claims your father’s marriage to your mother was invalid because he was already married to her mother. Earl John neglected to have that marriage annulled before he wed your mother.”
“Is her claim valid? Can she prevail?”
“Her claim is valid, and ordinarily she would prevail, but in your case she won’t. When I informed Her Majesty, I persuaded her to declare your stepsister’s claim against the interests of the Crown. As soon as your stepsister files suit, the queen will file a notice to quash, and the matter will be closed.”
Again, Edward was impressed. Was there anything Cecil didn’t know? “The queen has that power?” he said.
“She controls all matters relating to young nobles.”
“But why, if the claim’s well-founded?”
“Because it’s not in her interest that a matter relating to your father when he was young be brought to the attention of the public. When the queen was young she also, shall we say, sowed wild oats. Since your sister’s claim might resurrect memories of her majesty’s indiscretions, she will quash that claim.” Cecil pulled himself to his feet. “Milord, I suggest we take lunch. I’m famished. You must be, too.”
Edward followed him out, deep in thought. Sir Thomas had said he must be careful. He was being protected, but only because the queen’s needs mirrored his. From now on he’d consider the short term but would always base his decisions on the long term.
O, what men dare do! What man may do! What men
daily do, not know what they do!
Shakespeare
Much Ado About Nothing
“Milord, may I introduce you to Lady Cecil?” Arthur said. “Mildred, this is Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford. And this young man here is Thomas Nowell, your new tutor.”
Edward bowed to Lady Cecil and shook Nowell’s hand as a waiter entered the dining room with a carafe of sherry and crystal glasses.
“Nowell’s leading our search for Anglo-Saxon manuscripts,” Arthur said. “He discovered Saxo Grammaticus, the foundation of our nation’s literature, and is translating it from the Old English.”
Now, this sounds interesting. “Please, tell me a little about your work with this manuscript,” Edward said.
“Milord, the manuscript reveals a fascinating character, Prince Amleth of Denmark. His oath to avenge his father’s murder is as powerful a statement as I’ve read.”
“Sadly, I can’t read Old English.”
Nowell smiled. “Then tomorrow you shall begin learning.”
“Dear,” Lady Cecil said, “I know how much you were looking forward to surprising Edward, but Her Majesty’s clerk just sent her regrets. She won’t be visiting us, I’m afraid.”
“Is she unwell?” Cecil said.
“The note didn’t say.”
Cecil speared an oyster on the half-shell with his two-pronged silver fork and devoured it.
Edward smiled at the very thin Lady Cecil.
“Thank you for inviting the queen. I should have loved to see her,” he said. Then he turned his attention to Cecil. “I was wondering about the maps in your library. Sir Thomas says maps are the key to England’s future.”
Cecil chuckled. “I know all about Thomas’ dreams.” He picked up another oyster. “I also know such voyages are courageous and satisfy our need for trade. But stealing Spanish gold erodes moral fiber and in time will lead to war with Spain.”
“Does the queen agree?” Arthur said. “If I may be so bold.”
“No, but Her Majesty and I agree to disagree. Piracy is piracy in my book, even if it’s funded by the queen.”
“Sir William.” Arthur wiped his lips. “Edward’s tutor, Bartholomew Clerke, asked him to underwrite a translation of Castiglione’s The Courtier and to write a preface in Latin.”
“At twelve?” Lady Cecil laughed.
Edward poked at an oyster.
“Thomas Bedingfield also asked Edward to be his patron.” Arthur was glowing. “Bedingfield’s translating Cardano’s On Melancholy. And Geoffrey Gates as well—he wrote an important work, On Defense of the Militarie Profession.”
“Now that’s more like it,” Cecil said, “though neither Her Majesty nor I wish to encourage talk of war. England can ill afford to waste its blood and gold.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know Edward agreed to be patron of Anthony Munday’s The Mirror of Mutabilitie.”
“From the sacred scriptures?” Lady Cecil practically swooned. “Edward, how wise you are! But if you patronize so many books, what funds will be left for you?”
“Two thousand pounds a year is more than enough for my needs as well as the needs of a few scholars.” He was losing patience. Cecil and his sumptuary laws, Lady Cecil and her funds. Shopkeepers, both of them.
“And what a deep voice you have! You could give a speech in Parliament!” Lady Cecil smiled at him and turned to Arthur. “Have you completed your translation of John Calvin’s sermons? I’ve been waiting for that.”
“Thank you for asking, Lady Cecil, but now I’m translating Aretino’s Wars Between the Goths.” Arthur turned to Cecil. “If I may, Sir William, I’d like to dedicate it to you.”
“How kind of you.”
“I’m also translating Justine’s Tragus Pompeius, but I’m dedicating that to Edward. In return he’s agreed to translate Ovid’s Metamorphoses into English.”
“Edward’s translating Ovid?” Lady Cecil smothered a giggle. “Surely you jest.”
Arthur took a big sip of wine and let out a small sigh. “I know Ovid’s treatment of love is risqué, Lady Cecil, but I can’t do it myself. Besides, Edward’s humor is more subtle than mine.”
Cecil looked from Edward to Arthur. “Is that … appropriate, for someone of his tender yea
rs?”
“He has the maturity.”
Edward suppressed a smile, and the table fell silent as waiters took away oyster shells and served stuffed mushrooms.
“Of course,” Cecil said, “I don’t see how I could permit the Earl of Oxford’s name to appear on a book, especially that book, even as the translator.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Arthur was grinning. “It is impossible for someone of his position. Nevertheless, the work is important for England’s scholarship and should be translated. So I’m putting my name on it.”
Cecil laughed. “Who’d believe that?”
“What they believe is immaterial. My name will be on the cover, Edward’s will not, and Ovid’s work will see the light of day in English.”
Cecil rubbed his beard. “Clever.” He shrugged. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
“Thank you, Sir William.” Arthur glanced at Fowle. “Now, while Edward’s moral development has been carefully supervised by Mr. Fowle, Sir Thomas, and myself, Fowle leaves tomorrow morning for Cambridge to complete his studies for the Protestant ministry.”
“Well done, you.” Lady Cecil was purring again.
Fowle blushed.
Edward studied Cecil. The man had already downed a fourth glass of wine and the waiter was filling a fifth.
“Splendid,” Cecil said. “That reminds me—I’ve not had a moment to tell you, but Sir Thomas will also be moving on. Her Majesty agreed to appoint him ambassador to France. It’s a far cry from educating a remarkable young man, but just as important.”
Edward smiled. When he left Hill Hall, Sir Thomas had seemed so forlorn. “That’s wonderful news,” he said. “I’ve often thought the queen has been overly harsh towards Sir Thomas.”
Cecil was squirming. Edward knew the queen’s affair was not a subject for comment—even a nobleman could lose his head for it.
“Edward,” he said, “what are you reading now?”
“Last night I was much taken by Ronsard. Are you familiar with his work?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.” Cecil signaled for more mushrooms. “But I know how much Sir Thomas loves his Frenchmen.”
“It’s not yet published. Sir Thomas lent me his copy. Here’s a passage:
The world’s a theatre and mankind the players,
And fortune, who is mistress of the stage,
Lends costumes and Heaven and Destiny
Are the great spectators of human life;
With differing gestures and in different tongues,
Kings, princes and shepherds play their parts
Before the eyes of all, on the common boards.”
“Poetry,” Cecil said. “I haven’t time for it.”
“Have you tried writing lines of your own, Edward?” Lady Cecil said.
“I have, especially since my father’s death.” Edward turned to Cecil. “I’ve found poetry to be a great catharsis.”
“Would you care to recite something you wrote?”
“With pleasure. I call it Loss of Good Name.
Fram’d in the front of forlorn hope past all recovery I stayless stand,
to abide the shock of shame and infamy.”
He paused. “I was feeling rather sad that day. Melancholy isn’t always cured by stiffening one’s upper lip.”
“Please go on.” Lady Cecil gave him a pleading look.
“Very well, but just a few lines. I hadn’t intended to perform.
Help Gods, help saints, help sprites and powers that in the heaven do dwell.
Help ye that are aye wont to wail, ye howling hounds of hell;
Help man, help beasts, help birds and worms, that on the earth do toil,
Help echo that in air doth flee, shrill voices to resound,
To wail this loss of my good name.”
The room fell silent. Even the sound of Cecil’s fork was stilled.
“Sir William,” Edward said, “thank you for convincing the queen to quash my stepsister’s suit.”
“To be honest, it was the queen’s idea.” He gave Edward an appraising look. “But now, I have a thought to share with you. I appreciate that Sir Thomas’s Frenchmen can make a strong impression on a young man’s mind. I also know poetry can be a comfort—and it’s certainly all the rage at court. Nevertheless, you must focus on serious work. Poetry simply isn’t—”
The door to the dining room opened, and in walked a little girl of about five, holding the hand of her governess.
“Anne,” Cecil said. “Please, come here, child. I have someone for you to meet.”
“Yes, Papa.” The girl walked over to Cecil and stood between her father and Edward.
“Anne, this is Edward.”
She shot a quick glance at her mother, who nodded. The girl curtsied. “How do you do, milord?”
“How do you do?” The way she looked to her mother reminded him of his sister Mary—as did the way she avoided her father’s gaze.
“Anne, you may go now,” Cecil said.
“Yes, Papa.” She curtsied, took the governess’s hand, and left.
“Lewyn,” Cecil said, “I understand you speak Hebrew. My wife and I take the view a literate Protestant must read the Bible in the language in which it was written. Would you be so kind as to tutor Anne in Hebrew?”
Edward flushed. All those languages he’d learned, and he’d never once thought to ask Lewyn if he spoke Hebrew. He must learn that language as well.
“I’d be delighted to, Sir William.”
“I’m sure we can agree on the appropriate compensation. You’ll still be required to sleep below stairs, of course.”
Lewyn glanced at Edward, who nodded. Lewyn shouldn’t remain bound by his long-ago promise to Earl John not to let Edward out of his sight.
Cecil turned to Arthur. “I’d like you to prepare a schedule of study for Edward’s time here, before he moves on to Cambridge and Oxford.”
“Actually, Sir William, I’ve already taken the liberty of doing that.” He extracted a sheet of parchment from his pocket and handed it to Cecil.
“I’ll review it tonight,” Cecil said, “and we’ll go over my revisions in the morning. I intend to add strenuous training in Protestant worship and Scripture study. Edward must read a different Epistle and Gospel in French and Latin every Sunday. I’m sure you agree, Mildred?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Now, you must excuse me.” Cecil tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. “Emissaries from Russia have arrived to press their case for the czar’s marrying the queen.” He sighed. “They don’t speak proper French or English, just stand there chattering away amongst themselves. Of course, she’ll never marry him, but our wool industry needs markets and it’s cold in Russia. I’ll make small talk until they leave.”
Back in the library, Edward had wondered how he could endure nine years of Cecil. Now he was wondering how much he could learn just by sitting at his table.
“Edward?”
“Yes, Sir William?”
“I was too hasty. Your poem about the loss of good name was well-written.” For just a moment, the man seemed to soften. “Sir Thomas said your mind was a sponge, and I can see how impressive is the breadth of your interests. Write your poems. Observe your theater. Study your Ronsard. You’re brilliant enough to do all of it and still administer Her Majesty’s realm.” Cecil turned to Fowle.
“You and Arthur, and my dear friend Smith, did a fine job with Edward. On behalf of the queen, I thank you. I shall continue whatever pension Earl John paid you—how much was it?”
“Ten pounds a year. And thank you, Sir William.”
“Don’t mention it. The de Vere estate will cover it for the foreseeable future.”
Edward looked at Cecil and smiled. Smooth. No wonder the queen valued him.
“I’m pleased you feel that way about his poetry,” Arthur said, “because I have more exciting news. Edward’s working on a larger poem he calls Romeus and Juliet. It’s based on something he wro
te in Italian about young lovers who reject the authority of their parents and friends.”
Cecil sighed but looked amused. “You’ll be the death of me, Edward. Of course, he can’t publish under his name. He’s England’s premier nobleman.”
“I know.” Arthur was grinning again. “For this one, Edward has invented a pen name.”
“Which is?” Lady Cecil sat back in her chair.
“Arthur Brooke,” Edward said.
“I know several,” Cecil said. “Which Arthur Brooke?”
Edward made ready for some fun. “Sir William, the more apt question is: what is Arthur Brooke? What’s another word for ox?”
“I don’t have time for games.” Cecil looked grumpy.
But Lady Cecil wanted to play. “Ruther.”
“Exactly, Lady Cecil. Now, repeat ruther several times, quickly.”
“Ruther, ruther, ruther.” She giggled.
“Notice when you said ruther a few times, you heard Arthur, not ruther”.
“Oh—so I did!” She giggled again.
“So, from Arthur we have ruther, which means ‘ox.’ Presto, we have the ox in Oxford. Now, let me ask you, Sir William—what do you do when you cross a brook?”
“I ford it.” Cecil was warming to the game.
“So there you have it. With Arthur we have the ox. With Brooke we have something for ford.”
“Stretching things a bit, aren’t you?”
“Of course, but that’s what word games do. And it is amusing, isn’t it? If the author can’t be Oxford, Arthur Brooke will have to do.”
The door swung open and four waiters entered carrying platters of chicken. Cecil rubbed his hands.
“The Russians will have to wait. Fun always gives me an appetite.”
Edward tucked in his napkin. “It all smells delicious I’m eating more today than I ever have.”
“I can’t wait to read your Romeus and Juliet,” Lady Cecil said.
“I’ll send you a copy when it’s ready,” Arthur said. “Meanwhile, I’ll give you a copy of another poem he’s published—”
“Published?” Cecil paused, drumstick in midair. “When did he do that?”
“Two years ago.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 5