“Your enthusiasm reflects your lack of experience.”
In the fall, he read law at Gray’s Inn while continuing to live at Cecil House. The law satisfied his craving for the practical and the abstract, but its absurdities alienated him. To endure a disquisition by some attorney on the legal consequences of suicide was more than he could bear. He got through it only by trying to fit the idea into a play.
Plays, now—those were filled with tolerable absurdities. He attended each weekly performance in the Gray’s Inn and Temple Inn auditoriums. Acted by students, based mostly on Roman and Greek mythology, they suffered from poor pacing and often he struggled to keep awake—the students insisted on rhyming everything—but he still learned a great deal.
He watched George Gascoigne’s The Supposes. His cousin’s dialogue derived from stereotypes of Italian comedy preferences for off-color jokes and women protagonists. His would be better. He’d resurrected the story he wrote as a child about a man who tames a woman like a hawk, and he was modeling the shrew after his stepsister Katherine.
In December 1568, his mother died. He rode to Kingston-on-Thames to attend her funeral. As her casket was lowered into the grave, he was surprised to find he felt nothing at all. She’d had so little to do with him—her husband, Charlie, had actually returned the horse he gave them as a wedding present.
He peered into the hole in the ground. People said she was beautiful, but Earl John never gave her a look. He must have known of her affair with Charlie—or had the affair come about because of Earl John’s neglect?
That thought left him uncomfortable. He put it all out of his mind as he galloped back to London—he could hardly mourn someone he’d never known.
He was in his room at Cecil House with Ned Manners, sipping sherry and celebrating his nineteenth birthday, when he received the message. His uncle Tom Radcliffe, the Earl of Sussex, was inviting him to York to be his aide-de-camp.
He went at once to tell Cecil, who already knew.
“The old general has his hands full with that rebellion,” Cecil said. “The situation’s so dangerous he had to send an armed escort just for you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be captured. I wouldn’t dream of burdening you.”
“The papists have six thousand soldiers, Edward, almost as many as Sussex. You could lose your life.”
Edward’s reaction was to go straight to his room and write the administrator of Hedingham. When he showed up with a band of reinforcements following, his uncle would know he was no overindulged courtier.
Edward’s escort arrived in the morning. He’d never ridden so far so fast—they’d only stopped to eat, piss, and change horses. When they reached York, he was ushered into his uncle’s headquarters. The encampment consisted of gardeners’ shacks in a park in the middle of town.
He’d met the Earl of Sussex only once, at a family gathering when he was a child. But now his gray-haired uncle greeted him warmly and then gave him the grim details.
“We’re seven thousand strong, surrounded by almost as many Catholics plus the city’s entire population of angry civilians. We’re in a dung heap of trouble, hemmed in and stuck eating dried beef and drinking warm beer. Now the queen informs me she can’t send reinforcements.”
“None?”
Sussex walked to the door of the shack, stared out for a moment, and returned. He probably had more important things to do than explain this untenable position to a freshly graduated law student.
“You’ve got quite the physique,” he said. “And the queen told me about your riding skills. But it’s your voice that’ll help me, Edward. The men can’t read, so I give them orders by voice. The queen said you thunder when you speak.”
“Why doesn’t she send you reinforcements?”
Sussex snorted. “She has to send everyone she has to Henry Carey. He’s defending against a Spanish invasion, which means I can’t do shit against thousands of Catholics defending their home.”
“Where are the Spanish forces?”
“Still in the Low Countries soiling their pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never show up, but we still have to fight every Catholic in York.”
“If the Spaniards come ashore, what will they do?”
“What else? Return us to Catholicism and put Mary Queen of Scots on our throne. She claims she doesn’t know anything about the revolt because she’s been under house arrest for ten years, but Cecil intercepts her letters. She’s in it up to her eyeballs.”
“Stupid of her to write about it.”
“It’s a bad situation, and it’s getting worse.” Sussex drained his mug of warm beer.
“I tried to stop you from coming, but you’d already left Cecil House. I’ll assign as many guards as I can to protect you.”
“I’m good with a rapier.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. This wasn’t some swordfight in Cecil’s courtyard.
A commotion outside drew them to the door. A hundred soldiers plus horse stood at attention just outside, fully armed men from Hedingham dressed in blue and tawny.
“We’re here, milord!” they shouted.
“Here!”
“Here!”
Edward called to a few by name the way Earl John used to, and they cheered.
Sussex looked impressed. “I take it they’re yours?”
“From my farms and villages. I didn’t ask for permission, since I wasn’t sure they’d come.”
Sussex clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s find them a place to sleep.” Sussex shouted orders to a sergeant, and then he and Edward came back inside. “Now, let’s celebrate. Not every day a man gets unsolicited help.”
Edward reached into his saddlebag for a sack of sherry.
“I was saving it for victory,” he said, “but let’s drink it while we can.”
Food dwindled, but forays to the city were too risky. Everyone remained in the encampment, sleeping in huts, washing with water from the few wells. The days dragged on. Hope ebbed.
Edward came down with a fever. His uncle gave him fenil powder, and he sat in cold well water to get the fever down. Every day was torture, every night was worse.
Lightheaded, he wondered what would happen to England if it couldn’t quell the rebellion. Half of all Englishmen were still Catholic. The queen refused to coerce them beyond ordering them to attend Protestant services once a week, but her tolerance didn’t seem to have accomplished much. Yet if Spain ruled England—and the king of Spain would hold sway over Queen Mary—all tolerance would disappear. An inquisition would commence. On the other hand, if England overcame the rebellion, the Protestant reaction might be almost as vicious.
Edward stopped thinking about Bloody Mary on the throne and the hideous prospect of an inquisition. It made his head ache, and he was too sick for that.
Another night, another day, and he was finally able to stand. He washed and dressed, consumed stale bread and warm beer, and then his fever returned. Sussex cursed their strategic position while Edward sweated and shook.
One morning it occurred to him the Catholics of York had not attacked. What were they waiting for?
He soon got the answer, when spies returned from the city. The Spanish weren’t coming. Despite all the talk, despite the burnings and torture Mary had inflicted eleven years ago, the king of Spain had called off his invasion. York’s Catholics were beside themselves.
“Assemble the men,” Sussex said. “I’ve got to make a speech. When people are desperate, sometimes they attack. We need a show of force to dissuade them.”
“What can you say to convince them?”
“Well, now, if the facts are on my side, I shout facts. If I’m in the right, I shout that. And if I haven’t got either, I just shout.”
“What have you got this time, facts or right?”
“Neither, but when our soldiers start shouting at the Catholics, maybe the Catholics will lock their doors and give us some damn peace.”
Edward assembled the soldiers, and Sussex gave his speech. The old general wasn’t an orator, but the men responded with enthusiasm. It was amazing what words could do.
The next day, Catholic houses in York sprouted white flags. The Duke of Norfolk announced he was going to throw himself on the mercy of the queen. When he left his estate to surrender in London, farmers grabbed the tail of his horse to try to stop him, but it was no use. Even the other leaders of the revolt fled.
“Westmoreland made it to the Low Countries,” Sussex said as they ate their meager breakfast. “And spies say Northumberland’s in Scotland.”
“So much for the wolfish earls. What about Mary?”
“She wrote Cecil she’d tell all Catholics to stop rebelling if he frees her. She also promised to return to Scotland.”
Edward smiled for the first time in days. “I can’t imagine Cecil responded well to that.”
“He told her the offer comes too late. She even offered to give him her little boy James as a hostage. He rejected that, too.”
“Now what’ll happen to her?”
“What happens to anyone who supports a rebellion—she’ll lose her head, and so will Norfolk. But first there’ll be reprisals.” Sussex unrolled a sheet of parchment. “And I’m the one who has to carry them out.”
His uncle handed him the instructions. The parchment bore the queen’s signature, but the language was Cecil’s.
He handed the paper back in a state of shock.
“Three hundred victims, one from every village?” He felt sick. “To ‘hang them on a tree and let them swing ’til birds pick their bones clean’?”
“Don’t look at me that way, lad. I didn’t give the order.”
“What about Mary? People love her, and she is a queen.”
“For now, she’ll remain Henry Hastings’ prisoner. Cecil will have her killed later, when things quiet down.”
“And Her Majesty? How is she?”
“In Windsor Castle. London’s not safe.” Sussex got to his feet. “Now I have to find three hundred fathers and sons.” He looked Edward over. “You want to come? It’s an invitation to a nightmare.”
He had a fever, but he could stand. “I’ll come, Uncle.” He downed the sherry and followed the old general from their hut.
As instructed, the selections were arbitrary—this was meant to “maximize deterrence.” Edward thought that was the stupidest phrase he’d ever heard.
Every scene was much the same. A father or son stood on a cart, hands tied behind his back. A rope was placed around the neck and the cart was dragged away. The screams of mothers, sisters, and sweethearts echoed in his dreams.
The whole thing took four and a half weeks. When a woman from York brought sherry as a peace offering, he and his uncle shared it. When it was empty, Sussex went for a walk. Edward took the parchment he hadn’t used to write orders. He remembered what soldiers said and turned it into dialogue for his Henry V:
“Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes.”
“I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.”
“Men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a’ should be thought a coward.”
“The queen’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, a gal of life, an imp of fame. I kiss her dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully.”
Cecil and Nowell were right: war was hell. The queen was right, too—no battle was worth it, even for her. The only thing that kept him from going mad was putting the words on paper.
Things sweet to taste prove to digestion sour.
Shakespeare
Richard II
On a cold December day, Edward approached Westminster Abbey with his best man, Ned Manners, by his side. Cecil’s guards drifted in and out of sight. They’d been patrolling the port in Southwark when he tried to escape after the September wedding date was announced. He walked to the Thames in the dead of night, hired a wherry to Southwark, collected a horse he’d bought, and galloped to Dover. He was looking for someone to sail him to Flanders when Cecil’s men caught him and brought him back to London.
Christopher Hatton, his latest rival for the queen’s affection, stood outside the Abbey, hoping to be noticed. Robin Dudley briefly locked eyes with Edward and turned away. Edward couldn’t care less. The queen only had eyes for him—he rode with her every morning, danced with her every evening, and basked in her compliments: “No one has your command of words, Edward”; “No one but you can discuss Ovid’s Art of Love like an author”; “Only you understand what Cardanus says about melancholia, Edward.”
He entered Westminster Abbey. The archbishop’s deputy guided Edward down the aisle to an anteroom behind the altar, and Ned closed the door behind them. A commotion in the nave caught their attention: The queen was taking her place. The crowd filed in behind her, and Ned clapped Edward’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “Best get it over with.”
The ceremony was a blur. When it was over, Edward and Nan emerged from the abbey to cheers and were hustled into a carriage bound for Cecil House.
“I was so nervous,” Nan said. “Did it show?”
“You were fine,” he said.
He kept his eyes on the carriage window. Nan turned and stared out the opposite side.
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Nan continued to live at Cecil House, and Edward rented rooms at Savoy House across the street. When he’d turned twenty-one, he took his seat in Parliament, so his days were filled with tedium.
Only at night did he come alive.
While working on The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth, he decided to split the story into several plays. Henry V would be the first of a chronicle of English history, and the Earls of Oxford would play leading roles in all of them.
He refused to write about Henry VII. After the Fifteenth Earl of Oxford had helped him gain the throne, the monarch turned around and fined the family fifteen thousand pounds, claiming the Oxford uniforms too closely resembled his own.
Edward invited young writers from Cambridge and Oxford to stay at his apartment—all brilliant, all penniless. He paid printers to publish Thomas Twynne’s translations of Petrarch and Virgil. He paid for Bartholomew’s translation of Cardanus’ Comfort and Bedingfield’s translation of Castiglione’s The Courtier. He hired Angel Day to be his secretary. Arthur continued to be his tutor—Edward needed his translation of Tragus Pompeius to write Henry VI.
He worked through much of the night. When he was writing, he didn’t need a lot of sleep. If the apartment became too noisy, he went to Vere House, near the London Stone. He planned to sell the family mansion when he got his property back.
He always ate lunch at Cecil House—it seemed the politic thing to do. Besides, Cecil had gotten him used to fine dining, and no one offered a better table. Of course, it came with his wife.
“How did you pass the morning?”
“Mother and I prayed, then we went for a walk. How did you spend your morning, Edward?”
“I read and wrote.”
She never complained. They hadn’t consummated their marriage, but she either had no interest or was too timid to say anything.
Occasionally, eight-year-old Robert Cecil joined them. Cecil said he was a genius. The queen called him her Bosse, her “hump.” But the boy’s drawf-like body distressed Edward, who on such occasions beat as hasty a retreat from the table as he could manage. Usually he fled to Cecil’s library, where he read about Copernicus, the Ptolemaic view of the universe, or geography to restore his faith in science. He also read Plato, Erasmus, Cicero, and Petrarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. He toyed with the idea of writing Julius Caesar and Titus Andronicus, though he feared Titus Andronicus would be too gory for the queen’s taste.
But they all required foreign settings. He craved verisimilitude and so decided to shelve these ideas until after he had a chance to visit Italy.
He spent a few
days at Hill Hall every month. Sir Thomas was in Paris, but Edward took comfort knowing Hedingham was just thirty miles away. He petitioned the master of wards to return his property, but Cecil claimed his men were still making appraisals. He also claimed the amount Edward owed the queen for his father’s land and buildings far exceeded what she and Dudley owed him.
They presented him with a list of his expenditures—he owed the queen three thousand three hundred pounds. They insisted he secure the debt with bonds guaranteed by friends.
At least he had Earl John’s desk.
When the Duke of Norfolk was sentenced to death for participating in the Catholic rebellion, Edward asked Cecil to petition for a pardon. After all, the Howards were family, even if the duke was an arrogant, jealous fool.
Cecil refused, so Edward contacted Martin Frobisher, a ship’s captain from Wakefield he’d met at Sir Thomas’ house. Frobisher agreed to sail the duke to Spain, provided Edward could get him out of the Tower.
“Do you know anyone who could help me?” Edward asked.
“Milord, I can’t even get permission to explore a north-by-northwest route to the Orient. What makes you think I can engineer an escape from the Tower?”
He asked a half-dozen others, but with no success. In June, Norfolk was beheaded.
“The queen was here yesterday, Edward,” Cecil said when he asked him into the library not long afterward. “We engaged in a little tête-à-tête about her marriage proposals.”
Edward nodded, cautious.
“She’s not eager to take a husband, but she knows her obligation,” Cecil said. “I wonder, dear boy—do you know yours?”
So that was it.
“I made my position quite clear before the marriage,” Edward said. “I’ll never sleep with Nan.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 9