“The banker hasn’t received my money from London yet.”
“Don’t worry, Veronica will advance you whatever you need.”
He smiled. “I’ve never borrowed from a woman.”
Her jaw tightened. “We’re good for more than—”
“I’m teasing, my dear.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “When the money arrives, where shall we go?”
“Sicily, provided we leave no later than the end of the month. Any delay and the weather will make the journey by sea impossible.”
“What route do you have in mind?”
“We should cross the Adriatic, sail down the coast—oh, and we should certainly stop at the ports of ancient Illyria. We’ll stay in Sicily a while, then continue on to Cyprus. On the way home we’ll stop again in Sicily, just to re-provision.”
Her tone warmed as she outlined their travel plans.
“Virginia, while I meet with Lewyn, would you look for a galley we could rent?” He squeezed her hand. “You’re sure to find a better deal than I could.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
He’d finally found a way to make her smile. Now if only he could find some way to keep her.
“Before you go,” he said, “something’s been bothering me.”
She looked at him, brows raised. He took a deep breath.
“Virginia, what if we have a child?”
She shrugged. “My aunt will help. I have only to ask.”
“Simple as that?”
A sharp glance. “For a woman it’s never simple.”
He studied her for the thousandth time. Her form was as curvaceous as a pear, but it was nothing compared with her mind, her strength of spirit. Should he ask her now to come back to England with him?
No. He hadn’t won her yet, not completely, and he couldn’t bear it if she said no, and if she said yes, what would he do about his family?
They walked on in silence for a while.
“Edward …” She looked pensive. “Have you ever been with a man?”
“What? No!” He laughed. “Do I seem a Ganymede?”
“No, but … so many of your encounters with women have been unhappy. Perhaps for you, loving a man is more … logical.”
“Not every encounter has been unhappy.” He gave her his best smile. “Besides, love’s not a matter of logic.”
She laughed. “A priest might have something to say about that. Aren’t you religious?”
“No. I read the Bible because it’s filled with good stories. I have my Geneva Bible in my book sack right now. I always carry it with me in case I have to wait for something.”
“Times are changing,” she said, “at least in Venice. For every ten men who take a traditional view, there’s one who thinks women deserve better treatment. Equality’s only a matter of time.”
“I believe it.” Though he was sure that in England, at least, it would be a long time.
She kissed his cheek. “Here we are,” she said. “Good luck with Lewyn. I hope he’s not as upset with you as you think.”
The embassy was deserted. Everyone was out, running errands and preparing for departure. Edward went straight to his room. Lewyn was waiting for him.
“How was Mantua?”
“Perfect,” Edward said. “I learned everything I need to know about commedia dell’arte and more. Virginia introduced me to the director of the academy. He even let me read his manuscript on theater. I have pages of notes.”
He stretched out on the double bed and clasped his hands behind his head. Lewyn sat down on a chair. Next to him sat a traveling bag.
“I packed your things,” he said. “You can take them over to the palazzo before you leave for Sicily.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to say I won’t be with you.”
Edward shot up. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re …” He looked down at the travel bag and back up. There were tears in Lewyn’s eyes.
“Edward, when you married, you made a vow—”
“For God’s sake!” Edward ran a hand through his hair. “When I married Nan my eyes were open but my dreams were elsewhere. You know that.”
“Very poetic,” Lewyn said. “But you married her nonetheless. And now you have a child.”
“A girl—”
“Edward, she’s your wife!” He looked down. “I sent a letter to Cecil. I’ve resigned from his employ.”
“From his employ? What’s Cecil got to do with this?”
“Before we left London, he … asked me to keep him informed. About you, about what transpired.” Lewyn looked up, held his gaze. “I never dreamed my promise would pose a conflict of interest until … I should have told you.”
“You don’t have to go—”
“If I stay I can’t keep this from him, not in good conscience. Don’t worry, I pre-dated my resignation, effective before you met Virginia. I don’t have an obligation to tell him about her.”
Edward began to pace the small room. “Since when did you become so legalistic?”
“I thought it best for everyone.”
“But you’re my friend.” His heart hurt. He couldn’t believe this, couldn’t bear it. “We’ve been together twenty-two years. You can’t just walk away!”
“This is hard for me, too, Edward. Please don’t make it harder. In addition to being your friend, I must be honest.”
Edward spread his hands.
“Where will you go?”
“I have family in Antwerp.”
“But what will you do? How will you eat? You can’t even cut a diamond or paint a portrait.”
“How I make a living will depend on what I find there.” Lewyn frowned. “Don’t worry about me—worry about yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve lost your way. You’re away from home, you’re excited—you’ve experimented. Useful to a writer, but it plays havoc with a family.”
“Don’t my feelings have any place in your world?”
“Sometimes feelings must give way to obligations. We love, we hate, we grieve, but—our families, our homeland, our laws? They’re the glue that binds us, and we break that bond at our peril. I know your marriage hasn’t been fulfilling, but with effort, it could be.”
Seconds of silence ticked by.
“Why didn’t you say all this before we left?”
“You don’t like confrontations.” Lewyn gave him a sad smile. “Besides, … would it have made a difference?”
He shook his head. “But…” His voice cracked. “You’ve been like a brother to me.”
“And I watched you grow from a bright boy to a brilliant man.” Lewyn’s eyes filled with tears. “I was with you when your father died. I attended your first tournament, read your first poem, your first play. I wanted to be with you to the end.”
Edward’s voice went flat, cold. “You’re mad.”
“You’re the one who’s … Your behavior with Virginia—it’s no different from your father’s—”
“Leave him out of this!”
“I know you love him, but Earl John didn’t always set the best example—”
“Take that back!” He was shouting.
“Edward, you know I’m speaking the truth—”
He lunged at Lewyn and punched him in the mouth. When he drew back his fist, there was blood on it.
Edward turned away, grabbed a handkerchief, and held it out to him. Lewyn pressed it to his lip.
“I’m sorry I struck you.”
“You were upset. So am I.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do to dissuade you?”
“I don’t see what it could be.”
“Virginia’s good for me. She’s an amazing woman—”
“I’m sure she’s amazing, but that’s not the point.”
“And what is?”
“Edward, how would you feel if your daughter did what Virginia does?”
“Virgi
nia’s had a hard life. We come from different worlds.”
“That’s also my point.”
“If you only knew how much I learned in Mantua. And I never would have gone, never would have learned so much, if it weren’t for her.”
Lewyn stood and reached for his valise. “If I don’t leave now, we’ll weep, and I promised Earl John I’d never let you cry.”
He embraced Edward, turned, and left the room. Edward followed him down the stairway and stood at the front door.
At the stop for the traghetto near St. Mark’s Square, Lewyn paused once to look back. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
Edward stood there, perfectly still, staring after him. He’d known Lewyn wasn’t happy about the affair, but from time to time he was unhappy about other things—the Gad’s Hill prank, for one—yet in the end, they always laughed. Together.
He was alone now.
No word from Cecil. Near frantic over his dwindling funds and gloomy over Lewyn’s departure, he decided to participate in a jousting tournament—or, to be precise, a parody of a tournament. He could use a bit of fun. A Venetian aristocrat had dreamed it up to celebrate the marriage of Irene, the Empress of Constantinople. Every worthy in Venice was there, including the Pasha of Aleppo and the Sultan of Persia.
He rented a horse, wore a violet costume, and carried a falcon device on which he had a motto engraved: “Valor Proceeds Arduous Undertakings.”
To his surprise, his opponent was a woman. Virginia said Venice was changing—perhaps he hadn’t understood how much. He wished she were there, but she said she was working with Veronica on her defense against the Inquisition.
The Countess of Edenbourg appeared at the far end of the field. Dressed in a bilious yellow robe, she rode a dappled gray hag and carried a Frankish lance. She pulled down her visor and galloped toward him.
They collided, and were both unhorsed.
He sat up, dust billowing about him. Unhurt, he raised his visor and looked for the countess. She was getting to her feet and opening her visor. They laughed and clasped hands. They were awarded a prize, the Horn of Astulf, paladin of Charlemagne. Someone said the horn contained magical properties to vanquish foes. The following week, the joust entered Venetian folklore. A dottore acting in a commedia dell’arte play described “Milord Oxford” and his costume, trappings, and titles, reciting every word in one long breath.
When Edward heard about it, he was embarrassed—until it occurred to him that this was to be his world, the world of entertainment. If he were going to act in his own plays, he’d better prepare himself to be the occasional object of laughter.
He took long walks alone. On one rare occasion, Virginia joined him. “Virginia …” He had to ask. “Have you been with another man?”
“I told you, Edward, I’m working with Veronica. She has two lawyers now. The meetings are endless.”
He wanted to believe her—still, he felt jealous. They walked beside the canals, which stank of garbage and sewerage. Venice’s side streets were scented with jasmine and peach blossoms, but the city as a whole was far from perfect. They strolled across the Rialto square. He always stopped to study Gobbo, the statue of the kneeling hunchback.
He told Virginia some of the names he’d thought up for the characters in his Italian plays, including Gobbo, after the statue, and Bassano, the family name of five Jewish brothers exiled from Spain. She particularly liked Shylock, inspired by Sir William Lock, the promoter of Frobisher’s voyages. Lock had hounded noblemen in London to invest in the venture, and he hooked Edward. If he lost his investment, he’d be shy of funds. Ergo, Shylock.
Only a hundred Jewish families lived in London—it was still illegal for Jews to live in England—but the Bassanos, he explained, were respected. He was using their name in his play to introduce Jews in a positive way, before he unveiled the more complicated Shylock.
With or without Virginia, walking the streets of Venice brought him peace of mind. Before he left London, he’d published a book containing nineteen of his best poems about love, death, and moral agony under the name of his friend George Gascoigne. Titled A Hundred Sundry Flowers, the book was well-received—until Puritans denounced it as lewd and persuaded the censor to burn the rest of the copies.
He decided to publish a short novel written in Italy under the name of the novella’s hero, an Italian nobleman named F.I., for fortunatus infelix—the unfortunate one. Everyone in England would see it as a play on Hatton, who signed his poems “Fortunate One.” Since it was supposedly written by an Italian nobleman, the queen would find it easy to overrule the censor.
He was proud that he’d finally crafted a novel. He didn’t know how many more he’d write, but he was proud of this one and by God he’d see it published.
He wrote to Cecil again, demanding to know what was taking so long to send the money. “I am not what I seem,” he wrote. It was time Cecil understood him.
He took long walks in the evenings, with and without Virginia. Night watchmen, on guard everywhere, made him feel safe. He went over scenes from the Venice play in his mind. Above all, he wanted his play to give the Jews their day in court.
If only Lewyn were there to see it.
No wonder he wrote at a furious pace—it was all he could think to do. Virginia aside, he was walking around with a hole in his heart that hurt like the devil.
He stopped in the street, turned, and headed back to his studiolo. He wanted to finish the play while he was still in Venice, and he was running out of time. His money would be here any day, and then it was on to Sicily.
The money would come. It had to.
He stopped at a cafe to drink wine, read his Bible, and make notes. The other day he’d underlined a passage in Deuteronomy: “my doctrine shall drop as doth the rain, and my speech shall flow as doth the dew.” He copied the sentence, revising it to “The quality of mercy is not strain’d. It droppeth as the gentle rain from the heaven.”
He’d remind Londoners of the importance of the battle in the Gulf of Lepanto as well. Too many ignored the outside world. Without access to the Mediterranean, English wool and weapons couldn’t reach the south by sea, nor could Italian textiles and eastern spices reach England.
And wasn’t it time English aristocrats stopped dressing like fops? Wearing black was a good way to start. He’d start the trend himself as soon as he returned. With luck, the queen would take note. She couldn’t keep playing the virgin seductress. It was a lie, and it demeaned her. It demeaned all women.
Virginia still hadn’t returned, so he worked night and day. He was weary of asking her when she’d be there. But he couldn’t complain—she’d lined up a galley and crew. He’d have plenty of time to find out if there was another man—or men—on the voyage to Sicily.
On September 24, 1575, five hundred crowns arrived via Pasquiro Spinola, another banker he’d met at Venier’s soiree.
The next day they made ready to sail. Virginia met him at the dock. “You look surprised to see me,” she said. “Did you think I wasn’t coming?”
She wore a new dress and a hat with a wide brim.
He kissed her. “Not at all,” he said. “Just taken aback by your beauty, as always.”
As the galley crossed the Adriatic Sea, he felt himself the happiest man in the world. He wanted to share his elation with Virginia, but she seemed pensive, serious. So he waited.
As they sailed down the Illyrian coast, she turned to him. “I’ve thought about you so much in the last few weeks.”
“And I you,” he said.
“Tell me,” she said, taking his hand, “what is it you want out of life?”
“I want to write.” He smiled. “I want what I write to connect with people. To make a difference.”
“Interesting but vague,” she said. “What do you want for yourself?”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I only know I want what I do to be worthwhile. I want it to matter.”
> Each town they passed brought fresh ideas, new images.
“I’ve been thinking of that mansion we saw in Verona, the one across from the dock,” he said, looking at the coast of the Adriatic Sea. “The owner treated the square in front of his house as if it were his living room—easy to adapt that to the stage.”
“Do you still intend to write about a man who trains his wife as if she were a falcon?”
“It is funny,” he said. “But I think I’ve found a way to make it more pleasing to you.”
“It’s not just me, Edward.”
Why must she keep bringing it up? Every time they spoke of it, he felt her drifting away from him.
“Remember the man who called Pisans ‘grave citizens’? It wasn’t because Pisans are serious, Virginia, it was because in Pisa they bury people in a cemetery where soil from Jerusalem is sprinkled on the coffins.” He chuckled. “I’m going to have a character call the bodies in that cemetery grave citizens—of Jerusalem.”
“People have a fine sense of humor, Edward, but only up to a point.”
After a while, he wearied of these tiny coastal towns—he always seemed to arrive before or after a town changed hands as a result of some battle. Still, one town gave him an idea.
“Those statues we saw reminded me of the ones Giulio Romano sculpted in Mantua,” he said. “I’m thinking of having a statue dragged onto the stage during a production, then come to life right in front of the audience.”
“It’s dramatic,” she said. “I love it.”
“I was beginning to think I could do nothing right.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re a brilliant writer, Edward, but I have opinions of my own.”
“I’m going to call it The Winter’s Tale.”
“What’s the play have to do with winter?”
“Absolutely nothing, but what’s French for The Winter’s Tale?”
“Le Compte d’Hiver.” Her eyes lighted up and she grinned. “The tale of Count Vere! Bravo!”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 15