Without a word she followed him. They entered the church and took a seat in the last row of pews. They stayed until the music faded and the singers began to leave, two by two. After the tenor walked past them, Edward followed him, Virginia just behind.
“Signor, your voice is lovely.”
The young man turned, his face streaked with tears. “Thank you, signor.”
“Milord,” Virginia said.
“Milord. I didn’t know.” He quickly wiped his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” Edward said. “Why are you crying?”
“My parents,” he said. “The plague.”
“They didn’t lock you in the house with them?” Virginia said.
“I was in Padua, singing for professors.”
She touched his sleeve. “Something similar saved me.”
In that moment, Edward loved Virginia even more. So gentle. So understanding. He missed her already. They shivered—the day was turning colder. Edward turned back to the young singer.
“May I invite you to share a meal with us?”
“I don’t know, milord.” The boy glanced at Virginia. “I don’t like to intrude.”
“It would be our pleasure,” she said.
Edward chose a tavern where they’d eaten before. He studied the young man as they waited for the fish they’d all ordered. He was as beautiful as his voice: milk-white skin, ebony curls, delicately carved features.
“How will you live now that your parents are gone?” Edward said.
“They left me something, and the church pays me to sing.”
Edward ordered a bottle of wine and drank most of it himself. As he paid the bill, he had an idea.
“In a few days I leave for London,” he said. “Someone left my entourage, and I have room for one more. Would you like to come along? In London you can live in my home as a page. I’ll pay you, of course. And if you ever wish to leave, I’ll pay your way home.”
The boy glanced around the tavern and shifted in his chair.
“Milord, I don’t even know your name.”
“Edward de Vere.”
“He’s the Earl of Oxford, the premier nobleman of England,” Virginia said, obviously not wanting the boy to miss such an opportunity. “The queen is his friend.”
“My queen will love your voice,” Edward said.
“She likes music?”
“Very much. She plays the virginal, as do I. And I have friends who are musicians and composers, and I use the lute in almost every play I write.”
“Then you’re a writer.”
“I am. What’s your name, young man?”
“Orazio Cuoco.”
“Orazio, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to London? I’d be grateful.”
For a long moment the boy didn’t say anything. Then he nodded. “Thank you very much, milord. I believe I will.”
After he’d given Orazio his address and arranged to meet him in the morning, Edward walked back to the church with Virginia. He wanted to see it one last time. He stood there, her hand in his.
“Why did you invite him?”
“The heart doesn’t always have a reason.”
But his did. He was drawn to the boy, his voice, his beauty. He was embarrassed to tell her that, though he had the feeling she knew.
“Perhaps I was also inspired by a fine madness. Socrates said madness is the channel by which we receive the greatest blessings—that it’s nobler than good sense because it comes from God.”
“Is that why you can be melancholy one moment, then explode with happiness and creativity the next?”
“Perhaps. Long ago when I read Aristotle, I decided to accept my condition. Aristotle asked, “Why is it that all men who are outstanding in philosophy, poetry and the arts are melancholy?” Of course he answered his own question. “It’s because they are tinged by the fire of madness.” So I write, and invite Orazio Cuoco to London.” He turned to face her. “Virginia, I want to thank you again. For everything you’ve given me. And … for giving me the strength to go home, even without you by my side.”
“Edward …” She touched his cheek. “Even if you weren’t married, even if you didn’t live in London, …even if nothing stood in our way, I would still refuse to live with you.”
He jerked back, but she grabbed his hands.
“Writing is everything to you,” she said. “A woman wants to be the center of her man’s world, but nothing will ever be more important to you than your work, and that’s good. You’re the most brilliant, imaginative man I’ve ever known.” She smiled. “Sometimes I think I understand you better than you understand yourself.”
Was he making a mistake to walk away from her? No—she was walking away from him. It had never been his choice to make. “I’ll never forget you,” he said. “Maybe one day I’ll surprise you and return to Venice, properly dressed in black.”
They laughed, but inside he was crying.
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve,
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
Shakespeare
Othello, the Moor of Venice
Three weeks after he left Venice, thoughts of Virginia Padoanna still flooded Edward’s mind. Should he have pleaded? No, she wouldn’t have come. Venice was her world, and London was his.
Forty-five miles south of Paris, he stopped for a night at the Count of Rousillon’s chateau. He found it so agreeable that he stayed on for two more days to flesh out a play he’d been working on called The History of the Rape of the Second Helene. It was so optimistic he changed the title to All’s Well That Ends Well. After two days and nights of writing, he slept half a day and then woke refreshed and resumed his journey.
As he neared Paris, he came across at least twenty thousand troops blanketing the fields on both sides of the road. He sent Russell ahead to ask the commander his intentions.
Russell returned almost at once.
“They’re preparing to besiege Paris on behalf of Hercule, the Duke of Orleans, milord. Catherine de Medici’s sons are at it again.”
“What does the Frog want now, besides his brother’s throne?”
“Freedom for Protestants—and money. The Frog’s as bankrupt as King Henri.”
He should avoid Paris—he’d be a rich prize for anyone wanting a ransom—but he needed supplies. He’d been purchasing them himself for some time, having fired his offerer after the man admitted he’d spied on him for Cecil.
“Russell, will you help me purchase supplies?”
“Of course!” he said. “I’ve been looking for an opportunity to show my appreciation. This trip has been such a splendid adventure.”
“It’s not over yet,” Edward said. “We’ll be lucky to see Dover in one piece.”
In Paris, he stopped at the embassy to pay his respects. Henry Howard and Rowland Yorke, two of his old Steelyard drinking companions, happened to be in the ambassador’s outer office.
Yorke greeted him with a smirk. “How was Italy, Edward?” He winked. “I hear the courtesans are something to see.”
“Provocative, Rowland, but you’ve got them all wrong—as usual.”
“S-s-some of us have been th-th-thinking about org-organizing a little trip there,” Henry said.
“I highly recommend it. Mantua’s interesting, as are the ruins in Sicily and the island of Volcano. And, of course, there’s Rome.”
Yorke moved closer. “Edward, you may as well hear it from a friend… . There’s gossip going around back home.”
“About what?”
“Nan,” he said. “And the baby.”
Edward felt his chest grow tight. “Are they all right?” Surely, Cecil would have written him if something had happened.
“They’re fine,” Yorke said. “But there’s been questions raised about the little girl’s birth.”
Henry cleared his throat.
“Unless it t-t-takes eleven months to make an Oxford b-b-baby.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He laughe
d.
“Afraid it isn’t, old man. You bedded Nan in October after the party at the palace. The baby wasn’t born until September.”
“Gentlemen, you’re mistaken. Cecil wrote me the baby was born in July. That’s nine months.”
“The fox was pulling your leg,” Henry said. “The b-b-baby couldn’t have been born in July, b-b-because she wasn’t christened till September. No vicar waits two months to b-b-baptize.”
“Cecil was probably waiting for my return.” He’d begged him to come home, after all. “Such delays aren’t so uncommon.”
Henry and Yorke shared a quick glance, and Yorke shook his head.
“Whatever you say,” he said. “But you’ll hear it from others besides us by the time you get back.”
“Go to hell, Yorke.”
Nan, unfaithful? For God’s sake, she’d quoted Scripture in bed. But that encounter had been far from pleasant. And he’d been gone a very long time. And she wasn’t unattractive. Had someone else given her the attention he’d denied her?
As they were crossing the channel, he spied a boat behind them, closing in fast. When it drew close enough for him to see its flag, his heart sank—Dutch pirates, at least thirty of them, armed to the teeth. His boat was slow and his entourage vastly outnumbered—when the pirates came alongside with grappling hooks and boarded, he ordered everyone to put down their weapons and offered the pirate captain his hand.
The captain growled something in Dutch. A Scotsman translated.
“Strip, milord. The same with the others.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Edward said. “Take what you wish.”
“Strip, milord. Everything. Off.”
He removed his Italian shoes.
The captain growled again, and the Scotsman waved a dagger.
With a sigh, Edward took off his shirt and nodded at his men to do the same.
The boss shot his pistol into the air.
“Everything, milord,” the Scotsman said, “or the next one’s in your head.”
He took off his clothes and stood there, naked, while the pirates pawed his garments. They took all the clothing and his purses but left his notes, drafts, and books, including the Hebrew Bible he’d bought in the ghetto.
He held back a sigh of relief.
The boss growled again and the pirates tossed a single article of clothing at each member of his entourage. Edward ended up with a shirt. Everyone was shivering. He was putting on the shirt when the boss growled again. The Scotsman spoke rapidly, gesturing at Edward, while the captain’s face reddened. “Oxford,” the Scotsman said.
The Scotsman handed his captain the perfumed gloves Edward had bought for the queen. The boss sniffed them, handed them back to the Scotsman, and said something that made the Scot laugh.
He seemed about to throw them overboard when Russell asked if he could have them. The Scotsman threw the gloves at him, and the pirates cast off. Wondering why they hadn’t taken him hostage, Edward watched them sail away. Then he shrugged. Except for life and death, everything was speculation.
They landed on a beach several miles from Dover. Edward trudged from shack to shack like a beggar, offering peasants future payment if they’d part with a few rags. Almost none believed he was the Earl of Oxford—after all, he hardly looked it—but one or two accepted his promise, and after a day of scrounging he had clothing of sorts for everyone.
When he arrived in London, he stayed at Yorke’s house. Settled in a comfortable chair with a glass of sherry, he tackled the subject that had been on his mind since he left France.
“I assume by now you’ve realized how little truth there is in those vicious rumors,” he said. “Nan’s the most faithful woman I know.”
“I’m sure she is.” Yorke kept his eyes on his sherry. “I’m surprised to hear you so defensive—it’s no secret you’ve never cared for her.”
Edward tightened his grip on his glass.
The drawing room doors opened. “Milord,” the servant said, “there’s a messenger here from Cecil House.”
It was an invitation to stay at Cecil House with Nan and the baby.
Ever since Paris, Edward had brooded. He still thought the accusations were absurd, but there was an undeniable logic to them. He’d never loved Nan, and she’d as good as said she didn’t love him. He’d found a lover in Venice—why shouldn’t Nan have found one here in his absence?
He’d been granted a second chance. If he really wanted to free himself from Cecil, Nan’s infidelity was the perfect excuse. He sent back his reply: “I shan’t be coming to Cecil House, and you and Nan need not ask why.”
Yorke found the whole thing endlessly amusing.
“Edward, did you notice who was standing in front of my house when we arrived?”
“Richard Worth?”
“Yes, and did you also notice what he did when we passed him by?”
Edward sighed. “I did not.”
Rowland held his index fingers over his head to make a bull’s horns.
“Better prepare yourself. You’re a cuckold, my friend.”
He never should have agreed to stay here, but he couldn’t remain at Savoy House, right across the street from Nan. He had to find another place or he’d end up strangling Yorke.
Cecil’s reply was swift. It said nothing of the circumstances, only entreated Edward to return to Cecil House. Nan added a postscript, saying that if he didn’t come to her, she and the baby would come to him.
Edward responded just as quickly:
My lord, though I have forborne in some respect, which should be private to myself, either to write or to come unto your Lordship, now urged on by your letters and to satisfy you the sooner, I must let your Lordship understand this much … I am not determined, as touching my wife, to accompany her. I mean not to weary myself with such troubles and molestations as I have endured, nor will I, to please your Lordship, discontent myself.
He refused to write to Nan directly, so he added a postscript to his own reply, rejecting her proposal and offering her and the baby the use of his apartment at Savoy House and his estate at Wivenhoe.
He’d move to Vere House in the meantime. No doubt Orazio Cuoco would prefer it.
He received another letter from Cecil. This one insisted that Edward was the father of Nan’s child.
Tired of all the back-and-forth, Edward went to see Nan’s physician.
“Dr. Masters,” he said, “what was Nan’s reaction when you told her she was pregnant?”
“She didn’t say a word,” he said. “Just turned white as a sheet.”
“And that was all?”
“Not entirely.” He paused. He sighed. “She asked for an abortion.”
He left the doctor’s office in shock, went straight to Yorke’s, and sent a note to Cecil requesting they meet at Savoy House.
It was high time he confronted the old boy face-to-face.
“Your Lordship,” he told Cecil as they sipped sherry in his rooms at Savoy House, “I want you to know I’ve changed my last will and testament. My cousins Horace and Francis will be my heirs.”
Cecil frowned.
“I spoke with Dr. Masters,” Edward said. “Did you know that once your daughter heard the happy news, she asked for an abortion? Is that the action of a wife who’s just heard she’s with child?”
Cecil shook his head.
“The doctor told me the same thing, Edward. I asked for an explanation. Did you?”
“The thing speaks for itself—”
“That’s absurd. Nan’s a young woman, and young women are often terrified to hear such news. It might mean their death, especially if the child’s their first.”
“You’re the one who’s being absurd. The baby was born eleven months after we were together.”
“Little Elizabeth was born in July, just as I told you.”
Edward slammed his glass on the side table.
“Then why wasn’t she christened until September?”
“Becau
se I refused to believe you didn’t wish to be present!” Cecil shouted. “We waited until the vicar said he could wait no more. If the baby died without being christened, she’d go to hell!”
Edward stared at the bookshelves, silent.
“Edward, don’t you see what Howard and Yorke are doing?” Cecil spread his hands. “Catholic zealots will stop at nothing to drive a wedge between Protestants, even if they ruin the life of an innocent child and destroy the reputation of an innocent woman.”
“Yorke’s not a zealot. He’s a brave swordsman, and his father’s master of the mint. And Howard’s the only nobleman who’s a professor at Cambridge.”
“Don’t talk to me about Yorke,” Cecil said. “He doesn’t even own an English broadsword. The man fights with a French rapier! As for Howard, he’s a subtle serpent.”
“With respect, Your Lordship, you’re the subtle serpent in all this.” Edward fought to keep his voice even. “You employed Lewyn to spy on me, and you hired my offerer to do the same.”
“The queen and I were worried about you,” Cecil said. “You had no idea how much such a large entourage costs, and your escape from the pirates was frankly a miracle. The Privy Council has sent Beale to Flanders to seek compensation for the damage to England’s honor.”
“And what of my honor?”
“Edward, please,” Cecil said. “You’ve been different since you came back from the Continent. Come back to us. We love you—”
Edward stood. “I am a changed man,” he said. “I’m withdrawing from court, as of now. I’m going to write.”
And that’s how things stood until the queen summoned him.
Apprehensive, he entered the presence room. He searched her face, white and still, but couldn’t detect her mood.
“Welcome home, Edward.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have a present from Italy for you.”
He removed the perfumed gloves from beneath his doublet. They were wrapped in silk.
The Shakespeare Mask Page 17