Virginia Padoanna had taught him how to touch. With Anne Vavasour, he grabbed.
She was in the audience for A Moral of the Marriage of Mind and Measure—he hadn’t yet changed the name to The Taming of the Shrew. She sat in the front row, laughing and applauding wildly. She was a vision, and a vibrant one at that—he could hardly take his eyes off her.
Before Anne Vavasour, every woman in England had painted freckles on her face and dyed her hair red. Even after smallpox scarred the queen’s face, her approved image never changed. Yet when she chose black-haired Anne as lady of the bedchamber, a new template was born.
As the play progressed, Anne’s enthusiasm dimmed. She stopped applauding, and at many a moment he spied a frown on her pretty face.
After the play, as he was removing his actor’s paste, she barged into his dressing room.
“Edward de Vere, how can anyone hate women as much as you?”
He continued to wipe his face, but his pulse quickened—already she reminded him of Virginia.
“The play’s an innocent farce,” he said.
“It’s a celebration of female submission. Have you forgotten what Petruchio said? ‘She is my goods, my chattels, my household staff, my field, my barn, my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything.’ ”
“Yes, thank you. I did write the play, you know.” He set his washcloth aside. “I was just demonstrating how some men treat women. I don’t treat women that way.”
“That’s not what I heard!”
He winced. By all accounts, Nan remained an excellent mother—he hadn’t thought how his own reputation might have suffered.
“And Petruchio humiliates Katharina,” Anne said. “How can you write such things?”
“They’re characters in a play.” His face free of paste, he turned to her. “Have supper with me. I’ll make it up to you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
She stared at him. Slowly, a smile broke across her face.
“All right.”
After dinner, he took her to his apartment at the Savoy. In seconds they were thrashing about in bed.
She was a muscular lover. He’d never been with a woman who took the lead the way she did—not even the queen—but he enjoyed it. It had been four years, after all.
Afterward, she rolled onto her stomach and kissed him on the nose.
“Grumio did say something I respect. He criticized a man’s excessive need for money. ‘Give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet.’ ”
“That was quite good.” He stroked her back. “If Puritans ever permit a woman to act on the stage, you’d be outstanding.”
For that, he got a sly smile.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll add an introductory scene, make it clear the play’s a farce. Would that please you?”
“It might,” she said. “But right now I can think of something that would please me even more.”
Anne wasn’t as smart as Virginia, nor as sweet. She was a flirt, and not only with him. She was an Aeolian tempest—apparently one he couldn’t do without. Every evening they supped at his apartment. Nan lived just across the street, and Edward wondered if she saw Anne parading into Savoy House. It soon ceased to bother him.
He taught Anne how to write a poem. She called it Anne Vavasour’s Echo.
O heavens! Who was the first that bred in me this fever? Vere.
Who was the first that gave the wound whose fear I wear forever? Vere.
He was flattered, though the content of the poem was shallow. And she was so pleased with the thing. He told her the echo device reminded him of Leone de Sommi and Mantua.
She told him she was pregnant.
Every woman at court wore farthingales—they extended out all around, and even the shapeliest lady looked like a bell. For six months no one suspected a thing. At times he even enjoyed subterfuge when he could make himself forget the inevitable discovery and its consequences.
To distract himself, he focused on his plays.
Without an acting company of his own, he was forced to raid the companies of other noblemen. Knowing he couldn’t go on like that, he bought the Earl of Warwick’s Players for a pittance in 1580. At first Cecil fought the idea of his owning his own company, but the queen’s enthusiasm for Edward’s plays changed his mind.
As for the queen?
“Of course, you need your own company, Edward. Earl John had his. Why shouldn’t you?”
So he changed the name to “The Earl of Oxford’s Men.”
The queen also encouraged him to buy two companies of boy actors to play female roles. He bought the Children of St. Paul’s and the Children of the Chapel Royal and combined them into one group he called Oxford’s Boys.
He couldn’t have been happier.
Just before Christmas, he sat in a cubicle on the second floor of the small building off Charing Cross Road where Catholic nobles prayed. Dark red drapes separated one pew from another, so he had no fear of being seen.
Eyes closed, he listened to the priest chant and wondered how much time he had before the queen found out Anne was pregnant. The penalty, he knew, would be stiff indeed.
Maybe they could flee to Spain. Let King Philip brag about how he acquired an English nobleman—so long as he was free to write, he didn’t care. Money was only a distraction, his lands a burden.
“Edward,” Anne asked when they were in bed one evening, “are you really sure you want to go to Spain? We could go to my family in the north. They’ll take care of me till the queen is ready to accept us.”
“She’ll never be ready,” he said. “Trust me, Spain is our best hope. If I’m writing I don’t care where we end up, so long as it’s well away from the queen.”
He had no doubt Anne would go with him—she was wilder than he was. The only question was when.
As he listened to the chant in the darkness, he heard the high-pitched voice of Francis Southwell.
“When?”
“T-t-tomorrow.” That could only be Henry Howard, his stutter barely a whisper.
“I agree.” That was Charles Arundell. “No question about it.”
What were they up to?
“Have c-c-courage, Southwell,” Howard said. “Once the queen’s d-d-dead, you’ll wonder why you waited s-so l-l-long.”
Edward froze.
Muffled footsteps—they were leaving. He waited until he heard a distant door open and close. Then he left the church and all but ran all the way to Whitehall.
By the time he reached the Presence Room he was gasping, his legs shaking. He straightened his back and forced himself to march—all the way to the throne, where he fell to his knees.
“Your Majesty …”
“Yes, Edward?”
“I’ve come on a matter of grave importance.” He took a moment to steady his breathing. “I request privacy—please.”
“Clerk, clear the room.”
Within moments the Presence Room was empty of everyone but the queen, the clerk, and him.
“Your Majesty, I just overheard three men plotting to assassinate you.”
He told her everything. As he spoke, she bit her lip so hard he saw a drop of blood. She dabbed it with a lace handkerchief and turned to the clerk.
“Fetch the guards at once.”
As the clerk left, she regained her composure.
“I’d heard rumors,” she said. “Southwell and Arundell are new to the mix, but eight years ago I ordered the execution of Henry’s brother, the Duke of Norfolk. I’m not surprised to find him caught up in all this.”
The clerk returned with the captain of the guards.
“I want you to bring these men here immediately.” She gave him the names. “Edward, stay by my side.”
The guards left and soon returned with Southwell, Ardunell, and Howard. All three were pale, and Henry was shaking in his boots.
“Edward’s informed me of what you were up to,” the queen said, “but I want to hear it from your own mouths. What d
o you have to say for yourselves?”
“Your M-m-majesty, everything he told you is a lie!” Henry said. “He’s a b-b-blasphemer. You mustn’t believe him—he’s a h-h-homosexual! That choirboy was his m-m-minion—”
She raised a hand. “Enough. Guards, place these men under arrest in Christopher Hatton’s house. They’ll remain there until Walsingham completes an investigation. Edward, remain in your apartment. I assume you can write something to occupy yourself.”
In due course, Howard and Southwell were sent to the Tower. Arundell escaped and made it all the way to France, where the Spaniards hired him to spy for them.
The charge was treason. They had no right to an attorney. The only question was whether they’d be tortured—ostensibly against the law, but stretching racks, screwing bolts, and branding irons in the Tower told a different story.
For Anne and Edward, time was running out, but if they fled now, people would think he’d been in league with Howard.
Three months later, Anne gave birth at the palace. She named the child Edward.
Edward was summoned to Whitehall.
As a lady of the bedchamber, Anne had broken a rule: any affair without the queen’s permission was forbidden.
Anne entered the Presence Room just after Edward. They stood before the throne and waited. The queen entered—obviously angry, but he could see how hurt she was.
“This duplicity is beyond all tolerance.” Her eyes blazed as she pointed to him. “You are banished from court. Leave—now.”
What could he say? He withdrew without a word.
Early the next morning, guards arrived at his rooms on Broad Street. He barely had time to collect the script he was working on before they marched him to the Tower. It was within the queen’s right to claim his life, but surely she wouldn’t. After all, he’d saved her life not long ago. But who knew what she’d do, as hurt and angry as she was?
He wiped his sweating palms on his thighs as the guards prodded him onward—but not to the dungeon. Instead he was brought to a four-room suite with the Turkish carpet from his bedroom already on the floor. He stood there, astonished, as his desk was carried in, followed by stacks of fresh paper, by pens and ink. He even had a view of the Thames.
He collapsed onto a chair—the last item carried in—and laughed. She was teaching him a lesson, one he planned to take to heart.
As he sat in this bizarre prison of his, he thought of Lewyn. He’d never have carried on with Anne if Lewyn had been there, watching over him… . No, he was a fool—Lewyn hadn’t kept him from Virginia. He couldn’t have kept him from Anne.
He had no one to blame but himself.
After ten weeks, he was released—and learned that Anne and the baby had been sent to the dungeon. For a time, he was worried sick. He bribed the guards for news, only to hear that Anne had fallen in love with the captain of the Tower, Sir Henry Lee. Lee was thirty years older, a kind man, a perennial tournament challenger with the physique of an Adonis.
He longed to see her and their child, but at least she was happy.
Eventually Anne married Henry, though she sent word that the baby would carry the name Vere. Edward was relieved—he might never have another son. He gave her a tract of land, two thousand pounds, and a promise: his cousins Horace and Francis would oversee the little fellow’s military career.
After his release, the queen ordered him to remain in his apartment until the first of October. But the moment he awoke on the second, a beautiful autumn morning, he dressed quickly and rode through the streets of London heading for Suffolk. While he’d been in the Tower, his sister Mary had wed Peregrine Bertie, the son of an Oxbridge don and the Dowager Countess of Suffolk. He hadn’t spoken to Mary in months, yet he’d received an invitation to come and meet her new family.
He was used to seeing soup lines and Cambridge graduates reciting poetry for pennies in London’s streets, but now he saw Walsingham’s men in the shadows, watching, writing down names. He knew that anyone might harm the queen, but poets?
He arrived at the Bertie estate as evening approached to find a dark-haired girl of twelve years or so perched on the fence by the gate. When she saw him she jumped down.
“Greetings, milord.”
She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.
“Good evening, young lady. Have we met before?”
“I’m flattered you remember, milord.” She grinned and bobbed a quick curtsy. “I’m Emilia Bassano.”
Of course—the little girl from London.
“How is it you’re at the Bertie estate?”
“My father was the Dowager Countess’s favorite musician. Before he died, she promised to employ me as her daughter Susan’s companion.” She glanced at the ground and looked up shyly. “When I heard you were coming I offered to be your escort. I thought you’d need a friend.”
“How kind of you.” He smiled and dismounted. “Though I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He’d heard the Countess of Suffolk raised hell when her son announced his marriage. There wasn’t a man in England who hadn’t heard of his affair with Anna Vavasour—no doubt such scandal in the family was too much for the elderly countess.
He and Emilia walked side by side toward the house.
“Did you have a pleasant ride, milord?”
“I did. Does your family still live in Shoreditch?
“They do.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “Susan’s getting married soon, so I’ll return to London and live in the house my father left me.”
“You like London, do you?”
“Wherever I’m free to write, I’m content.”
He raised a brow and smiled.
“And what sorts of things do you write?”
“Prose and poetry.” She scowled. “People laugh at me sometimes. They don’t think I can do it, because I’m a girl, but I don’t believe them. I intend to convince women to respect themselves. After all, if it weren’t for women there’d be no one at all, men or women.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I don’t believe them either,” he said at last. “I think you’ll be a wonderful writer if you work at it.”
She beamed at him. “My father taught me to stand up for what I believe, milord. He said if I don’t, who will?”
“I knew the Bassanos were fine musicians, but I didn’t know they were so wise. Gave you a good education, did he?”
Her smile slipped for a moment. “He employed excellent tutors, milord. I miss him very much, but my education isn’t over.”
He patted her shoulder. “I miss my father, too. Emillia, you are remarkable. Have you met the queen?”
“Twice. She promised to look after me.”
They reached the Bertie mansion. After dinner and the usual pleasantries, they retired to the drawing room for sherry. Edward found he liked Peregrine. His new brother-in-law struck him as an honest young man who wanted to be a soldier and a diplomat.
Finally the countess, who was about sixty-five, addressed him.
“Your play about the shrew caused quite a stir in the palace, milord.”
“I’m sure it did.” He took a sip of sherry. “And what did you think of it?”
“I didn’t care for the shrew’s name—Katharina.” She eyed him over the top of her glass. “Did you name her after me?”
The room fell silent. For a moment, everyone seemed to be holding his breath.
“Not that I blame you,” she said. “My objecting to your sister’s marriage wasn’t terribly kind.”
Edward gave her his sunniest smile. “I named the shrew long before I staged the play,” he said. “After my stepsister, Katherine Windsor.”
The countess laughed. Mary and Peregrine breathed a sigh of relief. Emilia and Susan looked at each other and smiled.
He heard a high-pitched voice in the hallway. The double doors opened and in walked a governess with a girl of about five. She walked right up to him and held out a little handmade book.
“For you, milord,” she said. “I wrote it myself.”
“Thank you very much.” He opened the book—there were only two pages—and read the neat handwriting. It was a story about an ox and a fox.
He closed the book and smiled at her. “What a wonderful present. May I ask your name? Mine’s Edward.”
“I’m Elizabeth,” she said. “And if I may, I’d rather call you Papa.”
His heart stopped. She had his nose, his mouth, his brows—but her hair, like Nan’s, was a bouquet of brown curls. She was lovely.
It was all he could do not to cry. They were both shy at first, but as he asked her about her story, she brightened. Soon her words were tumbling out like a waterfall. He drank them in.
They talked and talked until it grew dark. Little Elizabeth yawned, and her governess knelt beside her.
“Time to say good night, my dear.”
She nodded and looked back up at Edward.
“Papa, may I kiss you good night?”
His throat tightened. “Of course, my sweet girl.”
After the double doors closed behind her, Edward excused himself. He went straight to bed and wept.
What a fool he’d been.
When he went down to the garden early the next morning, Emilia was there.
“Good morning, milord. I hope you rested well.
“I hardly slept a wink, Emilia,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what, milord? If I may be so bold.”
“I couldn’t sleep because I’ve been a fool.”
“My father told me fools are what we mortals be.”
“This fool would like to stop being one. Seeing my little Elizabeth last night …” He swallowed and pressed on. “I’d like to reconcile with my wife, but I don’t know how. For years I insisted the child wasn’t mine. Now I know I was wrong.”
Emilia sat on a bench and propped her chin on her hands. “Is it very important to you, my lord?”
“More than anything.”
“Then it doesn’t matter how you do it,” she said, “so long as you do it.” She looked serious. “I know you don’t want your daughter to suffer, milord.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 19