She was right. And she made it all sound so simple. Always, children saw things simply—how could a man’s judgment be so corrupted by a few years on earth?
When he returned to London, a letter from Nan was waiting for him. Again, she pleaded her innocence and begged him to consider his daughter.
He purchased a copy of the first English translation of the Greek sermons of St. Paul to the Ephesians and wrote an inscription in it: “I have been unquieted by the uncertainty of the world and beg to be forgiven.”
She replied with a short letter:
I received your gift for which I am grateful. As for your being unquieted by the uncertainty of the world, I myself am not without some taste of that. But seeing that you assure me, I will patiently abide the adversity which I otherwise feel. If God would so permit it, and if it would be good for you, I would make it my comfort to bear the greater part of your adverse fortune with you.
She went on to invite him to Cecil House, but he wanted a truly fresh start, without Cecil hanging over them. He countered with an invitation to have supper with him at his apartment in Savoy House.
It was an awkward meal filled with long silences—they went through the entire last course without speaking. When it was over, they retired to the drawing room. Once Nan was seated, Edward knelt beside her chair.
“I don’t know how nor do I believe I have the right to ask you this,” he said, “but it would mean a great deal to me—everything, in truth—if you could find room in your heart to forgive me.”
She stood and gently drew him to his feet.
“Edward, in the book you gave me, St. Paul spoke of forgiveness, of the putting aside of sins. I take what he wrote to heart.”
He was amazed at her graciousness. He’d made fun of her slavish devotion to Scripture, but now he saw her in a new light. There was something to be said for structure, for putting aside one’s own desires for a greater responsibility. Wasn’t that what Lewyn had told him?
“Nan, would you and Elizabeth come live with me in my apartment in Savoy House? I’ve bought a house in Shoreditch, where I work and sleep. It allows me to separate my work—and my undisciplined friends—from my home. But at week’s end, we could go to Wivenhoe. Is the arrangement agreeable to you?”
“Of course.” She took his hand. “I’ve seen your plays. You have a gift, and I intend to nurture it. Before, I didn’t know. Now I do.”
He pulled her close and kissed her. As her arms closed around him, for the first time since he’d known her, he didn’t think of her as his sister.
They went to his bedroom.
They had too much wine, but it helped. She exhibited none of the fear he’d seen at Hampton Court, nor did she recite the Twenty-third Psalm.
After that they made love regularly. He thought about teaching her some of Virginia’s tricks but decided to be grateful for what he had and let Nan love him in her own way.
At Wivenhoe they went riding with Elizabeth. He’d bought her a pony and she insisted on riding between them.
“Please, Papa—I feel safer between you and Maman.”
Elizabeth, he knew, was the bond that had brought him and his wife back together. He didn’t know what else he might come to feel for her and hoped his feelings would deepen, but he wouldn’t try to force matters. Simply putting up with him and forgiving him were in themselves grounds for love.
And, truth to tell, Nan was rather attractive.
He felt so optimistic that he invested five hundred pounds in Edward Fenton’s voyage to the Moluccas. He also contributed the Edward Bonaventure. As it turned out, Fenton sailed too late to round the Cape of Good Hope before the weather turned and had to alter course at Sierra Leone. While crossing the Atlantic to Brazil, he was attacked by Spanish ships—lucky to return alive even if he was empty-handed.
Edward decided he’d invested in his last voyage.
He heard that the Blackfriars lease was for sale and bought it—he needed a place for Oxford’s Men to rehearse. He placed John Lyly in charge and leased the basement to Rocco Bonneti, an Italian fencing master everyone wanted as a coach. His assistance in the fencing scenes in Hamlet was invaluable.
When Peregrine returned from a diplomatic mission to Denmark, his description of Elsinor Castle was so vivid that Edward decided it would make a perfect setting. When Peregrine mentioned having met Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he decided to use their names for Hamlet’s schoolfellows. But when he said he was basing the play’s verbose adviser to the king on Cecil, Peregrine insisted he change the name.
“Corambis is too heavy-handed, Edward. Everyone will recognize the play on Cecil’s motto. You know the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London must approve all plays. Corambis has to go.”
“What about Polonius?”
“Better.”
“Not that it matters,” Edward said. “I can’t present the play while Dudley’s still alive. If he saw himself murdering the father in the play he’d poison me, too”
“Then put it aside until both Cecil and Dudley are dead, there’s a good fellow. Discretion is the better part of valor, you know.”
It wasn’t long before Lyly proposed that he use Blackfriars not only to rehearse plays but also to stage them. Late in 1582 he opened it to public performances. Lyly also proposed he charge playgoers twice as much as they paid at The Theatre and The Curtain, but Edward hesitated. Who would pay that much for plays?
“Not to worry, Edward. It’s a closed theater. On a cold night, the audience will be more than happy to pay for warmth.”
And pay they did, not that he was getting rich from theater. If he wanted to be rich, he’d never have written a play as long as Hamlet. At nearly four thousand lines, it was twice the length of any play being staged, and he still wasn’t finished writing it.
On top of all that, Nan was pregnant again. Perhaps a son this time.
For the time being, his life was proceeding smoothly.
One afternoon, Tom Knyvet—Anne Vavasour’s uncle—accosted him in the palace.
“I can hardly bear to look at you,” he said. “You’re a cad, Oxford.”
Edward sighed. “Then why have you waited so long to tell me? I haven’t even spoken to Anne in over a year.”
“That’s right—haven’t spoken, haven’t written, cast her off like a damn pair of shoes.”
“You want me to talk to her?”
“God’s balls! If you had I’d have run you through already.” He glared. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”
“Don’t threaten me, Knyvet. It’s not becoming for an officer in the queen’s guard.”
“I’ll threaten whoever I like. Best watch your back, Oxford.”
Knyvet turned and walked away. Maybe that would be an end of it.
Just a few days later, as Edward and Oxford’s Boys were leaving Blackfriars, Knyvet and his men attacked.
Luckily, Edward and some of the boys were armed. They fought to a draw, and no one was seriously hurt.
“Edward, I know Knyvet well,” Walter Raleigh said when Edward met him for drinks the next evening. “He’ll attack again unless you settle things.”
“I’d like nothing more, but how?”
“He won’t agree to anything less than a duel.”
“Good idea.” He’d never known Walter to lose a sword fight. “Will you be my second?”
“Absolutely.”
He challenged. Knyvet accepted.
They each got in several good hits, but the duel was inconclusive. The next day, again in the evening and just outside Blackfriars, Knyvet and his men attacked again. The fighting was fierce, but Edward gave as good as he got, and again nothing was resolved.
The following week, Knyvet and his men attacked again. Edward and Knyvet were each supported by three men. The slashing and shouting seemed endless. When it finally gave way to panting, someone suggested he and Knyvet finish it themselves.
Edward was tired. He’d been writing all morning and drinking s
herry all evening. Still, he had to end this. “Very well,” he said, and lifted his sword again.
Knyvet lunged, Edward deflected. They lunged and parried, lunged and parried, while their men stood around them and shouted encouragement.
Edward stumbled. All at once he felt an agonizing pain in his left foot, worse than anything he’d ever endured. He bit back a scream and glanced down.
Knyvet’s blade had cut his ankle, now dangling at an odd angle. He left a trail of blood in the streets as his men carried him back to Fisher’s Folly.
The neighborhood doctor was no help at all. The foot wouldn’t heal, and while Edward was confined to bed, Knyvet came to see him.
“I wanted you to know my niece heard about your wounds and wrote to me. She told me you’d given her two thousand pounds, some land, and promised your cousins will take care of the boy’s future in the army.” He glanced down at Edward’s foot, hidden beneath the coverlet. “I now consider that fair recompense.”
Edward was as furious as he was helpless. “Didn’t it occur to you to ask her before you lamed me?”
Knyvet shrugged. “I didn’t come to say I’m sorry. I came to say I won’t attack you again. But if I ever hear you’ve touched my niece again, I’ll finish the job.”
Though he was still banished from court, the queen sent her physician. Edward was relieved—not only had he despaired of saving his foot, he’d nearly given up on salvaging his relationship with his queen. After two visits, the distinguished Dr. Rodrigo Lopez gave him the verdict.
“You’ll keep the foot,” he said, “but you‘ll always be lame.”
“Can’t you do something? What about bleeding me?”
Dr. Lopez raised his eyebrows. “I’ve done what I can.” He shook his head. “Be glad the foot is connected. It’ll give you some support. The rest will come from a cane. In the meantime, keep the wound clean and don’t lose hope. Attitude can be as important as medicine. Your body should respond to rest and nourishment.”
At last, the wound was beginning to heal. And he was writing again.
Lyly sent word that the Blackfriars lease was up at the end of the year and the owner refused to renew it—neighbors had complained about the noise.
“If the queen doesn’t allow you to return to court,” Lyly said, “you’ll have no place to present your plays.”
“Something will come up,” he said. “It always does. In the meantime I can talk to Burbage about showing my plays at The Theater and The Curtain.”
While recuperating, he insisted his actors visit him at his new quarters for work, a grand mansion he’d bought called Fisher’s Folly. It had a huge dining room for meetings and a grand salon for readings. In fact, the mansion was perfect for a project for English writers he’d been dreaming about, an atelier where they would live and write, something like what Raphael and Romano had created in Italy for painters and sculptors. He’d already made inquiries at Cambridge and Oxford, asking professors to recommend a dozen of their most promising writers.
He interviewed them all and then offered room, board, and a stipend to six of the best. After they were settled in their rooms, he invited them to the dining room for sherry and the opportunity to introduce themselves.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming. You’re participating in a grand experiment. If my plan succeeds, we shall lead English literature out of the Dark Ages into what people will one day call the golden age of Elizabethan culture. Henceforth, you shall be known as the University Wits.”
A few snickered.
“I’d like each of you to introduce yourself. George, you begin.”
“George Peele, bombastic son of a Hertfordshire curate, at your service.”
The Wits grinned.
“I’m an Oxford man and an aspiring playwright. I’m translating Euripedes from the Greek and working on plays about Edward I. I married the daughter of a London salt merchant, but thanks to the Earl of Oxford, my father-in-law won’t have to support me. Like our esteemed host, I have a weakness for pranks—though I haven’t robbed a shipment of gold.”
Grins gave way to laughter.
“Mr. Greene?”
“Robert Greene here. My claim to fame is my red hair. I’m a Cambridge man and a novelist known for clever pamphlets such as Farewell to Folly. I’m now writing a Greek romance I call Pandosta. After I squandered my wife’s money, I sent her and our child to the country. I was leading a debauched life in London, but I’ll be delighted to live on Willy’s tab.”
Edward rather liked the nickname.
“Mr. Spenser?”
“Edmund Spenser.” He was a grave-looking young man with a quiet voice. “I’ve begun to write a book I call The Faerie Queen. If it’s published, I’ll dedicate it to the good earl. If not, I’ll kill myself.”
Edward studied Spenser. The young man was intense—he’d best give him extra encouragement. He’d paid to print thirty books already. He wouldn’t go bankrupt if he printed another.
“Thomas?”
“Thomas Lodge, graduate of Oxford. As some of you know, my father was the Lord Mayor of London. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. Instead, I write plays.”
“Mr. Watson?”
“Tom’s the name.” A short, sharp laugh. “I have a reputation for violence. But the earl says I have talent, so here I am.”
“Mr. Nashe.”
“Tom Nashe, graduated Cambridge on scholarship. I’m writing a play called The Isle of Dogs, so critical of our corrupt political scene that I’ve no doubt I’ll end up in jail.” He grinned and patted his rather large paunch. “If you visit me, bring food.”
Edward slapped his hands on the table and smiled.
“Gentlemen, thank you. Seated along the wall are my secretaries: John Lyly, who’s also writing plays, and Anthony Munday, who’s working on a narrative poem. I invited another young man, Christopher Marlowe, but he’s on assignment in Rheims.”
No laughter this time. On assignment in Rheims meant Marlowe was spying on Catholic priests returning to England from France to stir up dissent. One such priest had just been executed in London, and it was rumored that Walsingham’s agents had assassinated the rest.
“I have a list of people who want to join our group,” Edward said. “If I had more bedrooms, I’d invite them now. As it is, if any of you wish to leave, let me know.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come.”
His clerk entered with a message. Was it Nan’s time? She was nearly due.
“Gentlemen, I regret I must end our meeting,” he said after scanning the note. “I’ve been asked to meet with the queen’s secretary of state at once.”
He reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet.
“Don’t forget to work, sleep, get drunk, find a whore, or whatever else your muse dictates. This meeting is adjourned sine die.”
There is nothing either good or bad,
but thinking makes it so.
Shakespeare
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
Francis Walsingham shuffled to the empty booth at the back of The Pye, where Edward was waiting for him.
“I hope you don’t mind meeting here.” The secretary of state adjusted his Puritan-black robes. “My life’s gray, and I seek levity wherever I can find it.”
“The Pye’s fine, Francis—if I may be so bold.”
“Of course, Edward.”
Walsingham never missed a single performance at the palace and always sat in the front row, but he called actors and playwrights sinful and blamed them for everything from poor harvest to the plague. Still, his choice of The Pye was considerate. The tavern was just down the street from Fisher’s Folly. For someone tethered to a cane, it was preferable to walking all the way to Walsingham’s office in Seething Lane.
“Edward, the latest reports confirm Philip will invade England as soon as his 131 galleons are fitted with cannons. He has thirty thousand assault forces already in the Low Countries waiting to cross. Drake
captured every Spanish ship coming in from the New World in the last twelve months, but that hasn’t deterred him. Philip borrows, now he’s bankrupt—which gives him another reason to invade.”
“If the queen would order our captains to stop raiding Spanish ships, maybe Cecil could make peace,” Edward said. “Drake’s a glorified pirate.”
He watched Walsingham squirm. He was heavily invested in Drake’s raids.
“The queen’s father reduced her to penury,” he said. “She never misses an opportunity to fill her purse.”
“And as a result, England faces invasion by the strongest force on earth.”
Walsingham glanced around, though they were alone in the tavern.
“Edward, at least half of England’s still Catholic. If we don’t stand together, we’ll lose the war. I’m here to ask the question: how can we convince all Englishmen to unite and be loyal when three-fourths of the population can’t read? The queen can only give so many speeches.”
“Tell her to maintain better schools,” he said. “Right now they’re as useless as a Moslem madrassa.”
Walsingham smiled. “Exactly. The people can’t read, so we’ll deliver our call to unity in a new way: through the stage.”
“So you want me to write for you.” Edward took a long swallow of ale. “Does this mean I’ll be allowed to return to court?”
“No such luck, at least not yet. How’s your foot, by the way?”
“Lame, thanks to Knyvet. What’s he up to?”
“Prancing around court like a rooster.” Walsingham folded his hands on the table. “The queen wants your Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth to be England’s call to arms.”
“It’s five plays now, and I’m working on more.”
The Shakespeare Mask Page 20