“I’d like to spend the rest of today with your sister. Will you join Eliza and me for breakfast at The Pye, tomorrow at nine?”
“I’d be delighted. One more thing—we understand your situation’s not liquid. May our family contribute ten thousand pounds to the marriage?”
He saw the queen’s eyes open and then close.
“I’d very much appreciate it—anything that leaves me free to write.”
Francis chuckled. “Elizabeth’s seen all your plays, you know. Maybe one day I will.”
“It’ll be my pleasure to take you.”
He took Eliza to The Steelyard. It was midmorning, but the crowd was already raucous. She ordered a small beer and then touched his hand.
“Edward, I’m happy to be marrying you. I never thought I’d wed a writer.”
“I’m happy you feel that way.”
“The queen impressed upon me that writing’s your life, and there won’t be much room for me—”
“Eliza …” He thought of Emilia and then forced her out of his mind. “I’ve not been the best husband. But I promise you I’ve learned from the experience.” He took her hand. “I’d like us to make the best of this.”
The wedding took place on the palace lawn at Greenwich. The July heat was extreme, but a breeze from the Thames kept things tolerable. Four-year-old Susan was their flower girl, and Elizabeth, Bridget, and the five Trentham girls were maids of honor. Trentham brothers were ushers. The Archbishop of Canterbury officiated.
Eliza walked down the aisle on Francis’ arm, her bright smile shining through the lace. Edward’s secretaries—he had three now—sang a madrigal composed by John Dowland. He’d invited all the former Wits, who drank steadily throughout the reception. Edmund Spenser read a portion of The Fairie Queene. The real queen, to whom it was dedicated, nodded and smiled.
Eliza danced with Francis, Hunsdon danced with the queen, and Edward and Cecil limped over to chairs with a good view of the Thames.
Cecil raised his glass.
“To you, Edward.”
“Thank you, Baron. And thank you for taking care of the girls all these years. I’m sorry Lady Cecil isn’t here to share the moment.”
Cecil shed a tear. “Kind of you to remember. I’ve arranged for Bridget and Susan to live with Countess Bedford in South Buckinghamshire. Two young girls is too much for one new wife. I think she’ll have her hands full just taking care of you.” Cecil nodded toward the dance floor. “See how nicely our Elizabeth dances with Southampton? I’m trying to convince him to marry her, but he’s a hard nut to crack. Would you have a word with him, my boy? I’m told he attends The Theatre every day.”
“Won’t my advice be as biased as yours?” Edward said.
“Do it anyway. They say he’s sweet on your work.”
He raised a brow and looked back at the Earl of Southampton. Henry Wriothesley had delicate features, a lithe yet muscular frame. He couldn’t tell if his daughter liked him. Her gaze had ever been guarded, more so as she grew older.
“I suppose I could pen a few sonnets to impress on him the importance of marriage in perpetuating his name and securing his property. He’s handsome, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” Cecil said. “That curly, long hair makes him look like a girl. How well do you know him?”
“Not at all. When’s his birthday?”
“He’ll be seventeen in a few weeks.”
“I’m sure I can put together a few sonnets by then.”
That night he and Eliza consummated their marriage. Eliza was efficient. She also bled a lot. He liked her but hoped they’d made a boy. He didn’t fancy making love to his wife more than he had to.
“I have a confession to make,” she said after it was over.
He tensed.
“I write,” she said. “Nothing like you, of course—only sonnets—but may I show them to you sometime?”
He relaxed. “I’d be delighted.”
“I’ve read a few of yours, the ones you pass around court.”
“I didn’t pass around many.”
“Still,” she said, “they were lovely.”
A few days later, Edward was drinking with the Wits at The Steelyard. They were raucous, as usual, but he couldn’t match their frivolity.
Spenser ordered another round and glanced at Edward.
“Gentle Willy, why so sad?”
Greene brushed his long red hair from his eyes. “Upset about Alleyn’s performance?”
Edward pulled himself together. “What about Alleyn?”
“Edward Alleyn played the Duke of York in your Henry VI last week,” he said. “He jumped on the stage like a shakescene, trying to steal attention.”
“Ever since he married Henslowe’s stepdaughter, he insists on playing every leading role,” Lyly said. “Edward, I know you can’t protest, but I intend to.”
“When that ungrateful bastard jumped on the stage, he shattered a plank,” Spenser said. “Here’s to our Lyly shattering his neck.”
Edward chuckled, but his heart wasn’t in it.
He wished he were here with Emilia.
He dragged himself back to the large suite he’d rented in Newington Butts until he and Eliza could find something suitable. The new cook served him hot soup—already his wife knew how to settle his stomach.
“Where was I this morning?” he asked her. “I feel as if I’m in a fog.”
“You’d started Antony and Cleopatra.” Eliza nodded to the cook. The empty bowl was removed and his favorite—pasta—was served.
“Edward, please be thankful you’re alive,” she said. “A brave and talented writer just died.”
“Who?” He twirled the pasta on his fork like an Italian, the spoon in his other hand.
“Veronica Franco.”
He thought of Virginia. A lump formed in his throat.
Eliza tilted her head. “Did you meet her when you were in Venice?”
“I did,” he said. “She was everything you just said. Brave as well as talented.”
“So are you, Edward. Focus on your writing and you’ll come right with yourself.”
I have of late—but wherefore I know
not—lost all my mirth; … this goodly
frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile
promontory; this most excellent canopy,
the air … appears no other thing to me
than a foul and pestilent congregation of
vapors.
Shakespeare
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
He wrote all day, through the night, and into the next morning. Now he needed to walk.
He was making his way along Bishopsgate High when he saw her, that black, curly hair bouncing about her shoulders and her hips swaying as she glided down the street. His good leg was stiff and his bad leg worse, but somehow he managed to catch up to her.
“Hello, Emilia.”
She turned. There was a smile on her face. “Edward! Hello.”
“How are you?”
“Slightly pregnant.”
His stomach twisted. Should he congratulate her?
“May I walk with you?”
“Of course.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see my future husband, Alphonse Lanier.”
“In your condition?”
“It’s been arranged,” she said. For a moment, she looked bitter. “He was happy to marry a woman carrying another man’s child—for a price.”
“Isn’t he the fellow who plays the recorder at court?”
“For years, he’s wanted my father’s seat in the Consort of Recorders. Now, Hunsdon’s giving it to him. A marriage of the Bassano and Lanier musical dynasties, so Hunsdon’s baby has a proper father.”
“Emelia, you must be—”
“I’ll get over it.” She lifted her chin. “I could have said no, but I won’t make my child a bastard.”
“I’d give anything if—”
“It’s not yo
ur fault, Edward. Noblemen don’t marry commoners.”
His face burned.
“The queen said it was the best she could do,” Emilia said. “So much for women’s solidarity.”
“I’m so sorry.” The truth was, he couldn’t bear it. He loved her, and she was in so much pain.
“If anyone’s to blame it’s my father. He arranged for me to live with the countess, and in the process I fell victim to hope.” She shook her curls as if to cast off her woes.
“How’s the writing?”
“Coming along.”
“I heard you married. How’s that going?”
“She puts up with me. I’m sure it isn’t easy. I’m not sure marriage ever is.”
“I won’t find it difficult,” she said. He wished she hadn’t.
They walked in silence for a while.
“I paid off the Court of Wards,” he said. “I’m free at last.”
“Don’t take anything for granted,” she said. “Now I know why a Jewish man thanks God every morning he wasn’t born a woman.”
He laughed. She didn’t.
They stopped in front of a modest house.
“This is where I leave you,” she said.
“Can we meet again?” He couldn’t bear to leave her here, now, like this.
“We’ll both be married. To others. Hunsdon wants me to name the baby after him. It’s his tenth child.”
“Henry’s not a bad name.”
“I just hope it’s not Henriette.” She entered the house. The door closed behind her.
He stood there a few minutes, staring at the “Chez Lanier” sign. After a while he heard the faint sound of a duet for recorder and virginals.
He’d give anything to be the keys on her keyboard just so he could feel her touch.
He penned seventeen sonnets for Henry Wriothesley’s seventeenth birthday and sent a message inviting him to meet at The Rose. When Edward touched the door, it swung open. He entered and saw Henry standing in the cockpit. He was even more handsome than he remembered, more beautiful than Orazio Cuoco.
“Hello, Henry.”
“Hello, Edward.” His smile was radiant. Just looking at him made Edward feel young.
“I thought I’d give you an insider’s view of The Rose. Well-done, don’t you think?”
“I love the faux marble,” Henry said. “I usually hate green, but here it suits. Is it because the playhouse is open to the sky and green’s the color of spring?”
“Very perceptive. And it was half the cost of Burbage’s Theatre.” Since when did he care about cost? Such stuffy details wouldn’t impress a man like Henry.
“How many patrons does The Rose hold, Edward?”
“Twenty-five hundred, same as The Theatre.”
“I could never write a play, but I do love beautiful language.” He looked around at the seats, the stage. “It makes the world seem sweeter.”
Edward held out the package of sonnets. “Seventeen sonnets,” he said, “to sweeten your seventeenth birthday. May you always enjoy good health.”
Henry’s eyes lighted up like a child’s as he grabbed the packet. Charming.
“Thank you so much, Edward.”
And he had such a lovely way of speaking—musical despite courtier affectation. He eagerly tore the paper off the package and read aloud the opening lines of the first sonnet:
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.
Henry looked at him, his face still alight.
“That’s so beautiful.”
“I have a confession. When I wrote those sonnets, I promised Cecil to try and convince you to marry our Elizabeth.”
“That’s so sweet, but I can’t marry. When I lived in Cecil House she was a sister to me.”
Edward smiled. “I understand how you feel—completely.”
“It’s just that I want to live. You understand that, don’t you?” He tucked his curls behind his ears. “Of course you do. You’re a writer.” Henry read aloud from the next sonnet:
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field.
He looked up, eyes wide. “Are you forty? Ever since I saw your Romeo and Juliet, I think of you as timeless. When I saw that play, I lost my heart.”
Edward was fast losing his.
“I’m so flattered.” Another dazzling smile. “I promise I’ll marry one of your daughters, just not right now. Essex promised to take me on one of his raids on Spanish ships. You’ve no idea how much I long to go. It sounds thrilling.”
“Indeed it does.” Edward smiled. “Come, let’s walk. You can tell me all about your plans.”
When he arrived home, Eliza greeted him with flushed cheeks.
“Edward, I saw Dr. Lopez.”
“Are you all right?” He took her hand.
“I’ve been unwell in the mornings—sometimes I can be so stupid! Edward, I’m pregnant.”
He hugged her.
“I’m so happy!”
“Dr. Lopez said he can’t tell if it’s a boy, but Elizabeth knew a midwife who says she can, so we went to see her, and she says it is!”
After twenty years and two marriages, would he finally have an heir?
“Eliza, I’m going to buy you the most wonderful present in the world. What would you like?”
“Being your wife is all I want. That and for you to write to your heart’s content.”
He felt a surge of warmth toward her, something very like love.
“I insist. What can I do?”
“Just pray the baby’s healthy.”
He clapped his hands. “I know. I’ll buy you the King’s Place. It’s in Hackney, once belonged to Henry VIII.”
“My love, you just paid off the Court of Wards.”
He kissed her forehead. “Let me worry about money. I’m going to see the queen tomorrow and ask her permission to publish something. I could use a few thousand pounds.”
“She’ll be so pleased. Dearest, let’s give her a present.”
“Of course.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Now I must work.”
“You know you needn’t ask the queen’s approval,” she said. “She loves everything you write.”
He thought for a minute. “In this case, I think I do. Eliza, you know the queen and I—”
“You don’t have to tell me about that.” She stifled a giggle. “You weren’t the only one. Whenever some courtier refers to her as the Virgin Queen we always laugh.”
“That’s why I must ask her permission. I’ve never written a long poem, but they’re popular these days. I’m told mine should sell a dozen editions or more.” He took a deep breath. “It’s about her and me, disguised as the story of Venus and Adonis.”
“I see,” Eliza said. “You could lose your head.”
“That’s why I’ll get her permission.”
“She’ll never give it.”
“I think she will. She’ll laugh at the audacity and love the idea of an older woman taking advantage of a younger man.”
“What about the Cecils? Robert’s the principal secretary now, in everything but name.”
“When the queen and his father agree, he goes along.”
“Have you forgotten that she had John Stubbs’ hand cut off for writing a pamphlet?”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I have an idea they’ll be sure to accept, one that will shield me completely and please even Robert Cecil.”
Eliza gave him a long, hard look. “If you say so.”
“Let’s make a wager.” Edward grinned. “I say Robert will go along. If I lose, I’ll buy you King’s Place. If I win, I’ll buy you King’s Place. Now, let’s toast Oxford Eighteen. Sherry?”
“Dr. Lopez says I mustn’t drink wine. No doctor in England agrees with him, but he says it’s the latest view in Padua.”
“Then what will you have?”
“Apple cider. Elizabeth and I bought some o
n our way home. It’s lovely.”
“As lovely as my wife?”
“Lovelier.”
“Impossible.” He kissed her.
When the queen entered, Edward got to his feet. “Your Majesty.”
“I regret I had to keep you waiting. Dressing me takes so much longer these days. How are you?”
“Good news, Your Majesty. Eliza’s pregnant. The midwife says it’s a boy.”
She beamed and clapped her hands. “I’m thrilled to hear it.”
“Your Majesty, Eliza and I can’t thank you enough for bringing us together. Will you be the child’s godmother?”
“I’d be delighted.” She blotted her eyes, careful not to smear the paste. “What does Lopez say about the sex of the child?”
“He says no one can predict gender.”
“Lopez never lies.” She fingered her hair arrangement. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. Now Edward, your message said you wanted the Cecils to be here so I could approve something you’d written. I admit you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“It’s a long poem that was … inspired by our relationship. If there’s anything you don’t like, or if you want me to burn it, just say so. But if you could permit it to be published, I’d be grateful.”
“I can’t read an entire manuscript—my eyes aren’t what they used to be.” She sighed. “Read me the parts you think I should hear.”
He leafed through the pages. “It’s called Venus and Adonis.”
“I read it in the original.”
“This is my own version. Venus is talking to Adonis—they’re naked, in bed. She describes her body as he caresses it.
‘Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale.
I’ll be a park, and you shall be my deer;
Feed where you wilt, on mountains or in dale …
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.’
The Shakespeare Mask Page 24