He looked up. She wasn’t even blushing, though he couldn’t be sure with all the paste. All he saw was a single tear.
He waited.
“Publish it at once, Edward, and promise you’ll always think of me that way.”
He was relieved but not all that surprised. He’d been right about her.
“Eliza thought you’d throw me in the Tower,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s art.”
“Still, the Puritans—”
“Require enlightenment.”
“But Cecil and his son—”
“I’ll take care of them.”
“Your Majesty.” Cecil bowed when he and his son Robert were ushered into the queen’s private chambers.
“How’s my Spirit?”
“The usual aches and pains, Your Majesty.”
“You’re so brave. And Robert—how’s my Bosse?”
Robert cringed and shifted from his clubfoot to the other.
“I’m well, Your Majesty. Thank you for inquiring.”
“I know my Cecils are busy, but our favorite playwright asked me to approve the publication of a poem. I found it touching, but he wants to be sure you agree. He values your judgment so much.”
Cecil and Robert glanced at each other.
“Edward, read the passage.”
When he finished it, Cecil took a lot of time settling himself and shaking his head before he spoke. “Your Majesty, … I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything. Let it be published.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“No buts. Robert?”
“Your Majesty, the passage is offensive.” Robert’s body was perfectly still, his eyes on fire.
“It’s not offensive, it’s life. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Your Majesty,” Cecil said, “may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Such a poem might prompt … curiosity about you and the Earl of Oxford. Perhaps his authorship could be hidden by a pen name?”
“What say you, Edward?”
“I have no objection.”
“Then it’s settled,” Cecil said. “Venus and Adonis will be published under a pseudonym—”
“Just a moment.” Robert limped closer to the queen. “In light of the … vivid language, I think Edward should also employ a go-between to whom authorship can be attributed.”
“You mean hire a dumb man?”
“Exactly, Your Majesty. Someone to deliver the manuscript to censors, thus further insulating Edward from any possible repercussions.”
“Edward?” The queen seemed tired now. “Are you agreeable to employing a go-between as a part of your mask?”
He, too, felt tired.
“Why not?”
“Do you have someone in mind?” Robert said.
“When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
Heigh-ho! Sing! Heigh-ho unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning.
Shakespeare
As You Like It
Edward went straight to Richard Field’s print shop and told him he’d be using a pen name for the long poem and would let him know what it was as soon as he picked one.
“How long will it take to set the type?” he said. “I’m told it will sell many editions.”
“Many editions for a poem about Venus and Adonis?”
“Field, don’t try my patience. If you must know, the poem’s about the queen and me—at least that’s the way it will be received.”
“You’re sure she’ll approve? I don’t fancy losing my hand.”
“She’s already agreed.”
“Very good, milord, I’ll get to work at once. By the way, milord, there’s a fellow looking for you. I sent him down to the The Theatre. He’s working with Burbage now.”
When Edward entered the amphitheater, he saw a young man sweeping up leaves and dust as if his life depended on it.
“Hello, Will.”
“Milord! How’d you know I was here?”
“Richard Field said you were looking for me. I’m glad to see you made it to London.”
“Thank you, milord. Sorry I never delivered them gloves. Pa said the kid was too expensive, and he never asks for an advance.”
“Don’t worry about it. How do you like the city so far?”
“I like it fine, though them carts with bodies kind of gets t’ me.”
“Found yourself a place to stay yet?”
“Field found me a room at the Mountoys that don’t cost much. And Mr. Burbage promised if a better job comes along here with more money, he’ll give it t’ me.” He swept the leaves into a pan and dropped them into the bucket. “I’m saving up to send the money home.”
What a stroke of luck.
“I don’t have much time now, but I wanted to ask you something,” Edward said. “How would you feel about being my mask?”
“Not rightly sure what you mean by that, milord.”
“It’s not considered proper for a man in my position to sign his name to something for sale—like, for example, a manuscript. So I need someone to let me put their name on my work, to act as a go-between with the printer and a few other people.”
Will looked thoughtful.
“I know such matters are complicated, but—”
“I understand all right, milord. You’re playing hide-and-seek.”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am. Of course, I’d pay for your assistance, not that you’ll have much to do. I’ll need you to bring my poem to the printer and to persons who approve publication—the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Mayor of London, the Stationers Registry. I’ll give you their addresses. And should anyone ask if you’re the author, just say yes. And that’s all there is to it.”
“Milord, I read a little, but I can’t write much.”
“They won’t care, Will. If you say you’re the author no one will challenge your assertion. Are you interested?”
“Would my name be on the poem?”
“It would.”
“I suppose I ought to ask, milord, how much? I mean, what exactly did ye have in mind t’ pay for my services?”
“I don’t want to take advantage. Give me a price, and if it’s within reason, you’ve got a deal.”
Will looked at Edward for a long moment. Edward waited.
“When I got t’ London and discovered luck was with me, milord, I decided the first thing I’d do with any real money I got would be to thank Pa by getting him the coat of arms he always wanted.”
“What a novel way to say thank you.”
“I heard there’s a man at the College of Heralds who looks the other way. All I got t’ do is pay ’im sixty pounds, milord. So that’s what my fee would be for being your mask. Sixty pounds.”
“I could buy the best house in Stratford for that.”
“Like I said, milord, I don’t know what t’ charge. But I know this is important t’ you, so I’m trying to be accommodating.”
“All right,” Edward said. “I’ll pay you sixty pounds if necessary, but I’d like you to ask your man at the College of Heralds if you can get away with less.”
“Be happy to, milord. How do I find ye?”
“Burbage knows. Just tell him you need me.”
With that Will returned to sweeping the floor and Edward left The Theatre, musing over the scene that had just taken place.
A few weeks later, he met with Will again. He said his man at the College of Heralds “won’t come down none on it.” Edward gave him sixty pounds and the Cecils the name of the go-between. Who, he’d decided, was cunning if uneducated.
The eighteenth Earl of Oxford was born in June—the first Henry in the Oxford family in five hundred years. Edward didn’t tell Eliza that Henry Wriothesley was the reason he chose the name.
About the same time, Venus and Adonis was published. Two editions sold out at once, and Field was already printing a third. Edward used the
proceeds toward the purchase of King’s Place in Hackney. It cost a fortune and needed work, but Eliza liked it. And Emilia would be right down the street.
In the middle of all this, Dr. Lopez sent a message: “Please come at once. Need your advice.”
“Ruy, my friend, how are you?”
Lopez looked thin, his usually rosy cheeks pale. Even his hair seemed whiter.
“As well as can be expected,” he said.
Edward steered him toward a chair. “Let me get you some wine.”
“Thank you. There’s sherry on the table behind you.”
He poured a glass and handed it to the doctor. “You said you wanted my advice. What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid it may be past the time anyone can help me.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Kit Marlowe’s been murdered.”
“No!” Such a promising talent! “What happened?”
“They claim he had a dispute with three of Robert Cecil’s agents over who’d pay for wine, but Kit surely knew no one fights with Robert’s men and lives to tell the story. They stabbed him in the eye.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Edward said. “Why on earth—”
“Edward, …” Lopez rubbed his eyes. “Kit discovered Mary Scots was framed, by Robert’s men. That’s why they killed him.”
Edward nearly spilled his sherry. “If that’s true, they’ll never get away with it—”
“Of course they will,” Lopez said.
The room was warm, yet Edward shivered. He refilled Lopez’s glass and poured one for himself. “Good sherry.”
“My father-in-law imports it from Spain.” Lopez forced a smile. “I suppose I’d better enjoy it while I can.”
“Ruy, what’s wrong?”
Lopez stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the garden. “I suppose there’s no harm in talking about it.” He walked back to his chair and collapsed into it. “Just before he died, Walsingham asked me to be a double agent for England. He wanted to trick King Philip into thinking I’d kill the queen. Then he planned to reveal the plot so Catholics would see Spain for what it is—an evil empire. I love the queen, but this intrigue went too far. I refused. ”
“Francis had his mad side, didn’t he?” Edward said.
“When Francis died, Robert got his files. He stumbled across Walsingham’s plot, and now he’s saying I plan to kill the queen.”
“Surely he sees it was only one of Walsingham’s plots,” Edward said. “Can’t you convince him?”
“I’ve tried,” he said. “London’s gone wild—conspiracy is everywhere. The queen might have saved me in the past, but now …”
“Ruy, this is absurd. I know how the queen feels about you. I’ll talk to her.”
He decided to walk back to Newington Butts. It was farther than he usually went on foot, but he needed to clear his mind.
He was almost home when he saw her.
“Hello, Emilia.”
“Edward!” She smiled at him. “Congratulations on your son. What’s his name?”
“Henry,” he said. “What brings you to Newington Butts? I thought you and Lanier lived in Hackney.”
“The house isn’t ready.” She tilted her head. “You look sad. What’s happened?”
“I just saw Dr. Lopez.”
“Did you hear what happened to Marlowe?”
“I did.” He swallowed. “Kit was so promising …” He shook his head. He couldn’t bear it.
“Emilia, could we meet?”
She looked away. “I never dreamed England would be like this.” She practically spit out her next words. “This scepter’d isle, this other Eden, this demi-paradise, this precious stone set in the silver sea, … this blessed plot, this realm, this England.”
“You made a few mistakes in your recital.”
She frowned. “Don’t you understand what’s happening?”
“Too well,” he said. “If Lopez is found guilty of treason, they’ll hang him, cut him down alive, slash his bowels, cut off his testicles, and chop his body in quarters—”
“Stop it!” She put her hands over her ears. “Have you gone mad?”
“No, but I can’t speak for the rest of the world.” He stared at her, eyes pleading. “Emilia. I need you.”
“That’s never been the issue.” She sighed. “Where and when?”
“Your house, now. I assume no one’s home.”
“Lanier insists on a servant. He thinks Hunsdon’s made him rich.”
“Then we’ll go to The Theatre.” He offered her his arm and she took it.
“Congratulations on Venus and Adonis,” she said. “I assume it’s yours.”
“The idea doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it? The countess told me bedding the queen made you a national hero. Many hoped she’d marry you.”
“You don’t resent my being with her?”
“Would it matter if I did?” She shrugged. “Only women pay the price for that sort of behavior.”
They reached The Theatre.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
She smiled. “Did we come here to talk?”
They laughed.
He tried the door—it was locked. Good, Will was gone for the day.
He pulled out his key, unlocked the door, and led her to Burbage’s office behind the stage. She fell into his arms—he marveled all over again at how perfectly she fit there. They undressed each other and plunged onto the sofa.
He began to move slowly—they might not be able to steal another moment like this. He closed his eyes, imagined that they were married, that it was early morning on a day like any other, that they’d make love again and talk all day and into the evening.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said.
“And I you.”
“How do you pass the days? Are they too long, like mine?”
“The baby takes up most of my time,” she said. “And I worry. Lanier went through nearly everything Hunsdon gave me. Now he’s selling my jewels.”
“I can help you.”
“Thank you, but I didn’t tell you that because I need the money. I can always take care of myself and the baby. I’m going to open a school, teach nobelmen’s children.”
“You’ll be a good teacher,” he said. “Just look at all the things you taught me.” He held her even closer. “I love you, Emilia, and I always will. Never forget that.”
“And I love you.”
“I’ve been writing sonnets about you at night. It keeps me sane.”
“I’m glad something does.”
They both laughed. Next to making love, he enjoyed their laughing together more than anything.
“I’m finally writing again,” she said.
“About?”
“The usual—a plea to women to reject the way the Bible portrays us, starting with the Fall. If anyone’s to blame for that, it’s not woman.”
He made love to her, again as if this time were the last. Afterward they lay side by side, his arm around her and her leg thrown over his. He told her about his new plays—and his mask.
“It’s killing me, seeing Will Shakspere’s name on my work. I’ve used pen names before, but this is different. It feels like someone’s stolen my writing.”
“Edward, he can barely read. No one will believe he’s a writer, much less the author of sophisticated plays.”
“What about a hundred years from now? He’ll be remembered and I’ll be forgotten.”
“You’re worried about a hundred years from now? I’m worried about next week.”
He laughed.
“I saw you dedicated Venus and Adonis to Henry Wriothesley.”
“I’m trying to convince him to marry my Elizabeth.”
“You were very passionate.”
“You should see the dedication in my next long poem, The Rape of Lucrece.”
She studied him. “Why such feeling?”
I’
m not sure.” He stroked her hair. “Except for you, I seem to have a habit of falling in love, then forgetting why.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “Well, I think you’re infatuated with Henry.”
“Maybe I’m hoping he’ll invest in my plays. The queen pays me a thousand pounds a year to write, but she could stop at any time. And you know how I am. Money slips through my fingers.”
“Is that why you wrote, ‘What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have, devoted yours’?” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
He buried his face in the space between her shoulder and neck. He felt her fingers—the ones that made such beautiful music—stroke his cheek. “Maybe I do love Henry Wriothesley.”
“I know.”
He pulled back and stared at her. “You do?”
“It’s hardly a shock,” she said. “You always write about two men who love each other—then a woman comes between them.”
He frowned. “Am I so transparent?”
“Perhaps only to me.” She smiled. “Edward, what’s your wife like? You haven’t said a word about her.”
“She’s a good woman and I care for her, but it’s not the love I feel for you.” He sighed. “But she looks after me sweetly, and—”
“You do need a lot of looking after.”
They both laughed.
“The Wits tell me I’ve become a recluse, but they haven’t seen anything yet.
When I’m settled in King’s Place, I’m going to write tragedies—no more comedies or English history plays—and no one will see me but you and my family.”
She grinned. “What about Henry Wriothesley?”
“Touché. Last night I described him in a sonnet as the master-mistress of my passion. I wrote that his body parts are superfluous for a man in love with a man.” He sighed and looked down at the floor.
“Edward, you’re ashamed of too many things—who you love, how you write—”
“You’re not the first to tell me that. Kit Marlowe said I should let my feelings out.”
“And look what happened to him.”
They got dressed. He let her leave first. When he opened the door of Burbage’s office, the theater was deserted.
The Shakespeare Mask Page 25