The Shakespeare Mask

by Newton Frohlich

  He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. But didn’t he always when he was with Emilia?

  How many ages hence

  Shall this our lofty scene be acted over

  In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

  Shakespeare

  Julius Caesar

  The queen had signed Dr. Lopez’s death warrant—Edward had to confront her.

  He’d sent a message requesting an appointment, but there hadn’t been time to wait for a reply. He took a sedan chair to Westminster.

  Usually she didn’t emerge before noon. He drew up a chair and sat down to wait. To his surprise, her clerk appeared at eleven, ushered him into her private chambers, and left him alone with the queen.

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Edward. What’s so urgent?”

  He was a good four feet from her, but still he could smell her breath. Ruy had pleaded in vain with her to let the surgeon remove the black teeth.

  “Your Majesty, you signed Ruy Lopez’s death warrant.” He waited a moment. “Please tell me there’s some mistake.”

  She stretched out her hand, palm down, fingers spread, and studied the diamond-and-ruby ring on her finger.

  “Do you like it?” she said. “Ruy gave it to me. King Philip sent it to him when he agreed to poison me. We laughed when Ruy told me about it.”

  He glanced at the ring. “It’s beautiful.”

  “He said he’d put the poison in my syrup. So clever—he knows I can’t stand syrup.”

  He began to relax. Perhaps signing the warrant had merely been another one of her gestures, one she had no intention of enforcing.

  She looked up, her eyes fixed on some point beyond him. “I told Ruy to save the ring for his daughter, but I changed my mind. I sent a message to him in the Tower that I needed something to remember him by.”

  “Your Majesty—”

  “Parliament’s unyielding, Edward. I have to comply.”

  “But the trial’s a farce! The panel didn’t let Ruy call a single witness. Your mother received a better hearing than that!”

  She stiffened. “She was as innocent as Ruy. It’s Parliament who’s got him, not me.”

  “But you can stop it!”

  “No one can stop a mob. If I don’t kill Ruy, Parliament will kill me.”

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. “With respect, Your Majesty, that makes no sense.”

  She looked at him and shook her head. “Poor Edward, you really don’t understand. When they’re in a group, people aren’t rational. Ruy’s a Jew. They need someone to burn, and I can’t be the one in their path.”

  “At least postpone the execution!” He was shouting. He forced himself to lower his voice. “Once people cool down—”

  “I hate delays,” she said. “They make my heart flutter and my stomach twist.”

  “Ruy could give you something for that.”

  She smiled. “He always made me feel better.” Again her eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point. “Do you remember your first tournament? When you won again the next year I loved you even more.” She began to cry.

  He seized her hand. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if you won’t stand up for Ruy, who will?”

  Her face went still. She drew back her hand. “Earl John would be proud of you.” She stood. “I’ll make my apologies to Ruy in heaven. There they have no trouble remembering Jesus, too, was a Jew. Now, Edward, I must ask you to leave.”

  Outside, he waved away the sedan chair. The queen’s words still rang in his ears as he limped down the street toward The Theatre. Londoners all around him raced toward the killing field at Tyburn, drunk though it was still morning, singing, waving flags, eager to be as close to the scaffold as they could.

  That night he felt as if he’d witnessed Ruy’s execution a hundred times over. At last he got out of bed and wrote.

  Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands? Organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?

  He achieved no catharsis. He should have gone to Tyburn to protest, but he was as much a coward as the queen.

  When he finally fell back asleep, his dreams were a parade of the dead: Earl John, Nan, Uncle Tom, Sir Thomas, Kit Marlowe, now Ruy Lopez.

  Was there no end to bigotry and hatred? After the doctor, who was next?

  The next morning he went to The Theatre. The front door was open, and the wind crept in to stir the dust and leaves. He heard the soft swish of a broom from somewhere past the stage.

  “Will?” he called. “Will Shakspere?”

  The sweeping stopped and Will stepped out, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “Good to see you, milord.”

  “I wrote a poem, The Rape of Lucrece,” he said. “I’d like you to deliver it to the censors. Do you remember the addresses?”

  “I remember ’em, milord. What sort of payment did ye have in mind?”

  “I already paid you sixty pounds.”

  “That you did, milord, and thank you again. But a new poem’s a new task, isn’t it?”

  Too weary to argue, he handed Will the package.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Being as you’re a good customer, milord, I’ll keep the price same as before.”

  “Another sixty pounds?”

  “I’m still wearing the clothes I was wearing when I come t’ London a year ago, you know. And I got a wife, kids, Pa, Ma, a sister, three brothers—”

  Edward held up a hand. “I find your argument persuasive.”

  “Glad we could come to an agreement, milord.”

  “I don’t have that much with me,” he said, “but last week Burbage and I were getting ready for The Theatre to reopen and came up with a plan. I think I could include you in it. To your profit, of course.”

  “Sounds good, milord. How would that work?”

  “Sir Robert Cecil tells us he’s limited the number of companies permitted to perform in London. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men, under Lord Hunsdon, will stage my plays here. The Admiral’s Men will likely stage some of them at The Rose. How would you like to be a shareholder in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men? We’ve six already, but I see no reason why we couldn’t add a seventh. In return for delivering my poem, I’ll buy your shares for you.”

  “What exactly would I get in money?”

  “It depends on the number of performances and how many attend. Over the course of a year, I’d think, you’d receive as much as five pounds a week.”

  “Would I have t’ pay taxes?”

  “Most people do. It’s the law.”

  “Sounds good t’ me, milord.” He grinned. “Count me in.”

  “Mind you, I’ll require more than a single manuscript delivery.”

  “How much more, milord?”

  “You’d start by helping with the move to the new location. Burbage may lose his lease here and he’s trying to get Blackfriars.”

  “Blackfriars is smaller, isn’t it? That’d cut down on my share.”

  “True. It’s only a hundred seats,” Edward said. “But it’s enclosed, so he’ll be open year-round, which will increase your share. Did you obtain that coat of arms for your father?”

  “Dethick’s kept me hanging. Milord, when could I expect the first payment out of my shares?”

  “Sometime in the spring.”

  In the fall, Edward’s daughter Elizabeth became engaged to William Stanley, the Earl of Derby. The Stanleys were always fighting among themselves, but with only twelve earls left and most of them married, there wasn’t much to choose from. Besides, Stanley’s brother had been the patron of the Earl of Derby’s players, and William wrote plays.

  Edward had personally delivered Henry Wriothesley’s invitation to the wedding, but Henry tendered his regrets. Essex had asked him to be his aide on a raid on Spanish ships. To Edward’s surprise, he was relieved. He was too
old for fantasies. Besides, he was immersed in a play for Elizabeth’s wedding, one he’d been thinking about since Italy. He’d never forgotten Sabbioneta, that grand villa he visited en route to Florence. He was setting the play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in the Sabbioneta’s private theater.

  Four months after the wedding, he slipped five pounds into Will’s pocket.

  “Thank you, milord.”

  “Perhaps now that the theater is doing so well you’ll bring your family to London.”

  “Later, milord. I got somethin’ cooking.”

  “What’s that, if I may be so bold?”

  “Sorry, milord. I’m not at liberty t’ tell ye.”

  He felt a sense of unease—the whole point of employing a mask was to maintain a low profile. He didn’t fancy having to get Will out of trouble if some hare-brained scheme went sour.

  He stopped by Emilia’s house—he went there often. She seemed even happier than usual.

  “Essex took a fancy to the recorder, Edward, and invited my Will to come play for him on the voyage to the Azores. He said music will help pass the time.”

  “Last night I wrote a sonnet about all the Wills in my life,” Edward said. “I call them my Wills in Over-plus. There’s Will my mask; Willy my nickname; Will your husband; Will Cecil; Elizabeth’s husband, Will Stanley; Will Lewyn—”

  “Well, my Will finally spent the last of Hunsdon’s gifts, so I went to see Dr. Formon to find out if he’ll gain anything from the voyage. Essex promised to knight him.”

  “And what did your astrologer-cum-physician predict?” Edward started undressing.

  “He said Will won’t become a knight, then he asked me to climb into bed with him.”

  “He what?”

  “He offered to waive his fee, so I got in.” She saw his face and rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look—we didn’t fuck. I lingered a while, then I left.”

  “What do you mean lingered a while?”

  “He threatened to tell everyone about the mole on my breast,” she said. “Then people would think we’d been together. What could I do?”

  He felt sick to his stomach. “It didn’t bother you?”

  She shrugged. “No more than being sold to Hunsdon and Will.”

  Her practicality nauseated him. He pulled his shirt back on. “I’m going.”

  “Very well,” she said with a sigh.

  “That’s it? You don’t even want to know why?”

  “I’m sure I’ll read about it in one of your sonnets. What a troubled life the seventeenth Earl of Oxford leads.”

  “You’re outrageous.”

  She spun around to face him. “What about you? Have I ever accused you of faithlessness because you sleep with your wife?”

  “That’s different, and you know it!”

  “Get out, Edward. And don’t come to see me again.”

  He stormed out. Did he expect her to keep herself for him? Of course not—that would have been impossible. But whatever he’d loved in her was gone.

  No. Emilia was, as ever, being herself. Love had blinded him.

  That night he couldn’t sleep. His work was no longer his own, the woman he loved slept with other men, and the young man he cared for was risking his life on a madman’s voyage.

  He threw off the blankets and got out of bed. Eliza was asleep. Awake or not, she always had peace of mind. How?

  He prowled the halls of King’s Place, walked through the dancing gallery-turned-library and into the moonlit garden. He stalked the paths between the fruit trees. Emilia confounded him.

  A woman that is like a German clock,

  Still, a-repairing, ever out of frame,

  And never going aright, being a watch,

  But being watch’d that it may still go aright!

  Work on his tragedies the following year improved his mood so much he almost looked forward to giving Will his payments.

  “Hello, Will. I’ve got five pounds for you.”

  Will stopped sweeping. “Thank you, milord.”

  Edward looked around. The lease was about to expire here and the deal with Blackfriars had collapsed. Soon he’d be out of places to perform, save The Rose and the hall at court.

  He glanced back at Will, halfheartedly swiping his broom across the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Will looked up. He looked weary, lost. “My son, milord. I just got word—he’s dead.”

  Edward slung his arm over the younger man’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Will. What happened?”

  Will took a steadying breath. “My brother says he drowned in the creek.”

  “I lost a son, years ago,” Edward said. “It’s a terrible thing.”

  “What happened to him, milord?”

  “Died in his crib.” Old grief overtook him. He patted Will’s back. “If there’s anything I can do …”

  Will shook his head. “Thank you, milord, but I don’t figure there’s a thing in this world to be done about it.”

  Edward nodded and handed him the pouch. “Again, I’m sorry. Please give your wife my condolences.”

  “Thanks. I’m up to my ears with Gardiner and Wayte, so this might help.”

  “The South Bank judge and the owner of The Swan?”

  “Judge got a court t’ serve me this writ.” He pulled a grubby piece of parchment from his pocket.

  “Let’s go inside. You can sit down, I’ll get you some beer.” He steered Will toward a chair near the theater entrance. “May I see the writ?”

  Will handed it to him. “I got t’ give the court a bond t’ guarantee me and Wayte and Dorothy and Annie don’t disturb the peace.”

  He studied the writ. It contained no reason for its issuance. “Tell me about it, Will.”

  “Wayte had a deal with Annie Lee and Dorothy Soer—they’re prostitutes and they make good money. Him and me was going t’ help them, if you know what I mean. But the Bishop of Winchester and the judge own brothels, and they don’t like competition. They shut us down. Your five pounds’ll keep me out of the clink at least.”

  Edward checked his anger—however unfair, there was nothing he could do about the writ. Will had broken the law.

  “I have more scripts for you to deliver,” he said. “They’re a little more complicated. Every actor needs his own copy. I planned to pay you three pounds per delivery.” He looked directly into Will’s eyes. “But I can’t have you getting in trouble with the law. I hope that’s clear.”

  “It won’t happen again, milord, I promise.”

  “What if you were to move back to Stratford? Whenever I have a job for you I’ll send a message, you’ll make the delivery, then return home. You’d be well away from all the temptations of London, and I’m sure your family needs you right now. What do you say?”

  “Oh, I’ll go back t’ Stratford, milord. I’m not happy here anyway. Any time you need me, you can find me at that shop on Henley Street or at the house I’m buying. It’s called New Place. By the way, milord, do you think you could give me an advance for the next two or three deliveries? I’m a little short of the purchase price, y’see.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Thirty pounds, milord.”

  “Thirty!”

  “Milord, with ten actors a play and a script for each, I figure that’s what you’d be paying me for one job anyway.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. If it weren’t so frustrating, he’d have laughed. For all his troubles, Will was better with money than he was.

  “I’ll pay you half now and half when the scripts are ready.”

  “That’s very kind, milord. Very kind. I won’t forget.”

  The next year, 1597, Ben Jonson wrote a play with Tom Nashe called The Isle of Dogs. A satire on corruption in London, it attacked everyone from Robert Cecil on down a long list of courtiers. After one performance, Robert threw Jonson and Nashe in Marshalsea Prison.

  Mary Sidney, impressed by Jonson’s brilliance, used her Pembroke influence to
get them out of jail, but the damage had been done. Robert Cecil ordered all copies of The Isle of Dogs burned and shut down every playhouse in London.

  The timing was terrible. Edward had just completed several plays and he’d already sent word to Stratford. So far, the system worked beautifully—whenever he called, Will came. The actors accepted their scripts and never said a word about the “author.” Edward’s plays were the golden eggs, and they were smart enough to spot the real goose.

  On one of Will’s visits to London, Edward invited him to have a drink at The Steelyard.

  “How’re you keeping?” he asked.

  “Lending money, milord. If blokes don’t pay I go t’ court. But it’s not too often, and the money’s good.”

  “I hope you’re not drawing attention to yourself?”

  “No one cares about a lawsuit filed for a few shillings, milord. Besides, I spend most of my time trading grain and investing in real estate. I’m buying a 107 acres in Welcombe. Pa knows all about farms. And I got my eye on a cottage on Chapel Street—”

  “You get into a lot of things, don’t you?”

  “I learn my lessons, milord. Ye got t’ have more than one iron in the fire.”

  “How true.” He gave Will the five pounds he’d earned before Robert Cecil closed down the theaters, along with a little extra with which to enjoy his new home.

  The next troubling bit of news about Will came from the heavyset Ben Jonson on an evening when they met for drinks.

  The young playwright wiped foam off his lip. “Milord, the town of Stratford cited Will for hoarding grain in a drought, and the city of London cited him for not paying taxes. I’m no goody-goody, but hoarding grain in a drought?”

  Edward frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “I am,” Ben said. “And since Robert Cecil reopened the theaters, Will parades around in fancy clothes and brags about his coat of arms. Folks will start to wonder where he gets his money.”

  “I’ll have a word with him, Ben. Thank you for telling me.”