“Perhaps in time they will come to some understanding. I am here today to further the attempts at reconciliation between those two hotheads, and to see for myself genius as it unfolds.”
At that, Burbage smiled, stood aside and invited her in with a flourish. “Please then, my lady, I beg you enter our humble theatre.” The huge space was the typical Elizabethan venue Cassandra had studied in her History of the Theatre class at New York University, before she’d fallen in love with the science of Chronology and applied to MIT. This was one of those rare moments that only a time traveler was privy to, for no one else in the future really knew what the inside of this particular theatre had looked like. Octagonal in shape, it was made entirely of wood, with a proscenium stage jutting forward into the “pit,” sometimes called the “yard.” Surrounding that, in three-quarter round, were wooden bleachers, then two more levels of mezzanine above that, with cushioned seats for wealthier customers which encircled the stage almost entirely. Box seats for the most noble were closest to the action, so close to be practically part of the show. There was an overhanging roof protecting most of the seating, but the pit was open to the sky. It was larger than the more famous Elizabethan theatres that were emerging during this time, such as The Globe, The Rose, and The Swan, because it was used for many types of entertainment besides plays, in particular the dreaded bull and bear baiting. At the moment, the stage was empty of animals, actors, and scenery.
“Will!” Burbage shouted, “the esteemed Duchess has arrived!”
Shakespeare came running out onto the stage, then leapt the few feet down into the pit and hurried over to her. “Your ladyship.” He took her hand with his un-slinged one, and, like Burbage, bowed and kissed it. “Please forgive our modest home. Its ground is honored by your noble personage, the very quality of its light, which pours forth from the heavens, made more glorious by your beauty.”
“Don’t be such an ass, Will,” Burbage teased, lightly jabbing the other man in the ribs. Turning to Cassandra, he said, “The other actors will be here for rehearsal presently.”
“How exciting,” Cassandra enthused. “What is the play? Is it yours, Master Shakespeare?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, his eyes brightening. “The Taming of the Shrew, a comedy.”
“Ah!”
“Not a good title, is it?” Shakespeare rushed on without waiting for an answer. “We’ve made a few changes for its revival, and with them, I’ve been thinking of changing the name. What think you, Richard? I’ve been considering: To Love and Obey. Do you like it better, milady?”
“Oh, no. I like the first much better.”
“Very well.” He bowed his head in assent. “In your honor, then.”
“I wish we had time to give you a tour, Duchess Von Schell,” Burbage said. “But we must begin as soon as the others arrive. These damned actors are always late.”
“Another time, perhaps,” she replied. “I would be very happy merely to watch for a while.” There was a commotion at the door as at that moment the actors began filing in and one by one. They were introduced to her by either Shakespeare or Burbage, but she was already well familiar with all their names. Who could have imagined that those theatre history classes would prove to be so valuable? In a strange way it was much like meeting famous people from her own time: the lanky comedian Will Kempt; robust character actor Augustine Phillips; young, romantic lead Thomas Pope, teenage player Samuel Cross; handsome charmer Will Slye, and sober, sophisticated John Hemmings, among others.
Shakespeare led Cassandra to a seat in the first tier, ceremoniously handing her a pillow to sit on, and the rehearsal began. Burbage was essentially the director, and Shakespeare had only a small role. The actors already seemed to know most of the lines.
The play was a favorite of Cassandra’s, and she was thrilled to hear the familiar words uttered by the actors who had originated them. The troupe was working on the second act, which contained a scene she’d once worked on herself in college, in the role of Katherina, or Kate. Will Slye was playing Kate in this production, since the female lead was too old for Samuel Cross’s adolescent demeanor, and Will Kempt played Petruchio, the man whose job it was to try and subdue Kate’s outspoken and rebellious ways.
The scene that Cassandra knew so well began and she sat forward in anticipation, almost repeating the lines with the actors as it progressed. It was just as hilariously sexual, raucous, and outrageous in this early iteration as she and her scene partner had interpreted it: Immersed in his character, Kempt pulled Slye onto his lap. “Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.”
Slye, as Katherina, struggled to free himself. “If I be waspish, best beware my sting.” ‘She’ managed to partially rise from her captor’s lap.
“My remedy is then, to pluck it out,” he laughed, slapping her on the butt, which sent her flying.
“Ay,” replied Katherina, with a scowl, rubbing her rear end. “If the fool could find out where it lies.”
“Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.” Petruchio lounged in his chair with a satisfied demeanor.
“In his tongue,” spat Kate.
“Whose tongue?”
“Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.” In a huff, she turned to go.
Petruchio leapt from his chair, and grabbed her from behind. “What, with my tongue in your tail?” He wagged his tongue lasciviously toward the audience, then thrust her away, while Cassandra laughed loudly. “Nay, come again, good Kate; I am a gentleman,” Petruchio quipped, and the wild scene continued.
After they’d finished the act, Burbage called for a break and, removing his character’s wig, Shakespeare approached Cassandra. “I fear you will tire with the monotony as we repeat the act, not to mention the cold, dear lady. We must not keep you longer.”
In truth she was beginning to worry about where she was going to pee. Where would a commode even be located in a place like this? Probably there was an outhouse, maybe even two, in order to accommodate the theatre crowds, but she’d rather not have to undergo that particular experience.
What she had witnessed so far had not done much to confirm or deny Shakespeare’s part in writing the words. However, if she were going to broach the subject of the Earl of Oxford, she’d better do it now. She took a deep breath. “Master Shakespeare, I know it is an imposition, but there is someone I wish to meet while I am in London,” she said, the words coming out all in a rush. “I have heard that perhaps you are acquainted with him?”
Shakespeare blinked. “Of course, dear lady, I will be happy to help you―if I can.”
“Do you know Edward de Vere, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Your nephew wanted a meeting with him as well.” His eyes subtly narrowed. “I do not understand. What compels you to want to know Lord Oxford?”
“My husband knew him in their youths,” she responded quickly, repeating the lie she’d invented during the carriage ride there. “He spoke fondly of their camaraderie. I thought if he were in London, I would pay him a visit.”
“Of course, of course...” he nodded with a smile.
“James said you had mentioned knowing him, as a matter of fact. He said it was the point of contention at the Bear Garden.”
Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed again. “Why then did Master Gwynne not say he was a family acquaintance?”
Blood rushed to Cassandra’s cheeks. “I, I do not know,” she stammered. “Perhaps he felt the connection was not a strong one. However, good sir, if it is not pleasing to you to arrange the meeting, I will mention it no further.” She placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Please forgive me if I have offended you.”
The smile quickly returned to his face. “Of course you have not, your ladyship. However, Lord Oxford is not in London at the moment. He is residing in one of his country estates for, you see, he is out of favor with the Queen.”
“You do not believe he will be in London anytime soon
? I must admit, I am disappointed.”
“To tell truth, I have already written and asked him to come. There are some matters I must discuss with him.”
“I would not want to put you to any trouble, but if I could meet him while he is here, I would be very grateful.” She kept her hand in place. “If it is not convenient to arrange it, however, I will let the matter lie.”
He looked at her thoughtfully and covered her hand with his own. “You, milady, might be just what it takes to get him back to town. He could never resist the lure of a beautiful woman.”
“You flatter me, Master Shakespeare,” she said, retrieving her hand with a smile.
“Not at all. He will be intrigued to know you, I am sure of it. And I will suggest he use the opportunity to make things right with Her Majesty as well. It does none of us good to have her angry with him.”
“Are you and Lord Oxford very close?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“How did you come to foster a friendship with one such as he?”
“Do you mean a nobleman?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Let us just say he admires my writing.”
“As well he should.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a bow of his head.
They stood silently for a moment. He didn’t seem to want to say anything more about Oxford. It might be best to save further investigation until she actually met the earl.
“I will send a messenger to him today,” he finally said.
“Splendid. I shall look forward to meeting him. I must let you get back to your rehearsal.”
Shakespeare walked her to the door and saw her into the carriage. Just before the horses started off, a man dressed in tattered black clothing came running up waving a paper at her. She opened the window and leaned out.
“No, Duchess,” Shakespeare shouted when he saw him, “do not take that pamphlet! It contains nothing but lies.” To the man he yelled, “Be gone you useless wretch!”
The man stuffed the paper into Cassandra’s hand a second before Shakespeare tackled him to the ground, heedless of his injured arm.
“Do not be fooled, good lady,” the man cried from under Shakespeare’s shoulder. “This so-called Swan of Avon is nothing but an upstart crow!” He was skinny to the point of being malnourished, and seemed he might snap in half under Shakespeare’s weight. He had a long, hollow face and his skin was a pale shade of yellow.
Shakespeare held him vise-like with his knees and pummeled him with one fist while the men poured out of the theatre and tried to pull him off. “You shut up, Greene,” he yelled struggling wildly in the hand of his friends. “Shut up or I will shut you up!”
“Stop it, Will,” Burbage shouted. “This is no way to deal with your detractors.”
The actors yanked Shakespeare away from his victim.
Greene struggled to his feet, clothes muddied, mouth bleeding. “I’ll make you suffer for this, Shakespeare, or do you pronounce it Shaxpere? No one, not even you seems to know the correct spelling of your own name, you illiterate fraud!”
“You liar! How dare you spread false rumors about me? I will knock you senseless!” Shakespeare had to be held back from attacking him again.
“Hie you hence, Duchess,” Burbage called to Cassandra. “There is no need for you to bear witness to this ugly scene. Ride on,” he yelled to her driver, who urged his horses quickly back along the road they’d come by.
Shaken, Cassandra smoothed the wrinkled paper she clutched in her hand. It was not a pamphlet, as Shakespeare had called it, in the modern sense of the word, but a leaflet on which was crammed a long treatise of some sort. Though difficult to make out the cramped, but elaborate handwriting with the archaic spelling, it seemed to be a diatribe against Shakespeare, calling him a fake and a plagiarist. According to its author, Shakespeare stole his stories willy-nilly from other current writers, including Greene himself. Beyond that, it claimed the playwright didn’t have the upbringing or the education to write with the kind of authority he did about the nobility and matters of court, and insinuated he was merely a front man, hiding the true author of the plays.
What she was holding in her hand might very well be the first of such accusations. Her knowledge of the Oxford/Shakespeare argument wasn’t thorough enough for her to know if Greene’s assertions survived into the future, but James would know. For a long time she stared out the window at the passing scene of a time long gone, yet so vitally present. Finally, with a sigh, she glanced down at the paper once again. Then, she carefully folded it, placed it in her skirt pocket, and sat back in the upholstered interior to consider what truth might be revealed in the next few days.
Chapter Four
It had been a week since Cassandra’s trip to The Curtain―a long week, in which there was nothing to do but supervise the making of more clothes for herself. She had not been invited back to a rehearsal―perhaps Shakespeare was embarrassed about the encounter with Greene. She and James spent the time feeling hopeless, reading and re-reading the pamphlet from Greene. James was upset that he had missed meeting the man―for, as it turned out, his allegations against the great playwright would actually be given credence in the future. If only they could meet Oxford, they agreed, so much could be revealed.
On the morning of the eighth day, as Mistress Flint was helping Cassandra into one of her new dresses, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, followed by a loud knock on the bedroom door.
“My lady!” James cried, out of breath.
“Wait a moment, master,” Mistress Flint replied before Cassandra could. The officious woman had taken on the dressing of the Duchess as a personal project. Today’s ensemble was a relatively simple one: a one piece gown of deep blue-green silk, with long, narrow sleeves, cut square around the neck and edged with black and gold trim. She wore no farthingale under it, but the skirt was made full by folds and gathers around the waist. The front was split, and beneath she wore an underskirt of the same blue green, but of a brocade floral print, accented in black. The housekeeper looked over her mistress one more time to be sure everything was cinched, pinned, puffed and fluffed into place. Why Cassandra was bothering with the fancy dress was beyond her own comprehension. There was nowhere to show it off. Still, it was good practice to move around in it, and learn to endure the heavy fabrics and constraining undergarments.
“You may enter,” Mistress Flint finally declared.
The door flew open. “We have received an invitation from the palace.”
“Oh good lord,” Mistress Flint gasped. “From the Queen herself?”
“It is signed by her secretary, Robert Cecil,” James said, more to his mother than the servant.
“What does it say?” Cassandra queried in as normal a voice as she could muster.
“It says we have been summoned to the Queen’s Presence Chamber at Whitehall Palace, Saturday next, at eight o’clock in the evening, in order that her majesty may, ‘receive the illustrious Duchess of…’.”
“Oh goodness.” Cassandra sat abruptly on the only chair in the room. Breathing was suddenly more difficult. She pulled at her bodice as if she could possibly loosen it. “Does it say if Lord Oxford will be there?”
“No, it doesn’t. Mistress Flint, may we have a moment?”
“Oh, forgive me, sir,” she dimpled her cheeks at him, then trundled out.
“I can only assume he will be,” said James, “because neither Shakespeare nor Burbage could possibly get us an invitation to court on their own.”
“Can we send a message to Shakespeare? We have to know if this invitation is a result of his getting Oxford back to London.”
“Yes, come into my room, my writing desk is there.”
“You’ll have to do it,” she said as they entered and she spotted the quill and ink pot. “I haven’t used this stuff since I was in Italy.”
He dashed off a note and they went to find the serving boy. They found him in the kitchen, plucking a chicken.
“Yes, master.”
The boy wiped poultry blood on his pants as Cassandra cringed. The cook took the bird from him with an annoyed glare while Henry pocketed the note and dashed away.
He returned about an hour later, rushing into the dining room as Cassandra and James were just sitting down to the midday meal. “I found him, sir! And I have got a reply.” His fair hair was tousled, and his green eyes glinted with his success.
“Good,” said James, holding out his hand.
Henry hesitated and stepped back, dragging his sleeve across his damp nose. “He did not write it. He bade me memorize it.” Before James could respond, the boy plunged on. “He says, ‘Please tell the beautiful Duchess I was able to reach Lord Oxford. He has since returned to London, most intrigued to meet her. He has asked my patron, The Lord Chamberlain, to procure us an evening at court and thus, Lord Oxford, Master Burbage, and myself shall meet with Duchess Von Schell and her nephew at a gathering of music and dance, Saturday the twenty-eighth of February at eight o’clock of the night.’ He says he hoped you received the invitation, sir, milady,” he added with a bow.
“Excellently done, my boy,” said James, rising to pat him on the back.
“Thank you, sir,” Henry replied, beaming. The large gap between his two front teeth gave his little face a comical aspect. “My schoolmaster says I am a quick study.”
“And so you are. Here is your reward.” James handed him four pennies, the equivalent of what a young apprentice might make in a day.
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you!”
Cassandra threw James an appreciative smile. He was a kind master, as she would expect. It was moments like this she knew she and her husband had brought him up well.
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 5