Читать книгу My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play - Dan Walker - Страница 11

Their first morning together at Bilton Hall dawned bright and cloudless. Edward took Anne for a tour of his estate in a small open coach.

"Have you had your players long?"

"No. 'Twelfth Night' was our first performance."

"A stunning debut."

"Thank you. I'd have had my own players much sooner had it not been for..." Edward's voice trailed off awkwardly as he decided he had already said too much to Anne about Burghley. "My studies," he mumbled, flicking the reins.

As the horses picked up their pace, Edward's mind drifted back to the time he had approached Burghley regarding players.

-:-:-

As a leading Protestant with many Puritan friends, Burghley was not fond of stage plays. He regarded even traveling street plays as worthless and vulgar. In his official eyes, they were dangerous incitements to lewd behavior and civil riots.

Their predecessors, the mystery plays of medieval times, had met with his approval. Performed in church courtyards, market squares and open fields, mystery plays dramatized Biblical events with the Church's blessing. The newer plays relied on bawdy couplings or violent deaths to attract an audience. Such antics were not to Burghley's liking.

In marked contrast, Edward was missing his father's players. This was only natural since he had grown up amongst them and was himself both a gifted actor and an accomplished mimic.

One day, taking his courage in both hands, Edward told Burghley about his wish to perform plays at Burghley House.

"The theater you speak of portrays the worst in us, Edward. It glories in murder, matricide, and every other evil possible."

"Are not these evils all part of life?" Edward asked.

"Of course they are. And we'll see more of these horrors the more the common people see them enacted before them. Such plays arouse excitement in the commoners; stir them to imitations, especially when they've been drinking. That's why I've urged her Majesty to forbid performances in alehouse yards."

"But...is it not important to confront the dark side of life?"

"Not directly, because the people imitate what they see. That's why we should never allow provocative acts on stage, it's too dangerous, even the Greeks knew that."

"But, the Greeks acted everything out."

"You're referring to the early Greek dramas, which do indeed portray unspeakable acts. But they were only the beginnings of Greek drama. After those lewd plays sparked riots at the theaters, the Senate banned all acts of violence from the stage."

"Hence the Greek playwrights' love of myths and metaphors."

"Precisely. Senate imposed. Plato and others agreed with me. They strove to ban all plays because such 'entertainments' provoke sacrilegious feelings and unworthy passions."

"That was thousands of years ago!"

"Yet even truer today! We'll have no players in my household nor in the kingdom either, if only the Queen would heed her chief counsel."

-:-:-

Naturally enough, Burghley's damning condemnations only increased Edward's interest in the theater. From his readings about Europe, he knew that the Renaissance flourishing there had transformed Italy's theaters. Edward longed to visit Italy and see its public theaters for himself. Unfortunately, the Queen controlled all foreign travel. Obtaining a passport required powerful connections.

Edward made his wishes known to Burghley, but, predictably, the Lord Chamberlain refused to approach Elizabeth on Edward's behalf. Instead he quoted the precept he had written on foreign travel, "Do not allow your sons to cross the Alps. If by travel they should acquire a few languages, these will profit them nothing more than to have one meat served up in many dishes."

-:-:-

That night, in retaliation, Edward made plans to slip away from Burghley House. Years earlier, he had discovered that the massive house was honeycombed with secret passageways and hidey-holes. Now, disguised as a commoner in broken-down boots and raggedy clothes, he began using these hidden passages and entrances to sneak out at night.

Listening to the stable boys, Edward had long ago perfected a commoner's London accent. With this voice and his disguise, he was able to roam freely through the city's busy streets.

The young Earl was soon a familiar sight in London's poorest and rowdiest neighborhoods. Eastcheap's largest and most popular players' tavern was the Boar's Head. Spirited actors and young poets met there nightly to pen poems and read lines.

On Edward's very first visit to the Boar's Head he met John Lyly, a hawk-faced, intense young scholar with a flair for romantic verse. The two found a shared interest in books and ideas as they strolled from tavern to tavern, clutching lanterns to light their way through the dark streets.

Edward passed many evenings carousing with Lyly in this agreeable manner. Amidst the free and easy camaraderie of the taverns, the Earl, like many young men before and after him, would occasionally sup a little too well. Thus relieved of his critical faculty, he, again not unlike many others, found the world a fine and pleasant place laid out for his amusement.

Late on one such evening, in his favorite seat, near the fire in the Boar's Head, Edward inquired of Lyly and his other companions, "Is it not vile in me to desire a small beer?"

The fellow sitting next to him hiccupped loudly. Edward turned to the man. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he asked, "Shall I tell you one thing?"

By way of reply, the man fell sideways off his chair and sprawled unconscious on the floor. Edward continued, "It is this." He referred to the manuscript in his hand. The ink was still wet. "Oh, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil."

His companions applauded Edward's lines and called loudly for more beer.

Other, grimmer, memories intruded into the Earl's drifting thoughts. He recalled the night when, returning from the taverns even later and drunker than usual, he'd taken a wrong turning and become lost in the huge house's secret passageways.

Confused, the Earl had wandered for almost an hour, groping for the right door, moving by feel, before a narrow beam of light attracted him to a peephole. Leaning against the wall, Edward applied a drowsy eye to the peephole and was startled to find himself looking into his own bedchamber.

-:-:-

One of the horses whinnied, interrupting Edward's thoughts. He looked over at Anne with a guilty start. He'd been daydreaming. How long had he been ignoring her? How could he make amends? His memories of roaming Eastcheap in disguise gave the Earl an idea. Turning to Anne, he said, "Let me ask you a riddle. What's better than life?"

"Milord?" replied Anne with a shrug.

"Two lives," Edward said, grinning widely. "Have you ever dressed as a peasant and spent a day with the common folk?"

"No, milord."

"Disguise is fashionable at court."

"I have heard it said."

"Especially in matters of the heart."

She blushed.

"Have you ever tried venturing forth incognito?"

"No, have you?"

"On occasion, yes."

"For matters of the heart?"

"No," he laughed. "For the sport of it, and for freedom from courtly duties and stuffy etiquette."

Anne giggled.

"Would you care to exchange your fine robes and jeweled collars for the linens and freedoms of a simple rural woman?"

"For how long?"

"An hour, a day, as long as you please."

"But where would we go?"

"To date, the year has been plague free, so May Festivals will be held throughout Warwickshire this week. We could attend several. Do you consent?"

Anne regarded the Earl thoughtfully. "I will dress as a commoner, and spend Mayday with you, on one condition."

"Name it."

"That you never leave my side."

"I swear it, even by thine own fair eyes."

-:-:-

On May 1, Anne and Edward rose before dawn, disguised themselves as commoners and rode to the nearest thatched village. There, they joined in the festivities, watched Morris Dancers and country mummers perform, and whirled merrily around garlanded maypoles with local lads and lasses.

Early one brisk, sunny morning, Edward and Anne took a leisurely ride to the northern reaches of Bilton Hall's estate lands. Once there, they followed a dusty, rutted path into thick, secluded woodlands. Soon, the horses were ambling along a green, overgrown tunnel, tall grasses tickling their bellies.

As they rode along, enjoying the peaceful solitude, Edward ransacked his brain for an argument that might sway Anne to grant him her favors. If he could only get her in the right mood and broach it just so, surely he could persuade her. But when was the right moment, and what could he say? These thoughts were interrupted when he saw a strange procession approaching through the leafy shadows.

At its head, Edward recognized Fulke Field, his senior gamekeeper. The gray-haired Fulke was carrying several trussed hares. Behind Fulke walked a raggedly dressed man in his early twenties, followed closely by two brawny gamekeepers. As they drew near, Fulke nodded and tugged his forelock respectfully.

The four men stood aside to let Edward and Anne ride past on the narrow path. As the Earl drew level with them, the young man suddenly leapt forward and grabbed hold of Edward's stirrup. Clinging to it with desperate strength, he looked up at Edward beseechingly.

"Mercy, milord. Have pity on a poor, hungry man whose only crime was tryin' to feed his family, milord!" the man cried in a thick rural dialect.

Recovering from their surprise, the two gamekeepers sprung forward and began prying the man's white-knuckled fingers loose from Edward's stirrup. Hanging on, he kicked at his attackers, and shouted, "I beg you milord!"

"Quiet you!" yelled Fulke lifting the trussed hares high. "Caught him helpin' 'imself to your lordship's hares, milord."

"Mercy, milord, I beg you."

"'Tis not his first offense, milord. It's a good whipping and off to the magistrates with 'im."

"Then jail?"

"Most assuredly, milord."

"Pity! Pity, milord. Pity," moaned the unhappy poacher.

Bending the poacher's fingers back, the gamekeepers succeeded in freeing Edward's stirrup. As they began dragging the unfortunate man away, Fulke aimed a smack at his head. The glancing blow brought forth a fresh flood of pleadings.

"Take pity on me, milord, a poor man tricked into marriage. I've got a wife and three bairns t'feed..."

"Fulke," commanded Edward. "Bring the fellow here."

The gamekeepers dragged the wretched poacher back to Edward.

"Thank you, milord. Thank you. I 'ave to put food on the table. I'm their only support..."

"Quiet man. You say you were tricked into marriage?"

"Aye, milord."

"How?"

"The woman was pregnant."

"Aye, with thy child, Will!" chortled one of the gamekeepers. The other gamekeeper burst out laughing.

"I speak true, your honor. Susanna was born not six months after the wedding. Then the twins. Five mouths t'feed. Take pity..."

"Enough," Edward said. Turning to Fulke, he asked, "Do you know this fellow?"

"Aye, milord."

"What's his name?"

"Will Shakespeare, milord. He's from Stratford, just down the river."

"Was he forced into marriage, as he claims?"

"Well, milord, his wife is...overripe in years."

The gamekeepers exchanged coarse sniggers. Fulke quieted them with an angry glare before continuing, "And the Hathaway brothers are all heavy-handed varlets."

Edward turned back to the poacher and asked, "'Twas indeed a forced match then?"

"Aye, 'twas that, milord," Will said sadly.

"A loveless marriage is an unwished yoke."

"Aye milord, and mine is the worst ever hung on a suffering man's neck."

"I doubt that very much," Edward said with a tight smile.

"Milord?"

"No matter. You have argued well. Fulke, is this man a frequent poacher?"

"Well, err...No milord, more of a dabbler, I'd say."

"Do you have any trade other than poaching?"

"I can make a lovely soft pair of gloves for milady and a fine, strong pair for you, milord."

"Fulke set him free. He can go."

"Thank you, milord. Thank you, a thousand..."

"See that you leave off poaching. Stick to your glove making."

"I will, milord. I promise you that. Thank you, milord. Thank you."

Edward and Anne spurred their horses forward along the leafy path.

"That was merciful of you, Edward. Did you do it to impress me?"

"No, I just felt sorry for the poor man. I fought with several Shakespeares from these parts in the Scottish wars. Brave men and true. They may have been his kin."

"You must have been young then."

"I was."

"Why did you go?"

"It was my guardian's idea." Again, Edward fought the urge to speak openly of his hatred for Burghley. "I suppose that he thought the battlefield would round off my education."