Читать книгу My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play - Dan Walker - Страница 12

It hadn't taken Burghley's spy, Hugh Brincknell, long to discover Edward's nocturnal excursions. He began shadowing him through London's dark alleys, past the tavern signs and shuttered house-fronts, to the Boar's Head. Burghley received regular reports:

"The Boar's Head again, Brincknell?"

"Aye, milord. Disguised as a player."

"With Lyly and the same unrestrained companions?"

"Aye, they're all base and common fellows. A looser bunch would be hard to find, milord." Brincknell yawned sleepily. "A thousand pardons, milord. Oxford mocks the midnight bell."

"A plague on his wanton ways. What else?"

"Lyly and he move from tavern to tavern, trading lines, milord. At times, the Earl shouts at the moon, swaying from side to side, then he falls against Lyly roaring with laughter."

"Don't their antics attract the night watch?"

"Lyly keeps an eye open for them, milord. He looks after the Earl when he's in his cups."

"What else? Wenching? Gambling? Brawling?"

"No, milord."

"Is he still 'acting' in public?"

"The Earl does indeed join in on occasion, undercover, with a few of the alehouse players."

"Gives he no thought to his station?" Burghley complained.

"The Earl takes parts that match him, milord, kings, and the like."

Burghley snorted derisively.

"He's good. The crowd always cheers him loudly..."

Burghley silenced the man with a raised hand. "Don't defend him. The young fool is belittling his rank in life."

"He is that, milord."

"Does the drink still loosen his lips?"

"Aye, milord, and that's not the worst of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, in his cups, milord, I've heard him say that the Lord Chamberlain is, begging your pardon, milord, 'a worse tyrant than Herod.'"

"The impudent cur."

"Worse is yet to come, milord."

"Speak man, speak."

"I don't like to say, milord."

"Speak."

"Well, milord. After a great many drinks, milord, I have heard him cry out that he is sworn to kill the Lord Chamberlain."

"Kill me?"

"Aye, milord and to send to hell any who try to stop him."

-:-:-

Alone in his office, Burghley worried about Edward. In the early days, it had amused him to play a cat-and-mouse game with his ward, but, of late, Edward's antics had ceased to be a laughing matter. As the unruly youth approached his majority he was becoming harder and harder to control. All Burghley's efforts at discipline had failed. Now he had to endure this latest insult, public threats against his own life.

What if word of Edward's drunken mouthings or disguised wanderings reached Elizabeth's ears? Bested in his own house by his own ward! Such news could easily damage the Lord Chamberlain's reputation. He might have to relinquish his lucrative post as Master of the Wards. Even worse, it could cost him the Queen's respect. After all, how could she trust him to run a country if he couldn't even tame one headstrong youth?

The Lord Chamberlain began pacing nervously. There was an additional consideration; when Edward reached his majority, he would slip even further from Burghley's grasp. He might even develop an interest in finance. For years, Burghley had been quietly moving the bulk of Edward's estates into his own careful, covetous hands. What if the Earl began studying his accounts?

He could voice the discrepancies publicly. This would alert the other noble wards whose estates had fallen into his care. They might begin poring over their finances. What if Edward took his complaints to the Queen? This scenario disturbed the Lord Chamberlain greatly. Burghley decided it was time to rid himself of his troublesome young ward.

The opportunity he had been seeking arose when several northern lords allied themselves with Scotland to usurp Elizabeth's throne. The Queen hastily convened the War Council.

Inside the packed Council Chamber, Burghley addressed the assembled lords, arguing that an army be dispatched north to the border country with all speed.

-:-:-

As usual on security matters, Elizabeth was quick to see the wisdom of Burghley's advice. With her nodding approval, he quickly appointed Lord Sussex head of the army and ordered him to smash the rebels so hard that they would never again threaten England.

As the Council meeting ended, Elizabeth spoke to Burghley privately.

"Are you aware that Sussex's own brother has joined the rebel forces?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"Is it wise to appoint Sussex our Commander-in-Chief when his brother fights against us?"

"Indeed it is, your Majesty. Sussex's appointment assures us a speedy victory."

"Why?"

"He'll fight like a barbarian, intent on atoning for his brother's disloyalty to your Majesty as quickly as possible."

"I see. Thank you, Burghley." The Queen turned to leave the empty Council Chamber.

"If your most gracious Majesty would kindly grant me a moment of your time, there is another pressing matter that I would like to discuss."

"What is it, Burghley?"

"Walsingham's spies have reported that Mary, Queen of Scots, is fomenting this rebellion, Majesty."

"Damn that interfering hussy's eyes!"

"'Tis said that young Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, is favorable to her cause, your Grace."

"Does he even know her?"

"They may have met secretly at Carlisle last May, Majesty. I am awaiting confirmation of that rumor. My men tell me that he is highly vulnerable to the Scottish Queen's charms..."

"But she has none, Burghley!" snapped Elizabeth in a sudden rage.

"Of course not, Majesty," Burghley agreed. With a polite bow, he began backing away towards the door.

"Wait. What do you counsel?"

"I see no reason for Norfolk not to be called into your Majesty's service in these latest troubles..."

"And die fighting?"

"Or fall prey to some battle camp sickness. We can have Sussex keep a careful eye on him."

"See that he is involved in the hottest part of the fighting, Burghley."

"Of course, Majesty. One final thought, if I may..."

"Yes?"

"His cousin, Oxford..."

Elizabeth nodded. "I met the Earl, years ago, an exceedingly learned lad. He's one of your wards, isn't he Burghley?"

"Oxford was the first boy kindly entrusted into my care by your most gracious Majesty. He and Norfolk are very close. Like his cousin, Oxford's only nominally a Protestant."

"You suspect him of aiding Norfolk?"

"I do," Burghley replied, nodding gravely. "Despite all my efforts, I fear that he is misusing his great learning in defense of the Old Faith."

"How long must we endure such heresies?"

"You may recall that we had the same problem with his father."

"Yes, of course. Does Oxford have a suit of armor?"

"Not yet, Majesty, although the lad is fully grown."

"See that he is fitted with one at once. Then send Oxford to aid his cousin on the battlefield."

"As you wish, Majesty."

-:-:-

In 1570, Edward rode through Aldersgate, the City of London's North gate, and turned his horse's head towards Scotland. His cousin, Thomas Howard, now the third Duke of Norfolk, accompanied him. They rode at the head of 80 gentlemen in livery and 100 yeomen. Each soldier wore Edward's crest, a silver five-pointed star, embroidered onto his tunic. Lumbering wagons loaded with supplies followed behind.

The cousins joined Lord Sussex in the border country between England and Scotland. They found his army camped on a rain-swept moorland preparing for imminent battle.

An aide escorted them to Sussex's tent. Inside, the red-faced commander paced angrily, full of barely restrained war lust. In place of a welcome, Edward and Thomas were given a quick briefing on the battle calls. With a hasty bow, the aide ushered them out of Sussex's tent.

As Edward and Thomas moved their soldiers into position, drums sounded and bagpipes wailed. Then, the booming of artillery began as cannon fire swept the open battlefield. Ear-splitting blasts filled the air, peppering thousands with shot.

Unfortunate warriors tumbled writhing to the ground, as if felled by an invisible ax. Then, the dead and dying were left behind as the two armies charged forward, yelling their battle cries. They clashed together like wild bears set on each other. Roaring, desperate, hand-to-hand fighting raged across the blood-soaked heather.

Deployed in the English vanguard, Edward and Thomas galloped forward stirrup to stirrup. They smashed into the Scottish ranks, methodically hacking their way through the press of men and armor.

When their horses were brought down, the cousins stood back to back, swinging their heavy broadswords as men fell all around them. Before the battle was over, each had saved the other's life some dozen times.

As darkness fell, Scotland's flags and banners hung in tatters. Elizabeth's forces had won the day. Retreating in confusion back across the border, her foes were massacred along with scores of innocent townspeople caught fleeing the fighting.

Early the next morning, Sussex, mindful of Elizabeth's instructions, launched a revenge campaign across the River Tweed into Scotland. His forces laid much of the land to waste. They burned towns, raped women, and strung up more than 800 rebels on gibbets.

-:-:-

Edward found this ugly bloodletting a far cry from his father's noble training with its emphasis on honor and chivalry. The savage killings he witnessed took a terrible toll on the young man. Night after night he hung between waking and sleeping, tossing and turning restlessly in his tall tent. Beads of sweat sprang from his forehead as grisly memories paraded behind closed eyes. Battle alarms and wild oaths mixed with slashing blades and the screams of victims trampled underfoot. Thundering cannons and pounding war drums startled him from sleep.

One night, as hard-riding, wide-eyed soldiers galloped headlong through his dreams, Edward's pounding heart woke him in a cold sweat, the stench of saltpeter clogging his nostrils. With a wild cry, he stumbled out of bed and grabbed up a pen, the cannon blasts still ringing in his ears.

Soon Edward was scratching out warnings against the dogs of civil war:

"Tell the traitor - for yonder methinks he stands -

That every stride he makes upon my land

Is dangerous treason. He is come to open

The purple Testament of bleeding war;

But ere the crown he looks for lives in peace,

Ten thousand bloody crowns of mother's sons

Shall ill become the flower of England's face,

Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace

To scarlet indignation and bedew

Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood."

Once again, Edward's pen grounded his fears; the words worked their healing magic. Fears expressed on paper no longer had the power to haunt him. Edward laid his pen aside and sprawled on his bed. Sleep came quickly. Tranquil oblivion replaced dark nightmares.

-:-:-

A blistering summer heat beat down on Edward and Anne as they rode out of the sheltering woods and turned their horses towards the river Avon. By the time the riverbank came into view, Anne was feeling hungry and thirsty. To her delight, Edward's servants had set a picnic in a shaded area where several graceful willow trees dipped their branches into the gently flowing waters.

As they ate, Anne asked Edward about his early days at court. She assumed that his bravery in Scotland had established him as one of Elizabeth's favorites.

"If only it were that simple, Anne. Fighting is expected of noblemen. The Queen reserves her special praises for warriors who can advance on two fronts."

"What mean you?"

"Her Majesty favors only those who are skilled at both warfare and the arts. I set out to conquer her with a sword in one hand and my quill in the other."