Читать книгу My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play - Dan Walker - Страница 5

Backstage at Whitehall Palace's Great Hall, the Earl of Oxford's Players were scant minutes away from their first performance. Costumed actors, prompters and wardrobe keepers hurried about attending to final details.

Their patron, Edward de Vere, a tall, well-built man with finely chiseled features and clear, bright eyes stood to one side looking harried and tense. The Earl's concerned expression was perfectly understandable. After all, how many plays debuted in front of Queen Elizabeth?

But Edward wasn't contemplating his Courtly audience. He was mentally cursing Elizabeth's impatience. A scant three days earlier, the Queen, wearying of constant postponements, had ordered him to stage his play without further delay.

Why did she have to meddle so? Edward asked himself angrily. Any fool could see that the entertainment was, as yet, unfinished. If not for her express command, he would still be hard at work, rehearsing and writing, lovingly shaping "Twelfth Night" into the glittering jewel he saw in his mind's eye.

Out front, Anne Vavasor, Elizabeth's newest maid of honor, stepped into the Great Hall to make her own Court debut. Two needlewomen had spent days perfecting Anne's green velvet gown and its golden adornments. Resplendent in pearls and a glittering emerald tiara, this alluring young woman caused quite a stir as she strolled slowly through the vast audience. Anne's perfect features, topped by an abundant mane of raven-black hair, enslaved several hearts before she took her seat near the front.

Backstage, a servant hurried over, disturbing Edward's thoughts. The troubadours, who were to play the Duke of Illyria's musicians, had still not arrived. Edward shrugged gloomily. He had long ago sent every man he could spare in search of the missing troubadours.

Dismissing the servant, Edward looked down at the prompt script in his hand. The play's opening lines seemed to mock him. How could he possibly open this of all plays without music?

Edward looked up in agitated frustration. The servant was hurrying back towards him. He sighed with relief. The musicians had arrived, in the nick of time. Well, their apologies and excuses could wait until later.

The servant rushed to Edward's side. "The Queen! The Queen!" he whispered urgently.

-:-:-

Trumpets sounded in the Great Hall. The chatter quickly died away as everyone stood and turned to watch Queen Elizabeth enter. She was seated alongside Lord Burghley, her senior advisor. Courtiers and ladies resumed their seats chattering in excited anticipation. Elizabeth was ready for the play to begin, but she looked around in vain for Edward's broad-shouldered frame.

The Earl peeped out at his audience from backstage. He saw Burghley whispering something into the Queen's ear. Edward guessed that the Lord Chamberlain was gallantly offering to investigate the delay. Such assistance would quickly unmask Edward's problem.

The Earl decided to play for time. Throwing his prompt script aside, Edward stepped out into the Great Hall and walked over to Elizabeth. Smiling gallantly, he bowed extravagantly before the Queen.

Annoyed at being kept waiting, Elizabeth acknowledged him with a cursory nod, "What do you have for us tonight?"

"A comedy, your Majesty. Noble dukes and elegant ladies, all transfixed by Cupid's piercing arrows..."

"We don't like comedies," the Queen said sourly.

"But, surely your Majesty used to dote on witty plays, replete with clever turns of phrase."

"Such frivolities no longer suit my advancing years," Elizabeth interrupted, fixing a stern gaze on the Earl.

"Perhaps your Majesty should consider banning comedies from the Court?" Burghley suggested.

"I might at that," Elizabeth said, turning to Burghley. "Laughing stretches my cheeks, causing these hideous wrinkles." Elizabeth patted sadly at her jowls with two bejeweled hands. Burghley shot a mocking glance at Edward.

"Majesty, I must protest..." the Earl began in a spirited fashion.

"What!" Burghley barked.

"Your beauty is a timeless wonder, famed throughout all the courts of Europe..."

Elizabeth lifted her hand to silence Edward.

Pretending not to notice, he continued, "Why, only last week, a certain ambassador, who shall remain nameless, confided in me that your flawless charms moved him so greatly that the poor fellow knew not whether to treat you as a queen or as a woman."

"And what did you tell this ambassador?"

"I advised him to treat you as both, Majesty," Edward replied, bowing deeply.

Elizabeth smiled, her impatience momentarily curbed.

Burghley scowled. "How much longer do you intend to keep her Majesty waiting?" he snapped angrily.

Behind the Lord Chamberlain, Edward spotted several guards ushering his troubadours into the back of the Great Hall. Beaming, the Earl turned to Elizabeth, "We await only your royal command to begin," he said.

"Begin, begin!"

Edward replied with his best bow. Straightening up, the Earl turned and walked towards the waiting troubadours as if he had always intended for them to make their entrance from the rear of the Great Hall. The musicians bowed deeply as Edward approached. He gestured to them to begin playing.

The troubadours may not have known how to make their way backstage on time, but these handpicked musicians certainly knew their instruments. They began a hauntingly beautiful melody. Edward directed them towards the stage. As they strolled slowly forward, the glittering Court audience turned to watch, amused by the novelty of this opening. Edward strode quickly backstage.

The actors playing Orsino and Curio were standing ready to take the stage. Unfortunately, the actor charged with delivering "Twelfth Night's" opening lines was nowhere to be seen. Edward hurried into the wings. His musicians had just gained the stage. He signaled them to reprise their introduction. Turning to face the audience, the troubadours accomplished this seamlessly. As they did so, the Duke of Illyria appeared adjusting a freshly powdered wig.

Exasperated beyond words, the Earl ushered him and the other players on stage. Then, snatching up his prompt script, Edward collapsed into a chair.

The Duke began:

"If music be the food of love, play on!

Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That melody again! It had a dying fall..."

Before the First Act was over, Elizabeth had interrupted with applause on five separate occasions. Such praise was unprecedented.

Burghley struggled to hide his anger at Elizabeth's obvious delight. For one desperate moment, the Lord Chamberlain even considered reminding her that such abandoned laughter would only accentuate the royal wrinkles.

Hidden in the wings, monitoring his players from the prompt copy, Edward began to relax. No one else seemed to notice that "Twelfth Night" was, as yet, unpolished.

He found himself savoring the thought that, despite his doubts, the play was a resounding triumph. In an instant, all the long, hard hours spent writing and rehearsing were forgotten, as was the expense of acquiring and supporting his company of players. Edward even forgave the tardy troubadours. Life and human endeavor seemed blissfully worthwhile once again.

On stage, the Duke was speaking of love. "Let still the woman take one elder than herself."

Beaming broadly, Edward snuck a discreet look at his audience. "Twelfth Night" still held the entire Court firmly in its grasp.

"So wears she to him, so sways she level in her husband's heart."

Suddenly Edward spotted Anne sitting amongst the audience.

"For, boy, however men do praise themselves..."

Sensing Edward's eyes upon her, Anne looked over at him. She quickly glanced away, only to look back.

"...their fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won than women's are."

Edward gazed at the Court's newest maid of honor, completely entranced by her youthful beauty.

On stage, Viola replied to the Duke, "I think it well, my lord."

The prompt script slipped from Edward's hands, breaking his trance. He ducked down to retrieve it and was astonished to find himself gasping for air. The Earl had been holding his breath!

"Then let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent. For women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour."

"And so they are - alas, that they are so - to die, even when they to perfection grow."

-:-:-

Elizabeth's eyes never left the stage. The audience followed her lead, hardly knowing what to make of such brilliance. When "Twelfth Night" ended, the Great Hall exploded in a furor of enthusiasm.

Edward led his players forward. They took bow after bow together, savoring their triumph. Even Edward, who harbored few doubts about his writings, was taken aback by the emotions surging through him.

The Queen and her Court had reacted to his scenes and characters just as he had intended. There was a heady power in commanding such an immense and sophisticated audience. Bowing deeply, Edward felt its strength surge through him with an absolute joy.

"Twelfth Night's" dazzling debut dominated Court conversation for days afterwards. Only one lone courtier spoke out against Edward's comedy. His name was Christopher Hatton and he objected to being lampooned as Malvolio, the play's cross-gartered blusterer. When, at Burghley's suggestion, Hatton complained to Elizabeth, she dismissed his objections with a wave of her hand.

Several days later, the Queen rewarded Edward with a large country estate. The Earl had become her Majesty's newest shining star, but stars can fall all too easily. Within a year his brilliance would tumble headlong to the earth.

-:-:-

Edward, dressed even more than usual in the height of courtly fashion, stood outside one of Whitehall Palace's music rooms. Inside, he could hear Anne playing a lively galliard by William Byrd. The Earl couldn't understand why he, Elizabeth's most accomplished favorite, should suddenly feel as nervous as a schoolboy whenever he saw the Queen's new maid of honor.

The compelling desires that burned inside him reminded Edward of those heady days when he had first discovered romance. For years, he had thought of little else. Now, this beautiful young woman was rekindling those distant feelings.

Anne's face besieged his thoughts day and night. Simply hearing her voice filled the Earl with desperate longings. When he slept, the maid's faultless form floated through his dreams. He often woke in a hot sweat, imagining that the bed linens were the touch of Anne's smooth skin pressing eagerly against his yearning body.

Gently pushing open the music room door a crack, Edward peeped cautiously inside. Anne was performing on the virginals for a small audience mostly made up of Court musicians. She played exquisitely. A handsome young admirer stood attentively at her side, waiting to turn the pages of music.

Suddenly, Anne looked up from her score and favored the room with a brief, radiant smile. Edward's heart was racked with urgent desires. He longed to fling open the door and rush to Anne's side.

The Earl reached for the doorknob and then hesitated, frozen by fear. His knuckles whitened as they squeezed the handle. Edward realized that he couldn't venture even a single step inside the room without being betrayed by his heart's frenzied poundings. He could only stand, hidden by the door, spying tenderly on his newfound love.

-:-:-

The setting sunlight slanted through open windows, throwing Edward's pacing shadow against oak-paneled walls and intricate tapestries. His rooms were located at the Savoy, a faded, old castle on the Strand. They consisted of two good-sized bedchambers, an impressive dining room and a large study. Each room was decorated with carpets, solid furniture and gilt candlesticks.

Tiring of his restless pacing, Edward threw himself across the bed, a bottle of wine within easy reach. For the thousandth time, he contemplated fate's newest irony. On the exact same day that "Twelfth Night" had won him the Queen's favor, he had lost his heart to a maid of honor.

Every courtier knew that dabbling with Elizabeth's maids was the fastest way to arouse the royal rage. Passionate thoughts about any maid of honor, never mind the youngest arrival, were the very height of folly. For Edward, as the newest favorite, such musings were nothing less than social suicide. Published abroad, they would topple his career at Court just as it was beginning.

Elizabeth was an extremely possessive woman, highly intolerant of romances inside her Court. Edward had seen her so carried away by rage that she had struck errant lovers with her own royal hands. A lengthy stay in the Tower was mandatory for any person of rank who dared to marry without first seeking Elizabeth's permission.

It was, of course, no great wonder that Henry VIII's daughter loathed romances in her maids. After all the Virgin Queen must be surrounded by virgins. Court romances might become less dangerous if she could be persuaded to marry, but Edward knew that Elizabeth would never take a husband. Wedlock would make her a mere queen, while now she reigned supreme as both king and queen.

An elderly courtier had once told him that prudent single noblemen remained celibate while at Court, or if that was impossible, sought out married women who wouldn't try to tie them down in marriage as maidens or widows would. Edward had found this amusing at the time, but now he also saw the wisdom of such advice.

Clambering off the bed, he walked into his study, carrying the wine bottle. Picking up a pen, the Earl resolved to forget his foolish infatuation. He told himself that his priorities lay not in a new love affair, but in penning more entertainments for Elizabeth.

Edward set pen to paper but, for once, the words denied him. It was all very well for a white-haired courtier to urge celibacy but Edward was still relatively young and possessed of an extremely fertile imagination.

Even now, as he sat at his desk, face furrowed, pen to lips, his reveries kept drifting back to Anne. They gave him no mercy. Images of her raced through his thoughts without respite. He recalled how she sat at the virginals; her talented fingers caressing the keys; the way she looked up from the musical score, smiling demurely.

Pushing all thoughts of Anne from his mind proved impossible. After an hour or so of trying, Edward resolved to break free of her spell by concentrating on someone who aroused only contempt in him: Burghley.

Soon the Earl was looking down at four lines he'd penned:

"The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is only fit for treasons, plotting and spoils,

The motions of his spirit are dull as night."

It was a serviceable enough sentiment but it did little to distract him from thoughts of Anne. Could he find solace in writing about this new yearning? Setting the page aside, Edward dipped his pen, turned to a clean sheet of paper and tried for something a little more romantic.

Hours later, despite scratching the pen over page after page, all his work had been tossed aside. Nothing his quill crafted could match the passions Anne aroused in him.

Tossing the pen aside, Edward slammed his palms down on the table. Leaping up, he stalked the carpet in agitated frustration. What was it about her that stirred him so? If he could only discover that, then he'd be better able to resist her. Like many of the thoughts that occur to men in the early morning hours, this idea had immediate appeal.

Abruptly, not knowing beforehand that he'd do it, Edward summoned a groom. Soon he was astride his favorite horse, cantering over to Whitehall. It wasn't difficult for Elizabeth's favorite to enter the palace late at night. He hurried down empty corridors towards the sleeping quarters. Finally, Edward stood outside Anne's bedchamber.

Suddenly, the Earl felt timid and flustered. Taking a firm hold on all his courage, he eased open the door and slipped quietly inside Anne's dark bedchamber.

His heart pounding, Edward crept on tiptoe towards her sleeping form. What if she should wake? What if he should be discovered? The consequences were unthinkable, but he couldn't stop himself. Edward was pulled towards her. As he drew near, his entire body began to tremble with repressed excitement.

He debated turning back at every step but then he saw her sleeping face and, suddenly, all the risks seemed worthwhile. Anne was lying peacefully with her head turned towards the open window. Soft moonlight revealed the young maid's exquisite features, framed by a white lace pillow. Fragrant breezes drifted in from the garden, gently ruffling her long black hair.

Anne's generous lips were slightly parted and as she exhaled they made the faintest cooing sound. Hardly daring to breathe, Edward bent close to this perfection. Her face filled his eager, covetous vision. The maid's flawless skin glowed with a taut, silky-smooth sheen. Edward found himself mesmerized by the minuscule hairs that clung to her like golden fur begging for his touch.

The Earl stayed close to Anne for several minutes, intent on memorizing every detail of her. Then with a gentle sigh, he turned and stole out of the bedchamber.

Edward rode away from Whitehall with his head tilted back, admiring the innumerable stars. The Earl's mind was calm, his thoughts untroubled. He had decided to court and win Anne Vavasor. A sweet sonnet took shape, soaring in flowing rhythms across the sparkling night sky.

-:-:-

The following evening, Anne entered her bedchamber dressed for sleep. As the maid climbed into bed, she found a sheet of paper, neatly folded and discreetly sealed, lying on her pillow next to a single red rose.

Unsealing the poem, Anne began to read,

"How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

The wiry harmony that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those keys that nimble leap

To kiss the tender fingers of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips

Over whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.

Since saucy keys so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss."

Carefully folding the sheet of paper, Anne repeated part of the last line softly to herself, "Thy lips to kiss."

Then, leaning forward with a sudden, gleeful giggle, she blew out the candles, plunging her room into darkness.