Читать книгу My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play - Dan Walker - Страница 9

Edward guided his horse off the Strand and up a long driveway towards Burghley's London home. The huge square pile of white stone stood in vast, landscaped grounds near the middle of the bustling city, its opulence a fitting tribute to Burghley's exalted office.

The first clash occurred shortly after Edward's arrival. He was escorted up a polished marble staircase to Burghley's office. The Master of the Royal Wards had prepared a list of rules for those placed into his care. Burghley was eager to introduce his first ward to these morsels of wisdom. He acknowledged Edward's bow with a brief nod and waved the boy into a seat at an ornate writing table, in front of paper and pen.

"Take up the quill, boy," Burghley commanded. Edward picked up the pen slowly. It felt awkward in his hand. With the exception of one brief eulogy, he hadn't written a word since his father's death.

"Feel free to take notes as I read from my list of rules," the Lord Chamberlain said imperiously. He then began pacing the room, reading his list in a hectoring, self-righteous tone:

"Costly your habit as your purse can buy, but not expressed in fancy; rich not gaudy; for the apparel often proclaims the man. Give every man your ear, but few your voice. Take each man's advice, but reserve your judgment. Always keep some great man for your friend..."

Like most powerful figures, the Lord Chamberlain was accustomed to speaking without interruption. After years of such social deference, accorded him by an obsequious family and staff alike, Burghley had become extremely long winded.

As he droned on, Edward's active imagination hunted around for some distraction. Soon his mind's eye had transformed Burghley into a character performing on a stage. The audience fell about laughing. The less Burghley noticed his own pomposity, the louder the audience laughed. After 10 minutes or so, Edward, for want of any better pastime, began lightly sketching this scene on the paper in front of him.

Fifteen minutes later, Burghley moved to his concluding remarks: "Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, bear it that the opposed may beware of you." The Lord Chamberlain paused, lifting a finger in pointed emphasis. "Neither a lender nor a borrower be, for loan often loses both itself and friend.

"This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, you canst not then be false to any man."

Laying down his notes reverentially, as if they were some great text handed down by ancient prophets, Burghley walked over to Edward and asked, "Well, what do you think of those rules? I'm going to call them my first precepts..."

Burghley's voice trailed off as he saw Edward's sketch lying on the table. It included a distinctly unflattering caricature of the Lord Chamberlain.

Grabbing a handful of the boy's hair, Burghley hauled Edward to his feet. No one had ever pulled on Edward's hair before. As the young Earl wriggled in Burghley's tight grasp, he could hardly believe such pain existed.

"You insolent wretch!" Burghley bellowed in his ear. Releasing Edward, he snatched up the sketch and tore it into tiny pieces. Then, still seething with rage, he shoved the boy towards the door, shouting, "Get out! Get out!"

After he had calmed down, Burghley decided that the best way to deal with Edward would be to keep him occupied at all times. Picking up his pen, the Lord Chamberlain drew up a list of daily activities for the young Earl.

He ordered that Edward's day should begin at seven with lessons covering such subjects as French, Latin, Greek, Cosmography, Penmanship, Writing, and Drawing. Active pursuits like fencing and horsemanship were deliberately omitted. Smiling to himself, Burghley laid his pen aside, confident that Edward would be too busy to trouble him further.

-:-:-

Isolated from normal family influences, Edward did indeed bury himself in books and study. At first, he amused himself writing tirades against Burghley, which he stored under lock and key in his writing box.

Soon, Edward moved beyond merely unburdening himself to crafting a wide range of stories and poems. Ever since his father's death, sleep had become a rare, precious gift and he spent many long nights writing, using candles he kept hidden from Burghley.

Alone in the bookroom, Edward learned to be content and even to prosper in his own company. Bookrooms were only just becoming fashionable, and Burghley, as befitted his high rank, had created one of the finest in England.

Ancient scrolls and parchments lay scattered amongst a vast collection of maps and books. Edward discovered the riches of Chaucer, Copernicus, Cicero, Plutarch, and Plato gathering dust on Burghley's shelves. He was sustained by a vivid inner world peopled with these giants.

After 6 months or so, the Earl embarked on a detailed history of the Oxfords. He began with Aubrey de Vere's arrival in England from France, shortly before William the Conqueror. Aubrey earned great favor when he supported William's invasion in 1066. His grandson became the first Earl of Oxford.

Edward originally conceived of this family history as an epic poem. But, as he pushed his pen across the pages, the poem grew into a series of stage plays, which Edward imagined being performed at Castle Hedingham.

Delving deeply into English history, Edward was delighted to discover that he was by no means the first Oxford to chafe at the restrictions of authority. The third Earl, for example, had helped force King John into signing the Magna Carta. The twelfth Earl had been executed on Edward IV's orders. His son escaped to the Continent where he lived as an outlaw. In 1485, the thirteenth Earl returned at Henry Tudor's side, and engineered Richard III's defeat at the Battle of Bosworth Field.

Edward spent hours strutting around acting out his ancestors' heroic achievements to the unmoved walls. He became his own best audience. The young Earl was also his own harshest critic. No matter how Edward pored over his lines, he always ended up dissatisfied with these early plays. They stayed locked away, well out of his guardian's reach.

-:-:-

Whenever Burghley traveled out of London with the Queen, Edward was free to explore the house and its large estate. A keen rider, he spent much of this time in the saddle. By not standing on his rank, the Earl quickly made himself popular amongst the stable boys and grooms. Alerted to Edward's wanderings, Burghley appointed Hugh Brincknell, one of his household spies to watch him.

Every Sunday morning, the family and a small army of servants assembled under the Banquet Hall's carved hammer-beam roof. Here, Burghley's piety prevailed upon him to read several lengthy passages from his Bible. Few members of the household relished this pretentious ritual. The stable boys in particular tended to shift their feet around restlessly. Several even dared to look as if they'd rather be elsewhere.

Burghley's voice would gain momentum as the gospel took hold of him. At times, unable to contain himself, he would stalk up and down, gesticulating with his free hand, as if hammering home Biblical lessons to an appreciative audience of thousands.

Like everyone else, Edward was obliged to attend this spectacle. Unlike the others, he viewed it with an actor's eye, as a performance to be mimicked.

-:-:-

Although Burghley preferred to conduct official business from the Lord Chamberlain's Building, he also met secretly with spies at Burghley House. One of his most trusted court contacts was the flirty Phoebe Holwick. A maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, Phoebe was tall with wide hips and a husky voice.

One Sunday, following the morning reading, Burghley met with Phoebe in his paneled office at Burghley House.

"Phoebe, of all my many titles and positions, I think Master of the Royal Wards may yet prove the most profitable. I want you to find me more orphaned children from among the old nobility."

"You intend to house more royal wards?"

"Precisely."

"But, I thought you detested your ward. Last week, you told me that he was 'Satan's spawn.'"

"Oxford's an impudent brat, but the liberal neglect with which he treats his own riches are more than adequate compensation."

"The young Earl may be filling your purse now milord, but what happens when he realizes his holdings have been diverted to your accounts? Won't he make trouble?"

"Like any true nobleman, Oxford has no patience with financial matters. Last year, he spent a king's ransom on clothes alone."

"With your tailors, I trust."

"Of course, Phoebe. An Earl must always look his best, even if he's only rotting in the bookroom."

They both laughed.

"You can trust your middlemen?"

"Self-made, one and all. They hate the old families as much as you and I hate them."

"Although he neglects his accounts, Oxford's no fool. Even he's bound to notice when all his money's gone."

"Before he assumes his majority, I'll dispatch him to fight somewhere. If England's enemies don't kill him, some battlefield pestilence will."

"Best do it before he can marry and father an heir."

"Of course, Phoebe. Now, what other rich families have fatherless children in need of firm guidance?"

"Well, I've heard whispers that old Lord Somerset..."

Phoebe broke off as Hugh Brincknell hurried into the study.

"Beggin' your pardon, milord..." Burghley rendered the man silent with a raised hand.

"Excuse us, Phoebe. We'll continue this next week."

"Of course, milord," said Phoebe. She curtseyed and left.

"The stables, milord."

-:-:-

Brincknell led his master to the stables. Peeping inside, the Lord Chamberlain saw Edward busily imitating Burghley's morning reading, much to the delight of 20 or so stable boys. Red-faced with anger, Burghley stepped into the stables.

Edward had his back to the stable door so, unlike his horrified audience, he failed to notice the Lord Chamberlain's entrance. Holding an open Bible, the Earl raised a leg high in parody of Burghley's restless pacing. Losing his balance, he staggered backwards and toppled over a bale of hay. The Bible flew from Edward's hand, sailed through the air and landed at Burghley's feet.

Those near the back took advantage of this brief distraction to slip quietly out of the stable's rear door. Clambering back to his feet, Edward surveyed the depleted audience. Stable boys struggled to conceal their emotions. Turning, Edward glanced over his shoulder towards the stable door and Burghley's wrathful gaze.

"Edward, I'd like a word with you in my office, now. The rest of you, attend to your duties!" As the stable boys scrambled for exits, Burghley scooped up Edward's Bible, carefully dusted it off and carried the leather-bound volume out of the stable.

-:-:-

The battered Bible lay on Burghley's desk like an exhibit at a trial. Edward stood beside the desk, watching as the Lord Chamberlain paced the room.

"You were encouraging common stable boys to laugh at me!"

"It was just a comic act..."

"Now I'm fully aware that you think yourself above those who have earned their lands by effort not birth..."

"'Twas only an entertainment..."

"Don't interrupt me!" Burghley bellowed. "Do you have any idea of the agonies awaiting those who make sport of the Holy Scriptures, Edward?"

Undaunted, the young Earl spoke up, "I meant no harm..."

"It's blasphemy! And throwing the Bible around is sacrilegious! But two sins are not enough for you. Oh, no. You have to add the stench of mockery!"

"The Bible was an accident."

"You were ridiculing England's Lord Chamberlain in front of his own servants. That's flagrant insubordination. Left unchecked, it promises a complete end to discipline in this household. I'm sure you realize that an example must be made, Edward?"

"They were laughing at me, not you..."

"Don't argue, Edward. I saw them with my own eyes."

"It was done in jest."

"I almost thank Almighty God that your father is dead and has been spared the sight of his son..."

Edward launched himself at the man's throat. Stepping back with surprising agility, Burghley swung his right hand in a wide arc. His open palm slammed into Edward's left cheek with a powerful slap. Edward was knocked sprawling to the floor. Burghley stepped forward and stood over the boy, his fists knotted menacingly. Rubbing his cheek, Edward scrambled into a sitting position. He looked up at the tall figure, defiantly.

"And now you dare to add outrageous assault to your long list of transgressions..."

Edward's right boot lashed out, catching Burghley in the shins. The Lord Chamberlain jumped back, howling in pain. Bending, he clutched at his aching leg. "You little demon," Burghley gasped. Then he rushed forward and began his beating. Edward curled up defensively as a storm of vicious blows and kicks rained down on him.

"I'm going to save the holy sisters a lot of heartbreak over you, my boy," Burghley grunted through clenched teeth.

After a time, the Lord Chamberlain paused to catch his breath. "That should curb your appetite for kicking," he panted.

Edward looked up at Burghley, his face a blood-covered mess. The Lord Chamberlain hurriedly stepped back, out of kicking range. "And there'll be no more roaming around the stables, acting the fool. You'll confine yourself to the bookroom except for meals and sleeping, do I make myself clear?"

Lying on the floor, nursing his bruises, Edward stared up at him coldly.

"Good," said Burghley and with that, Elizabeth's senior advisor turned and stormed out of the room.

-:-:-

Many other clashes followed. Like all tyrants, Burghley was always eager to crush any barrier in his path. He took great delight in beating Edward for even the smallest transgressions. Eventually, the boy became reluctant to speak to any of the household staff for fear of getting them into trouble. Yet, despite all his cruel efforts, Burghley never succeeded in forcing his ward into submission.

Edward spent 4 years by himself in the bookroom. Its shelf-lined walls, peopled by towering minds from past generations, became his tutor. With the simple turn of a page, Edward was able to float effortlessly across centuries of ideas and discourse.

The young Earl had a special passion for stories about long-past triumphs and tragedies. Hours slipped by unnoticed as he sat with Holinshed's Chronicles or Thucydides' account of the Peloponnesian War. He was also fascinated by the abundance of rich material on Italy and its flourishing Renaissance.

-:-:-

In a far corner of Burghley House, Edward was still having difficulty sleeping. Since leaving Castle Hedingham, he had spent many nights lying in the dark, grinding his teeth, waiting for sleep. After a few hours of such misery, the young Earl usually lit a candle and wrote or read away the long, lonely hours until morning.

As long as he was reading or writing, Edward felt in control, but whenever the boy slept, his inactive mind fell prey to troubled memories. Violent, distorted images of his mother's betrayals would jerk him awake crying in terror, trembling with apprehension.

One night, around his thirteenth birthday, all this changed. Edward had finally fallen asleep, having slept only 2 of the previous 36 hours. After only an hour or so, he was wakened by a bad dream.

-:-:-

Instead of lying on the sweat-soaked sheets cursing his fate, Edward got up and crossed to the window. Opening it, he leaned out, craning his neck upwards. It was an unusually clear, crisp winter's night. An uncountable multitude of stars glistened against the pitch-black sky.

As Edward looked up, all the books he'd been reading, a wild succession of events, personalities, and ideas, the whole magnificent mural of human history, began spiraling through his mind like some great spring unwinding.

Edward had never before appreciated the enormity of history. Its great scope seemed mirrored in the incomprehensible vastness of the universe circling above him. Suddenly, Edward realized that all this had been going on for an incredible amount of time before his birth and that it would continue long after he was dead.

For one all-too-brief moment, gazing up at the stars, he held the concept of eternity clearly in his mind's eye. It hung there, immense, irrevocable, immutable, like some celestial spider in a wondrous, all-enveloping web made up of strands from human history. Then, as his joy soared skywards like some contrary comet, a dog barked down in the garden and the moment was gone. Fortunately, the awe remained.

Edward knew with crystal clarity what he had to do; he had to capture that eternal harmony, the true nature of life, now, on paper, for all time.

Closing the window, he sat down at a writing desk and lit two candles, his hands shaking with anticipation. Then Edward snatched up a quill pen and started writing. For the first time, he had no books open around him. This was not studying. This was writing.

The words crowded together in his mind, thousands of them, clamoring for release. They bounced off each other, jostling for position, all eager to make the short sprint down his arm, through his pen, and onto the page where they could live forever.

It was like a long-pent-up dam bursting. His words cascaded down in an irresistible torrent of sparkling riches. Edward's quill gathered speed, as he fought furiously to stay afloat amidst the rushing flood of verse.

He wrote until the sun came up and then he laid his pen aside. His right arm ached. He rubbed at it, gazing around the room. The desk and carpet were littered with pages.

Edward knew that at some point during the night he had committed to paper the scene that most haunted his sleep, two bodies slammed together in a frenzied rutting.

He rifled through several pages before finding the memory. He had penned it thus:

"The funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables...

Nay, it is no life to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty!"

In the cold, unflinching light of a winter morning, Edward stared at his lines. Surely he could improve on them. Edward lifted his pen, but a strange sensation washed over him. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. What was it? He was feeling sleepy.

Quickly, Edward gathered all the papers up and locked them safely away in his writing box. Then, he fell onto the bed and slept.

He awoke refreshed and ate a hearty meal. In the afternoon, the young Earl took a nap. When he climbed into bed that night, Edward fell asleep without any difficulty. Sadly, long before dawn, he awoke in a cold sweat.

Scrambling out of bed, Edward lit a candle. Then, he opened his writing box and read the new lines to himself. Soon Edward was writing again. He sat at his desk for hours, intent on getting every last detail out of his memory and onto the page.

As Edward scribbled away, his anxiety lifted. It was like magic, as if a fear once expressed on paper no longer had the power to hurt him. Edward felt exonerated, free! His bitter dreams faded away and he once again savored the sweet, golden bliss of peaceful slumber.

-:-:-

As his pen and mind moved through centuries, Edward's body advanced through years. The young Earl grew taller and sturdier as he drifting steadily towards adolescence. Suddenly, Edward found himself caught firmly in its irresistible swell. The voice he lifted to the bookshelves took on new, manly tones. Daily, a fresh tidal wave of hormones raged through him, filling every waking moment with urgent romantic longings.

Edward quickly discovered that Burghley's bookroom offered many tantalizing glimpses into the world of romance and love. Using a ladder, he regularly explored the higher shelves where Ovid's "The Art of Love" and similar poetic works could be found. The young Earl feasted hungrily on their heady notion of love as the desire for completeness, a superior ideal of life that could be found only in exclusivity.

The richest medieval romances were in French or Italian, spurring his mastery of these languages. Poring over such exotic pages fanned the flames of Edward's overheated imagination to a fever pitch. Soon he found a kind of release in writing love poems of his own and slipping away to quiet areas of the garden where he practiced reading them aloud beneath the open sky.

These rehearsals paid off when Burghley arranged a lavish party to celebrate his daughter Claire's fourteenth birthday. After weeks of preparations, Burghley's massive South lawn overflowed with young men and women.

It was the first hot day of summer. Three hundred liveried servants circulated carrying large silver platters heaped with fresh pies and peppered carp. Edward stood watching the dancers as a large band of troubadours played. Next to him stood his cousin, Thomas Howard. Two years Edward's junior, Thomas was visiting from Norfolk, where he was heir to a Dukedom. Both youths found themselves attracted to a beautiful, dark-haired girl called Arabella.

Edward was the first to speak with her and soon they were dancing a wild jig together. Claire, a pudgy teenager with too much makeup and an unfortunate resemblance to her father, watched them jealously.

As the dance ended, Edward risked whirling Arabella off her feet. She landed well, but tripped in the folds of her skirt. When Edward tried to save her, he too lost his footing. Locked in each other's arms, the young couple tumbled to the ground, where they rolled over and over in the lush grass, roaring with laughter.

That evening, as the shadows lengthened, Claire's watchful eyes caught Edward and Arabella heading towards a secluded corner of the grounds. She scurried after them, rounding the tall hedges just as the couple slipped inside a gazebo.

Sneaking over, Claire peeped into the gazebo. Edward and Arabella were sitting close together on a bench seat. The young Earl was reading from a manuscript:

"The current that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage:

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enameled stones...

And so by many winding nooks he strays,

With willing sport, to the wild ocean.

Then let me go, and hinder not my course:

I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,

And make a pastime of each happy step,

Till the last step has brought me to my love."

As Claire watched in wide-eyed astonishment, Edward ended his reading by leaning over and gently kissing Arabella. The dark-haired beauty replied in kind and they slipped into a passionate embrace.

Just as Edward was cautiously sliding a trembling hand under Arabella's clothing, Claire looked around and saw her father approaching.

Gathering up her skirts, she darted away in the opposite direction. Burghley walked up and, taking Claire's hiding place, spied on the young couple's hesitant but amorous explorations.