Muse of fire, p.15
Muse of Fire, page 15
‘Her Majesty shall hear of this,’ the physician was telling him. ‘Imogen was one of her favoured ladies-in-waiting and she has taken her death hard, coming so soon after that of Lady Anne’s. If you are responsible for her fall, then I pray you think on how to beg mercy from your queen.’
Will was too much in shock to answer him, but he didn’t have to.
‘Don’t be a fool man!’ snapped Cecil. ‘Shakespeare is not responsible for this girl’s fall. He did not father that child. All of us know who did. How could a mere player gain access to the queen’s lady-in-waiting at any hour, let alone after dark?’
The physician was so startled by the ferocity of this rebuke that he immediately bowed and started to stammer his apologies. With the physician silenced, Cecil turned his attention to Will.
‘Why did you say it was your fault?’
Will confessed then that he had unwittingly been the one to fill the girl’s head with notions of her disgrace and impending fall, which likely led to her self-slaughter. He did not expect to receive any sympathy from a man as famously ruthless as Cecil, nor any real understanding of why Will was now in deep shock over the death of a girl he hardly knew, but he was surprised by the reply he did receive.
‘This is not your fault,’ Cecil told him. ‘We are often forced to paint unpleasant pictures of the future for those we interrogate. We cannot control the thoughts they have later, nor the acts resulting from them. She was doomed anyway. If you wish to blame anyone, blame the man who put that child inside her.’
Chapter Twenty
‘You have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness.’
—Much Ado About Nothing
It was two days before Will could force himself to believe that Cecil was right, at least in part. During that time, he wrote little and drank more than he should have, so he could slump into his bed at night and collapse into a troubled sleep, trying not to think of the poor girl drowning herself in the cold waters of the river, blaming herself for that awful act. He realised he would never know if it was his words that had prompted her to do it or if they had been the final straw, when she knew that falling to a married man might have been an unforgivable act in the eyes of the queen. Worse, her lover was married to Lady Dorothy Devereux, sister to the Earl of Essex no less. Imagine her fate once it was known that she had wronged the queen’s favourite, by embarrassing his sister and the punishment from Her Majesty that would follow. Maybe she was better off dead, poor girl.
Nevertheless, Will knew he would never forgive himself for his careless talk, when he thought he was describing the Lady Anne’s situation to Imogen. He, above all, should have known the power of words and would repent his stupidity for the rest of his days. Now though, he knew he had to drag himself from his bed and go on, just as he had been forced to after a time mourning the loss of his only son. If he could carry on after that devastating blow, then he could continue now, for the benefit of those who relied upon him. He had a play about Henry V to write, and there was the small matter of the Theatre, which he had failed to return to since he had been told of Lady Imogen’s demise. He would go there now and hope his absence would be forgiven if he helped them to complete the task.
* * *
It had taken them four long, arduous, backbreaking days, but just before nightfall on that final one, the floorboards were lifted and the last remaining timbers from the Theatre removed, leaving a bare plot of land in its place. Just as Will had promised, they had started at the far end and pulled up the boards one by one as they retreated towards the street. They ensured that no member of the company set foot upon the bare ground as those boards were lifted. Giles Allen’s clerk had insisted on remaining there for the whole four days, so he could be present for this last act, to guarantee the terms of their bargain were carried out to the letter. When it was done, he pronounced himself satisfied with the conclusion of their work. Now he would write to his master to tell him what had transpired. Will pitied him. When the clerk tried to explain to Allen what a good bargain he had struck, he would surely be dismissed and most likely take a beating too for his trouble, but Will had little time to worry about that now.
He watched as the final cart, containing the floorboards was ridden away to Peter Street’s warehouse by the Thames, where they would be stored until the ground softened enough for building. The site they eventually leased across the river would have to be cleared of its existing buildings and drained, huge pillars would need to be sunk into the ground to support the foundations and, when that job was complete, the enormous task of reassembling the Theatre from its thousands of component parts could finally begin.
That night, before finally succumbing to sleep, Will worried and fretted over the next stage of their endeavour. What if the timbers proved too weak to support the structure now that they had been wrenched apart. What if the whole building collapsed on top of them, and they were left with naught but an enormous pile of wood and nowhere to mount a stage? They would be ruined, and Will would be the one to blame for this huge folly. It did not bear thinking on, and he resolved to banish the doubts from his mind before lapsing into a deep, exhausted sleep.
* * *
A day later, Will met with Richard and Cuthbert, as planned, for supper. He had hoped they would be satisfied with the progress they had made so far and buoyed by having outwitted Giles Allen, their hated landlord, but instead he found them both in a low mood.
‘We are undone by another calamity,’ Cuthbert told him gloomily.
‘What now? A plague of locusts? What else is there left that could possibly befall us, apart from death itself?’ Will felt incredibly weary of it all now.
‘The land we hoped to lease.’
‘What of it?’
‘We can no longer afford it,’ Richard chimed in.
‘But we can. We know its price.’
‘The price has gone up,’ Cuthbert told him.
‘Since when?’
‘Since word got out that the Burbages had dismantled their entire theatre and are in a most desperate hurry to lease the land upon which to build a new one.’
‘How much are we short?’
‘Too much to simply borrow it. Usury for a sum like this could bankrupt us all.’
‘Not having land for our theatre will most definitely bankrupt us,’ Will reminded him then. ‘How much do we need?’
‘To lease the land then have the theatre rebuilt there – ninety pounds,’ Cuthbert informed him.
‘Ninety?’ Will could not believe it. ‘How can it be so much?’
‘We spent all we had in our coffers. It was barely enough to take down the old theatre and keep its timbers stored in Peter’s warehouse. The company has no money and no method of making any.’
‘We could tour?’ suggested Will.
‘And make how much in the provinces?’ Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Once we pay the actors, there’d be barely enough to cover our costs.’
‘What then can we do?’ Will considered this then asked: ‘How much do you have?’
‘How much do you have?’ asked Cuthbert, a trace of resentment in his voice. He clearly believed Will was trying to persuade the Burbages to pay for all of the additional expenses.
Will mused on it. ‘If I clawed back the coin from every venture I have been engaged in of late… I could possibly provide ten pounds.’
‘Possibly?’
‘It shall be ten pounds,’ he assured them. ‘You have my word.’
‘Then I could provide twenty,’ Richard was quick to double his friend’s offering, and he looked to his brother.
‘I could perhaps come up with a similar sum, but I’ll be stretched to the limit,’ Cuthbert warned his brother. ‘No more than twenty, else I’ll be ruined and end up on the street.’
‘Then we have fifty pounds already,’ Will asserted.
‘Which is little more than half of what is required,’ Richard reminded him.
‘We are still short of forty pounds, Will. That is no small sum,’ confirmed Cuthbert. ‘No patron would gift us that, nor could we ever earn it from touring. And who will lend it to us when we have naught to put up against a loan to secure it? I fear we are undone. We can’t even afford to keep the timbers dry in the warehouse overlong. The rent for that alone is draining us of coin.’
‘I hate myself for admitting this, Will, after everything we did to take down the Theatre, but I fear it was all for naught,’ Richard bemoaned. ‘The sooner we accept that this is over, the quicker we rid ourselves of debts and give ourselves some hope of avoiding complete ruin.’
‘And do what?’ snapped Will. ‘Do you have another trade, Richard? I have none. Who will pay you to act or me to write? Do you want to scratch your living at the Rose, begging Philip Henslowe to let you do a play or two?’ And if the prospect of that humiliation was not alarming enough for Richard, he added, ‘In lesser roles.’
What was left of the colour in Richard’s cheeks seemed to drain from them then, for Will had just described his leading man’s worst nightmare.
‘I’d rather die.’
‘Then you shall,’ said Cuthbert icily, ‘for what else is there for us now, without forty pounds?’
‘There must be a way,’ Will said in desperation. ‘There has to be!’
‘There is not,’ Cuthbert told him.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love.’
—Henry VI Part II
Will had thought it politic to make his way to court again and work in the room he had been given, ostensibly to write Henry V. He had even managed to get some words down onto the parchment, but he lacked inspiration. The Theatre was in pieces and the company lacked the funds to rebuild it. Will was still under great pressure to write this new play to be put on before the queen, but he had the same problem as before. How to put events such as the Battle of Agincourt on to something as tiny as a stage.
There was also the not exactly trivial matter of the death of Lady Anne, the mystery of which Robert Cecil still wanted him to solve. He had wasted time and effort in following a false trail of his own making, because he believed she had been wronged by a man from court and left with child. He had not just been mistaken about this but had inadvertently contributed to the death of another girl. Cecil had been uncharacteristically understanding of that, but his sympathy would not last long. Will would still have to find Anne’s killer.
When Cecil looked in on him later that morning, he had news. ‘The queen shall send the Earl of Essex to Ireland with five warships,’ he confirmed in a neutral voice, as if he was informing Will of the elevation of a stranger and not his nemesis. ‘He will ride there at the head of a great army of some sixteen thousand men, two thousand of them seasoned in battle, with thirteen hundred horse. They will be reinforced by a further two thousand men a month. The earl is tasked with bringing the rebel Irish lord, Hugh O’Neill, to heel.’
‘That will be a great undertaking,’ observed Will.
‘Three hundred thousand pounds has been set aside for victuals, muskets, powder and ordinance, and enough left to pay for a year’s campaigning. That is a mighty sum and twice the cost of the war in the lowlands. Do you know what this means, Master Shakespeare?’ Cecil’s tone was unemotional, as he outlined the extent of the forces at Essex’s disposal.
Presently, Will ventured, ‘That the earl was granted all he asked for from the queen?’
Cecil corrected him. ‘That he cannot afford to fail.’
‘You think he will fail? With a force that large?’ It seemed impossible that a few hundred Irish rebels could not be put down by such a huge and well-resourced army, led by the hero of Cadiz, a man already popular with his troops. Essex may have been many things, few of them admirable, but no one could deny the reputation he had gained from his past military service. He was surely a born general.
‘He may, but if he does not, he will have merely gained an expensive victory already expected of him. His esteem in the queen’s eyes will not be much elevated.’
Will felt this was too much of an optimistic reading of the situation. An expected victory or not, success in Ireland would be an excuse for Her Majesty to shower her favourite with even more honours. How long before he was powerful enough to call for Cecil’s removal, perhaps even his head? Will had overheard him say as much to Mountjoy and Southampton. If Essex tamed Ireland for her, the queen would likely deny him nothing.
But Cecil could not see that. ‘And if he fails, he will return much diminished, and she will be angered. You have witnessed the queen’s fury? I have and men do quake before it.’
And rightly, but not Essex, Will recalled. He had drawn his sword on her. Essex was the one man who could tame the queen, persuade or cajole her, throw childish tantrums in front of her, publicly show his ingratitude and storm from her chambers, and yet still be summoned back to her. Then he would be greeted with soft, reassuring words and handed even higher honours.
Will could not understand why Cecil seemed so calm and sure of his position. Had he not always opposed the elevation of Essex to commander of the queen’s forces in Ireland, at least to Her Majesty? Why the change of heart now? How had he convinced himself this was actually a good thing that might even bring the earl to his knees? He was surely deluded.
There was something else Cecil had failed to take into account. Even if the earl did not achieve the great success he had promised the queen. She had set him at the head of a mighty army of men and placed a fleet of ships at his command. If he did fail in Ireland, would a man as arrogant as Essex accept being recalled and dressed down by his monarch in front of the entire court, or would he instead rebel against her authority? He could just as easily march that army to London as Dublin. Then he might bring down his queen, and Cecil too.
‘Now that Her Majesty has decided to send Essex to war, she wants you to hurry and finish her play,’ Cecil informed.
Will was glad he was at least making a show of writing it that morning. ‘When does she want it by?’
‘As soon as it is done, so she will be inspired by King Harry’s feats of valour at Agincourt.’
Knowing that he was soon expected to fit Henry V’s entire French campaign onto a hastily erected stage at court sent Will into something close to a panic, but there was no time to dwell on this because Poley appeared then, clearly looking for his master. Will assumed they would leave together so that Cecil could involve his creature in some new intrigue. Instead, Cecil asked him, ‘Where does your investigation take you next, Master Shakespeare?’
Will had been thinking on this for some time, until he had eventually recalled something that the Lady Imogen had said about Anne. ‘I have heard it said that Lady Anne took her prayer book everywhere?’
‘They say she was a most godly young woman,’ Cecil confirmed.
‘Then where is it?’ asked Will.
‘It was not on or by her bed,’ Cecil recalled.
‘If she really did carry it with her at all times, why was it not discovered with her body?’
‘I do not know, but you are right that it was not found.’
‘So it should have been discovered by her side?’ Will was intrigued.
‘Maybe it was not deemed sufficiently important to be brought to my attention?’ answered Cecil, but Will had a different idea altogether about that, and it was one that he wanted to put to the test. ‘If she carried it with her always, then why would it be worthy of note?’ Cecil asked.
‘Perhaps it is not, but its absence now is worthy of note. I believe we must find this bible.’
‘So, go now and visit the men of the watch who found her.’ Then almost as an afterthought, he said, ‘Take Poley with you.’
* * *
Poley told Will to wait outside while he went in to speak to the men of the watch. He strongly inferred that they would be distrustful of a gentleman, even a minor one like Will, and might not tell him the truth. Poley felt he would be more able to speak to men of their rank to obtain what was needed from them. Will disagreed but knew it was pointless to argue with Poley, for he had never seen the man back down. He eventually emerged with another.
‘This is Vaux, a sergeant of the watch. He was the first person to find Lady Anne’s body.’ The man dipped his head into an approximation of a bow.
‘You raised the alarm?’ Will asked.
‘I did, sir.’
‘And when you discovered the lady, did you find anything by her body?’
‘No, sir.’ But he looked down when he said this, and Will could tell it was an evasion.
‘You are sure?’ he probed, but the man answered him with a silence he obviously hoped would be sufficient to avoid Will questioning him further, which only made him more curious. ‘Not say, the book of common prayer she always carried, no matter where she went?’ Silence was once again the man’s response.
‘I have heard it said that Lady Anne never would venture abroad without her prayer book, such was her devotion to God. Now, if she did have that sacred book with her, and a man removed it and kept it for himself, because he deemed it of some value, I suspect the queen would punish that man quite severely.’ Then Will added, ‘Without mercy. If Lady Anne’s father or brother were to discover it was taken, they might save our queen the trouble by ending that man’s life.’ The man looked terrified now, so Will dangled hope. ‘Unless…’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless that man were to have picked it up for another reason, in order to keep it safe perhaps, then he might merely have forgotten to hand it to her family. This mistake might be overlooked.’
