Elizabeth I (63 page)

What a dark and confined space this was, like the inside of a snail shell. There was barely room to keep my elbows from hitting each side of the staircase as I ascended, holding my skirts. On the first landing a tiny window let in a shaft of light. On the second there was no window. On the third a slit allowed me to see the door to one side.

It was a little door, narrow and unpainted. He lived here? I took a deep breath and knocked before I could lose my resolve. No answer. A shiver of relief passed through me. My courage had not failed; I had come; I had knocked. Now I could go in peace.

The door flung open, and Will stood staring at me. His expression was blank, but his eyes widened as they looked at me and all around me.

“I am quite alone,” I assured him.

Still he stood staring, then silently beckoned me in. I followed him into a dingy, poorly lit antechamber. He backed in, then sat on a bench. Still wordless, he indicated a chair for me, one with a back and a cushion: the most comfortable one, no doubt.

“Laetitia,” he finally said. It was not a greeting but a question.

“Your
Richard II
!” I burst out. He must know, it was important that I set it straight, that I had come on business. Strictly business. “It castigates Robert! I am most distressed about it. Why have you done it?”

“It isn't about Robert Devereux,” he said calmly. “It's about a king who lived two hundred years ago.”

“Then why does everyone think otherwise?”

He shrugged in that way I had once found endearing and now found infuriating. “I cannot help what people think, what they choose to read into something. I told the tale as it came to me, trying to be as true to the facts as I could. These people are long dead; they do not walk the streets of London or sit on a throne. Richard, I believe, lies right here in Westminster Abbey, and Bolingbroke in Canterbury Cathedral. You can visit their tombs if you like, assure yourself that they are indeed gone.”

“No, they live daily on the stage! Spouting your words! You have brought them back to life.”

“Have you seen the play?”

“Yes, and read it, too, every word.”

He looked pleased. I could tell he wanted to ask me what I thought about it—as a play. “And?”

“And what?”

“If you saw it with no prejudice, would you have assumed it was about Robert?”

“Yes! The beard alone would have told me.”

“Laetitia, there were no stage directions about the actor's beard. That was a choice of the actor himself. If he had taken up a trident, would you have thought him to be Poseidon? If all the evidence you have is the beard, you can throw that out.”

“The description of him as courting the people's good opinion pointed at Robert. You know he has been hailed by crowds everywhere, and how it annoys the Queen.”

“It was a literary device. I needed to have a concrete act of Bolingbroke's to convince the audience he had plans to undermine King Richard even before he was banished. On the stage, we must demonstrate, not merely state.”

“It is hurting Robert! Inflaming the Queen's worst suspicions about him. Since his return from Cádiz, he's had scant thanks from her but much applause from the common people.”

“Yes, I heard.” He paused. “That does not mean I used him in the play. This is just one portion of a whole cycle of plays I am doing on the subject.”

“What is the next one?”

“One about Bolingbroke, after he becomes king,” he said. “His troubles are just beginning. For a man who is dead, that is.” Now he grinned.

Grudgingly, I smiled back. I did not want to stop being angry with him. It was easier that way. “When did you move here?” I asked.

“A few months ago,” he said. His eyes were following mine as I looked at his quarters. “I admit it is shabby. I do not entertain countesses here, so it does well enough for me. I'm seldom here, and when I am, I am writing. Better meager surroundings to write. Nothing to tempt the eye away, such as fine tapestry or paintings or inlaid tables. Come, I'll show you.” He stood and led me into an even smaller room where a desk, chair, lampstand, and trunk were the only items. Heaped on the desk were sheets of paper; there was another pile on the floor. A surprisingly large window let in reasonable light. It afforded a view of the open fields beyond the wall and Bishop's Gate, the great northern road slicing through them. “Here I sit, seeing only what is in my head.” He took up one of the pages, filled with writing, and peered at it. “This is the continuation of Bolingbroke's story,” he said. “After he becomes King Henry IV.”

Will's kingdom was so small, but it embraced a wide past and a rich present. This tiny room gave birth to the works seen by thousands. It was a marvel. “I am glad that you are happy, Will,” I conceded.

“Who says that I am happy?” he asked.

Immediately I remembered about his son's death, and felt a fool. “In your work,” I corrected myself. “You are immensely successful.”

“Well, I have survived. So many of the other playwrights have died—Greene, Marlowe, Kyd. Or run afoul of the authorities. I take care to represent all viewpoints in my work, so I cannot be accused of any one in particular.” He smiled gently. “Except by you, of course. And that's a mother's prerogative—to protect her son. I forgive you your misunderstanding.”

So we were to pretend it was only a misunderstanding. Very well. “I heard of the death of your young son,” I said. “I am sorry for it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It was a heavy loss. One I know now I shall never recover from. He will always be here, but never here.” He bent down and opened a box that contained more sheets of paper, hunting for a particular one. He extracted it and handed it to me. “Writing is a poor consolation, but it gives shape to grief. This is from another play I am working on about King John.”

I felt oddly privileged to be reading it before it was performed. He tapped the lines he meant me to see.

“Oh, Will,” was all I could say. I knew about the vacant garments. Walter's were still in the trunk in his old room. “You put a present sorrow back almost four hundred years.”

“That is the only way to tame it,” he said. Taking the page back, he said, “Now you have seen my workshop. Smaller than a smith's or the tailor's below. But it is all the room I need. It does me well enough, and I have just bought a large property back in Stratford. A pity it took what it took for me to pay attention to home.”

Did that mean he was reconciled with his wife? Was he making regular visits back there to see her? I could not ask.

“So you need not feel sorry for me in these little rooms. I have others elsewhere. Of course, that is what the devout Christian will always say as well.” He sighed. He seemed older. “What of you? What, truly, does Robert want?”

It was not safe to tell him, even if I knew. So I said, “He wants to strike another blow against Spain but is having difficulty persuading the Queen to approve another fleet. In truth, he's happiest when on a simple mission. The court is too complex for him to navigate.” That sounded disloyal. “I mean, it is always a strain at court.”

“Well, that is where I get most of my dramatic material from—the slippery stones of the court pavement, where a man can fall and break his neck in one misstep. All hundreds of years ago, of course.” He paused. “That's Robert. What of you?”

I affected a lighthearted response. “Oh, things go on. This and that.”

“What sort of thises and thats?”

“I—I—”

“I am glad you are happy, Laetitia.”

“Who says that I am happy?” I shot back at him.

Together we laughed. “Caught you,” he said.

Suddenly I felt awkward. I wanted to leave. I made a show of gathering up my cloak and pasting a smile as false as the actor's beard on my face.

“Blessings on you, Will,” I said, hurrying out the door and down the stairs. He did not follow.

I
retreated to Wanstead after that meeting, unwilling to hear any more talk about how my son was represented onstage in
Richard II
(despite Will's protestations to the contrary) or listen to Robert's naive ideas about how his new “friendship” with Raleigh and Cecil was going to pave the way back into the Queen's good graces.

But he followed me, appearing one afternoon in his jaunty fashion to keep me apprised of what was happening in London.

“Robert,” I said, “pray give me a respite from that talk. It is simply too dreary. Here I can pretend nothing is happening, that I am far away in Moscow ... or someplace.” Then I grew suspicious. “Is there something wrong at home with Frances?”

He looked indignant. “No, of course not. I just wanted a retreat, myself. I won't bother you!”

God knew he could use a quiet withdrawal, a rest. “Very well,” I said.

“I brought only Meyrick with me to see to my needs. You need not stir yourself.”

Gelli Meyrick, his steward! I had never liked him, ever since he had attached himself to Robert in their days at Cambridge. He was a lowly sort, a wild Welshman whose real first name, Gwyllyam, was unpronounceable, one of the ones Robert had so unwisely knighted at Cádiz, and who now called himself Sir. He had chosen a strange coat of arms involving porcupines.

“I appreciate that, but please do not hide yourself away.” It would be a welcome change to see him free of his entourage, excepting the unlikeable Meyrick. “Let us talk only of pleasant things. It has been a long time since we had that luxury.”

It was easy, here at Wanstead, to float above the rumors and troubles of the realm—the continuing dearth in the land, the constant worry about Spain (would we ever be free of it?), the question of the Queen's temper and her longevity.

Night. I loved night, when all was quiet. As the sun set, I always felt a strange excitement, as if life only began once it was dark.

I had poured myself a glass of wine and fitted fresh candles into the sconces, ready to read and think, when suddenly I heard a rapping at one of the windows in the next room. It was a sharp, startling sound, and sinister. I put my book down and listened carefully. Perhaps it was only a branch hitting the windowpane. But there was no wind tonight, and no branches were near the windows.

Rap! Rap! There it was again. I could not pretend it was not real. I rose. Robert was in another wing of the house, and I could not call him without passing the window. I crept toward that room and peered around the doorway.

A white face was staring back at me. It looked like a corpse, and I gave a shriek. It disappeared, then rose up again and made wiping motions against the glass with swollen, misshapen hands.

“Robert!” I cried. “Gelli!” Now I would welcome the burly steward and his strong arms.

Instead of ducking, the man kept making plaintive gestures, as if he expected me to let him in, with his grotesque hands. Then another face appeared at the next window. Suddenly there was a commotion outside; Robert and Gelli had rushed out and tackled the two men. A loud scuffling ensued, then silence. I rushed to the window and threw it open, peering down to see what was happening.

Robert and Gelli had the two men in hammerlocks, pinning them down, pulling their arms behind them.

“For the love of Christ!” the first man cried. “Oh, spare my hands!”

“Who are you?” demanded Robert.

“Do you not remember me, Gelli?” the second man said. “And you, Robert?”

“I've never seen you before!” said Robert, bearing down harder on his captive's arms.

“Cambridge!” the younger man cried. “I'm Roger Aylward! Oh, please!”

“In the name of Jesus,” the first man said, “have mercy! Shelter us!”

“Not until you identify yourselves. I know no Roger Aylward,” said Robert.

“I do,” said Gelli. “He was a tutor at Trinity, worked in the master's office.”

“Yes! Yes!” said Aylward. “I swear it!”

“But what about you?” Robert turned to the other man.

“I am John Gerard,” he said.

“That's impossible. Do you take us for simpletons? Gerard is in the Tower.”

“I escaped,” he said.

Robert laughed. “Do not insult me. That is impossible.”

“Not impossible. Free me and I will tell all.”

“What? If the notorious Jesuit Gerard ever came here—which
is
impossible—I could not shelter him. It would ruin me if I were caught. Harboring a Jesuit! An escaped prisoner? Not upon my life. It
would
be my life!”

“I ask only for overnight. It's only five hours till dawn. We have a safe house to go to. But we must rest. And throw them off our track. They expect us to go west, so we have come east.”

Gradually Robert and Gelli released them. Shakily the men got to their feet.

“Bring them in here,” I said. “Quickly.”

I was trembling. Could this be true? Could anyone escape from the Tower? And why would they have sought us, a known Protestant household?

The two men shuffled in and sank down onto chairs. I could not call a servant; I would have to fetch something from the kitchen myself—cheese, ale, any food would do.

While I was gone the men had taken off their cloaks and now were looking mutely about. The first man's hands were so damaged he could not hold the food but had to be fed by his companion.