Shakespeare's Changeling

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Scene: Oxford’s home at King’s Place
June 24, 1604

“Such novel scenes as draw the eye to flow we now present.”

– Henry VIII

Since 1470, Lord Oxford’s house at King’s Place had kept a watchful eye on strangers, protecting its owners behind conspiratorial walls that framed an inner courtyard. Secret doors and hidden passages designed by its earliest builders led to tunnels that terminated in the distant fields. As it happened, Lord Oxford’s friend and fellow poet Lord Vaux, the previous owner, had used the underground avenues to help persecuted Jesuits escape the clutches of fanatical Protestant reformers.

Keenly aware of protecting his own secrets, the Earl of Oxford lay in bed with his leg painfully throbbing, and his mind filled with unfinished verses. He energized his hands by rubbing his palms together and remembered the first time he had ever held a pen. He had used a quill as a childhood toy, spiraling his inky thoughts on paper long before he had  been schooled in language and literature. These days, his head swam with words and he found it impossible for his hands to keep pace with the rapid fire of his thoughts.

Scattered on his bed lay several scenes from the revision of Henry VIII he had promised the Queen before she died. He was in the middle of dictating it to Shaxper. He no longer left the house very often, except to go to the theaters or visit the King when summoned, but today his aching leg forced him to stay in bed even though he resented being shut in on a beautiful mid-summer afternoon. Shaxper had been expected hours ago to help him continue revising the play that he wanted to fashion into his greatest work, but for some reason he was late again. Unfortunately, this was becoming a tedious habit.

Ever since the name Shake-speare had come to signify quality in the minds of theater-going audiences, their working relationship had deteriorated. Oxford had noticed the condescending way Shaxper regarded his audiences, as if he were performing a public service by nodding in their direction. He mimicked the same haughty condescension the late Queen had shown him, as if that was proper etiquette for all social situations. Shaxper always had a problem that stemmed from confusing illusion with reality, perhaps the very quality that made him such a good impostor.

Beyond that, since the theaters demanded a steady supply of plays, Shaxper had become the master under the terms of their ruse. Oxford had evolved into his obedient servant, and he could do nothing to change the bitter arrangement.

He cast his anger aside when his eyes fell on a sonnet lying on his bed linen. He picked it up and remembered having written it to his royal mistress shortly after her death.

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired;

 For there my thoughts (from far where I abide)

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see;

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

Since the Queen’s death, he hadn’t sought peace or quiet, but those qualities had found him in the gentle rhythms of country life and the calm serenity of his second marriage. He cherished his devoted wife Elizabeth, who had nurtured him and his work when so many others, many of them his family and closest friends, had abandoned him. Some of their exits had been so gradual that he had barely noticed them. Others, like the untimely deaths of Marlowe, Greene, Kyd and Watson had been excruciatingly painful.

For a moment he wondered if he had abandoned others, including his children, by closeting himself to write impassioned speeches that the Queen had forbidden him to claim. They would never know or understand the true nature of his words and actions, or why he had spent his fortune seeing other men’s lands, showing them to others in the wooden cockpits of the playhouses.

The Queen had abandoned him in death, but with all his senses he longed for her again: the regal countenance, the long, tapered fingers, the fragrant scent of roses in her hair, the passionate taste of her lips, the lilting laughter that was so often overshadowed by the dark tones of her discontent. He had known her since childhood and had fallen prey to her seduction, only to be scorned as her husband and the father of their son. He recounted the secrets they shared that lay buried with her, and felt  that his own pockets would be so heavily laden with them that upon his death, his coffin would be a difficult burden for his pallbearers.

Like a character in one of his plays, he realized that the time and setting of his life had changed. New actors had taken the stage now that the Queen was dead and King James of Scotland was her successor. Commoners had overtaken the nobility, forging new riches and titles for themselves while the older and more illustrious families endured the fading of their fortunes. Lord Oxford was no longer summoned to Court on matters of national importance, even though King James held him in the highest regard.

Lord Oxford’s secret service to the state had also ended. The incessant and harrowing demands for his history plays and the gallant speeches that had inspired audiences in the days of war had passed. While the provocative histories were less often produced in the public playhouses to avoid inflaming audiences against the new King (whom many considered to be a foreign usurper) Shaxper made sure that the more popular comedies were regularly shown. Over the years, Lord Oxford had watched the keen entrepreneur grow into the role of Shake-speare. He still supplied him with plays, now that writing was no longer a matter of life and death.

And just the other day, King James had requested Lord Oxford’s notable talent as a translator in assisting with a new English version of the Bible.

Lord Oxford sighed deeply, and considered the one thing about his life that he would ask God to change, if such an editing miracle were possible. He would show more mercy and less arrogance towards his first wife Anne, the silent victim of unimaginable cruelty.

A servant knocked on the door and timidly poked his head into the room.

“Master Shaxper has arrived, my lord,” he announced. “He says to tell you that he regrets his lateness and wonders if you still wish to see him.”

 “Of course I wish to see him,” Oxford said, infuriated by the impostor’s need to send this grandiloquent announcement through one of the servants. “Tell him to come in. We’ve got lots of work ahead of us.”

The man nodded, and within seconds Shaxper appeared with his secretarial portfolio, blustering as if he’d gone to great lengths to attend this meeting.

“It’s about time you came, peacock,” Oxford said. “You were supposed to have been here hours ago. What happened?”

“I was detained at the theater. Henslowe needed help with some discrepancies in the accounts.”

Oxford waited for an apology. Shaxper seemed casually unwilling to offer one. After eighteen years, he felt too secure in his position to bother, and chose instead to remind the poet about his poor health.

“I trust your leg feels better today, my lord.”

“It doesn’t. But everything will improve as soon as you move that bottle of sack closer and pour me some. Has Henslowe given the play to the actors?”

“Yes,” Shaxper said, pouring the drink. “He’s assembled a fine cast for Henry VIII. He’s even promised me a part, but you haven’t written it yet.”

“Really? How would he cast you?”

“As Cardinal Wolsey’s executioner. Henslowe said he thought it would be a rather considerable part, since the play is about Henry VIII.”

“You should have consulted your history book,” Oxford laughed. “Wolsey was never beheaded. He died on the way to the block and cheated the executioner.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes. Henslowe must have been jesting.”

“But you could write in a headsman, my lord. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve stretched historical truth to fit theatrical purposes.”

 “I’ve never stretched the truth that far,” Oxford snarled. “Still, I suppose I could write a few lines about a headsman mourning the loss of a head he’s been cheated of chopping off. But let’s get to work. Pull up a chair and we’ll start with Wolsey’s soliloquy.”

Shaxper opened his portfolio and arranged his pen, ink and papers on the table, ready to take dictation. Lord Oxford closed his eyes and offered the speech as it would play on stage.

WOLSEY

So farewell to the little good you bear me.

Farewell? A long farewell to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: today he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; tomorrow blossoms

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride

At length broke under me, and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

“And then the stage directions should say that Shaxper enters, standing amazed.”

“Pardon, my lord. That can’t be correct. You’ve made an error.”

“Did I? What error?”

Oxford snatched the soliloquy from the table. In the speech, he had paraphrased the tribute Giles Fletcher had once written to him: Thy valor puts forth leaves and begins to bear early fruit, and glory already ripens in thy earliest deeds. So much for brave deeds of the past that were long ago forgotten.

“Where’s the error? I can’t find it. Show me where it is,” he said impatiently, thrusting the papers at the scribe.

“It’s in the stage directions,” Shaxper said, calmly pointing to the mistake. “I believe you intended for Cromwell to enter, but you said my name.”

Oxford reread the papers and handed them back to the scribe.

“The entrance is Cromwell’s,” he agreed, “but make sure you say he stands amazed.”

“Done,” Shaxper said, blotting the line.

They worked for several hours until Oxford fell asleep. As Shaxper continued on his own to create a fair copy of the new material, a cool breeze blew in from the window, calling his attention outside to Countess Elizabeth, who was gathering flowers in the garden. He set down his pen and watched her. He had never seen a woman with such beautiful hair, the color of luminescent honey. She was graceful and very sophisticated, a complete contrast to Oxford’s first wife, who had never outgrown her childish awkwardness.

From the first day she had entered his life after her marriage to Lord Oxford, Shaxper realized that he also loved her. That made him wish his role as an impostor included conjugal rights. Whenever he came to the  house, he listened for her voice; and whenever she spoke his name, his heart flew into his throat. He decided it wasn’t a good idea to arrive late for work anymore, since it deprived him of these secret stolen moments. Countess Elizabeth had no idea how he felt. He had to be careful not to betray his feelings to anyone. It wouldn’t do to arouse Lord Oxford’s notorious temper. Maybe the Earl wasn’t as ill as he looked. Maybe he was strong enough to stab someone to death, just for having impure thoughts about his wife.

Still, Shaxper wondered what his life would have been like if he had wed such a fine lady as Countess Elizabeth instead of that bovine peasant to whom he was hopelessly tied.

“What are you staring at?” Oxford snapped on awakening.

“N-nothing. I just thought I’d get some fresh air,” the scribe said, nervously apologetic as he moved away from the window.

“You don’t look well. Your face is flushed.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Look in the glass. You’re as red-faced as Bardolph.”

Shaxper looked in the mirror and turned his head from side to side.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“That’s not good. Perhaps you’ve lost your head.”

“Very funny, my lord, a little humor at my expense.” Shaxper glanced out the window again, but the Countess had gone. His heart sank.

“Tell me, what do you think of poor Cardinal Wolsey?” Oxford asked.

“What should I think of him?”

“Pity him, for God’s sake. He dies simply because he fell out of favor with the King. Aren’t you afraid of that?”

“Why should I be? My position as a playwright is very secure.”

“That’s what Marlowe used to say. And so did the others.”

“Well, thank God I have you to protect me, my lord.”

“Don’t thank the Almighty yet. Lord Strange was poisoned for writing plays and the same thing could happen to me.”

 “What are you saying? That if we fall out of favor in the new regime, we could be murdered?”

“It’s possible, especially with Cecil’s passion for keeping score. Take it from me, I’ve lived in the shadow of the executioner’s axe all my life. Meanwhile, the tides have changed and we’re no longer in safe waters. It’s essential for you to beware of hidden dangers.”

“God’s blood! Are we to be next?”

“I don’t know. But ever since the Queen’s death, I’ve felt as if the world holds nothing more for me,” he sighed. “And that’s a dangerous sentiment.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Shaxper said. “This world is all I have. It suits me, and I’ll fiercely defend my right to stay in it.”

“You may well need to do that. I’m only trying to warn you, in case we become separated for some reason and you find yourself on your own.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I have no intention of separating from you.”

“Spoken like a true parasite.”

“Shall we finish now, my lord?” Shaxper said, with an edge in his voice.

As Oxford was about to speak, there was a gentle knock on the door and Countess Elizabeth entered with a vase of flowers. She placed it on the writing table and sat down on her husband’s bed. Shaxper stepped back into the corner.

“Good evening, Master Shaxper,” she said. “And how are you feeling tonight, my dear husband?”

“Better,” the Earl said. “But I won’t be dancing any time soon.”

“There’s plenty of time for dancing once you’ve recovered. But if you’re going to be a wallflower, I’ll plant myself by your side.”

“I’ll just step out into the hall and leave you two alone,” Shaxper muttered.

“Don’t go too far,” Oxford cautioned. “We still have to finish your headsman scene. But whatever you do, don’t linger at the keyhole!”

Shaxper blushed and closed the door.

 “Try to be more patient with him, Edward,” the Countess said. ”He’s a simple man with good intentions.”

“Nonsense, he’s an ass! He’s worked so hard all these years to convince everyone that he’s Shake-speare, and now he’s come to believe it himself. And do you know what? Sometimes, I’m not so sure he isn’t!”

“It sounds like you deserve each other,” the Countess laughed.

“He’s got his eyes on you, and he thinks I don’t know it.”

“Well, he can put his eyes right back in his head. I only have one subscriber this season, and it’s you. Amans uxor inviolata semper amanda – a loving wife that never violated her faith is always to be beloved.”

“You are my beloved treasure,” he said, taking her in his arms.

In the hallway, Shaxper grumbled. For a few minutes, he couldn’t hear a thing until the Countess broke the silence.

“Master Shaxper arrived quite late again this afternoon, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s arriving later all the time.”

Again, Shaxper resolved to be more punctual.

“I think it might be a good idea for him to stay the night, now that he’s here,” the Countess suggested. “That way you could begin early tomorrow. And if you have only a little to do, you can finish and send him away early after dinner.”

“That’s a splendid idea.”

“Shall I make the invitation?”

“No,” Oxford said, firmly. “The way he feels about you, he’ll take it the wrong way. It’ll sound more businesslike coming from me.”

“Very well, dear,” the Countess said. “But when you finish, you’ll put this play behind you and we’ll go to the house in Bath, just as you promised.”

“Yes. Just as I promised.”

Shaxper bowed as the Countess walked by, and when she was gone, he entered the room. He gathered up his papers and awaited Lord Oxford’s generous invitation.