Authors: Meredith Whitford
“Don’t
worry, it’s not yet widespread. You’re in no danger. It may come to nothing. It may be some other disease.”
“You’ll
leave tomorrow,” William told Anne. “But Dick is right, there’s no immediate fear. Go watch the play, Anne, and don’t fear.”
But
it wasn’t plague that closed the playhouses. Anne never got the bottom of the matter, but there was some riot among apprentices and the City authorities leapt at the excuse to close places of entertainment.
“Until
Michaelmas,” William fumed. “What are we to do? Bloody Puritans, any excuse. An apprentices’ riot, nothing new there, but they’d like to get rid of the playhouses altogether. That’s why the theatres were built outside the City. In the Liberties where the City’s authority doesn’t run, we should be safe. But no. Christ’s nails, what are we to do? Go on the road again? Damned if I will.”
“Well,
my love,” said Anne, “you’ve been given your time to write your poems. Come home.”
6.
“William,”
said his mother, “there is a gentleman downstairs asking for you. He says his name is Marlowe.”
William
swung around in astonishment, spilling ink over Hamnet’s Latin exercises. “Marlowe? Christopher Marlowe? Here? Small, black hair?”
“Yes.
Will he want to stop here? Shall I make up a bed?”
“I
don’t know. I’ll go down, Mother. Leave it to me.”
Almost
as surprised as William by Christopher Marlowe’s arrival in Stratford, Anne tidied away her mending. She was reassuring Hamnet about the spoilt exercises when the memory of her last long talk with Kit Marlowe froze the words in her mouth. John Shakspere was listed as a recusant. Marlowe worked for Walsingham. He wouldn’t have come here with a warrant of arrest – not Kit, not to William’s father – so perhaps he had come to warn them. All is discovered. Flee.
“Nonsense,”
she said aloud, and Hamnet stared up, hurt, his lip quivering.
“The
master will say I spoilt the book. He will! I’ll be beaten!”
“What?
Oh, no, darling, I was thinking aloud about something else. Daddy will make it right with the master, don’t worry.” All what is discovered? Nonsense.
And
William came back in with Kit, both smiling all over their faces, laughing at something. “Anne!” said Kit, bowing elaborately then kissing her. “I hope I see you well?”
“Entirely
well. And you? What brings you to Stratford?”
“Oh,
business.” His feline eyes read her face. “Between me and Will. Holloa there, young Hamnet, stewing inside on a lovely day like this? Ah, Latin; I remember. Susanna, Judith, you’ve both grown prettier. Here’s sixpence, go and treat yourselves to something your mother says you mustn’t have.” You always forgot that Kit was the eldest of several brothers and sisters, he was at ease with children. Anne’s three thought he was wonderful, not only because he always gave them sixpence. Anne had worried a little: Hamnet was seven: but Kit was no pederast. He liked men, not boys. And certainly not his friend’s child. The thought would appal him.
“And
do I too get sixpence to take myself off?” she asked, watching the two men settle down in their chairs.
“No,
Anne, stay. It’s not private from you. But it’s a serious matter. Will, we have been defamed. Libelled. Belittled.”
“What?
We have? Kit?”
“Yes.
You remember Robert Greene?”
“If
you mean that snide, stinking, sneaking little ginger-headed whoremonger who imagines he can write plays, yes I do. Isn’t he dead?”
“Yes,
of the pox. God must be a critic. But before he went to his reward he found time to sit up in his beggar’s bed and pen a little tract, a pamphlet, a book. Here.” He whipped it out from inside his doublet and passed it across to William. “I have marked the relevant passage.”
“A
Groat’s-worth of Witte,” William read the crudely printed cover. “Yes, that’s about all Robert Greene ever had of wit.” He flicked to Kit’s marker. At the expressions playing over his face – amazement; shock, anger; disgust; petulance – Anne longed to go and read over his shoulder. Kit winked at her. “Listen to this! ‘Trust them not.’ He’s talking of people like me, Anne, men without university degrees who dare to come to London and write plays. ‘Trust them not: for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers’ – beautified; beautified is a vile phrase – ‘our feathers, that with his tiger’s heart wrapped in a player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out’ – bombast – ‘a blank verse as the best of you, and being an absolute Johannes Fac Totum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in the country.’ The bastard, how dare he? It’s tantamount to accusing me of plagiarism. And it’s me he means: not only ‘Shake-scene’ but ‘tiger’s heart’. My
Henry the Sixth
, that phrase is from. Tiger’s heart wrap’t in a woman’s hide.”
Anne
hadn’t missed that. She thought it rather funny, but kept a straight face of shocked disapproval.
“I
own,” William went on, angrily pacing the floor, “that the story of that play was not original. Of course I used an old source as we all do. But I did not steal it.”
“Bar
a line or two from my
Edward II
,” murmured Kit.
“Homage
to the master,” snapped William. “As you’ve used a line or two of mine. It’s inevitable; things stick in one’s mind. But I will not have anyone, let alone a talentless, filthy, pox-ridden, whoreson prick like Robert Greene, say I steal other men’s work.”
“No,
it’s bad, Will. Greene doesn’t hesitate to take a hit at me, later in his little work.” William glanced at another marked passage, nodded soberly, and ruffled Kit’s hair. “What are we to do? Who printed this rubbish, by the way? Henry Chettle. Hmm. Another playwright. Do you suppose he wrote this himself? Though Greene could never forgive me that my plays take more money than his, and him a university man and, therefore, a gentleman. He tried to borrow money from me once. I refused and he never forgave me.” He flung himself into a chair. “What are we to do, Christopher? Can we do anything? I can’t afford to go to law, even if an action would lie.”
“Nor
can I. But I had a good idea, Will, I think I’ve been rather clever. Harry Southampton.”
“Lord
Southampton?” asked Anne. “What of him?”
“Well,
I had made up my mind to write to Will about this, then I thought, why not ride to Stratford and talk it over; it’s fine weather for riding.” William made an impatient gesture. “Oxford is on the way to Stratford; on one way, at least. And the Queen is at Oxford. And Harry Southampton has been bidden there to dance attendance on Her Majesty. He liked you, Will, when he met you in London. So, what simpler than to stop in Oxford, find Southampton and put the matter to him?”
“But
Kit...”
“Oh,
he was glad to help. He will help. He was at Gray’s Inn; not that that qualifies him for more than play-going and tobacco-smoking. But he was shocked at the affront to England’s two premier poets. His words, dear Will, not mine.”
“But
what can he do?”
“Make
representations to Chettle, make him regret he ever published this trash. After all, Will, an earl, and Lord Burghley’s ward. The mere hint of his displeasure would make any printer blench.”
“And
will he do it? Why should he bother?”
“I
told you, he idolises us. He likes you, admires your plays rather more than he does mine, I think. More to the point, he once sat through half of one of Greene’s efforts.” William laughed aloud. “So, of course, he will help us. He will send representations to Chettle and obtain an apology, a retraction.”
“How
very kind of Lord Southampton.”
“Oh,
I nearly forgot,” Kit said. “Lord Southampton sent you a letter.” Forgot, my bum, thought Anne, and wondered what Kit thought he was up to.
“How
very kind,” William said in a stunned voice when he’d read the letter.
“What
is it?”
“Lord
Southampton invites me to his home, to Titchfield, in Hampshire, to discuss the poem I’m to write and dedicate to him. Also he speaks of a party of guests later and they, or his mother the Countess, would like a play, a new play. At a fee, of course. It’s a commission.” He looked at Anne as if asking her blessing.
“Of
course you must go. You can hardly refuse.”
“No,”
said Kit, very blandly. “He cannot.”
7.
It
happened that William’s visit had to be postponed. He was about to set out when a letter came: Harry Southampton’s maternal grandfather, Viscount Montague, had died in the first week of October. But please come, wrote Harry, for to have a friend by my side would be a comfort. Details about the funeral followed, then, I will look for you in a week or two from the date of this letter. Please do not fail me.
William
wondered if it were unseemly to go to a house in mourning, but another letter begged him yet again to come, and he set out in the middle of October.
Titchfield
was not the largest or grandest house William had visited, but it was the first of its kind he had come to as a guest rather than a hired entertainer. He thought it handsome, a pleasant seat in fine countryside, its mellow stone glowing honey-gold in the afternoon sun. For a moment he thought he should go to the back entrance, then thought, No, I am a guest, and rode boldly up to the front door.
A
footman greeted him, called for a groom to take his horse, said that His Lordship was out riding but expected back shortly, and handed him on to the butler. The butler said that His Lordship was out riding but expected back shortly, and handed him on to John Florio, Southampton’s Italian secretary. He said that Ees Lordship was out ridingue, but was expected back shortly, and handed William on to a footman, who conducted him at last to his room, saying, “His Lordship is –"
“I
know. Out riding, but expected home –"
"Momently.”
“You amaze me.”
“Will
you require water for washing?” The man’s tone meant, if you players know what washing is, and he left a space where ‘sir’ or a title might have fitted.
“Of
course,” said William with a haughty surprise that wiped the half-smirk off the servant’s face. After all, as his mother had said before he left Stratford, who, a hundred years ago, had heard of the Wriothesleys? Rich they might be, powerful they might be, but they were upstarts whose money came from old King Harry’s destroying the monasteries, and William must never forget he was an Arden by descent.
His
room was in the same wing as Harry’s, a mark of signal favour. Hired players usually bedded down wherever they could find a horizontal space. But he was here as a friend, not player or servant. The room was small but gracefully furnished with everything a sensible man could want. Best of all, it had a large writing table in the window with a cushioned chair.
There
was water for washing, valets to unpack. He needed do nothing himself. William was not unused to the gentilities of life, but this was another realm. Dreamily he washed, put on the clothes the valet laid out for him, then went to the writing table. One of the serving men was looking doubtfully at the small leathern trunk in which William kept his books and papers. “Leave that to me.” He disliked other people touching these things, except Anne. He arranged his books, the ones he had to have to hand while he worked, his precious copy of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
, Boccaccio, Ronsard and Montaigne, a few others, and laid out his paper and pens just so, inkstand to the right. A smaller box with a clicket lock held his current work, and the key to that stayed in his belt-purse. It would be a strange thing to work in someone else’s house, but this room had windows to the south and east, and the garden below. He could work here. What he did here would be good.
He
was looking idly through Ovid when Harry came quickly into the room. “Will, my dear friend. I’m so glad you’ve come.” He put a quick kiss on William’s cheek. He was in riding clothes, and the exercise in the brisk air had brought unusual colour to his face. Here on his own territory he was more self-assured, quicker moving, and seemed less boyish.
William
had forgotten how beautiful he was.
“Come
to my room, I long to talk with you.”
“My
lord.”
“Harry,
remember? Or are we no longer friends?”
“We
are friends. Harry. I want to thank you for your help with that pamphlet of Greene’s.”
“But
I was glad to help,” Harry said earnestly. “Such an insult to you couldn’t be left alone. And all it took was a visit from my man of law. A humble retraction will be published.”
“It
was kind of you to help. And to invite me here.”
“No,
quite selfish of me. The pleasure is mine. Come, now. I’m three doors along. We’ll take glass of wine together. Our time’s our own. My mother is away, so’s my sister.”
Harry’s
room was a nest of silk and velvet, gold brocade and crystal. Of course there was water ready, valets to attend his every need. Having his hair combed, Harry looked at William in the glass, and smiled. “Let’s have that wine.” On his words he hurried William into the adjoining room, where he flung himself down on a divan. This room was a salon, long and high, lined with books, furnished with chairs, several tables and lecterns, two more of the velvet divans. Windows looked to the formal gardens at the front of the house. Portraits and looking-glasses framed in gold decked the walls. Already, though it was not yet twilight, servants were lighting the candles that stood everywhere, while others brought manchet bread, cheese and fruit, and poured wine.
“Your
health,” said Harry, dismissing the servants.
“And
yours.” The wine was unremarkable; someone fiddling the household books, William surmised.
“Now,
the poem?” Harry prompted.
“Yes.”
William sat down opposite him. “
Venus and Adonis
.”
“A
good title. A good theme.” Harry’s long, beautiful mouth twisted. “One of Burghley’s secretaries wrote a work and dedicated it to me, not long ago. The theme was Narcissus.”
“Not
flattering.”
“No.
It was not meant to be. Oh, fine words, pretty phrases; shame there was no talent. And – Narcissus. Vain I may be; girlish I know I look. Proved myself as a man, I have not; not for want of trying. Eager to marry I am not. Deal in country matters with women, I do not. But Narcissus?”
“Yet
Narcissus was beautiful,” William said and couldn’t keep from smiling.
“And
am I beautiful?”
“You
have a glass: you know you are. Do you have nymphs in love with you?”
Harry
shrugged. “For all I know. There was no Echo in the work I speak of. Insultingly no Echo. But I love no nymph. Am I Adonis in your poem, Will?”
“Do
you wish to be?”
“I
think,” said Harry gravely, “that I wish to be your Adonis.”
“And
yield to Venus?”
“That
is up to you, my Will.”
“No,
my lord. Your will.”
“Venus
or Cupid. And no more ‘my lord’.”
“I’ll
remember. Harry, Lord Burghley is to pay me to write poems urging you to marry.”
Southampton
lay back on his cushions, gazing narrow-eyed at William. “Harry, marry. A vile rhyme. You can do better. I know about your bargain with Burghley. The man never gives up, does he?”
“He
would have you give yourself up to marriage. How did you know?”
“His
son told me. Robert Cecil likes me. I wondered if you would tell me, or gravely write your poems and wonder why I was not pleased.”
“I
was unsure about telling you. But I prefer honesty.”
“Between
friends?”
“Between
friends. But many people would think ours an odd friendship, Harry.”
Lifting
his wine cup to his lips Harry paused and said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.
Nine years your senior. Ten years married. Three times a father.”
“Then
that should remove one barb from the quiver of popular disapproval. Patron and poet. A simple relation. You shall pierce me with your… poetry and all the world may see. What the world does not see, is no concern of the world’s. Write your poems for Burghley, Will, and take his payment. I’ll like them nonetheless. I shall even pretend they move me to do my duty. Perhaps they shall. To love, at least. And now, to
Venus and Adonis
. Is it written yet?”
“Only
a stanza. But it’s planned in my mind.”
Sounding
suddenly very boyish in his earnestness Harry said, “Here you will have all the time and peace and inspiration, I trust, to write what you will. And pens, ink and paper. Books. And pleasure. You are my honoured guest here, Will.”
“And
I am honoured.”
“If
so, repay me with a poem the world will remember. Make me immortal.” He turned over, laughing again as he reached for William’s hand. “And read me it, every day.”