Seven Will Out: A Renaissance Revel (22 page)

“He was the best of husbands, if not the love of my life,” said Margaret. “And he, too, knew about a chaotic youth; his father was killed in one of those interminable Scottish power struggles, and he had lived in exile in England. Being close to the Scottish throne by birth himself, he understood the tempestuousness of royal life. What he did not personally experience, though, was the kind of chaos a rampant mother can cause. Nor had he been tragically crossed in love as I had been. Much as he commiserated with me, he could not empathize with me effectively on either score. And he
so
wanted to ease my distress, to help me in some way. He loved me very much, you know,” Margaret said, smiling, while wiping away yet another single tear.

Those single tears of Margaret’s, evidence of both strong emotion and Herculean self-control, were more affecting than any more copious or obvious waterworks would have been. Here was a woman we might in modern times describe as intense, or perhaps complicated. In a Tudor world where men did not always appreciate these characteristics, I was glad to know that Margaret had bagged a winner for a husband after all her trials.

“Your Earl of Lennox must have been a fine man,” I said, a rather more conventional comment than I like to make, but Margaret did not seem to mind.

“My husband
was
a fine man, and a wise one as well, Dolly. He eventually came up with an excellent suggestion for helping me to cope with all my life’s tragedy and trauma.”

“Well, since they didn’t have therapy in your day, I’m not sure what he could have come up with—prayer, maybe?”

“No, Dolly. He suggested that I consult a friend—a particular woman friend. And I did so. That woman friend suggested that I vent my feelings in writing.”

“What an excellent suggestion! The woman was certainly ahead of her time. In our day, journaling is offered as a way to cope with pretty much any of life’s difficulties; a book with a pretty cover and plenty of blank pages, a decorative pen, a glass of wine, and your troubles are over. I am not much of one for it myself, but perhaps you found it therapeutic, Margaret.”

“I am not much of one for keeping a diary either, Dolly. Even if I were, it would have been far too risky an undertaking for someone in my position at court.”

“Well, Margaret, I know you were a creative writer, if not a diarist; you were a contributor the
Devonshire
manuscript, were you not?”

“I am flattered, Dolly, that you recall that part of my story,” Margaret said, beaming not a little bit. A look of pleasure, such as the one my artistic reference brought to her features, definitely did something for the woman’s face. A little softness, a little glow, and a bit of extra confidence made all the difference. I could see why those lusty Howard boys had fallen in love with the young Margaret.

“The
Devonshire
manuscript,” I reminded myself aloud, “was a catchall of random but important early Renaissance writing and included most famously some of the works of the poet Thomas Wyatt. The story goes that it was passed from hand to hand at the Tudor court, giving the unsung talents who lived there an opportunity to try their poetic hands as well.”

“That is correct, Dolly.”

“Madge Shelton, one of Henry VIII’s mistresses, was said to have been on Team Devonshire. Was she?” I asked Margaret.

“She was,” Margaret confirmed.

“They say Ann Boleyn may have contributed to the manuscript as well. I have to know—did she?”

“You’ve met her,” said Mary Tudor, from across the room. “Do you really think Ann Boleyn would have passed up an opportunity to put her oar in, when one came along?”

Knowing Ann Boleyn as I did, I took this to be a yes on the
Devonshire
question. Elizabeth gave her older sibling a sisterly noogie on the shoulder but made no comment. I directed the conversation back to Margaret Douglas.

“Your own addition to the
Devonshire
manuscript was some love poetry, as I recall, Margaret.”

“It isn’t entirely accurate for me to use the words ‘my own’ in reference to the work; I had a co-contributor, you know.”

“You did indeed have a literary partner for your contributions, Margaret. It was your lover—your first love—Thomas Howard.”

“Thomas and I wrote our parts of the manuscript as our romance unfolded, from its dreamy beginnings to its tragic end.”

“It was in the form of a sort of exchange between the two of you—love poetry and a riff on some Chaucer, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Dolly. And my memories of that joint literary endeavor informed the first of the therapeutic writings I undertook at the behest of that sagacious female friend my husband advised me to consult.”

“Who was this wise, advising chum of yours?” I asked.

“Catherine Willoughby,” Margaret replied. “She and I were such great friends, and when it came to my writing, her advice proved spot-on! I knew it from the relief I began to experience
almost as soon as I put pen to paper on my first clandestine work. How right she was when she said, ‘Let it all go!’”

My gratification at this revelation was considerable; I had quite an interest in Catherine Willoughby, even though the two of us had never met in this place.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

On Sorrowing and Borrowing

“Why was your work clandestine, Margaret?” I asked. “You weren’t afraid to come out of the closet with your love poetry.”

“Poetry, in our time, was considered a genteel undertaking and not unsuitable for royalty. The writing of common plays most definitely would not have been considered
comme il faut
for a lady of royal blood.”

“Theatrical waters at that juncture were muddy indeed. Biblical and historical pageants and allegorical morality plays were giving way to spins on classical dramas with provocative themes, farce, and elements of the budding
commedia dell’arte
. Not exactly the pool a delicately reared lady should be seen dipping her literary toe into, I suppose.”

“I think it was just that crossroads quality, the idea of so much change and possibility in the theater, that made the idea of being part of it, even secretly, so irresistible.”

Margaret’s companions nodded silently in acknowledgment of the importance of keeping up appearances and the lure of Tudor-era dramaturgy.

“So, Margaret, you wrote a play, based on the Chaucer that you and Thomas Howard bandied about when you were lovers under the gun. Tell me more about it.”

“My play dealt on one level with the truncated nature of my and Thomas’s relationship; a brief period of idyllic ecstasy and a night of love, followed by inevitable separation, driven by political and familial conflict.”

“And on what other levels did your play operate, Margaret?”

“Thomas and I were both imprisoned because of our romance and engagement. I knew that I, as the king’s niece and favorite, would eventually be released. There came a point when we both realized, though, that Thomas would die in prison. He managed to communicate with me while he was incarcerated. He said he was resigned to dying for the sake of our love, but that it galled him to think that, eventually, I might move on with my life and find another love when he was out of the picture.”

“How did you feel about this selective selflessness of your beloved?”

“In a word, Dolly,
guilty
—I felt guilty. Much as I loved him, I knew he was right; eventually, I would marry someone else. I was young and of the highest rank at court; my marrying—and marrying well, eventually—was inevitable. Time and maturity helped me to see, in my golden years, that this was simply the natural course of things. But at the time of my and Thomas’s tragedy, and for some time after, it felt like perfidy, plain and simple, that my love and my heart would go on.”

“So, Margaret, you worked out your feelings of guilt in your play?”

“Yes, I did. And I threw some politics and martial exploits into the play too, for good measure. I had seen the chaos that both could create, and I wanted to try to capture the futility of it all.”

“Sounds like you had a lot going on in this work of yours, Margaret: love, sex, politics, futility, and guilt, not to mention the Chaucer. Which of Chaucer’s works inspired you?”

“
Troilus and Criseyde
,” Margaret replied. “And this was not the only instance of my weaving a beloved author’s material into a work of my own. I followed my first romantic play with a second, and this time, I worked in some references to Dante’s
Inferno
.”

“I guess you don’t hold with the conventional wisdom of ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ do you?”

“I’m sure both Chaucer and Dante would have been honored to have their talents tapped by a royal personage,” said Margaret, bringing all her full regal mien to bear. Elizabeth and Mary Tudor nodded approvingly, and Mary, Queen of Scots, gave a robust and vaguely Scots-burred “Hear, hear.”

“Well—um—yes,” I said, duly chastened. “What was your second romantic play about, Margaret?”

“It was a tale of young, star-crossed lovers, passionately attracted to each other from their earliest encounters. Lovers kept apart by family loyalties and politics. Imagine it, Dolly; a man dies, thanks to his beloved’s relatives and to his own lack of judgment; a woman, unable to bear it all, ends her own life. In conclusion, some corrective recapitulation, as the subject families learn how to better get along.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Dante’s
Inferno
to me,” I said, recalling the tenor of that primordial heaven-and-hell epic.

I borrowed the names of my protagonists from Dante,” Margaret explained; “the Montagues and the Capulets.”

“Just-like-Romeo-and-Juliet,” I sang, doing the twist to my very respectable cover of the 1950s doo-wop hit by the Reflections. The twist was an immediate hit with all the ladies present; as we danced together, I felt that we had, in a way, become closer, like girls at a sleepover. A DVD viewing of
Dirty Dancing
would have cemented our newfound unity even further, but you can’t have everything.

“Dolly,” Margaret said, gamely dancing along with us all, “my second play
was Romeo and Juliet
.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Star-Crossed and Pillow Tossed

I felt as star-crossed as those famous lovers for a moment; the shock made me produce a most unladylike sputter.

“
You
wrote
Romeo and Juliet
, Margaret?
You?
Not Shakespeare?
You?
”

“Yes, Dolly,
me
; who better than me to write about star-crossed love?”

Mary, Queen of Scots, Catherine Grey, and Mary Grey all raised their hands and looked pointedly at Margaret.

“Point taken,” Margaret admitted. “Still, there is no denying that I was crossed in love not once but twice. I saw internecine familial strife cause the rupture of my first romance and the death of my first love. Getting all the emotion of that out of me and onto paper was marvelously unburdening. And I flatter myself that I made more than one person who saw
Romeo and Juliet
think twice about what can happen when one interferes with young love.”

“No doubt you did,” I conceded. “Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, and Jerome Robbins, to name three.”

“Fathers who disapproved of their daughters’ lovers?” Margaret asked.

“No, Margaret; men who set
Romeo and Juliet
quite memorably to song and dance. Think of them as Team
West Side Story
.”

“How charming!” Margaret said, after I had I sung a few bars of, and did a little dance to, a medley of “I Feel Pretty”, “Tonight”, and “Maria”.

“Thank you, Margaret. But I am still unable to quite take this all in, I must admit. Just to confirm; you
are
telling me that Shakespeare did not write
Romeo and Juliet
—and that
you
did?”

“Yes, Dolly, dear; I assure you that it is true. My cousin, Elizabeth, will vouch for me, I am sure,” Margaret said, turning to the redheaded menace in question.

Elizabeth nodded slowly and with gravity. “What my cousin says is true, Dolly.”

The ever-practical Jane Grey saw me swaying a bit from shock; in fact, I was even starting to slide down in my chair.

“Catherine! Mary!” Jane called to her sisters, “bring some cushions for Dolly and Margaret to sit on. I think it might be best if Dolly remains at floor level, at least for the immediate future.”

Jane’s no-nonsense and practical side tickled me, reminding me of my dear and unflappable cousin Jean. Catherine and Mary, scrambling around for the cushions, made for a much less methodical picture. They looked, in fact, like Merrie and Katie, blundering around our college department. I had seen them literally run into each other as they dashed about the office in their efforts to complete a project on time. Mary and Catherine Grey did the same thing, their vision obscured by the armloads of cushions they were carrying. I admired, as I watched their farthingales sway at the impact, how they were able to stay upright after the collision.

I recalled that the ladies of the Renaissance often sat on cushions on the floor as a way to accommodate their farthingales
most easily when in repose. That thought made the cushions seem like a good idea, for comfort’s sake.

I realized a little later that Jane was thinking more about my safety than my comfort when she requisitioned the cushions. After all, if one is going to lose one’s equipoise, one won’t have so far to fall if one is already on the floor.

Chapter Sixty

Termagants and a Song and Dance

“Let me get this straight,” I said, settled onto my cushion in ladylike fashion after a brief tutorial in farthingale management from Jane. “Your second romance, Margaret, was
Romeo and Juliet
. I guess I’d best ask the name of your first play—the one with the Chaucer connection.”

“My first play was named after its protagonists,
Troilus and Cressida
, Dolly.”

“As in Shakespeare’s
Troilus and Cressida
?” I asked.

“Well, yes and no, Dolly,” Margaret said. “I know what you mean when you say Shakespeare’s, but really, it was mine.”