MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE rose early, after a troubled night. Throughout
its interminable watches his mind had been dominated by the necessity
of keeping the falconer and the fugitives apart. It was almost certain
that the man would recognize his young mistress. And if this came to
pass, she would learn at once her father’s tragic peril.
Soon or late, the news would have to be told her. At least, that
was the view Shakespeare had now come to hold. But this was not the
season for the Constable’s daughter to learn what had happened. As the
playwright had lain sleepless that night in his bed, with the eager
brain racing courser-like over the whole matter, the core of a plan had
come to him. It was little more than a shadow at present. It had yet
to take shape, yet to acquire a hue of reality, but it might be that
under providence it would develop into a scheme that could offer some
hope of their deliverance. Yet he must have time in which to mature it;
and if by a mischance the fugitives learned at this moment Sir John
Feversham’s peril, nothing was more likely than that a self-sacrificing
impulse would cause them to give themselves up to justice before
anything could be done to help them.
All that day the falconer hung disconsolate about the Crown Tavern.
There was reason to believe that the fugitives were still in the
vicinity of Oxford, but for the time being all further trace of them
had failed. A number of persons in and about the town appeared to have
seen the young gypsies. Among others, John Davenant, the landlord of
the Crown, had a clear recollection of having seen them early the
previous day on the bench outside the tavern door. They could not be
far away, yet for the present the falconer’s inquiries yielded no
result.
Shakespeare was careful to keep Gervase and Anne out of the man’s way.
He hardly let them out of his sight, and during the performance that
afternoon they were given a secluded corner in one of the galleries
where they could enjoy the play without being seen by the audience.
The piece was “Romeo and Juliet,” and its success was as great as that
which had been gained on the previous day by “The Merchant of Venice.”
News of that brilliant performance had spread, so that the press in
the inn yard was greater than ever, there being hardly room to squeeze
another soul inside. This play was finely acted, and it was received
with bursts of rapturous applause.
It was part of the scheme that was being formed in Shakespeare’s mind
that Anne should play _Rosalind_ before the Queen. He knew that such an
innovation would be perilous, and he foresaw that it would arouse the
opposition of his colleagues. But that shy and slender grace was the
ideal of his fancy. He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking
dress in the tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the forest of
Arden. Parflete was an efficient actor, but no member of the company
could have the charm and delicacy of this gracious thing, if only she
could be taught to play the part at so short a notice.
The playwright was too astute even to tell Burbage of the fantastic
scheme that had come to lurk in his mind. But he lost no time in giving
Anne a copy of the play to read. She declared herself enchanted by it.
It was not then, however, that he ventured to reveal to her his design.
And, in the meantime, perils were multiplying.
The man Grisewood remained three days in the privacy of his chamber,
suffering much pain during that time in his disabled arm. And when at
last he emerged with his wound dressed in bandages, he hovered about
the tavern like a brooding and vengeful presence. If ever a man might
be said to be biding his hour in order to work mischief, this was he.
Yet for the present, it was little he could accomplish. Moreover, he
was constrained to keep a civil tongue in his head, since Richard
Burbage, who was no respecter of persons, was fain to inform him that
the horse-trough was still likely to be his academy of manners.
Grisewood, it appeared, had come to Oxford for a particular purpose.
That purpose was to seek out Simon Heriot, his partner in infamy. He
wished to inform him of the prisoner’s escape, which was not generally
known to the world, and incidentally to learn what prospect there was
of being able to replenish a depleted exchequer. This indeed was its
permanent condition, so far as Sir Robert Grisewood was concerned. But
now that his foul work was accomplished he looked to it to provide a
source of revenue for many years to come.
In the course of the day Grisewood chanced to inquire of John Davenant,
in the falconer’s hearing, whether he could direct him to Greenfield
Manor, the house of Simon Heriot The falconer’s attention was
attracted, and presently he entered into conversation with Grisewood.
Both men, at first, were not a little wary of each other. The business
of neither enabled them to open their hearts to a chance acquaintance,
but a few cautious questions judiciously answered were enough to prove
their common interest in a matter which concerned them both very deeply.
Grisewood had more cunning, and therefore less frankness, than the
falconer. Thus he asked questions rather than answered them. And it was
not long before he had learned the nature of the falconer’s mission.
Markham, to be sure, was very loth to tell his story. But once upon the
track of it, Grisewood was not a man to be gainsaid. On a pretence of
being able to tell far more than he knew, he drew the main particulars,
word by word, out of the reluctant falconer. Thus he learned the manner
of Gervase Heriot’s escape, and how the fugitive was roaming the
country-side in the company of Sir John Feversham’s daughter.
This was high and strange news for Grisewood. Indeed, Markham was one
of the very few who knew this fact. Not even the Queen herself was
aware of it.
Had Markham been in a mood less desperate, he would not have divulged
the share of his young mistress in the prisoner’s escape. But this man
had affected to know far more of the matter than, in point of fact, he
did know; besides, the falconer did not see how any words or any act
of his could make the affair more terrible than it was. His one desire
was to overtake the fugitives in order that he might inform his young
mistress of her father’s dire peril. This was neither more nor less
than the morbid craving of an overburdened conscience. It would not be
at his instance even if Gervase Heriot was given up to justice. His
wish was merely to make known to the prisoner all that had occurred,
and then leave any further action in his hands. By this means the
falconer hoped to rid himself of the stain of his master’s blood.
As soon as Grisewood had heard the falconer’s story he brought the
whole force of his cunning mind to bear upon the matter.
“You say, my friend, this traitor and Sir John’s young daughter in a
boy’s dress are roaming the country in the guise of gypsies?”
“That I do,” said Markham.
Grisewood strove to amplify in his mind a picture the falconer’s story
had conjured up in it. At last he was able to do this.
“By God’s life!” he said, “that was the pair of vagabonds I saw in the
company of that accursed play-actor at the tavern door on the morning I
came here.”
“Why do you call him accursed?” said Markham, remembering with a pang
that this player was a man in whom he had already confided.
“Why do I call him accursed?” said Grisewood. “All the world knows him
for a notorious rogue, as are all men of his sort. And I’ll wager a
golden angel he is concealing these fugitives in order to serve some
purpose of his own.”
“But why should he conceal them,” said the falconer, “when there is a
large sum on the head of Mr. Heriot?”
“A large sum, eh! The rogue may not know that.”
It was more to the purpose, perhaps, that the rogue who spoke had
not known it. He grew silent. In this business he must go cautiously
indeed. It might be possible for one who lived by his wits to take
profit from this strange business. At least, in his own mind, he was
reasonably sure of two things. The first was that the fugitives were
near at hand, the other that the play-actor was in a position to throw
light on their whereabouts.
The effect of this conversation was to keep Sir Robert Grisewood very
wideawake, and also to implant the seed of distrust in the mind of
Markham. It might be, after all, that the player was not so open and
honest as he seemed. At any rate, the falconer determined to watch him
narrowly. With that end in view he marked all that Shakespeare did. And
he soon found more food for his suspicions.
Close observation of the player’s comings and goings enabled Markham to
learn that there was a certain room in the upper part of the inn, which
claimed a large share of his attention. Much of Shakespeare’s time
was spent in it. Another person who had recourse to it was a certain
tall man profusely endowed with a beard and moustachios, said to be a
foreigner, who had lately joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. He
was reputed to be a swordsman of much skill, and in proof of it he had
lately given Grisewood a thrust through the arm.
The falconer was able to learn that this man, an Italian who went by
the name of Bandinello, had a son. And although he, too, had joined
the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, and was staying at the Crown, Markham
found it impossible to get a sight of him. For one thing, neither of
these Italians took their meals with the rest of the players in the
dining-parlor, but as the falconer contrived to learn, these were
served to them in this upper chamber.
This fact deepened Markham’s suspicions. He did not think, well,
however, to confide them to Grisewood. Inquiry of the landlord had been
sufficient to fix a very evil reputation upon the man. And it had also
served, in a measure, to reassure Markham in respect of the player.
The landlord, who seemed a shrewd and honest fellow enough, had no
hesitation in affirming that William Shakespeare was a very upright man.
Markham kept to himself his growing belief that the player, for
purposes of his own, was concealing the fugitives. But the falconer,
once engaged by this train of thought, began to grow more and more
certain that he had good ground for his suspicion. A close scrutiny,
moreover, convinced him that Signor Bandinello was by no means the
individual he gave himself out to be.
Upon reaching this conclusion, Markham determined on a bold course.
By hook or by crook, he would get a sight of this boy who was kept so
close. Yet only one means seemed to offer of doing this. He must choose
a favorable moment, and boldly invade this private room. Doubtless the
best time would be when the players were assembled at supper in the
dining-parlor.
In accordance with this plan he watched a servant ascend with a tray of
food, and then a few minutes later he walked fearlessly into the room.
As John Markham had surmised would be the case, he found two persons
seated at supper. One was the so-called Italian music master, and the
other was doubtless the person who had passed as his son. But, with
a single glance of an almost terrified swiftness, the falconer was
able to pierce the disguise. For all her close-clipt curls and her
boy’s dress, the second occupant of the room was undoubtedly his young
mistress.
In spite of the fact that the falconer was fully prepared for the
discovery he had made, he uttered a cry.
Signor Bandinello sprang to his feet.
“What is your pleasure?” he asked sharply, and in an English as pure as
any man need wish to use.
For an instant, the two men stood looking at one another blankly, while
Anne’s dismay was so great that she could neither speak nor move. But
each of these men had recognized the other already.
Beyond a doubt this was the man the falconer sought. Also this was the
servant of Sir John Feversham, whom Gervase had encountered in the
meadow.
Gervase laid his hand to his sword.
“Nay, sir,” said Markham, simply. “I am here as your friend, and
as--and as the humble servant of my mistress.”
The sound of the falconer’s voice broke the spell that had been laid
upon Anne. She rose from the table, and in spite of all that she had
undergone of suffering, something of the old imperiousness was in her
tone.
“What do you here, John Markham?”
“I bring news, mistress.”
“Of whom?”
“I bring news of your father, mistress.”
“Of my father!”
It seemed almost too great an effort for Anne to cast back her mind to
the stern man whose very existence she had nearly forgotten. In the
stress of those terrible weeks, which had called for all that she had
of endurance, her former life had grown so vague, so remote that it
was almost as if it had never been.
“What of my father?”
Tragedy unspeakable was in the falconer’s face. For the moment, a power
outside himself forbade his answering the question. Days and nights had
he given to this quest, that a load of misery might be taken from his
heart. But now that at last his tireless wanderings had achieved their
purpose, a force beyond his own will held him captive.
The falconer knew as he gazed at his young mistress that it was her
life he was about to sacrifice in order to save his master’s. It was
her youth and her high devotion in the scale, against one who had lived
the flower of his years. Surely it behoved him to have a care.
“What of my father?”
The man shook his head impotently.
“Is he dead?”
“No, mistress, he is not dead.”
But in the falconer’s tone was that which sent a chill to the heart of
Sir John Feversham’s daughter. In spite of himself, Markham had told
her that which he would now have concealed.
“My father is in peril?”
Again there was silence. But the woman’s swift instinct all too soon
divined its meaning.
“In peril. And it is because--because----!”
A shudder went through her veins. She buried her face in her hands.
A dreadful anguish came upon the falconer. Any words he would have
spoken died on his lips.
In the midst of this unhappy scene Shakespeare entered the room. His
eye fell on the somber figure of the falconer. And then he saw the
piteous face of Anne.
“Oh, what have you done!” The player’s bitterly reproachful words were
heard only by the falconer.
Markham shook his head dismally.
Gervase turned a distracted face upon the player.
“This man is concealing something,” he said. “What it is, I do not
know. Perhaps you can tell us.”
In spite of the fact that Markham’s presence in the room had taken
Shakespeare altogether by surprise, he seemed to realize the situation
almost at once. Gervase Heriot’s air of bewilderment and the falconer’s
look of pitiful irresolution served to make it clear that the man’s
will had failed when it came to the telling of his story.
But it was equally clear to that powerful intelligence that Anne had
come very near to divining the grim truth. She was the picture of woe.
And her distress could only proceed from one cause.
“You say my father is in peril!” Heedless of the player’s presence her
words were addressed to John Markham. “And it is because of me.”
The falconer did not answer. But his white face answered for him.
“Tell me all, John Markham. I must, I will know all.”
In the presence of that instancy of will which now as ever held the
falconer in thrall, he could not do less than obey. It was in vain that
the player sought to check him.
In a few broken, brief words, the dismal story was told.
“Sir John lies in the Tower, mistress, in peril of his life. He is
accused of complicity in his prisoner’s escape. On Monday next, as I
understand, he is to be brought to his trial. And it is likely to go
hard with him if he makes no effort to clear himself. And that, I am
sure, he will not do.”
Gervase interposed sharply.
“Why do you say Sir John Feversham will not attempt to clear himself?”
“For the reason, sir,” said the falconer, gravely and simply, “that in
such a case as this, it would not be my master’s character.”
“How can you possibly know that?” asked Gervase.
The falconer shook his head sadly.
“You are not acquainted with my master,” he said. “Even to save his
life, he is not the man to tell all that he knows of this matter.”
“That is to say,” said Gervase, “he has withheld a certain fact from
the Queen?”
“Yes.”
Despair closed upon Gervase and Anne. They did not need to be told that
Sir John Feversham had taken upon himself the whole responsibility for
his prisoner’s escape, and that not a word had crossed his lips in
regard to the share his daughter had in it.
One thought sprang at once to the minds of the fugitives. It was
impossible in such circumstances to leave Sir John to his fate. All the
laws of honor, of filial duty forbade such a course.
“Oh, why did you tell them!” said the player to John Markham. The too
sensitive soul felt the stab of tragedy in its inmost fiber.
“It was right that he should,” said Gervase. “It was his bounden duty.”
Gervase had grown as pale as death, but already resolve had braced his
will. He saw at once that only one course was open to him, and that was
the one the player himself had foreseen.
Yet no issue could have been more tragic. It was death for Gervase, and
in the circumstances of the case, it was also death for Anne. All this
the player understood, and even the thrice unhappy falconer seemed to
realize it.
Gervase’s mind was soon made up. He would go at once to London and
surrender himself to the Queen. He would start that night or at dawn at
the latest, since it seemed to him there was not an hour to be lost.
The player, however, had only to learn this impetuous resolve, in order
to declare himself strongly averse from it. A plan which promised some
hope of deliverance, a very slender one, it was true, had been taking
shape in his mind for three days past. Any such precipitancy of action
would destroy it. Therefore, he entreated Gervase to defer a step that
must prove irretrievably fatal until such time as his scheme might have
a chance to mature.
Shakespeare well knew how hazardous, indeed how fantastic his plan was.
And he was far too honest a man to promise more than its desperate
character warranted. But he did all that he could to dissuade Gervase
from his intention. He implored the young man not to act until that day
week, at which time the Lord Chamberlain’s men had to appear before the
Queen. It might then be possible to gain her ear. Gervase, however,
would not consent to this. His thoughts were dominated completely by
the peril of a brave and chivalrous man. Indeed, it was as much as the
player could do to persuade him to defer his departure for London until
the next day.
Finally, Shakespeare was able to wring a reluctant promise from Gervase
that he would not act upon his resolve the following morning, until
such time as they had met to discuss it again. And for the time being,
at any rate, that was the utmost the play-actor could contrive.