THERE was little sleep that night either for William Shakespeare or
for Gervase Heriot. The early morning found them together in the inn
garden. And as they walked up and down its box-bordered alleys, they
talked long and very earnestly and in a manner utterly heedless of
their surroundings.
In this last matter, they were unlucky. Several of the tavern windows
overlooked the garden, and one at least was open wide. This belonged
to the room which was occupied by the man Grisewood, who lay sleepless
on a comfortless pillow, still tormented by his wound. Unable to rest,
he chanced to rise from his couch in the early hours, and thrust his
aching head out of the window in order to get a breath of fresh air.
His attention was caught at once by the sound of voices and of
footsteps on the gravel path below. Then it was he saw the play-actor
in deep conversation with the man who had run him through the arm. The
sight was enough to summon all that Grisewood had of cunning, and in
his case, as it happened, this was a commodity of which nature had been
lavish.
At once, he knelt down by the casement, in order that he might see
without being seen. Then he listened very intently. The process was
irritatingly difficult He was only able to hear brief, disjointed
fragments of the conversation that was passing below. But it was
continued long enough to enable the listener to weave into some kind of
a context the few scraps of talk which he was able to glean.
Without any sort of doubt, the man who had run him through the arm
was Gervase Heriot in a cunning disguise. Such a thrill of joy passed
through the heart of the listener as almost to compensate for the pain
and indignity he had recently undergone. It would appear that the
fugitive was bent upon a course of action from which the play-actor was
doing all in his power to dissuade him. Exactly what it was that was
passing between them, Grisewood could not for the life of him make out.
Long they talked together as they slowly paced the garden, yet even
when they left it at last, the listener was unable to gather the full
gist of their conversation.
Nevertheless, he returned to his bed a very well satisfied man.
Opportunity for revenge lay under his hand. Moreover, he hoped to be
able to pay off his score with the player. And even beyond this doubly
welcome prospect, there was the further consolation of the high price
that had been set on the head of a condemned traitor.
These prospects were very dazzling in the sight of Sir Robert
Grisewood. And such scope did they offer that gentleman for the
exercise of his peculiar faculties, that he was almost afraid he would
not be able to grasp them to the full. He must not act hastily. Let him
give the whole force of his mind to the great possibilities of revenge
that were spread before it. Let him strike at his leisure, and only
after ample consideration of the case in all its bearings. Justice,
full and complete, must be done to the really wonderful opportunity
that had been given him.
In the meantime, Shakespeare’s long conversation with the fugitive in
the inn garden had borne fruit. With infinite difficulty had he been
able to persuade the young man to forego his surrender to the law for
that day, at least. And with even this small concession, the player was
not dissatisfied, for it seemed that during the watches of the night
the scheme in his mind had developed considerably.
Its nature was certainly very complex and hazardous. And the player
asked of Gervase that he would trust him to carry it out without
calling upon him to furnish details. Shakespeare desired the young man
to await the issue of his plan with an open mind. And as there was all
for Gervase to gain, and there was nothing he could lose, and as he had
already learned to have faith in this man who had certainly played the
part of a friend, he consented to do the will of the actor, and at the
same time to ask as few questions as need be.
It was a strange situation. And if Gervase had not an implicit faith in
the player, it could never have arisen. But the man’s intense sympathy
wrought upon him. And, after all, it was not a matter of his own life
alone, or even of the life of Sir John Feversham. He had to consider
that of the girl who had dared and done so much.
Thus, for one day more, he was willing to defer his surrender to the
Queen. And to this he was impelled by the knowledge that whatever
course he took, it would not now be possible to avoid bringing Sir John
Feversham to his trial. The law must inevitably take its course, but
there would still be time and opportunity to save the Constable even
after he was condemned.
It had been Grisewood’s intention to pay his visit to Greenfield Manor
that day. But the discovery he had made caused him to alter his plan of
action. He felt he must take time to consider the new position which
had arisen. Therefore, he decided not to see Simon Heriot at once. It
would be well, he thought, to stay where he was in order that he might
watch affairs closely and gain a further knowledge of that which was
taking place.
Delays, however, are dangerous. Grisewood was not aware of the fact
that his change of plan was very welcome to the play-actor. Indeed,
nothing could have better suited Shakespeare’s design. From the many
inquiries he had recently made in regard to Simon Heriot, there was
good reason to suppose that the man believed his nephew to be dead. And
as this belief was essential to the fantastic design that was maturing
in the subtle brain of this maker of plays, it was beyond all things
necessary that, for the present, it should not be disturbed.
Thus when, in the course of that morning, Shakespeare learned from the
landlord that Grisewood had decided not to visit Greenfield Manor until
the next day a weight of anxiety was taken from his mind. Nothing could
have accorded better with his purpose. Moreover, it put him in great
heart for his enterprise, and provided a further reason for its being
carried through without delay.
To be sure, the scheme was whimsical, extravagant, fantastic. It was of
a kind that could only have sprung from a daringly original invention.
And perhaps only the optimism of one whose life was largely that of
the fancy could have expected it to yield any material result. But it
was with the zest of a schoolboy that the playwright drew his friend,
Burbage, aside before that morning was out, and over a tankard of
October ale with a toast in it, inquired “whether he was ripe for a
midnight frolic?”
“Ripe as a medlar, my old lad of Stratford-on-Avon in Warwickshire,”
said the tragedian, heartily.
“Then we will give what we are pleased to call our minds to a
stratagem, dear shrew, which I hope we may be able this night to put on
a dark knave.”
“I care not so long as there is mirth in it,” said the tragedian.
“Mirth enough in it, I promise you, if we can but draw this badger out
of his hole. But we must go well armed, in case of trouble, and we must
have horses for a journey ten miles out and home.”
“What! more Charlecote adventures?”
“Nay, you egregious mime, a thing of more account than a coney or two.
It is to save the life of an innocent man and, as we will hope, to lose
a foul knave his head.”
The tragedian, in accordance with a cautious, practical and sagacious
disposition, began to look dubious.
“I am by no means clear,” he said, “that Richard Burbage was designed
by nature for knight errantry.”
“No harm shall come of this adventure, I promise you. But all I ask is,
that your dove’s voice shall roar a little like the Nubian lion; and
that your large assemblance shall make us look valiant in the light of
the moon.”
“That will I promise, if I have but a flask of canary within me.”
“It is a choicely pretty stratagem. And if there is no miscarriage, I
think we may obtain a night’s honest amusement at the expense of one
who looks not to provide it.”
“What is your plan, you mad maker of plays? And what is its aim and
object?”
“All in a good season you shall be told. But first, we must prick our
band for the wars. I name myself captain generalissimo, and I name
Richard Burbage, a large man, frowardly given, for my ancient. And for
my squire, I name young Parflete, whose light limbs and smooth face and
gentle air make innocence herself seem a baggage. And then I will name
Lowin, an honest, good fellow with wit enough not to ask questions, and
stout Kemp who is a wag but not a fool, and of course Heriot, this poor
ill-used young man whose life I will save, I am determined upon it.”
“All the same, my William, I would learn the nature of your stratagem,”
said Burbage, tenaciously.
“Nay, Richard, possess your soul in patience for the nonce. The
stratagem is a good stratagem, else may I never drink sack out of a
bombard again. But I must now seek young Mr. Heriot and assemble horses
for our troop.”
It was part of the man’s character, and a strong part, that when once
the mind was fully aroused, it could combine the power of action with
an infinite faculty of invention. It was not always easy for him to see
his way at the beginning of an enterprise. Like so many upon whom the
heavy burden of imagination has been laid, the will was apt to be weak
at times. But if only the occasion called imperiously, he had a power
of concentration that enabled him to overcome the indecision which is
the cruel curse that nature has laid upon the thinker.
Now that William Shakespeare had conceived the high project of saving
the life of an innocent man, mind and will were working in full harmony
to compass this end. He saw clearly what had to be done; and a blend of
many high qualities lent him the power to conceive and to carry out a
scheme which few men would have had the audacity to undertake.
He bade Gervase and Anne be of good heart. Yet he withheld the main
particulars of his design. He told them merely that his purpose was to
ride at sundown to the house of Simon Heriot, that was some ten miles
off, in the company of Burbage, Kemp and other of the players. It would
be necessary for Gervase to accompany them. With a light of humor in
his eye, the playwright assured him that if fortune was kind he had a
plan that might prove very pleasant, whimsical and diverting to all
except him against whom it was to be directed.
“But, tell me, what it is, I pray you?” said Gervase.
Shakespeare shook his head.
“The hour is not yet,” he said. “I’ faith, it is one of those whimsical
matters which endure the performance better than the description. I
only ask that you trust me to the full and do my will, whatever it be;
and, for my part, I will promise that your case shall not be made in
anywise worse than it now is, and under Providence shall be made a good
deal better.”
Knowing so little of the plan, Gervase found it hard not to be
sceptical. But this man had already gained his confidence. He was
hardly likely to promise that which he had no prospect of being
able to perform. Moreover, there was no reason in the world why he
should put a trick upon one in so sorry a plight as Gervase, unless he
was an emissary of his enemies. And this the fugitive had no reason
to suppose. For had he not treated Anne and himself with unfailing
kindness, nay, with something beyond kindness--with a tenderness, a
delicacy of compassion which no gratitude could ever repay?
Shakespeare presently delivered a solemn charge to the
melancholy-visaged John Davenant, of whom there was a tradition
that he had never been known to smile.
“Right excellent host,” said the player, with a whimsical air, “I would
have you place at our disposal about the hour friend Phoebus enters
his cradle, the eight trustiest and lustiest steeds to be found in
this city. John Davenant, on your honor as a licensed victualler, do I
charge you to give the whole of your mind to this matter. An affair of
great pith and moment is toward as soon as the sun has gone down.”
“Is it that you are leaving us to-night, Will?” said the host of the
Crown Tavern, in some alarm.
“Nay, mine host. But a choice little pleasantry is afoot, and it
demands that all who bear a share in it should be well horsed.”
“Well, you are ever a mad faggot,” said John Davenant. “And a man never
knows what whimsey you will take next.”
“Peace, honest vintner. And upon your life as a famous Christian man,
do I charge you to do my behest.”
Thoroughly mystified, John Davenant went to carry out these
instructions, perhaps a trifle unwillingly. But he was an old friend
of William Shakespeare, and although a somber fellow enough on the
outside, there was a light of humor within. Besides, he had a very real
respect for the moving spirit of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company.