NO time was lost now in moving out of Oxford. Within an hour of Justice
Pretyman’s visit, the Lord Chamberlain’s men were on their way to
London. They were accompanied by Gervase and Anne, who were still
disguised as the Italian music master and his son, and also by the
falconer, John Markham. None of them was aware that, less than a mile
behind, rode Sir Robert Grisewood and his two servants.
The players traveled that night as far as Reading, where they lay, and
reached Southwark without misadventure in the course of the following
afternoon, which was Sunday. Shakespeare felt a keen sense of relief
when he had placed the fugitives in the comfort and security of his
lodgings on the Bankside, which he shared with his friend Burbage.
The tragedian, on his own part, it must be confessed, was terrible
uneasy of mind. He knew the situation to be one of great peril and
difficulty. And he viewed with a feeling little short of horror
Shakespeare’s determination to concern himself with a matter of high
treason. He had a deep pity for the fugitives, but he felt how futile
and how perilous it was for men such as themselves to mingle in their
sinister affairs.
Parflete had been left at Oxford, as he was in no condition to travel.
And over the question of a substitute for that unlucky young actor,
the author and the manager came to the verge of a quarrel. Shakespeare
kept to his determination that Anne should play _Rosalind_ in the new
comedy, while Burbage affirmed that it was contrary to all precedent
and was courting disaster.
In spite of this, however, the author began at once to instruct Anne
in the part. And she brought to her study a keenness of grasp and a
quickness of apprehension that delighted her mentor. Her progress
was very rapid under his wise guidance. In two days, she was almost
word perfect. Moreover, she discovered a natural faculty for acting
which she shared in common with her sex. All her gestures were simple,
unforced, appropriate; and her bearing had an ease and grace that
Parflete himself could not have equaled.
The author was delighted. It was in vain that Richard Burbage shook his
head and indulged in all manner of dark prophecy. Here was the perfect
_Rosalind_. Besides, there lay behind this project a higher and deeper
motive than even the pleasuring of the first lady in the land.
Never for an instant was there absent from a noble and humane mind an
intense desire to serve these hapless children of destiny. William
Shakespeare was determined at all hazards to arouse the Queen’s
interest on their behalf, and if possible to excite her pity. Yet
none knew better than this supreme judge of human kind the peril and
the difficulty of such a task. The Queen was a woman of dangerous and
vindictive temper.
But Shakespeare was pledged to do all that lay in his power to save the
lives of these fugitives. Burbage and Kemp and Heming, and others of
his colleagues, might be full of alarm for the consequences likely to
attend his interference, but they were powerless to turn him from his
purpose. The matter had become a point of honor with him now.
In accordance with the promise made to Gervase, Shakespeare kept
himself fully informed in regard to Sir John Feversham. On the morning
following his return to London, the playwright went to Greenwich to the
Queen’s palace, and there sought an interview with a man with whom he
was on terms of intimacy, who held high office in the Royal Household.
From him he learned that the Constable was held a close prisoner in the
Tower, that the Court of Star Chamber had condemned him already to the
block, but that there was good reason to believe the sentence would
not be carried out for another week at least, since Cecil, the Queen’s
all-powerful minister, felt it was not a case for undue haste.
The high official with whom William Shakespeare conferred shook his
head sadly over the whole matter. It was very ugly, he said, and was
strongly inclined to deprecate the player’s interest in it. He gave him
a word of advice. Let him dismiss the subject from his thoughts as soon
as possible. It was one of those dark things in which no man who set a
value upon his life and liberty could afford to concern himself.
The man to whom this excellent advice was given well knew that it was
sound enough. But he was pledged too deeply; besides, he was not a man
to count the cost. He bore the news back to Gervase, who was fretting
out his heart in his hiding-place in the player’s lodging on the
Bankside, and told him he could possess his soul in patience, at least,
until Thursday.
The three intervening days were fraught with much anxiety for
Shakespeare. The fate of the new comedy hung in the balance. The
absence of Parflete from the cast was felt by all, except the
author himself, to be an irreparable blow to its prospects. And the
announcement that the all-important part of _Rosalind_ was to be
intrusted to one who had absolutely no experience of the theater filled
the other players with dismay.
Burbage alone knew the true identity of the Italian music master’s son.
And even in such a crisis as this, he was too loyal to his friend to
make others a party to his knowledge. But the great actor was sorely
uneasy. His misgivings were many, not only as to the fate of the
comedy, but also as to that of the author himself, now that he had
taken this unlucky resolve to concern himself with treason.
A rehearsal of the play was called for Tuesday afternoon. And here a
surprise awaited those who were prophesying disaster. Complete tyro
as the young Signor Arrigo was known to be, his impersonation of
_Rosalind_ showed a most surprising talent. Anne had been strung up to
a high pitch of excitement. She brought all her high courage and her
quick woman’s faculties to bear upon the task and the result was far
beyond all expectation. There was no denying such grace, such beauty,
such natural aptitude. Not once did she falter in her lines. And then
the voice was so clear and musical, that it might have been that of
_Rosalind_ herself.
Indeed, had not the other players known the new _Rosalind_ to be the
Italian music master’s son, they must have been convinced that she was
a woman! They were bound to agree with the author that young Signor
Arrigo was born to play the part. And their spirits rose accordingly.
Even the staunchest adherents of Parflete were compelled to admit that
fortune had provided them with a substitute of quite remarkable powers.
That gifted young player himself could not have surpassed the new
_Rosalind_.
It was only promise, to be sure. Let them withhold the verdict until
Thursday. These were men of experience, who knew that the happy augury
of the rehearsal was not always borne out by the performance itself.
But they were put in excellent heart by the brilliant aptitude of the
young Signor Arrigo, which so far transcended their expectations.
John Heming, one of the Company’s managers, a man of parts with a
well-developed faculty of criticism, was particularly delighted. He had
never seen such a precocious genius for the stage. And he could not
help admiring the perspicacity which had enabled the author to take a
step so bold, which had led to a discovery of such importance.
All now promised well for the momentous day. If the new _Rosalind_
fulfilled the promise of the first rehearsal, there need be no fears
for the success of the piece. The author had yet to know failure. It
was true the subject-matter of the new comedy might be flimsy enough,
but Burbage and Heming declared, and these were men of ripe judgment,
that it had all the qualities which had made the playwright famous.
Still, before that fateful Thursday dawned, there happened a sinister
thing. Late in the evening of Wednesday, Shakespeare returned alone to
his lodgings. He had been ceaselessly occupied during the day with the
final preparations for the morrow. Everything was now in readiness for
the journey to Richmond, a few hours hence. The playwright was feeling
dog-tired and had a longing for rest, as he turned the key in the door
of his dwelling.
He was surprised to find a light showing through the shutters of the
little parlor in which he wrote and read. The room, it was true, had
been placed at the service of Heriot and Mistress Feversham. But the
hour was so late, that he had supposed they had retired long ago to
their rest.
As a matter of fact, this was the case. But when the playwright entered
the parlor, he found a man sitting there in expectation of his arrival.
It was a warm evening of July, but the face and the form of the visitor
were hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak.
The unbidden guest, whoever he might be, received Shakespeare coolly
enough. He did not even take the trouble to rise from his chair when
the poet came into the room, but merely held up his hand as if to imply
a need of caution and secrecy, and then in a tone of studied insolence
told him to close the door.
Shakespeare was quick to recognize the voice of his visitor. The man
was Sir Robert Grisewood.
“To what is due this honor?” said the poet with a courtesy that was
deeply ironical.
He knew well enough that his visitor was not likely to be inspired by
any good motive. But long ago he had taken the measure of the man, and
he did not fear him in the least. Indeed, for that matter, he feared no
man, but with that prudence which springs from an intimate knowledge
of the world, he was at once upon his guard.
“You do well to ask that question, my friend,” said Grisewood,
unmuffling his face in order that Shakespeare not only might see it,
but that he might also be disconcerted by the sight of it.
“What is your business with me, Sir Robert Grisewood?” said
Shakespeare, coldly and contemptuously.
“I will tell you.” The eyes of the unwelcome visitor were full of
menace. “I will tell you in a very few words, good Master Actor and
Versifier. Your precious life is not worth five minutes’ purchase.”
The dramatist was wholly unaffected by the announcement.
“That may be so,” he said, coldly. And he gave his shoulders a shrug,
which implied that the information was of very little consequence.
“Shall I tell you why it is not?”
“As you please.”
“Well, to be brief and round with you, good Master Poet, the whole
of your doings, your exits and your entrances, as you would say, of
the past fortnight are perfectly well known to me. And I would fain
inform you that, at this moment, you are harboring under this roof the
notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, and also the young daughter of Sir
John Feversham, who conspired with him to break prison.”
Grisewood had the air of one who looses a thunderbolt. But if he looked
for the dire effect, which may reasonably be expected to attend such a
Jove-like feat, he must have been sadly disappointed. The man to whom
his words were addressed showed not the least sign of fear.
“All that you say is true enough,” said the playwright, “if it is any
satisfaction to you to know it.”
“Make your mind easy on that score, my friend,” said Grisewood sourly.
“It is a very considerable satisfaction to me to know it.”
“And I presume you would gain a profit from your knowledge?”
“Yes, Master Actor, to be brief and round with you, that is certainly
my intention. And further, I would inform you that the reward I
have in my mind is not one to be despised. Because you will do well
to understand that I have ample evidence to implicate you and your
fellow-players in the murder of my friend, Mr. Simon Heriot, who was
foully done to death in his own house in the course of last Friday
night.”
“In other words, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Shakespeare, with a biting
coldness that seemed to exasperate his visitor, “you propose to take
profit from the murder of your friend.”
“Have a care, you ranting, play-acting swine!”
Although one hand of the bully was done up in bandages, the other
instinctively sought the hilt of his sword. But this action did nothing
to modify the stern contempt of the actor.
“You are here, Sir Robert Grisewood, to seek a price for your silence?”
The tone seemed to bite like an acid.
“Yes, my friend, that assumption is a true one, and I propose to fix
just as heavy a price as you can afford to pay. And as I understand
your penny peep-show tricks are making you a fortune, the sum I intend
to exact shall not be unworthy of your figure in the world.”
“Name it.”
“What do you say to the sum of a thousand pounds, good Master
Playwright and maker of verses?”
Less of disdain than of pity entered the face of the poet.
“The sum seems little enough,” he said, “for the deed it would
purchase.”
“Aye, little enough, Master Moralist, as you say, but still a fairly
substantial figure for those who have to earn it by the sweat of their
brains. And, of course,” Grisewood added with an ugly sneer, “other
opportunities may arise of adding to the price of my silence, since you
incline to think it too little.”
“I think it neither too little nor too much,” said the playwright.
“For, to be as frank with you, Sir Robert, as you have been with me, I
care so little for your silence, that I would not stoop to buy it if
even a single word were its price.”
“Very well, then, my friend, you shall hang at Tyburn.”
The blackmailer rose from his chair.
“I promise you,” he said, and his eyes were those of a beast of prey,
“my first business to-morrow shall be to seek out my Lord Burleigh.
The whole of the information I possess shall be laid before him, and
you can depend upon it, my friend, you and your infernal company,
upon being lodged in jail as soon as your precious interlude has been
performed before the Queen. It will be a pleasant guerdon to look
forward to, will it not?”
Grisewood realized already that his choice scheme had fallen to the
ground. He saw at once that he had counted on too much. He had looked
for an easy prey. This highly strung, emotional temperament would yield
readily to his threats. It would be easy enough to frighten the very
life out of what was doubtless a craven’s heart.
The knowledge that he was now free to do his worst, and that in
Shakespeare’s opinion the worst he could do was of such little account
as to be a subject of his open scorn, filled him with fury. Also he
was amazed at the utter indifference of the fellow. He had the power,
as he firmly believed, to take away this man’s life, and yet this half
hackney-writer, half merry-andrew was too proud to sue for his life
with civility, let alone to pay for it with current coin of the realm.
Grisewood withdrew with a snarl and a sneer. The morrow should see them
all lodged in “The Jug.” Within a month from that day, he would answer
for it that the noose should be round their necks.
He swaggered out of the house on to the Bankside. Here his two servants
joined him, for at that hour of the night it was unsafe for any man to
be abroad unattended. Thinking his ugly thoughts, he walked slowly in
the direction of the Falcon stairs. There he hailed the waterman, who
was awaiting him with a wherry to bear him to his own lodging in a more
aristocratic quarter of the town.