THE four men, Shakespeare, Burbage, Pembroke, Raleigh, waited in the
Queen’s ante-chamber, there to abide the issue. Long they waited. It
was a far cry in those days from Richmond to the Strand and back again.
Shakespeare alone was without concern. The others were gravely uneasy.
The Queen’s vengeful temper was much to be feared, and Cecil was by no
means a person to be trusted.
The friends of the player were convinced that he had adduced a genuine
proof of the innocence of Gervase Heriot. They were satisfied,
moreover, that he had been inspired by no other motive than an
overmastering desire to affirm justice, truth and mercy. Nevertheless,
the turn things were taking made them painfully anxious in regard to
the outcome of the whole affair.
The Queen, for all the native vigor of her understanding, was a mass of
prejudice and caprice. She was bitterly resentful of the inconvenience
that had been caused by the player’s wanton interference. Again, a man
like Grisewood, with his back to the wall, could be trusted to fight
tooth and nail for his life. He would lie, that was certain. He was
bound to deny the authenticity of the slender evidence that had been
adduced in a manner so fortuitous.
The upshot was likely to be that the affair would resolve itself into a
battle between a villain and an honest man. It would become a question
in that event as to whose word the Queen would accept. Already the
player was out of favor. And when it came to a question of holding
the balance even between him and another, when it came to weighing
judicially the words of each, it was most probable that the mind of a
capricious woman would prove incapable of giving him fair play.
Yes, the friends of the player, as they sat silent in the Queen’s
antechamber to await the arrival of Grisewood were uneasy indeed. The
man was known as a cunning, plausible, unscrupulous adventurer. He was
not likely to be over-nice as to the means he used to save his neck.
And one and all felt that already the case was prejudged.
Presently Pembroke and Raleigh, who were officers of the Household,
withdrew. The playwright and his friend the tragedian were left
together. The hearts of both were too full for speech. The time passed
very slowly. Each hour seemed interminable. The day wore on but still
there came no summons to the Queen’s presence. After a while, food
was brought to them at the instance of a friendly official. But they
were without appetite, and did not touch it. Their minds were wholly
preoccupied with the subject of life and death.
In all that long time, which seemed interminable, not a word was
exchanged between the playwright and the tragedian. Yet in the manner
of a pair of children, they sat very close together, the hand of
Burbage holding that of his friend. He was his elder brother, his
protector; he felt an overmastering desire to shield that shy and
delicate spirit from the harsh rebuffs of fate.
At last, about four o’clock of the afternoon, came the dread summons
to the Queen. It was conveyed by the Lord Treasurer in person. There
was nothing to learn from that lofty and formal mien. The measured
deportment, the detached air told nothing. He who so often was called
to be the arbiter of life and death in the daily routine of his high
office betrayed not the least emotion. Indeed, the grim question now at
issue appeared to touch him not at all.
The Queen was taking her ease on a gorgeous gilt couch. One of her
ladies, who was working a sampler in silk, was seated on a low stool
at her side. She was a dark and handsome young woman with restless,
brilliant and piercing eyes. As soon as the playwright entered the
room, they met his in a kind of challenge, half of cynical interest,
half of mockery. A slow, rather insolent smile curled her lips. For a
very brief instant, the poet was obviously disconcerted. But almost
at once, he had exercised the whole force of his will and was able to
attend that other woman who held his life in her hand.
The Queen sat up on her couch.
“Master Shakespeare,” she said, “I have to inform you that the man,
Grisewood, is dead.”
“Dead!” gasped the player.
“Yes,” said the Queen, “he is dead. He has been found at his lodging
with his throat cut. And there can be little doubt, as I am given to
understand, that he has died by his own hand.”
The player stood in silence, looking straight in front of him. There
came a violent surge and onrush of his thoughts. In the sensitive and
generous mind, relief for the good riddance of a bad man was tempered
with an emotion of pity for an end so ignoble.
“I have to say this, Master Shakespeare.” The voice of the Queen, which
sounded very far away, broke in upon the heavy tumult of his thoughts.
“The death of this man, Grisewood, removed a most material witness. He
alone could have proved or disproved your statement.”
By now, however, the playwright had regained full command of himself.
Calmly, he sustained the force of the Queen’s gaze. The somber yet
wonderful eyes were fixed on the raddled and rather peevish face.
“Under the favor of your grace,” he said, speaking very slowly and in
the manner of one who chooses his words with the utmost care, “Sir
Robert Grisewood has already attested to the truth of the statement
which I have made.”
“In what way, sirrah? By what means?” said the Queen, sharply.
“By the taking of his own life,” said the playwright. “It is a clear
confession of the knowledge that he is undone.”
“How should he have any such knowledge?”
“He was present yesterday, your grace, in the pavilion, when I
rehearsed the story of his crime. I marked his livid face among the
audience. It is one I shall never forget.”
The Queen nodded her head, but did not speak.
“My eyes were fixed, your grace, upon that man’s face when I said I
held the proof of his guilt. I saw his cheek turn to the color of his
ruff. And by that I knew there was confirmation of my statement had
confirmation been required.”
“The man was an arrant coward,” said the Queen, contemptuously. “But
such evidence of his guilt does not convince me. How say you, my lord?”
She turned to Cecil peremptorily.
The statesman did not answer the question immediately. For the moment,
that powerful and deep-seeing mind was much preoccupied. And when
answer he did, it was with the air of a man enfolded by a sense of
profound and settled conviction.
“By leave of your grace,” he said, “and under your good favor, I am
bound to confess that I share the view of this matter which is held by
Master Shakespeare. In my humble opinion, the death of this man in such
circumstances is an irrefragable evidence of his guilt.”
The Queen was now sitting very upright. The lean features had assumed a
look of sharpest inquiry. A round oath fell from her lips.
“By God’s body, my lord, I begin to think you are in the right!”
She was a woman of capricious temper. The milk of human kindness flowed
an uncertain stream in that sterile heart. But her ears were never
quite deaf to the voice of reason. Moreover, there were occasions when
a sense of justice overtook her.
It began almost to seem that this occasion was likely to be one of them.
“Tell me, my lord,” she demanded, “is this to say that you accept,
as a matter of sober verity, that the handwriting of Simon Heriot is
contained in this paper?”
“Yes, your grace, I am of that opinion.”
“You are satisfied that the man, Simon Heriot, wrote this confession
with his own hand?”
“Yes, your grace, that is the view I hold. In the first place, I have
taken the opportunity to compare the writing in the paper with that of
another document in the same hand. And may it please your grace that I
am fully satisfied that they are one and the same. And, further, I will
add that the death in such circumstances of such a man convinces me
that a grievous miscarriage of justice has been perpetrated in the case
of the young man, Gervase Heriot.”
Another round oath rose to the lips of the Queen. She got up
impulsively from her couch. The heart of a woman had begun to stir in
that withered and grotesque frame.
“My lord, if that is your opinion, we must go further into this,” she
said. “Upon my life, we must not send to the ax those who have done
nothing to deserve it.”
“To that, your grace, I say amen with all my heart,” said the Lord
Treasurer, assuming an air of simple human kindness, which really
became him very well indeed.
“Let this young man, Heriot, attend us here and now,” said the Queen.
“Unfortunately, both Mr. Heriot and Mistress Feversham have already
been removed to the Tower,” said the Lord Treasurer, “until the
pleasure of your Majesty be further known.”
“Let the young man be brought to us at once,” said the Queen. “And the
girl also.”
“The commands of your Majesty shall be obeyed,” said the Lord
Treasurer. “Both prisoners shall be sent for immediately.”
With a low bow, the minister quitted the room.
A subtle but marked change had suddenly taken place in the Queen’s
manner. She turned to the playwright with a certain kindness in the
hard eyes.
“Belike, sirrah,” she said, “your play may prove a comedy, after all.”
The playwright stood before her in silence with bent head. In the
strong frame, with its tense outlines, was a profound humility which
the Queen was wholly at a loss to understand.
“How say you, sirrah? Would you not have it so?”
“Life is never a comedy, your grace,” said the playwright, speaking
very gently, almost as one who thinks aloud.
“A dark saying,” said the Queen, “How say you, Mary?” She turned, with
an ironical air, to the young woman who was working so busily upon the
sampler. “Perhaps Master Shakespeare will expound it for us out of the
infinite store of his wisdom. You don’t find life a very tragic matter,
eh, my girl, you who have the whole world at your feet?”
The august lady gave her gentlewoman a light box on the ear.
Mistress Fytton, whose dark and brilliant beauty had its sinister
aspect, rose from her stool with a sigh and a little laugh.
“It is the business of a poet, your grace, to be melancholy,” said
Mistress Mary.
“Yes, I had not thought of that,” said the Queen. “But I suspect, Miss
Malapert, you know more of poets than I do.”
“God forbid, your grace,” Mistress Mary made a deep but mocking curtsy.
“You impudent hussy!”
And this time, the royal lady gave her gentlewoman so sound a box on
the ear, that it rang through the room.