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.