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.