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.