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.