Copyright © 2011 by D.W.Gilbertson.
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MY DARK LADY
Shakespeare's Lost Play
Dan Walker
1651
Ben Bloombery sprinted up Church Street as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. All around him, London's shabby Cripplegate section was ablaze.
Flames leapt through rows of bleak, cramped houses. Mobs clogged the streets, shouting and pushing in their haste. Cobblestoned alleys echoed with wagon wheels and cries. Trapped in the throngs, riders clung to their horses.
Everyone except Ben was intent on fleeing the scorching flames. Clearing a path with flailing arms, he fought his way through the flood of evacuees. Red embers swirled around his head like angry starlings.
-:-:-
Nestled under the Tower of London's formidable walls, Warr Lane was a quiet street lined with handsome houses. Its prosperous dwellings overlooked tall-masted ships floating serenely on the broad river Thames.
Ben's portly father, Mr. Bloombery, waddled up to the finest house on Warr Lane. Lowering his writing box onto a well-scrubbed doorstep, he knocked at the studded door.
-:-:-
Escaping the crowds, Ben dashed along alleys and narrow passageways. By now, the youth was gasping for every breath. The muscles in his legs and shoulders burned.
Charging around a corner, Ben found his way blocked by barking dogs. Leaping and biting, the pack was tormenting a chained black bear. Unable to stop, Ben plowed straight into the fray.
An Irish wolfhound sprang at him open jawed. Jagged teeth snapped together only inches from Ben's face. Dodging away, he almost slammed into the bear. With a growl, the giant creature swung at him. Ben caught a glimpse of curving claws as he ducked under the bloodied paw.
Losing his footing, Ben fell forward and slid painfully across the ground. He scrambled up, tiny pebbles clinging to scratches on his palms and knees. Blood dripped from a cut in his leg. Ignoring these scrapes, Ben darted through the cheering onlookers and leapt down a flight of stone steps.
-:-:-
Within the house on Warr Lane, London's hubbub was only a faint murmur. Upstairs, inside a richly furnished bedchamber, an elderly woman sat propped up in bed reading.
She answered the knock on her door in a voice which was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, "Come in."
Gerard, her steward, entered the bedchamber and bowed, "Your lawyer, my lady." He showed Mr. Bloombery in and left.
The lawyer bowed low. "Good morning, milady. You look well."
"A light heart lives long, Bloombery," she said, pointing imperiously at a writing desk. "Sit down. Weren't you instructed to bring your scribe?"
Bloombery lowered himself into the writing desk's straight-backed chair. Creaking noisily, the seat protested his weight. "Sadly, he is indisposed, milady."
"That is most regrettable, Bloombery," she said, casting a critical eye in the chubby lawyer's direction.
"Indeed milady, but it can't be helped. He's off fighting the fire."
"Another fire?"
"I'm afraid so, milady." The lawyer lifted paper, pewter pens and an inkhorn from his writing box. "Rather a big one, I'm told, but not to worry, it's nowhere near here."
The elderly woman shook her head disapprovingly. "How did it start? Catholic plotters again?"
"I haven't heard, milady."
"That's the third this year. People really should be more careful."
"Yes milady, especially when there's a strong wind blowing about." Bloombery dipped his pen and prepared to write. "I'll take the record myself."
"So be it. Are you ready?"
"I am, milady," Bloombery replied, writing "6 June, 1651" neatly atop the first page.
"Very well then." With a tiny sigh, the elderly woman settled back against her pillows. "I, Patricia Miller, wish to add an addendum to my will. It concerns grievous crimes and my own silence, which has lasted for far too many years. Today, I finally cast aside the cloak shrouding an extraordinary man..."
Ben burst into the bedchamber, panting from his run.
"The fire's reached Grantham Street!"
Bloombery struggled to his feet, "Oh, heaven preserve us."
"Sit down, Bloombery."
"I'm sorry milady, I must attend to my offices. The fire..."
"I don't give a fig for your offices."
"Please, milady. My scribe will stay."
Bloombery steered Ben into the desk chair. The youth began to protest feebly through his panting breath. Bloombery pressed the pen into Ben's hand, whispering, "Just do your best." In a louder voice, he said, "Forgive me, milady. Good day." With a brief bow, Bloombery waddled out of the room.
"Ah! So be it." She waved a hand dismissively and turned her piercing gaze to Ben. "Now, where was I? Oh yes - before Bloombery ran out, I was about to tell him what happened at the first performance of 'Twelfth Night.' Do you know it?"
Ben looked at her blankly. He'd never seen anyone so old and wrinkled.
"Oh, you must know it," she insisted.
Ben still looked blank. He became aware of a strange, slightly sickening smell.
"You may not recall the play by name, but I'm sure you've heard its opening lines, everyone has: 'If music be the food of love, play on.' Well?"
To escape the old woman's questioning eyes, Ben looked down, dipping his pen.
Patricia sighed. "Edward's plays aren't as popular as they were..." The old woman's voice trailed off as bright memories played before her eyes.
"Edward, Ma'am?" Ben finally ventured.
"That's Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, to you my lad, and don't you forget it," she said sharply.
"Yes, Ma'am. Beg your pardon, Ma'am." Ben put pen to paper.
"'Twelfth Night' made the Earl a great favorite at Court - in the beginning, at least."
TWELFTH NIGHT
Backstage at Whitehall Palace's Great Hall, the Earl of Oxford's Players were scant minutes away from their first performance. Costumed actors, prompters and wardrobe keepers hurried about attending to final details.
Their patron, Edward de Vere, a tall, well-built man with finely chiseled features and clear, bright eyes stood to one side looking harried and tense. The Earl's concerned expression was perfectly understandable. After all, how many plays debuted in front of Queen Elizabeth?
But Edward wasn't contemplating his Courtly audience. He was mentally cursing Elizabeth's impatience. A scant three days earlier, the Queen, wearying of constant postponements, had ordered him to stage his play without further delay.
Why