"Then jail?"
"Most assuredly, milord."
"Pity! Pity, milord. Pity," moaned the unhappy poacher.
Bending the poacher's fingers back, the gamekeepers succeeded in freeing Edward's stirrup. As they began dragging the unfortunate man away, Fulke aimed a smack at his head. The glancing blow brought forth a fresh flood of pleadings.
"Take pity on me, milord, a poor man tricked into marriage. I've got a wife and three bairns t'feed..."
"Fulke," commanded Edward. "Bring the fellow here."
The gamekeepers dragged the wretched poacher back to Edward.
"Thank you, milord. Thank you. I 'ave to put food on the table. I'm their only support..."
"Quiet man. You say you were tricked into marriage?"
"Aye, milord."
"How?"
"The woman was pregnant."
"Aye, with thy child, Will!" chortled one of the gamekeepers. The other gamekeeper burst out laughing.
"I speak true, your honor. Susanna was born not six months after the wedding. Then the twins. Five mouths t'feed. Take pity..."
"Enough," Edward said. Turning to Fulke, he asked, "Do you know this fellow?"
"Aye, milord."
"What's his name?"
"Will Shakespeare, milord. He's from Stratford, just down the river."
"Was he forced into marriage, as he claims?"
"Well, milord, his wife is...overripe in years."
The gamekeepers exchanged coarse sniggers. Fulke quieted them with an angry glare before continuing, "And the Hathaway brothers are all heavy-handed varlets."
Edward turned back to the poacher and asked, "'Twas indeed a forced match then?"
"Aye, 'twas that, milord," Will said sadly.
"A loveless marriage is an unwished yoke."
"Aye milord, and mine is the worst ever hung on a suffering man's neck."
"I doubt that very much," Edward said with a tight smile.
"Milord?"
"No matter. You have argued well. Fulke, is this man a frequent poacher?"
"Well, err...No milord, more of a dabbler, I'd say."
"Do you have any trade other than poaching?"
"I can make a lovely soft pair of gloves for milady and a fine, strong pair for you, milord."
"Fulke set him free. He can go."
"Thank you, milord. Thank you, a thousand..."
"See that you leave off poaching. Stick to your glove making."
"I will, milord. I promise you that. Thank you, milord. Thank you."
Edward and Anne spurred their horses forward along the leafy path.
"That was merciful of you, Edward. Did you do it to impress me?"
"No, I just felt sorry for the poor man. I fought with several Shakespeares from these parts in the Scottish wars. Brave men and true. They may have been his kin."
"You must have been young then."
"I was."
"Why did you go?"
"It was my guardian's idea." Again, Edward fought the urge to speak openly of his hatred for Burghley. "I suppose that he thought the battlefield would round off my education."
SCOTLAND
It hadn't taken Burghley's spy, Hugh Brincknell, long to discover Edward's nocturnal excursions. He began shadowing him through London's dark alleys, past the tavern signs and shuttered house-fronts, to the Boar's Head. Burghley received regular reports:
"The Boar's Head again, Brincknell?"
"Aye, milord. Disguised as a player."
"With Lyly and the same unrestrained companions?"
"Aye, they're all base and common fellows. A looser bunch would be hard to find, milord." Brincknell yawned sleepily. "A thousand pardons, milord. Oxford mocks the midnight bell."
"A plague on his wanton ways. What else?"
"Lyly and he move from tavern to tavern, trading lines, milord. At times, the Earl shouts at the moon, swaying from side to side, then he falls against Lyly roaring with laughter."
"Don't their antics attract the night watch?"
"Lyly keeps an eye open for them, milord. He looks after the Earl when he's in his cups."
"What else? Wenching? Gambling? Brawling?"
"No, milord."
"Is he still 'acting' in public?"
"The Earl does indeed join in on occasion, undercover, with a few of the alehouse players."
"Gives he no thought to his station?" Burghley complained.
"The Earl takes parts that match him, milord, kings, and the like."
Burghley snorted derisively.
"He's good. The crowd always cheers him loudly..."
Burghley silenced the man with a raised hand. "Don't defend him. The young fool is belittling his rank in life."
"He is that, milord."
"Does the drink still loosen his lips?"
"Aye, milord, and that's not the worst of it."
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes, in his cups, milord, I've heard him say that the Lord Chamberlain is, begging your pardon, milord, 'a worse tyrant than Herod.'"
"The impudent cur."
"Worse is yet to come, milord."
"Speak man, speak."
"I don't like to say, milord."
"Speak."
"Well, milord. After a great many drinks, milord, I have heard him cry out that he is sworn to kill the Lord Chamberlain."
"Kill me?"
"Aye, milord and to send to hell any who try to stop him."
-:-:-
Alone in his office, Burghley worried about Edward. In the early days, it had amused him to play a cat-and-mouse game with his ward, but, of late, Edward's antics had ceased to be a laughing matter. As the unruly youth approached his majority he was becoming harder and harder to control. All Burghley's efforts at discipline had failed. Now he had to endure this latest insult, public threats against his own life.
What if word of Edward's drunken mouthings or disguised wanderings reached Elizabeth's ears? Bested in his own house by his own ward! Such news could easily damage the Lord Chamberlain's reputation. He might have to relinquish his lucrative post as Master of the Wards. Even worse, it could cost him the Queen's respect. After all, how could she trust him to run a country if he couldn't even tame one headstrong youth?
The Lord Chamberlain began pacing nervously. There was an additional consideration; when Edward reached his majority, he would slip even further from Burghley's grasp. He might even develop an interest in finance. For years, Burghley had been quietly moving the bulk of Edward's estates into his own careful, covetous hands. What if the Earl began studying his accounts?
He could voice the discrepancies publicly. This would alert the other noble wards whose estates had fallen into his care. They might begin poring over their finances. What if