My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play. Dan Walker

bondage of the Roman tyranny."

      Thomas lowered his head onto the block. The headsman stepped forward. He swung his ax high in the air. It whirled downward. There was a dull thud. Thomas's head flew from his body. It missed the basket by three feet.

      The headsman rushed forward, snatched up the bloody head and held it high. In a loud voice, he shouted, "God save the Queen!" The crowd roared in patriotic approval.

      At Thomas's funeral, Edward read a eulogy he had written for his favorite cousin, "Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. He died as one who had determined to throw away the dearest thing he owned as if it were a careless trifle."

      -:-:-

      Edward rolled into a seated position amongst the remains of their picnic. He stared hard at the tranquil river.

      Anne heard herself saying, "There is no love lost between you and your father-in-law."

      "That is most assuredly correct, Anne."

      "And yet the Queen holds him in the highest esteem."

      "Her Majesty is grievously deceived. Take my advice and stay clear of the villain."

      "I will, rest assured, milord."

      "Then I am once more a happy man," said Edward, reaching to take her hand. She surrendered it, and he lifted her fingers to his lips.

      "Would that you could cast this forced marriage off," Anne murmured, retrieving her hand.

      "I view it almost as an obligation of my birth."

      "The trappings of nobility."

      "Quite."

      "It's ironic, don't you think?" Anne said, turning to watch two swans waddle onto the riverbank. "The woman who shouldn't bear your name does, while the one who should doesn't."

      "I'd never thought of it quite like that..." Edward fell silent. He had spoken of his marriage on the spur of the moment, without really considering the consequences. Had he said too much? Could this woman be trusted? Was Anne prying or merely speaking in innocent curiosity?

      He examined her closely. She was sitting in a secluded field alone with him. She certainly found him trustworthy. Anne turned to see why Edward had stopped talking. He looked deep into her eyes. They gazed back at his, sincere and beautiful, innocent and yet somehow, exquisitely provocative. He began imagining what those clear orbs and full, sensuous lips would look like heavy with youthful passion.

      Edward began to feel considerably warmer than the sunny afternoon merited. His body coursed with urgent temptations. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to lean forward and once again, crush his lips against Anne's.

      "What mean you?" pressed Anne, pushing back a braid of black hair which had cascaded down her face.

      "Oh, only that at least you now know the real reason I felt sorry for that poacher; forced wedlock is a hell."

      "Of course."

      "Like that poor fellow's, my wife, alas, must remain mine for all eternity."

      "So long a time..."

      "Doubly so, now that my heart has met its true match."

      Anne opened her mouth to reply, but Edward hushed her lips with tiny kisses. Then, his lips still close to hers, he whispered, "Having thee, of all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou may take all this away and me most wretched make."

      Laughing, Anne broke free. Kneeling, she favored Edward with a brief, gentle kiss before jumping up and running off along the riverbank. Edward leapt to his feet and gave chase. Startled, the swans stretched to full height, beaks jutting and wings beating, as Anne raced by laughing loudly.

      That evening, they sat close together in Edward's small open coach while he composed a sonnet to their love:

       "Let me not to the marriage of true minds

       Admit impediments. Love is not love

       Which alters when it alteration finds,

       Or bends with the mover to remove.

       O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark

       That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

       It is the star to every wandering bark,

       Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

       Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

       Within his bending sickle's compass come;

       Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

       But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

       If this be error and upon me proved,

       I never writ, nor ever loved."

      That enchanted day ended, like the others, at the door to Anne's bedchamber. There on her urging, Edward reluctantly took his leave, but not before many fond kisses. She stumbled inside and leaned weakly against the closed door as sensual stirrings of an almost uncontrollable intensity washed through her.

      -:-:-

      Edward returned to his lonely room, his mind ablaze with thoughts of Anne. Sleep was difficult. He wrote late into the night, his time with Anne providing natural inspiration for page after page of lyrical romantic verse.

      1651

      Celia knocked and walked into the bedchamber carrying an evil-looking bottle of dark brown medicine.

      "Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am. It's time for your medicine."

      The old woman halted her story and grimaced at Ben who grinned widely. She then obediently swallowed the spoonful of medicine, shaking her head with disgust at the vile taste.

      Inside, however, the old woman felt happier than she had in years. Now that a start had been made, the task seemed much less daunting. The people, events and feelings were still fresh in her mind's eye. She hadn't forgotten a single detail.

      Waving Celia out of the room, the old woman resumed her narrative.