'What on earth are you prattling on about?' Gresham asked, confused. Jane addressed Gresham as 'my lord', a familiar title between women and men, but one the House of Lords had no trace of.
'You should read what the King writes for you,' said Mannion, grinning even more widely. 'Read it through to the end, I mean. According to this, you're not only a free man, you're also very shortly to be Henry Gresham, First Baron Granville. Congratulations, my lord.'
Gresham looked nonplussed. 'But two hours ago I was locked up in The Tower… I don't understand…'
'I think,' said Jane, the light dancing in her eyes, 'that the King has decided to trust you at last.'
18
13th November, 1612 Whitehall Palace, London
'All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.'
If there was insanity in the world, it all met and focused on the Palace of Whitehall. With so many candles, lamps and lanterns blazing fruitlessly into the cold November night, it was as if the Palace was on fire, lit from within, a funeral pyre to the finances of the monarch. So many were fed each day and night at the King's expense that a scurrilous broadsheet had christened it the Hospital of Whitehall. Even the servants seemed to have servants at Whitehall, yet it took ten minutes to find one servile enough to take their horses.
Gresham and Mannion were ushered through endless corridors. The two younger servants that had accompanied Sir Henry gazed open-eyed at the bacchanalia around them. What stories they would tell on their return! Even at that time, just before six in the evening, they passed two or three men clearly drunk, slumped in corners. A woman, clearly gentry, ran out of a door, giggling uncontrollably. One breast was out of her gown, the other bursting against its rich material, one gasp away from freedom. She ran into Mannion. Rebounding, she arched eyebrows at him, giggled again and ran off.
Interesting, thought Gresham. The King had made available to them the private dining room Robert Cecil had long employed at Whitehall, with the huge length of table and finely carved oak chairs that Cecil had used to intimidate his guests. But it would not be Cecil who revealed himself as the door swung open — it was Bacon, and Andrewes.
Both men rose as Gresham and Mannion entered, and both extended their hands. 'Congratulations on your release, my lord,' said Sir Francis Bacon, with what appeared to be a genuine smile on his face.
'Congratulations on your honour,' said Bishop Lancelot Andrewes. He appeared genuinely pleased that Sir Henry Gresham was now First Baron Granville.
Andrewes and Bacon were seated on either side of the head of the table. Bacon, seemingly more at ease in the royal palace, pointed to Gresham's place. At the head of the table. It was the seat Cecil had squatted in, radiating malevolence on so many evenings. Bacon had arguably the best brain in the kingdom. Andrewes was the only bishop Gresham had ever respected.
‘I think not, Sir Francis,' Gresham said, 'with your permission. The seat at the head of this particular table is tainted for me. This evening is one where I'd hope to be treated as a third — an exact third — among equals.
With that, he sat alongside Andrewes. It allowed him the better view of Bacon's face. Of the two, Bacon would reveal his real thoughts and feelings far more vibrantly than Andrewes. Bacon smiled, and called out. His own servant was there, Gresham noticed, the grumpy, complaining old man Gresham had always associated with Bacon. Andrewes had no servant with him.
Those who ushered in the food were strangers to both hosts, looking around with interest as they brought in steaming dishes.
Expecting to be asked to wait on the three men, they were surprised, and rather offended, when they were waved away.
'I suggest we dine and talk at the same time,' said Bacon, ever courteous. 'There's much to cover. Will your man agree with mine to serve us?'
Gresham looked at Mannion, who nodded.
'I would like the truth,' said Gresham. 'I've been shot at with a crossbow, been subject to a mass assault, nearly died in two separate parts of holy ground and been locked up in The Tower. Normal enough, you understand,' he reached out to put some fish on his plate. 'But it's always nice to know why it is you're being assaulted, killed or locked up. What are these "theatrical papers" about which there's been so much fuss?'
'There are three sets of them, to be precise,' said Bacon, sipping appreciatively at his wine. His servant fussed over him, offering him dish after dish. They were all cold, Gresham noted. After his master, the old man took the dishes with a show of deference and offered them to Andrewes. Following that, he looked with scorn on Gresham, and dumped the dishes within his arms' reach.
I hope to God Bacon doesn't ask me to sink a whole bottle before he will talk to me, thought Gresham. His prayer was answered.
'The first of these "theatrical papers" is a complete script of a play. A rather bad play, to tell the truth. Well, actually, if we are telling the truth, an execrable play. Publicly deemed to have been written, among others, by one William Shakespeare. All Is True, or Henry VIII as it is sometimes known. Written, as it happens, by King James I. Incidentally, Shakespeare had even less of a hand in it than normal. It was so dire that when he got it he had a fair copy made and sent it off to Fletcher, to see if he could make anything of it. He couldn't.'
Well now, thought Gresham. The King had tried his hand at a play for the common players. That would be news. Very powerful news.
'Also in this batch of papers are two plays, again both thought to have been written by Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night's Dream, as I believe the older one has come to be called, and The Tempest. Both about magic. Both actually written by my lord the Bishop of Ely, Lancelot Andrewes.'
Bacon nodded to his companion, who waved a tired, sad hand back at him.
'Finally, these "theatrical papers" also include manuscripts of Love's Labours Lost and The Merry Wives of Windsor. Written, in part at least, by myself. With a little help from my friends.'
Bacon sat back and transferred some meat into his mouth, before turning to Gresham again. Tt wouldn't be good for the author and prime mover of King James's fine new Bible to be seen as combining that part of his career with writing for actors and the public theatre, my lord.'
Something of a shock went through Gresham's system at the still unfamiliar mode of address.
'Nor would it be a good thing for it to be shown that such an eminent member of the clergy wrote a play dealing with a man whose ruling power is based on magic. Any more than it would be good for the country's leading lawyer to be known as a play-maker, an associate of theatrical scum.'
Bacon and Andrewes gazed at Gresham.
'As for the King,' continued Bacon, 'God knows what laughter would be provoked were it known he had secretly penned a work for the theatre. Particularly work as bad as his play appears to be.'
It was revenge, Gresham thought. Divine revenge for his asking Shakespeare to cope with so much new information in so little time. Picking one single item of debris from the maelstrom hurling around his brain, he asked one question.
‘I can understand easily enough why you, Sir Francis, would try your hand at a play. A new medium. One with immense power to inflame the heart, the mind and the imagination. But why would the King write a play? And, my lord Bishop, aren't there sermons enough without your feeling the urge to write words for actors to make a meal of?"
'There are three answers for three different authors. I won't presume to speak for the second. As for the third, he's here and able to explain for himself. I can speak a little for the first.'