Ink and Steel

I write not knowing if I will have the courage to send this, or, if I attempt its dispatch, if or when it may reach thee. Forgive the abomination of my much distorted secretary’s hand: I scribble this missive in the belly of Tom Walsingham’s coach, where I have begged a ride for as thou knowst I am no assured horseman & I have need of very much haste: we were touring in Kent near Tom’s house when the news came, for the new lord Chamberlain has closed London’s playhouses. I race ahead. I race ahead. I may burn it, the letter I mean: I have no secret inks & no privacy in which to use them, although I suppose I could thrust my quill into an onion & squeeze the milk thereof. But that will come later. First I must acquaint thee with a year & two months that have passed since last we spoke. Thou hast been true to thy word in keeping from me, & I have not wished to trouble thee with my letters. Forgive me for writing now: I am very much in need of the comfort of thy presence in this hour; Sir Francis is dead. I do not know if thou wilt have heard, he passed this Sep. previous, attended by devils as befits the sorcery he oversaw. God forgives not crimes in good cause. The devil is fair; if thou shouldst encounter him be not o’erawed by his beauty, as I was. The morn of that night lord Hunsdon’s Men no, we were still at that date the lord Chamberlain’s Men & myself did betake us to Greenwich, where we performed Richard III before the Queen & her court to much approval. It was her anniversary of her birth, & my master commended me to have extra care in the performance, that forces might oppose us. Kit, they did. It is Essex & his troupe, and I think them allied to Baines & yr Inquisitor. The Queen might have died that night or fallen ill: it was a terrible thing, a black miasma that seemed to overtake the performance, made us stumble lines & the prompter lose his place. I could feel it, as if I waded the current when the Thames drops with the tide & thou canst walk the breadth standing upright, the water not even cresting thy knee, much to the dismay of the watermen. But I contrived to trip on a board that was really not so loose after all & drop a bladder of pig’s blood over Essex & some book he was reading in his lap, where he sat beside the stage. Her Majesty, thankfully, was unstained. With that action came an easing of the tide & brief interruption of the play although Her Majesty being much amused insisted we continue to completion. Much to Essex’s dismay. The ensuing acts proceeded smoothly, & all could recall their lines as necessary. That little action has earned me Oxford’s enmity: I believe he has decided with Sir Francis death of which he seemed unaccountably early advised, for I know neither Tom Walsingham, Burghley, Burbage, nor the lord Chamberlain informed him that he may well end his pretense of alliance with us & show his true colors in courting Essex. Fortunately with lord Hunsdon’s protection I shall be safe. Our little magic worked, Essex’s counterspell so I believe it being thwarted, & our gracious Queen was in very good spirits after & consented even to dance with rude players & commend her ladies likewise, for as I am sure thou knowest she is a great dancer esp. of galliards. Forgive thee me if I ramble overmuch. I find the core of this tale wiggles from my quill like a fish in weir; penned, but seeking escape. In November of last year, a book was published which caused great furor, but it seemed the Queen’s will & a playmender’s small magics still held all things concise. That book was called A Conference about the next Succession to the Crown of England, & dedicated to Essex, which I am sure thou wilt see as the bold move on the part of his supporters it was. While I am not o’ermerry at the thought of James VI as our next King, there are those in mine acquaintance who think it no bad thing, & the Queen herself seems to have made him the best of a bad lot. Oh, I shall have to burn this letter, my friend & surely he would be better than that popinjay Essex, whose sole recommendation is that Gloriana once thought him handsome. The fuss that followed was something to behold. My distant cousins Robert Catesby and Francis Tresham were jailed in London with many Catholics and suspected Essex sympathizers; I did make shift to see them fed & clothed during their stay at the Queen’s hostelry, although it was not so long as some.