"Twilight for Anonymous…"
Summary: In the age of Shakespeare, a rather too invisible figure and a certain story- and scene-stealing vampire each gets their much-deserved desserts…
London… 1599…
A prosperous and bustling city for the most part, by the standards of the age, despite some recent downturns economically. England at peace and, despite its isolation as a Protestant power in a largely Catholic Europe, reasonably secure now that the power of Spain has been blunted by the failure of her Grand Armada invasion and she and the other great Catholic powers, France and the Holy Roman Empire, occupied by a mix of Continental rivalries and religious strife. A peace and prosperity secured by the stable rule of her Queen, Elizabeth I, acknowledged, enthusiastically by some, with grim reluctance by others here and across Europe, as a wise and shrewd ruler who has delicately balanced all factions, friends, and enemies, foreign and domestic, with great skill. That stability beginning to fray as the Queen ages, childless, her current would-very much-be successor a foreigner, the Scottish king, James, and factions of restless, ambitious men form and reform about her throne. She herself increasingly prey to anxiety and even a degree of fear, knowing these young hot-heads, viewing her as old and out-of-date, long for a new ruler, preferably male.
A city experiencing an explosion in cultural matters. The religious fervor of the past century leading to the triumph of a moderate State-controlled Protestantism, though the triumph of the State Church had by no means smothered extremist factions, has led to a huge increase in literacy as the Bible has become easily available in English, dispersed in printed form leading to an explosion of pamphleteering and earnest study. That study, moving quickly from religious matters to political and social…Has become a common hobby of the middle classes, even among the working poor. One can't walk and endure the piss and ordure mix of the mire of the streets without someone offering to thrust the latest scribblings on all sorts of matters into your hands. The ragamuffin eyeing you is as likely to want to offer you or even discuss some new pamphlet he's found in the muck as to rob or beg of you. And that explosion has spread to the arts, particularly the theater… The new learning and literacy has provided an audience to a new generation of poets and playwrights not content with the old themes, largely religious, and the limited characterizations of the past. New, vibrant, and exciting works grace the stages of London, with competition fierce and audiences increasingly sophisticated and demanding. The theater now, with some caution, discusses matters unheard of before…Even the divine right of kings has been examined, to the growing concern of the State.
A city in ferment as cautious talk is anxiously passed throughout the narrow and dark streets of a possible coup d'état by a leading member of the nobility…The Queen's once-beloved favorite, the dashing, generally charming, but willful and vain, Robert Deveraux, Lord Essex, stepson of the man nearest to a husband to her, the late, much-lamented Robert Dudley. A man whose earnest and hard-learned lessons to his stepson in pleasing their loving but temperamental and demanding Queen, on whose favor their families' fortunes vitally depended, had failed to fully take root. Young Lord Essex had learnt to exude his universally admitted personal charm but never accepted the need for patience and forbearance. Some, among them his rivals of the Cecil family and faction, would say his charm being that of the spoiled pet child, quickly turning to rancor and fury when practicalities and common sense caused his audience, including his royal patron, to deny him anything he fancied. His incompetence while campaigning in Ireland against Catholic rebels having been matched only by his presumption in ennobling members of his entourage there without royal permission, the Queen had, in fury, recently cut him off from various sources of financial supply including a monopoly formerly granted him on imports of popular sweet wines. Facing ruin and denied any further access to the Queen, he was rumored to be heeding dangerous council and making plans that bordered, even crossed, the line of treason.
And a city with an underworld…Not only confined to the roving bands of snatch thieves, beggar-thieves, professional thieves, whores, and murderers for hire, all types often employed by surprisingly well-established persons, but to those unhuman, however human-seeming, who threaten the existence of Humanity.
…..
The reasonable for the time lodgings of a famed master playwright…No, not him…There are more playwrights than Will Shakespeare in London, you know. Whitewashed and mud clay daubed walls, low ceiling, surprisingly clean floor…This be a properly kept establishment, fit for a sort of gentleman of reasonable if sometimes disturbingly modest means…
However, the current situation finding the said master of his craft regrettably and annoyingly concerned with the before-mentioned Mr. Shakespeare…
Damn…Must it all be about him these days? And must the little bastard from Stratford have everything for a bit of minor talent and a way with the crowd?
"Now…" shrewd look…From a dark-haired man in his late twenties, who, leaning back on his stool, eyes his visitor. A large, rather buxom, ravens'-haired beauty, her age, her early forties, not detracting a whit from…A beauty not only well-known to him, but desperately desired…
To the point of both the most fiendish evil and the most bitter jealousy…
"…I don't say I know who might be layin' claim to Will's work, lass. But…"
"Lad…You'll be tellin' me or you'll be pickin' splinters from that cup out of yer teeth…" the addressed woman notes, coldly. Advancing…
Hmmn…The man eyes his approaching foe. Brown eyes with that odd hint of green, flashing…Short, sharp hewn to a fine point, stake clenched in capable right hand…
And knowing as I do just how capable she might well be of doing that…
"Well…For the sake of me two dearest friends in this world of England…" Ben begins.
"Jonson…Cut to the quick of it…Or I'll be breakin' that money-makin' hand of yours faster than my Will could say 'Romeo, oh wherefore…'"
Ouch…Witch…She would rub it in about "her" Will's latest blockbuster…
Well, a silly romance always gets the groundlings blubbering. And throw in a couple of foolishly open-hearted, teenaged lovers…
"Now dearest Annie…" he eyes his dearly desired, the spouse of his great foe…
"…As your Will's closet friend…And an artist of the first rank…"
"'Oh…'" she begins, seizing his hand. "… 'Romeo'…"
Arggh… "DeVere…Edward DeVere…Anne, I and the world need that hand, girl…"
She releases, arch look…Followed by puzzled one…
"Oxford?...That twit? The toff would-be poet who hired Will to write a sonnet for him?"
"So they say…But hey, last week 'they' were saying it was Marlowe doing all of Will's writing…" Jonson notes.
"Ay…They did…" So thank God for the English Secret Service, its efficiently brutal chief, Walsingham, and our ruthless Queen eliminatin' that little problem…
No offense, Chris, but the playwritin' tis' a tough business…
And we all urged ye to keep clear of the politics and espionage game…
"But…DeVere…?" she frowns. "I thought, perhaps Essex…Or one of the others in his circle. Everyone knows this fellow's a silly..."
"Not since he read that sonnet at Court…And I gather your Will kept his word not to say a word…"
"One…And one decidedly second-rate poem among his catalog of hits…Let out to that young dolt and some are ready to believe…?"
"Eh…Last month, I told some fool in a tavern, as a joke whilst I was…A bit incapacitated, that it was the Queen herself writing my plays. And for the rest of that month…"
"I remember…Well, what you deserved then, knowin' they'd said the same last year about Will…"
"So, where is the lad? Not willin' to stand for his work, he sends you here to take up for him?"
"We discussed it…"
Cut to shot of William Shakespeare, bound and gagged in his London rooms…
"…But no way I'm lettin' him put himself at risk, confrontin' this sort of thing. He's the source of the family wealth, Ben…Can't have him in prison or worse for upsettin' some courtier with friends, who might not even be the right man…"
Besides…A bound and trussed Will Shakespeare is a faithful Will Shakespeare…For a day or two at least…
Hmmn…
"Anne…" Hopeful tone… "If that truly be the only reason…" Careful eyeing of the lace of her bosom's swell…
"Pish off, you…" frown. "Ben Jonson…You know I love Will alone…"
"Annie…After all we've meant to each other?"
"I'll be breakin' that hand now…"
"Anne…Fine, fine…" Jonson glares but pulls back hand…
Perhaps after she met that popinjay when she did tell me to never darken her doorframe again there was a hidden meaning there after all…
Well…Ben Jonson shall yet have his vengeance. Even if tis to be served both cold and rather late…300 years or so from now, in fact, if that damned pretty piece of a "justice demon", that sweet, if rather deadly, Anya comes through true…What was it now?…He's to be reborn as the world's worst poet…And dear Anne cursed to doom him to unendin' suffering…?
Nice…He smiled inwardly…
"What?" Anne eyed his beaming, contented face…
Oops…That was meant to stay inwardly…
"Uh…Just thinking on how best to punish that worthless snot of an aristocrat…For my good friend's sake." Ben, innocently.
Right…I believe that…Anne frowned.
After all, someone had to have smuggled Oxford a copy of Will's other works for him to be claiming authorship so boldly…
….
Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, stepson of Her Royal Majesty's late beloved Robert Dudley, royal (currently ex-) favorite, pacing room…Pausing to eye his majestic self in a long mirror, feeling moustache acquired during his recent campaign…The only badge of honor in the sorry affair…Carefully and proudly…Pulling at stuck fold of sleeve, then smoothing.
My God, I'm beautiful. He turns and frowns at his guest, reclining on a long chair…
"Edward? Are you sure this work will do the job?"
Languid stare, shrug, off-hand wave of languid hand emerging from ruffled sleeve…
"My dear Robert…" Edward DeVere, taken by all to be the current heir to the Earldom of Oxford, rather than the sole and immortal holder of said title that he was in truth…Smiles gently.
Poor spoiled baby…Unable to see the wolves at your heels and the fiend traitor in your bosom…
How did a sharp fellow like Dudley ever manage to produce such an offspring? "Step"-son indeed…Though if the rumors are actually false it might explain things.
"…Our friend Shakespeare's 'Richard II' will do for the occasion…An anointed king, foolish and rather disliked but hardly a brute tyrant, overthrown and deposed. It's just what we want to convince our people the old Queen can be shaken…"
"Yes…" Essex paces further. "Yes…But of course, shaken…I want her just shaken, you know. Forced to see that I am her only true protector and worthy advisor…"
"Of course…" Edward nods, repressing smile.
"Even if my very life weighs in the balance I should never violate my oath…"
Uh-huh…Somehow I wouldn't place great bets on ole Eliza's life if we should succeed…But, she'll probably offer him some equally worthless promises of safely and forgiveness, if it comes to that…
Either way blood will follow…To my benefit, both practically and of the spirit…
Ah, politics…I love it so…
"But when does the fellow come to receive our charge? And the alterations we considered to add to the topicality of the play?"
"Shortly, Robert…Shortly…After all, the man is a hit playwright…His time is valuable and his schedule, generally impossible. But for those good friends of ample coin and influence in the realm…"
"Are we, Essex and Oxford, two peerless high nobles of this isle, to await the pleasure of some nobody wordschopper?" Essex fumes.
"The crowds we hope to influence to our side wouldn't say so…" DeVere notes.
"Bah…You place too much faith in the crowd, Edward. It is a fickle mistress and will bite…Hard…When annoyed or perceiving itself spurned…"
Someone will, in any case…Oxford inwardly smiles. Brushing a loose hair down…