Greetings, one and all, and a very happy St George's Day to you! St George, of course, is the patron saint of England and I really have to say, in my experience, the English do not pay very much attention to this day at all. DX At least in Wales you get guilted into buying a tacky daffodil to wear on your lapel for St David's Day but oh well - I guess everybody just wants to be Irish, haha. Still, Google UK has taken notice for once - and I can't fault a small part of the Hetalia fandom, who maintain that today is as good as any for Arthur Kirkland's birthday~
Today, 23rd April, is also the birthday (and death day! O.o) of one Mr William Shakespeare, who is the real reason for this update. As you will have seen from the summary, this fic is a crossover with the recent film Anonymous (not that Anonymous appears to have its own section!), which portrays a fictional storyline built around the Oxfordian authorship theory regarding Shakespeare's plays. Though it is less well-known than, say, the Marlowe theory, believers of Oxfordian authorship argue that the plays attributed to Shakespeare, the son of a glove-maker from Stratford-Upon-Avon (near Birmingham), could not possibly have been written by a man with such little education. The candidate of their choosing is Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, a well-travelled man with an excellent classical education. Anonymous dissects (and dramatises!) this theory, intertwining it with the complex issue of the Elizabethan succession, and though it has little to no basis in real history whatsoever, it's really an excellent film. I absolutely loved it when I first went to see it and I wasted no time in procuring a DVD and proceeding to shove it down the throat of anyone I could, hahaha.
I feel like I might be alienating readers a little here, due to it being quite a quietly-released film which, realistically, not all that many people went to see, but from the moment I saw Anonymous, I knew I wanted to write a crossover for it - because so much of it focuses around the importance of words and the power that they can have. Honestly, this will probably be difficult to follow if you haven't seen the film - but I hope perhaps it might convince you to see it if you missed it? (And even if you're not interested much in Shakespeare, at least check out the fact that Tom Felton is going to turn into Rhys Ifans in about twenty years. The resemblance between Felton as Draco Malfoy and Ifans as Edward de Vere is UNCANNY.)
The title comes from the closing lines of Henry V - an important play in Anonymous.
This Star of England
I
"You are not jealous, I hope?" Elizabeth asks, her voice light and lilting. She is teasing him, quite splendid in her green skirts and bejewelled bodice and long tendrils of hair spilling over her white shoulders; the colour has the blaze of fire in it, a deep and natural red, and she is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful of his queens thus far. "And, if you are, I hope you will at least be civil. You have told me often that you once spat at Isabella."
"She was undeserving of my respect," England replies graciously, "and she was French. You are neither."
Elizabeth sighs sweetly.
"And yet I have men with golden hair scurrying from my chambers at all hours," she says, touching her ring. "Whatever is to be done with me?"
England does not bite.
"Who was he?" he asks. "I presume he has a title?"
"The Earl of Oxford." Elizabeth pauses. "Edward de Vere."
"Ah, yes. We have never met but I do know of him."
"You will meet with him, I hope," Elizabeth says, putting out her dainty hand; her ring flashes in the candlelight. "One day. Oh, he would love you."
"And how should I love him?" England raises his eyebrows in amusement. "Would you have me romance him? I do wonder, Your Majesty, if he will be won that way, for he seems not so tender as you - that the rustle of sheets may speak his desires."
"Go to, you rogue!" Elizabeth is clearly amused; she laughs prettily as England grins and kisses her hand. "Not with thy hand nor thy mouth nor thy marriage apparel, no - but thy words, I insist. He would so love you for that, for your language is most dear to him. What say you, villain?"
"If that is what you want, then of course it shall be done."
Elizabeth smiles and lets him hold her hand, the one with the coronation ring on it. It is her promise to him.
"You are a good husband," she says quietly. "It is only between you and I, I know, and of course, you will… outlive me-"
"Still, still," England hushes her, touching her pale face, "I am ever at your service. This is a most special thing, Elizabeth, and I am honoured that you wear this ring, that you have pledged yourself to me, but I can never give you heirs-"
"Would that my reign be barren of such heirs," Elizabeth interrupts savagely, "than I should bear them to Phillip of Spain or-"
"What of him?"
"Edward?" Elizabeth takes back her hand. "Alas, he is already married - to Anne Cecil, no less." She shakes her head. "It is of little consequence - I beseech you not on matters of my heart, my dearest England, but on matters of his." She presses her hands together. "Do you recall that I told you of a play that was performed in court some years ago? You were away at sea and did not have the pleasure, though you would have enjoyed it. It concerned fairies and a man with the head of an ass and all manner of confused romances."
England smiles.
"I remember indeed the light in your face when you spoke of it, yes," he replies. "You considered it quite marvellous."
"I could not have considered it anything but!" Elizabeth insists. "That play, that… Midsummer Night's Dream, as it was called, was written by Edward when he was still but a child."
"Is that so? How quick he was to bear his heart."
"Oh, do not be unkind." Elizabeth presses her pointed fingers to his lips. "Bite thy wicked tongue, husband!"
"What would you have me say instead?" England asks with a laugh.
"Nothing," Elizabeth says. She puts her wild head to his chest. "He is proud, you have my word, but he would be at your feet. He is the kind of man, you know, the rare kind with poetry in his veins - he would adore you, England, with our very language in yours. I ask not that you speak but that you listen."
II
Edward de Vere, the young Earl of Oxford, is guarded when first they meet. He stands at his desk with his arms behind his back, tight-lipped, as England curiously goes through his papers.
"These are very good," England says lightly. "Such form… Truly, your sonnets are quite wonderful, Edward."
Oxford flinches a little at that; being called by his Christian name so candidly by a man he knows only by Elizabeth's description. England sees this and fixes him with a cool look.
"I call Elizabeth by her name," he says, "and so I shall call you by yours."
Oxford looks up sharply.
"And what are you, sir, to her?" he asks.
"I am her husband, of course," England replies calmly, putting down the sheets. "Take from that what you must."
"Her…?" Oxford shakes his head fiercely. "She has no husband, you lying knave! She-"
"Yes, yes, has only lovers, secret though they may be," England finishes boredly. "And in public, she remains the Virgin Queen. Do not test my patience, Edward; she sent me to you as your muse. I hope you will not give me cause to refuse you after all."
Oxford looks incredulous for a moment before his eyes harden.
"I have no use for you in that regard, sir," he says acidly. "Elizabeth is my muse."
"And I," England sighs, "am her husband, Edward. Do you not listen to her? Have you not seen her ring? All the words which you call to dance before her, those which sing of her beauty at your command… They are mine."
When Oxford pauses again, looking at him in bewilderment, England grows impatient.
"My God, must I spell it out for you?" he exclaims. "Have you not the imagination to conceive of my flesh?"
"M-my lord!" He is cleverer than most, at least; and, seized at last by recognition, Oxford begins to go down on one knee. England catches his elbow, stopping him.
"I did not come here for that," he says. "And that besides, I do not like to be bowed to." He looks to the desk. "No indeed, I came to see your writings. Elizabeth spoke so very highly of them, I could not resist."
"I-I am deeply honoured, my lord, I cannot begin to tell you-"
"They are good," England interrupts carelessly, seeing at last a breakthrough with this proud young man. "Your poems, your plays, your letters… But they can be more." He looks Oxford up and down; he is attractive and accomplished, golden-haired and full-lipped, intelligent and educated in every way that a gentleman of his standing should be.
Gentlemen, of course, do not write plays. England grins and at last takes his knife from his belt.
"Edward de Vere," he says gently, pulling the blade across his palm, "how much would you like to be the voice of your age?"
III
"Ben Jonson?" England shrugs. "I suppose he is as good as any to get the job done." He stretches out on the plush couch in Oxford's cluttered study. "You did not consider Marlowe?"
"Word is that he is a spy," Oxford mutters. "No, I cannot take the risk. Jonson will have to suffice. He is much less important." He pauses, at last looking up at England. "Do you… well, what think you of it? Essex and Southampton did not give the notion much thought."
England glances lazily at him. The years have not been kind to Oxford, who is handsome and well-dressed but with an underlying weariness floating just beneath the surface of his every expression. It must be painful, England thinks with his usual inhuman distance, for Oxford and Elizabeth both to look at him and see him unchanged in forty years and more, besides.
"I think it is an experiment long overdue, Edward," he says. "You have never done anything at all with the magnificent plays written since your knowing me." He nods bitterly towards the shelf, where they all sit in their leather folders, unread. "It is rather insulting, truly."
Oxford sighs, going back to his work.
"You are most conceited," he says idly. "Nothing about you ever changes."
"Edward, the last person I bestowed my blood upon was Geoffrey Chaucer; and, indeed, still his voice echoes of Medieval revelry long lost, does it not?"
"Still," Oxford insists, "I say you are conceited."
"As are you - you have seen Jonson's work and think you can better him." England smirks. "Well, you can, of course, because you have written in rivers. All in all, sir, I conclude that we are simply as conceited as each other - and an excellent match, therefore. Shall I hence to the marriage bed?"
"I regret that I have more pressing distractions at this time," Oxford says dryly.
"Ah - choosing which of thy labours to impress upon the most impressionable masses?" England puts his hands behind his head. "What of the star-crossed lovers? Perhaps the murderous Scottish upstart? Oh, goodness, how about the girl playing a boy playing a girl?"
"No, I am already decided upon Henry the Fifth."
England gives a genuine smile then, his green eyes bright and brilliant as he glances again at Oxford.
"Death to the French," he muses. "Excellent choice."
IV
England stumbles into Oxford's study rather early the next morning, still drunk; he has not slept and remains in high spirits from a night's hard partying in various inns and brothels. His throat is hoarse from shrieking of death to the bloody French and oh, how he has enjoyed himself.
Oxford is in a peculiar mood, pleased but impatient, and hushes him with a desperate motion of his quill.
"Conceited, sir, is how you called me!" England crows delightedly at him. "Yet Jonson has you to thank for such a rousing success - and you are to prostrate yourself before I, for that was my fire upon that stage, my dearest Edward!"
"Yes," Oxford says calmly, pausing to look down at whatever he is writing. "O for a muse of fire, dear England, for that befits you well. I would say that my experiment has borne fruit, so to speak."
"Ah, I have stood by them in true battle," England replies, "and fought by their side to blood and bone and sheerest quick - but never have I been so proud of my people as I was in that pit yesterday when they were so roused by an actor's words - your words, Edward - as to surge upon the stage at his rallying. All night long, I assure you, it has echoed in London's taverns - death to the French, death to the French!"
"No doubt, sir, you were its keeper," Oxford says lightly.
England smirks.
"It was a fire well-stoked," he concedes in a sickly tone. "But, I say, whatever happened to Jonson? Did he lose his bloody nerve?"
"I do not think he trusted me," Oxford says. "He did not trust me to be better than him, at least - and then he hesitated and his chance was lost."
"Indeed - and to an actor!" England laughs. "Will Shakespeare - quite an interesting fellow. I had a few drinks with him last night." He prowls closer to the desk. "But what of him, Edward - and what of Jonson? Is the damage now done?"
"It would seem so." Oxford glances up at him. "Jonson has already been to see me - to explain himself, not that there is much explaining to be done. I saw his failing - had I but foreseen it, this might have been avoided, but nonetheless I do not think much trouble will come of it now. It is not what I wanted, of course, but Jonson has promised to keep my name from it."
England's eyebrows arch curiously.
"You have given Jonson your others, then?"
"Some. He will pass them to Shakespeare and… well, I suppose we shall see."
England nods and looks over Oxford's shoulder; upon a scrap of parchment, he has been writing the name of the man who has taken on the burden of his writings. Will Shake Speare. Will Shake-speare.
"Here." England fumbles a little for his knife, at last clasping it and taking it to his hand. "Shall we not make it official, Edward?" He swipes the blade over his palm, splitting the skin and drawing blood - his strange black blood which is, of course, not blood at all but instead ink - because the language is his and flows in him and so Oxford's words are so much of him, the everlasting voice of England.
He holds out his palm, which shakes a little because he's nowhere near sober, and Edward calmly dips his quill into the well of it before setting it back to the parchment.
William Shakespeare
"It is a good name," England says with a grin, looking at it. "Memorable."
V
"Perhaps I simply agree with you too easily."
"No." Oxford shakes his head. "It is because I am right."
"You are so very sure of yourself, Edward."
"And you know as well as I do that she can be wooed by words."
England grins.
"I shall tell her that."
"Please do."
"That you consider her so easily won? Elizabeth is a great lover of peace, Edward, but she has never expected it to be bloodless - and her words have most amply portrayed it thus. Do you not recall her saying that she has the heart and stomach of a king?"
"And a king of England, too," Oxford finishes idly. "Which speaks, sir, of your baying for blood - not hers."
England sighs.
"I confess that this is… quite the letdown," he admits, looking at the new-published little book on Oxford's desk - the one addressed to Elizabeth in all but name. "A wondrous poem it is, truly, but it is tender and sentimental. That you would seek to slither back into her graces on your belly like a snake-"
"All well and good for you to say," Oxford interrupts sharply, "when you have ever been free to come and go as you please with her. You have never been banished from her sight."
"It would not speak well of her to lose her temper with her country. As for you, Edward, I had hoped for another rousing round of Henry the Fifth; or, indeed, a mounting brawl like so many Capulets and Montagues pacing the streets in search of a chance to cross swords with throats-"
"That will get us nowhere!" Oxford interrupts angrily. "Or do you wish to see heads on blocks, England?" He knots his hands together. "No, no, not with Essex's good name blackened as it is - my words to her must be tender, she must know that I bid her no ill. It has been years - perhaps too many - but I must do what I can and this is all I know how to do. I am not a soldier." He looks at England impatiently. "And you, sir? What of you in this matter?"
England yawns and stretches, turning to the window.
"You humans are so very good at complicating things," he mutters. "I want, of course, what is best."
Oxford pauses.
"…For Elizabeth?" he asks tentatively.
"You forget yourself." England's voice is cold. "For me."
VI
"You… appear tired."
"Oh, Edward, spare me your irony."
"No, I truly…" Oxford turns his head on the pillow, looking towards England at his bedside. "Since she died, there is something about you which is so defeated, so exhausted…"
"Come, now…" England touches a hand to his own cheek. "I have the face of a teenager, an enviable youth which even grief cannot steal from me."
Oxford smiles.
"But it is there," he says quietly. "I can see it nonetheless." He closes his eyes. "You were… with her?"
"Her hand was in mine, you have my word - as may yours be, if you so desire."
Oxford's smile broadens as best it can.
"I do not expect you to worship me as did Jonson," he murmurs. "With tears in his eyes as he looked upon my face… No, England, I could never ask that of you. I am but another of your vast number."
"…As was she, Edward." England sighs and looks up at the ceiling. "She was my queen and she was… well, in accordance with her vow, she was my wife - but she, too, was of my number. She was young and beautiful and endless but she grew old, inevitably. She was able to die and she did."
Oxford nods, exhaling.
"I do not suppose that we will ever know it," he says. "What it is to live forever."
"Ah, but you will, Edward - because of your words." England reaches to run his fingers over Oxford's right hand - the one which has held a quill for decades. "Though they bear not your most noble name, you have been the voice that I asked for, that I needed - for I live forever and it is a lot for me to remember and to carry. Your plays will hold the essence of this age for me instead and I can go on unburdened but for the lament for my lost queen and my lost playwright."
"Indeed, your lost playwright," Oxford sighs. "William Shakespeare, was it?"
England smiles.
"You must agree," he says gently, "that the name has quite a ring to it."
Elizabeth I, who never married (but may or may not have had lovers). genuinely did declare herself married to England instead! Her words on the matter: 'When I received this coronation ring I solemnly bound myself in marriage to the realm; and it will be quite sufficient for the memorial of my name and for my glory, if, when I die, an inscription be engraved on a marble tomb, saying, "Here lieth Elizabeth, which reigned a virgin, and died a virgin."'
I think it's very difficult to know one way or another what to believe (about Shakespeare, I mean!). Anonymous is rather convincing in its argument for the Oxfordian theory - but then again, it portrays Shakespeare to be a grating, obnoxious opportunist, all designed as part of the narrative to make you side with Oxford and Ben Jonson. Stratford-upon-Avon, incidentally, was not best pleased by the film, which of course implied that Shakespeare didn't write his plays and that he was pretty much an unpleasant person altogether - bad news when he's your sole source of income! With that said, it's not hard to see why people question the authenticity of Shakespeare's authorship, whether they believe the plays were written by Oxford, Marlowe or whoever: There are no copies of any of Shakespeare's plays written in his own handwriting - in fact, there are only three signatures remaining in the man's own hand, and in each of these he spells his name differently! Additionally, Shakespeare had not, according to any records, ever left Britain - yet so many of his plays are set in foreign countries (especially Italy); and on that note, as a boy he would have had a very basic education, yet so many of his plays display knowledge of things far exceeding his educational standard (including an entire scene in French in Henry V). But who knows? Perhaps William Shakespeare was simply a genius! There's really just no way of knowing - and films like Anonymous just make it all the more interesting, in my opinion!
…I have noticed a strange divide in my fics which I think my degree discipline is subconsciously responsible for. It definitely seems to be the case (for the most part) that stories which are about America or at least follow him as the narrative lead tend to be based more on history, whereas those based on/following England have their basis in literature. Odd! Well, I suppose it's just what inspires me, though! XD
Happy St George's Day/Shakespeare's birthday/England's birthday(?)!
RR xXx