Anne Feversham

by J. C. Snaith

Soon or late, the news would have to be told her. At least, that was the view Shakespeare had now come to hold. But this was not the season for the Constable’s daughter to learn what had happened. As the playwright had lain sleepless that night in his bed, with the eager brain racing courser-like over the whole matter, the core of a plan had come to him. It was little more than a shadow at present. It had yet to take shape, yet to acquire a hue of reality, but it might be that under providence it would develop into a scheme that could offer some hope of their deliverance. Yet he must have time in which to mature it; and if by a mischance the fugitives learned at this moment Sir John Feversham’s peril, nothing was more likely than that a self-sacrificing impulse would cause them to give themselves up to justice before anything could be done to help them.

All that day the falconer hung disconsolate about the Crown Tavern. There was reason to believe that the fugitives were still in the vicinity of Oxford, but for the time being all further trace of them had failed. A number of persons in and about the town appeared to have seen the young gypsies. Among others, John Davenant, the landlord of the Crown, had a clear recollection of having seen them early the previous day on the bench outside the tavern door. They could not be far away, yet for the present the falconer’s inquiries yielded no result.

Shakespeare was careful to keep Gervase and Anne out of the man’s way. He hardly let them out of his sight, and during the performance that afternoon they were given a secluded corner in one of the galleries where they could enjoy the play without being seen by the audience.

The piece was “Romeo and Juliet,” and its success was as great as that which had been gained on the previous day by “The Merchant of Venice.” News of that brilliant performance had spread, so that the press in the inn yard was greater than ever, there being hardly room to squeeze another soul inside. This play was finely acted, and it was received with bursts of rapturous applause.

It was part of the scheme that was being formed in Shakespeare’s mind that Anne should play Rosalind before the Queen. He knew that such an innovation would be perilous, and he foresaw that it would arouse the opposition of his colleagues. But that shy and slender grace was the ideal of his fancy. He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking dress in the tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the forest of Arden. Parflete was an efficient actor, but no member of the company could have the charm and delicacy of this gracious thing, if only she could be taught to play the part at so short a notice.

The playwright was too astute even to tell Burbage of the fantastic scheme that had come to lurk in his mind. But he lost no time in giving Anne a copy of the play to read. She declared herself enchanted by it. It was not then, however, that he ventured to reveal to her his design. And, in the meantime, perils were multiplying.

The man Grisewood remained three days in the privacy of his chamber, suffering much pain during that time in his disabled arm. And when at last he emerged with his wound dressed in bandages, he hovered about the tavern like a brooding and vengeful presence. If ever a man might be said to be biding his hour in order to work mischief, this was he. Yet for the present, it was little he could accomplish. Moreover, he was constrained to keep a civil tongue in his head, since Richard Burbage, who was no respecter of persons, was fain to inform him that the horse-trough was still likely to be his academy of manners.

Grisewood, it appeared, had come to Oxford for a particular purpose. That purpose was to seek out Simon Heriot, his partner in infamy. He wished to inform him of the prisoner’s escape, which was not generally known to the world, and incidentally to learn what prospect there was of being able to replenish a depleted exchequer. This indeed was its permanent condition, so far as Sir Robert Grisewood was concerned. But now that his foul work was accomplished he looked to it to provide a source of revenue for many years to come.

In the course of the day Grisewood chanced to inquire of John Davenant, in the falconer’s hearing, whether he could direct him to Greenfield Manor, the house of Simon Heriot The falconer’s attention was attracted, and presently he entered into conversation with Grisewood. Both men, at first, were not a little wary of each other. The business of neither enabled them to open their hearts to a chance acquaintance, but a few cautious questions judiciously answered were enough to prove their common interest in a matter which concerned them both very deeply.

Grisewood had more cunning, and therefore less frankness, than the falconer. Thus he asked questions rather than answered them. And it was not long before he had learned the nature of the falconer’s mission.