My Dark Lady: Shakespeare's Lost Play: Uncovered & Here Presented for the First Time

Copyright © 2011 by D.W.Gilbertson.

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ISBN: 978-1456-6058-0-3

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For information: mydarklady.com

MY DARK LADY

Shakespeare's Lost Play

Dan Walker

1651

Ben Bloombery sprinted up Church Street as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. All around him, London's shabby Cripplegate section was ablaze.

Flames leapt through rows of bleak, cramped houses. Mobs clogged the streets, shouting and pushing in their haste. Cobblestoned alleys echoed with wagon wheels and cries. Trapped in the throngs, riders clung to their horses.

Everyone except Ben was intent on fleeing the scorching flames. Clearing a path with flailing arms, he fought his way through the flood of evacuees. Red embers swirled around his head like angry starlings.

-:-:-

Nestled under the Tower of London's formidable walls, Warr Lane was a quiet street lined with handsome houses. Its prosperous dwellings overlooked tall-masted ships floating serenely on the broad river Thames.

Ben's portly father, Mr. Bloombery, waddled up to the finest house on Warr Lane. Lowering his writing box onto a well-scrubbed doorstep, he knocked at the studded door.

-:-:-

Escaping the crowds, Ben dashed along alleys and narrow passageways. By now, the youth was gasping for every breath. The muscles in his legs and shoulders burned.

Charging around a corner, Ben found his way blocked by barking dogs. Leaping and biting, the pack was tormenting a chained black bear. Unable to stop, Ben plowed straight into the fray.

An Irish wolfhound sprang at him open jawed. Jagged teeth snapped together only inches from Ben's face. Dodging away, he almost slammed into the bear. With a growl, the giant creature swung at him. Ben caught a glimpse of curving claws as he ducked under the bloodied paw.

Losing his footing, Ben fell forward and slid painfully across the ground. He scrambled up, tiny pebbles clinging to scratches on his palms and knees. Blood dripped from a cut in his leg. Ignoring these scrapes, Ben darted through the cheering onlookers and leapt down a flight of stone steps.

-:-:-

Within the house on Warr Lane, London's hubbub was only a faint murmur. Upstairs, inside a richly furnished bedchamber, an elderly woman sat propped up in bed reading.

She answered the knock on her door in a voice which was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, Come in.

Gerard, her steward, entered the bedchamber and bowed, Your lawyer, my lady. He showed Mr. Bloombery in and left.

The lawyer bowed low. Good morning, milady. You look well.

A light heart lives long, Bloombery, she said, pointing imperiously at a writing desk. Sit down. Weren't you instructed to bring your scribe?

Bloombery lowered himself into the writing desk's straight-backed chair. Creaking noisily, the seat protested his weight. Sadly, he is indisposed, milady.

That is most regrettable, Bloombery, she said, casting a critical eye in the chubby lawyer's direction.

Indeed milady, but it can't be helped. He's off fighting the fire.

Another fire?

I'm afraid so, milady. The lawyer lifted paper, pewter pens and an inkhorn from his writing box. Rather a big one, I'm told, but not to worry, it's nowhere near here.

The elderly woman shook her head disapprovingly. How did it start? Catholic plotters again?

I haven't heard, milady.

That's the third this year. People really should be more careful.

Yes milady, especially when there's a strong wind blowing about. Bloombery dipped his pen and prepared to write. I'll take the record myself.

So be it. Are you ready?

I am, milady, Bloombery replied, writing 6 June, 1651 neatly atop the first page.

Very well then. With a tiny sigh, the elderly woman settled back against her pillows. I, Patricia Miller, wish to add an addendum to my will. It concerns grievous crimes and my own silence, which has lasted for far too many years. Today, I finally cast aside the cloak shrouding an extraordinary man...

Ben burst into the bedchamber, panting from his run.

The fire's reached Grantham Street!

Bloombery struggled to his feet, Oh, heaven preserve us.

Sit down, Bloombery.

I'm sorry milady, I must attend to my offices. The fire...

I don't give a fig for your offices.

Please, milady. My scribe will stay.

Bloombery steered Ben into the desk chair. The youth began to protest feebly through his panting breath. Bloombery pressed the pen into Ben's hand, whispering, Just do your best. In a louder voice, he said, Forgive me, milady. Good day. With a brief bow, Bloombery waddled out of the room.

Ah! So be it. She waved a hand dismissively and turned her piercing gaze to Ben. Now, where was I? Oh yes - before Bloombery ran out, I was about to tell him what happened at the first performance of 'Twelfth Night.' Do you know it?

Ben looked at her blankly. He'd never seen anyone so old and wrinkled.

Oh, you must know it, she insisted.

Ben still looked blank. He became aware of a strange, slightly sickening smell.

You may not recall the play by name, but I'm sure you've heard its opening lines, everyone has: 'If music be the food of love, play on.' Well?

To escape the old woman's questioning eyes, Ben looked down, dipping his pen.

Patricia sighed. Edward's plays aren't as popular as they were... The old woman's voice trailed off as bright memories played before her eyes.

Edward, Ma'am? Ben finally ventured.

That's Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, to you my lad, and don't you forget it, she said sharply.

Yes, Ma'am. Beg your pardon, Ma'am. Ben put pen to paper.

'Twelfth Night' made the Earl a great favorite at Court - in the beginning, at least.

TWELFTH NIGHT

Backstage at Whitehall Palace's Great Hall, the Earl of Oxford's Players were scant minutes away from their first performance. Costumed actors, prompters and wardrobe keepers hurried about attending to final details.

Their patron, Edward de Vere, a tall, well-built man with finely chiseled features and clear, bright eyes stood to one side looking harried and tense. The Earl's concerned expression was perfectly understandable. After all, how many plays debuted in front of Queen Elizabeth?

But Edward wasn't contemplating his Courtly audience. He was mentally cursing Elizabeth's impatience. A scant three days earlier, the Queen, wearying of constant postponements, had ordered him to stage his play without further delay.

Why did she have to meddle so? Edward asked himself angrily. Any fool could see that the entertainment was, as yet, unfinished. If not for her express command, he would still be hard at work, rehearsing and writing, lovingly shaping Twelfth Night into the glittering jewel he saw in his mind's eye.

Out front, Anne Vavasor, Elizabeth's newest maid of honor, stepped into the Great Hall to make her own Court debut. Two needlewomen had spent days perfecting Anne's green velvet gown and its golden adornments. Resplendent in pearls and a glittering emerald tiara, this alluring young woman caused quite a stir as she strolled slowly through the vast audience. Anne's perfect features, topped by an abundant mane of raven-black hair, enslaved several hearts before she took her seat near the front.

Backstage, a servant hurried over, disturbing Edward's thoughts. The troubadours, who were to play the Duke of Illyria's musicians, had still not arrived. Edward shrugged gloomily. He had long ago sent every man he could spare in search of the missing troubadours.

Dismissing the servant, Edward looked down at the prompt script in his hand. The play's opening lines seemed to mock him. How could he possibly open this of all plays without music?

Edward looked up in agitated frustration. The servant was hurrying back towards him. He sighed with relief. The musicians had arrived, in the nick of time. Well, their apologies and excuses could wait until later.

The servant rushed to Edward's side. The Queen! The Queen! he whispered urgently.

-:-:-

Trumpets sounded in the Great Hall. The chatter quickly died away as everyone stood and turned to watch Queen Elizabeth enter. She was seated alongside Lord Burghley, her senior advisor. Courtiers and ladies resumed their seats chattering in excited anticipation. Elizabeth was ready for the play to begin, but she looked around in vain for Edward's broad-shouldered frame.

The Earl peeped out at his audience from backstage. He saw Burghley whispering something into the Queen's ear. Edward guessed that the Lord Chamberlain was gallantly offering to investigate the delay. Such assistance would quickly unmask Edward's problem.

The Earl decided to play for time. Throwing his prompt script aside, Edward stepped out into the Great Hall and walked over to Elizabeth. Smiling gallantly, he bowed extravagantly before the Queen.

Annoyed at being kept waiting, Elizabeth acknowledged him with a cursory nod, What do you have for us tonight?

A comedy, your Majesty. Noble dukes and elegant ladies, all transfixed by Cupid's piercing arrows...

We don't like comedies, the Queen said sourly.

But, surely your Majesty used to dote on witty plays, replete with clever turns of phrase.

Such frivolities no longer suit my advancing years, Elizabeth interrupted, fixing a stern gaze on the Earl.

Perhaps your Majesty should consider banning comedies from the Court? Burghley suggested.

I might at that, Elizabeth said, turning to Burghley. Laughing stretches my cheeks, causing these hideous wrinkles. Elizabeth patted sadly at her jowls with two bejeweled hands. Burghley shot a mocking glance at Edward.

Majesty, I must protest... the Earl began in a spirited fashion.

What! Burghley barked.

Your beauty is a timeless wonder, famed throughout all the courts of Europe...

Elizabeth lifted her hand to silence Edward.

Pretending not to notice, he continued, Why, only last week, a certain ambassador, who shall remain nameless, confided in me that your flawless charms moved him so greatly that the poor fellow knew not whether to treat you as a queen or as a woman.

And what did you tell this ambassador?

I advised him to treat you as both, Majesty, Edward replied, bowing deeply.

Elizabeth smiled, her impatience momentarily curbed.

Burghley scowled. How much longer do you intend to keep her Majesty waiting? he snapped angrily.

Behind the Lord Chamberlain, Edward spotted several guards ushering his troubadours into the back of the Great Hall. Beaming, the Earl turned to Elizabeth, We await only your royal command to begin, he said.

Begin, begin!

Edward replied with his best bow. Straightening up, the Earl turned and walked towards the waiting troubadours as if he had always intended for them to make their entrance from the rear of the Great Hall. The musicians bowed deeply as Edward approached. He gestured to them to begin playing.

The troubadours may not have known how to make their way backstage on time, but these handpicked musicians certainly knew their instruments. They began a hauntingly beautiful melody. Edward directed them towards the stage. As they strolled slowly forward, the glittering Court audience turned to watch, amused by the novelty of this opening. Edward strode quickly backstage.

The actors playing Orsino and Curio were standing ready to take the stage. Unfortunately, the actor charged with delivering Twelfth Night's opening lines was nowhere to be seen. Edward hurried into the wings. His musicians had just gained the stage. He signaled them to reprise their introduction. Turning to face the audience, the troubadours accomplished this seamlessly. As they did so, the Duke of Illyria appeared adjusting a freshly powdered wig.

Exasperated beyond words, the Earl ushered him and the other players on stage. Then, snatching up his prompt script, Edward collapsed into a chair.

The Duke began:

"If music be the food of love, play on!

Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That melody again! It had a dying fall..."

Before the First Act was over, Elizabeth had interrupted with applause on five separate occasions. Such praise was unprecedented.

Burghley struggled to hide his anger at Elizabeth's obvious delight. For one desperate moment, the Lord Chamberlain even considered reminding her that such abandoned laughter would only accentuate the royal wrinkles.

Hidden in the wings, monitoring his players from the prompt copy, Edward began to relax. No one else seemed to notice that Twelfth Night was, as yet, unpolished.

He found himself savoring the thought that, despite his doubts, the play was a resounding triumph. In an instant, all the long, hard hours spent writing and rehearsing were forgotten, as was the expense of acquiring and supporting his company of players. Edward even forgave the tardy troubadours. Life and human endeavor seemed blissfully worthwhile once again.

On stage, the Duke was speaking of love. Let still the woman take one elder than herself.

Beaming broadly, Edward snuck a discreet look at his audience. Twelfth Night still held the entire Court firmly in its grasp.

So wears she to him, so sways she level in her husband's heart.

Suddenly Edward spotted Anne sitting amongst the audience.

For, boy, however men do praise themselves...

Sensing Edward's eyes upon her, Anne looked over at him. She quickly glanced away, only to look back.

...their fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won than women's are.

Edward gazed at the Court's newest maid of honor, completely entranced by her youthful beauty.

On stage, Viola replied to the Duke, I think it well, my lord.

The prompt script slipped from Edward's hands, breaking his trance. He ducked down to retrieve it and was astonished to find himself gasping for air. The Earl had been holding his breath!

Then let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent. For women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

And so they are - alas, that they are so - to die, even when they to perfection grow.

-:-:-

Elizabeth's eyes never left the stage. The audience followed her lead, hardly knowing what to make of such brilliance. When Twelfth Night ended, the Great Hall exploded in a furor of enthusiasm.

Edward led his players forward. They took bow after bow together, savoring their triumph. Even Edward, who harbored few doubts about his writings, was taken aback by the emotions surging through him.

The Queen and her Court had reacted to his scenes and characters just as he had intended. There was a heady power in commanding such an immense and sophisticated audience. Bowing deeply, Edward felt its strength surge through him with an absolute joy.

Twelfth Night's dazzling debut dominated Court conversation for days afterwards. Only one lone courtier spoke out against Edward's comedy. His name was Christopher Hatton and he objected to being lampooned as Malvolio, the play's cross-gartered blusterer. When, at Burghley's suggestion, Hatton complained to Elizabeth, she dismissed his objections with a wave of her hand.

Several days later, the Queen rewarded Edward with a large country estate. The Earl had become her Majesty's newest shining star, but stars can fall all too easily. Within a year his brilliance would tumble headlong to the earth.

-:-:-

Edward, dressed even more than usual in the height of courtly fashion, stood outside one of Whitehall Palace's music rooms. Inside, he could hear Anne playing a lively galliard by William Byrd. The Earl couldn't understand why he, Elizabeth's most accomplished favorite, should suddenly feel as nervous as a schoolboy whenever he saw the Queen's new maid of honor.

The compelling desires that burned inside him reminded Edward of those heady days when he had first discovered romance. For years, he had thought of little else. Now, this beautiful young woman was rekindling those distant feelings.

Anne's face besieged his thoughts day and night. Simply hearing her voice filled the Earl with desperate longings. When he slept, the maid's faultless form floated through his dreams. He often woke in a hot sweat, imagining that the bed linens were the touch of Anne's smooth skin pressing eagerly against his yearning body.

Gently pushing open the music room door a crack, Edward peeped cautiously inside. Anne was performing on the virginals for a small audience mostly made up of Court musicians. She played exquisitely. A handsome young admirer stood attentively at her side, waiting to turn the pages of music.

Suddenly, Anne looked up from her score and favored the room with a brief, radiant smile. Edward's heart was racked with urgent desires. He longed to fling open the door and rush to Anne's side.

The Earl reached for the doorknob and then hesitated, frozen by fear. His knuckles whitened as they squeezed the handle. Edward realized that he couldn't venture even a single step inside the room without being betrayed by his heart's frenzied poundings. He could only stand, hidden by the door, spying tenderly on his newfound love.

-:-:-

The setting sunlight slanted through open windows, throwing Edward's pacing shadow against oak-paneled walls and intricate tapestries. His rooms were located at the Savoy, a faded, old castle on the Strand. They consisted of two good-sized bedchambers, an impressive dining room and a large study. Each room was decorated with carpets, solid furniture and gilt candlesticks.

Tiring of his restless pacing, Edward threw himself across the bed, a bottle of wine within easy reach. For the thousandth time, he contemplated fate's newest irony. On the exact same day that Twelfth Night had won him the Queen's favor, he had lost his heart to a maid of honor.

Every courtier knew that dabbling with Elizabeth's maids was the fastest way to arouse the royal rage. Passionate thoughts about any maid of honor, never mind the youngest arrival, were the very height of folly. For Edward, as the newest favorite, such musings were nothing less than social suicide. Published abroad, they would topple his career at Court just as it was beginning.

Elizabeth was an extremely possessive woman, highly intolerant of romances inside her Court. Edward had seen her so carried away by rage that she had struck errant lovers with her own royal hands. A lengthy stay in the Tower was mandatory for any person of rank who dared to marry without first seeking Elizabeth's permission.

It was, of course, no great wonder that Henry VIII's daughter loathed romances in her maids. After all the Virgin Queen must be surrounded by virgins. Court romances might become less dangerous if she could be persuaded to marry, but Edward knew that Elizabeth would never take a husband. Wedlock would make her a mere queen, while now she reigned supreme as both king and queen.

An elderly courtier had once told him that prudent single noblemen remained celibate while at Court, or if that was impossible, sought out married women who wouldn't try to tie them down in marriage as maidens or widows would. Edward had found this amusing at the time, but now he also saw the wisdom of such advice.

Clambering off the bed, he walked into his study, carrying the wine bottle. Picking up a pen, the Earl resolved to forget his foolish infatuation. He told himself that his priorities lay not in a new love affair, but in penning more entertainments for Elizabeth.

Edward set pen to paper but, for once, the words denied him. It was all very well for a white-haired courtier to urge celibacy but Edward was still relatively young and possessed of an extremely fertile imagination.

Even now, as he sat at his desk, face furrowed, pen to lips, his reveries kept drifting back to Anne. They gave him no mercy. Images of her raced through his thoughts without respite. He recalled how she sat at the virginals; her talented fingers caressing the keys; the way she looked up from the musical score, smiling demurely.

Pushing all thoughts of Anne from his mind proved impossible. After an hour or so of trying, Edward resolved to break free of her spell by concentrating on someone who aroused only contempt in him: Burghley.

Soon the Earl was looking down at four lines he'd penned:

"The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is only fit for treasons, plotting and spoils,

The motions of his spirit are dull as night."

It was a serviceable enough sentiment but it did little to distract him from thoughts of Anne. Could he find solace in writing about this new yearning? Setting the page aside, Edward dipped his pen, turned to a clean sheet of paper and tried for something a little more romantic.

Hours later, despite scratching the pen over page after page, all his work had been tossed aside. Nothing his quill crafted could match the passions Anne aroused in him.

Tossing the pen aside, Edward slammed his palms down on the table. Leaping up, he stalked the carpet in agitated frustration. What was it about her that stirred him so? If he could only discover that, then he'd be better able to resist her. Like many of the thoughts that occur to men in the early morning hours, this idea had immediate appeal.

Abruptly, not knowing beforehand that he'd do it, Edward summoned a groom. Soon he was astride his favorite horse, cantering over to Whitehall. It wasn't difficult for Elizabeth's favorite to enter the palace late at night. He hurried down empty corridors towards the sleeping quarters. Finally, Edward stood outside Anne's bedchamber.

Suddenly, the Earl felt timid and flustered. Taking a firm hold on all his courage, he eased open the door and slipped quietly inside Anne's dark bedchamber.

His heart pounding, Edward crept on tiptoe towards her sleeping form. What if she should wake? What if he should be discovered? The consequences were unthinkable, but he couldn't stop himself. Edward was pulled towards her. As he drew near, his entire body began to tremble with repressed excitement.

He debated turning back at every step but then he saw her sleeping face and, suddenly, all the risks seemed worthwhile. Anne was lying peacefully with her head turned towards the open window. Soft moonlight revealed the young maid's exquisite features, framed by a white lace pillow. Fragrant breezes drifted in from the garden, gently ruffling her long black hair.

Anne's generous lips were slightly parted and as she exhaled they made the faintest cooing sound. Hardly daring to breathe, Edward bent close to this perfection. Her face filled his eager, covetous vision. The maid's flawless skin glowed with a taut, silky-smooth sheen. Edward found himself mesmerized by the minuscule hairs that clung to her like golden fur begging for his touch.

The Earl stayed close to Anne for several minutes, intent on memorizing every detail of her. Then with a gentle sigh, he turned and stole out of the bedchamber.

Edward rode away from Whitehall with his head tilted back, admiring the innumerable stars. The Earl's mind was calm, his thoughts untroubled. He had decided to court and win Anne Vavasor. A sweet sonnet took shape, soaring in flowing rhythms across the sparkling night sky.

-:-:-

The following evening, Anne entered her bedchamber dressed for sleep. As the maid climbed into bed, she found a sheet of paper, neatly folded and discreetly sealed, lying on her pillow next to a single red rose.

Unsealing the poem, Anne began to read,

"How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

The wiry harmony that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those keys that nimble leap

To kiss the tender fingers of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips

Over whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.

Since saucy keys so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss."

Carefully folding the sheet of paper, Anne repeated part of the last line softly to herself, Thy lips to kiss.

Then, leaning forward with a sudden, gleeful giggle, she blew out the candles, plunging her room into darkness.

1651

Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am.

The old woman looked over at Ben, surprised by his interruption, Yes?

I'm very sorry, Ma'am...

What is it?

Well, Ma'am, beggin' your pardon, Ma'am, but I ran all the way from Cripplegate, Ma'am and I have to... Ben stood up, his face twisted into a pained expression. He crossed his legs. You know...

Oh very well. But be quick about it or your master will hear ill of you.

Thank you, Ma'am, said Ben, rushing for the door.

Gnarled hands toyed with the book in her lap, but the old woman was in no mood to read. Now that she had begun Edward's story, she was amazed at how vivid her recollections were. It was so easy to conjure up the past. The memories were all there, waiting for her. Perhaps it might be better if they weren't. Hadn't she been made old by her secrets? Had not carrying them withered her before her time?

Ben hurried back into the room, resumed his seat and picked up the pen. He glanced at the old woman and was once again astonished at how old and white she looked. One thing was sure; the old crow had never worked a day outdoors in her life. What was she saying?

We were speaking of?

Ben looked down at his pages. Err...poems, Ma'am.

"Ah yes. Poems. Well, now that Edward's sonnet had been successfully delivered, he launched his campaign in earnest. The utmost discretion was essential. They called Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, you know.

"For once, Edward decided on a prudent course. Next day, as he feasted with the Queen, the Earl kept a goodly distance from Anne. He deliberately refrained from even looking in her direction, lest an adoring glance should betray his intentions.

"That evening, the entire Court attended a masked ball. Attired in a lavish costume, his face hidden behind a colorful mask, Edward managed to secure a single dance with the Court's newest, and most popular, maid. As they whirled around together amidst swirling couples, he gallantly complimented her on her skill at the virginals. She replied with praise for his players and a smile, which dazzled him.

"Before Edward once again trusted himself to speak, Anne told him how much she had enjoyed reading his poem. 'I keep it under my pillow,' she whispered boldly as the music stopped. With another blinding smile and a demure curtsey, she skipped away to her next partner, leaving Edward lonelier than he had felt in a very long time.

Next day, encouraged by the warm reception his sonnet had received, Edward entered a backgammon tournament. Manipulating his games, he soon found himself matched against Anne. The Earl used their time together to persuade the maid to dine at his apartments in the Savoy.

CASTLE HEDINGHAM

On the appointed evening Edward and Anne sat at a long table, beneath a large portrait of Edward's father, John. The sixteenth Earl of Oxford was portrayed standing proudly in front of his ancestral home, Castle Hedingham in Essex.

Edward kept the painting as a reminder of both his father and his first home. The young Earl's earliest memories revolved around golden summer days spent roaming through Essex's green woodlands or galloping wildly across open fields with his father.

Edward had been born inside the ancient castle in 1550. He had grown up there, surrounded by dogs, cats and love. Edward's mother, Margery, was a dark-haired beauty, who had married John after his first wife died during childbirth.

As serving men placed dishes of steaming chicken in front of them, Edward found himself telling Anne about his father. For my seventh birthday, he gave me a peregrine falcon, helped me train it to hunt down pigeons.

Did he also teach you the sword and lance? Anne asked.

Daily. We spent hours together in mock combat. I also practiced with his knights whenever I could. I dreamed of being as good as he was. His words and training kept me alive when I went to fight in Scotland. The man's better never drew breath.

What happened to him?

He died while I was still young... Edward's voice trailed away as he touched a napkin to his lips. It was time to change the subject. Do you know? My grandfather, the fifteenth Earl, was the first lord to support his own company of players. Father kept them going... Edward's voice trailed away again. So much for changing the subject, he thought.

Sensing his unease, Anne spoke up, Did you act with them?

Edward brightened. Oh yes. Often. Making entrances, delivering lines.

You have a talent for the stage?

Perhaps, Edward replied. All I know is that I was never happier than when treading those old boards at Hedingham. He drained his wineglass.

Anne looked up at the painting. Castle Hedingham's a goodly size.

Yes. Its walls have laughed many a siege to scorn.

When was it built?

The keep was built atop a Saxon fort my ancestor, Aubrey, captured 500 years ago. It sits on a steep hill which completely dominates the surrounding countryside.

There must be a wonderful view from the battlements.

Oh yes, you can see as far as the next county.

Indeed. I'd like to visit sometime...

I never venture near Castle Hedingham, Edward interrupted.

Why not? Anne asked, surprised.

That's enough about me, he said, tearing a drumstick off his chicken. What about your parents?

They both died of the Black Death.

It was Edward's turn to be surprised. I'm sorry, Anne.

I was only 6 at the time.

You don't remember them?

I remember everything.

Tell me.

Anne shrugged. I didn't know anything was wrong until mother's lips turned black. Then my nanny and all the servants fled. The next day, father also fell ill. By now, mother's skin was completely black. Pains and fever raged through her. Within 2 days she was dead. It was a blessed relief.

Of course, Edward muttered sympathetically.

Six hours later, my father breathed his last. That night the death wagon rumbled up to our house. I remember the huge clusters of purifying herbs hanging from the cart men's necks. Their long-handled iron tongs dragged the bodies from the house and loaded them onto the wagon. Then I was alone in the house. Somehow, I escaped infection... Anne fell silent.

You were fortunate. Back then the bubonic plague was sending thousands to the fires every week.

Yes, Anne nodded. "My uncle arrived from the country and took me to St. Peter's. I was raised