The Sonnets. Warwick Collins

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       Chapter 8

      BUT OUR RELATIONS WERE SUCH that my patron was apt to remind me of what I should be, too. One day while out riding, he said, ‘I should like to show you at first hand how my Lord Burghley attempts to influence me. Two years ago, when I was merely seventeen years, my guardian engaged one of his secretaries, a Master John Clapham, to write a poem in Latin, dedicated to me, called Narcissus.’

      ‘A poem called Narcissus?’ I was incredulous, I must admit. Rumours had moved around him, suggesting vanity, but here was a source of its direct propagation by an interested party. Even then, I could not help but smile. I had a vision of some ambitious young secretary, at the behest of his master, scratching out a poem in orotund Latin, addressed to a youth who would not obey the dictums of his enraged protector.

      From the depths of his clothes my patron withdrew a large, portentous document that seemed almost like a will or testament. He said, ‘I have brought it for you to consider. An entire poem which urges me, in formal Latin, to cease from my vain preoccupations with myself. Its clear implication is that I should marry the young woman who waits so patiently and unhappily for me.’

      My consternation that such a poem had been written was due, in part at least, to my patron’s assertion that his guardian despised art. Perhaps I began to see a little more deeply into Lord Burghley’s soul. Art was permissible if it served a political purpose, and especially if it served his own. Setting these thoughts aside, I said, ‘The poem mentions you directly?’

      ‘No, not in so many words. It is dedicated to me, but it extemporises ad infinitum on a young man who might be thought to resemble me.’

      ‘Why did the poet – my Lord Burghley’s secretary – not have the courage of his convictions, and make you its direct subject?’

      He laughed. ‘For good reason. The poem is happy enough to omit certain details of my circumstances – that the marriage contract was signed when I was a child, before I had even met my intended, or that she is the granddaughter of my guardian, so that the person who will benefit from the arrangement is my Lord Burghley.’

      ‘I shall look forward to studying it,’ I said, accepting the proffered document from his hand. A question struck me. ‘Are there others such as you for whom Lord Burghley acts as guardian?’

      I witnessed a somewhat rueful smile. ‘It seems that, as a reward for his continuing labours for Her Majesty, for some twenty years my Lord Burghley has held the position of Master of the Court of Wards. All those infants and children who inherit large estates and who lose their father are placed in his care. It would seem to be a habit of my guardian to contract his wards to an approved marriage which benefits him. If they refuse, the marriage contract will place such a heavy fine upon them that their estate will pass to him or his chosen beneficiaries in perpetuity.’

      I had a vision of my Lord Burghley – industrious, cold, puritanical – exploiting the properties of small and defenceless children, offering them the choice of unhappiness in an arranged marriage – or, as an alternative, if they did not obey him, an impoverishment of their birthright.

      As though my patron understood the line and direction of my thought, he said, ‘My guardian has used his position to make himself one of the richest men in the land. Amongst his many properties, he has built a magnificent palace for himself at Theobalds, and another great house in Covent Garden.’

      We rode on in silence for a while. Mulling over my patron’s account of his arranged marriage, I became curious as to whether he and his betrothed had ever met.

      He smiled at my enquiry. ‘When I was old enough to consider more seriously the fate which had been arranged for me, I took it upon myself to travel to my betrothed’s parents’ house with the intention of meeting her, and making her acquaintance. Lord Burghley’s daughter Ann had married the Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere. My betrothed, Elizabeth de Vere, was the product of their marriage. Perhaps I was foolish in announcing my visit beforehand. My betrothed’s parents, when I entered their house, hid her from me. At first they told me she was unwell, and indisposed to a meeting. Perhaps they hoped that my patience would wear thin and I would СКАЧАТЬ