I Henry IV, 2.2.
Marked with flecks of summer sun, Kit ran down the tanbark track — the light shifting as the breeze moved through the oak canopy. He tried to dance, jumping and turning as he hurried behind the other boys, pan-pipes in one hand, a branch of sweet-bay in the other. The boys were running dressed only in laurel wreaths, now slanted over their foreheads and eyes — and in soft boots, provided by John Marley and made to look like goats’ feet. Kit wore a pair with a brace. The pages were being fauns in a wispy Churchyard production decorating a Mayfield garden party.
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| Christopher Marlowe |
After touring the green and darting through the park, pausing here and there for syrinxical harmony, the band huddled in a spinney and slipped into tabards before moving to a walnut tree at the bottom of the garden. There they picked up sophisticated instruments and began to play background for a midday meal being served at long linen-covered tables set on the grass. The Greshams’ hungry guests barely noticed the young performers.
Kit could hear the stylish company laughing, and bits of talk reached him as the musical ensemble paused between numbers:
"Oh, you mean that evening in May! Ned truly went too far!"
"Shocking!! His men crawled right out of the ditch!"
"Monstrous!"
"Attacked the couriers — snatched their bags…."
With drum and bass, Kit was the drone. The musicians began a new piece, so he couldn’t hear any more, but that fantastic episode, and the days that led up to it, took possession of his mind:
Kit's dad Roger Manwood had come riding into Mayfield early in May to talk to Sir Thomas, and with him came friends — middle-aged John Wilkins and his son Dane. They said they planned to head north the next day, toward the Wilkins place in the Thames marsh, and Roger on his black stallion was leading a sorrel gelding that he said was Kit’s to ride, if Gresham would give the boy a week off. Kit could stay at Roger’s house near Shorne — they'd do some gardening and explore the creeks in a boat Manwood kept near Higham.
Gresham said yes, and the party set off through the forest towards Tunbridge. The next day they rode north past blooming orchards, and in late afternoon they went by Cobham Park, ambled down the wooded hill from Shorne and crossed the Dover Road to head east along an oozy little causeway into the marsh. At the signpost, "Hoo St.Warberg — Stoke," the riders turned toward Stoke.
The sun, a chrome yellow disc, was settling in brown mist beyond Gravesend — Kit turned in his saddle to watch it go — and there on the northwest horizon, beyond a stretch of wind-bent grass, he saw the towers of a castle, its rough stone courses glistening in the fading light. A motionless heron kept watch on top of the lowest wall.
Roger noticed Kit’s surprise. "That’s Cooling, Kit." Something in Manwood’s tone made Kit look up at his father’s stubbled face. "A brave man lived there, more’n a hundred and a half ago."
"A fat man, my dad says he was," laughed Dane Wilkins. "He must have rendered a deal o’ grease when they roasted him!"
"Roasted him! Why?" said Kit.
"He had an appetite for change," said Roger. "You could read about it in a book I have. He thought ministers should give and share, like St. Francis and Jesus, and he thought war was murder of the poor for profit of the rich. He said problems that could be solved by the law of the land should be so decided — not by a prelate, or a foreign power…"
"Like the pope!" Dane interjected. A long-limbed youth, he sat his horse easily, his fair hair glinting in the evening glow. Smelling home, his horse and John’s broke into a trot.
"The man was a lollard, Kit," said the elder Wilkins. "Named John Oldcastle. Born on the edge o’ Wales. A bit o’ ’ebrew in him. One of us, one of us, eh, lad?"
"Who killed him?"
"His very friend, Henry the Fifth! But only after John moved here and preached in churches round about — Halstow, Hoo, Chalk — the ones that belonged to his Cobham wife. And remember, he hated war — and King Henry liked it fine. And like Roger says, the man was for talking things over before judgement — judgement by common law in a secular case or by elders in a church case — not by some tyrant."
"Henry the Fifth was a tyrant?"
"He was afraid, Kit," said Roger. "Kings fear conferences that might stretch the freedom of their subjects."
"But you don’t, sir?"
Roger laughed. "Life’s all a stretching — testing. When Sir Thomas holds discussions at his dinner-table, and the guests repay him with a chiddush, that’s stretching to a new thought — and from that, new roads reach out to be travelled."
The riders had come to the end of their road for that day. Kit had expected to see a sort of fish-camp cottage, but ahead was a tall manor house, wind-stressed, lonely, sturdily facing the dark waters of a wide creek that Dane called the Yantlet Channel.
Leaving their horses with the stablemen, the travellers entered a firelit, lamplit hall to be welcomed by Dane’s young mother Liza, who urged them to come soon to supper — a rich chowder of mixed sea-creatures served from a great silver tureen.
At the close of the meal the family sang a hymn. A flute and little drums, played by children hidden on a balcony, accompanied the words:
And angels attending thee, one on each side,
Now come betimes in pure homes to abide:
In homes of the faithful that shine in their bliss,
Like souls from a world much better than this!
One angel, the good one, is at thy right hand;
At the left doth the other, the bad angel stand,
Compelled ’gainst his will to say amen and bless
With the blessings he hears the good angel express.
Kit blushed. He thought of his tutor at Gresham’s who scolded when Kit wrote with his left hand — the bad one, the teacher said.
After supper John, Roger, Dane and Kit, in oilskins and boots, trudged through the dark with the men of the manor to help lade some lighters at the flooded creekside. Using rope harnesses, the men carefully backpacked wooden kegs from a warehouse that stood on a rise.
"Keep ’em dry!" Roger called out. He and John supervised, and Kit stayed close to his father, listening as Roger joked about their being "squires of the night’s body" and "minions of the mistress of the moon."
That meant the goddess Diana, Kit knew — a name for the queen. So this was her job! When John Wilkins spoke of Narva, Kit knew for sure: the cargo must be powder to go with the guns laded at Mayfield last week, destined for Ivan, the Muscovite ruler.
John, a heavily-built white-haired man, stood in the long wet grass, laughed a deep rumble and said ruefully, "Ever think, Roger, that we’re serving the angel on our left hand — the one we sang about at supper? That Sir Thomas is a death-merchant, and the queen another?"
"Too often," said Manwood. "But credit the lady; she plans to her purpose. She looks out for England like a mother for her child."
"A virgin mother." John leaned over and ran his fingers through his mop of rimey hair, wringing out salty drops of dew. "She looks to nourish England and her friends at home, so she sells to crazy Ivan — and he’ll threaten her allies abroad. Is she clever? I call it betrayal — of Swedish John, Danish Frederick, the protestant princes. A woman’s trick!"
Kit could just make out Roger’s grin in the dark. "Men are all honest, of course! By the Lord, that left-handed angel never quits! Best is, give the right one a chance once in a while."
The two sinners fell silent, their eyes on the file of bearers — Dane among them now — with barrels on their backs, struggling down the spongy path to the dock and up the gangplank onto the gently rocking, lantern-lit craft.
Finally Roger spoke again: "If she — if we — be mindful — dance on Lady Fortune’s rolling globe — the damage we cause will happen somewhere else. Somewhere else. Bread on the waters — a man has to live."
Back at the house Mistress Liza gave Roger clean sheets, and he and Kit climbed the stairs to sleep a few hours in the carved old dower bed their hostess had brought with her from her father’s home at All-hallows.
Dawn came soon, and Kit sat up, sore from the long ride and the damp night watch. Roger slept, a coif-like nightcap covering the places where his ears ought to be, a gentle smile around his mouth. He didn’t look wicked, thought Kit, but he was. And he’d done that awful thing to Kate. How could he be forgiven? Still, Grandsire Arthur and Kit himself had worked on a smuggling coaster. Confused, Kit rose and dressed.
Manwood and son soon set off on the short ride across the flats towards Shorne and Roger’s own house. Seagulls cried and turned above their heads, and the horses kept a leisurely gait — a Canterbury gallop, Roger called it. As they rode, Roger explained that the Wilkins family owned much of the land they could see from here.
They neared the Dover Road, slowed to a trot, and Roger pointed out turrets above trees to the southeast.
"The Lord Thomas Cromwell lived there, years ago. A hard man. He had to find his own way up from nowhere — a blacksmith’s son."
Kit told his dad he’d been framing a play about Cromwell, to be performed, perhaps, at Gresham’s place. Could they ride over and look around?
"Not today. Let’s get home."
Manwood’s house — a halfway place on a journey from Canterbury to London — stood high and dry on Gad’s Hill, south of the Dover-London road, just east of Shorne Woods. Young cedars grew clustered below its garden, and its windows gave a view north to the sweep of sedgy marsh, south to the soft greens of Cobham Park, and blackbirds preened on the branches of an elm in the stableyard. Kit loved everything he saw. He met Roger’s burly chamberlain Jack, who ate at table with them, offering local news. Oh, yes, Jack said, there was work a-plenty in the garden.
But the next days Roger and Kit spent sailing and rowing, exploring the creek-cracked marshes — looking, Roger said, for bits of available meadowland that might prove suitable property for Captain Fineaux, who was wanting a landing in these parts. Kit felt a pang of nostalgia for Fineaux’s Lucie and Grandsire Arthur.
Roger’s trim cockboat enchanted Kit. They ventured into the Thames on an incoming tide and were swept up past Gravesend and Northfleet to a spot where a village peeked over a hill south of the river.
"Stone," said Roger. "Behind there is the place where the Kentishmen came to deal with William the Conqueror. You know that story? Let's pull for shore, Kit; the tide will soon turn. We can’t go farther."
Near Hythe they found a quiet backwater, and Roger tipped his hat to shade his great nose and told the old tale. "Duke William was ready to parley with the Kentish leaders, but on the appointed day the whole Kentish army came along, each man carrying a branch or a young tree in front of himself, so it looked like a great leafy forest moving."
"A Manwood!" laughed Kit.
"Right! When they reached the Duke’s place they dropped the greenery and showed their swords, drawn and flashing, ready for fight. The story goes, they looked so scary he granted them continuance of their ancient rights, then and there." Roger scratched his cheek and grinned. "But my grandsire told me, truly they had to give Dover Castle to William as a present before he’d agree to anything."
"Must have been a sight though — all those trees walking."
Back at the house a letter was waiting for Roger. Kit heard him talking to Jack about Master Walsingham, and the next day Manwood rode up to the city with Dane.
Left at the house, Kit cheerfully weeded knotgrass with a sharp coulter, cut back woodbine from the terrace and set garlic bulbs among the rosebushes, to make the blooms smell sweeter.
Roger was gone several days. Pretending to be grown up, Kit sat at Manwood’s big desk and took notes from what looked to be an important book: John Fortescue’s De Laudibus Legem Angliae. Then Kit worked on the play about Thomas Cromwell he’d promised to show to Churchyard, its scenes fashioned from stories Sir Thomas had told.
One day Kit climbed on the leads of the roof, hoping for a view of Cromwell’s old house. Jack called him down, but not before the boy saw St. Paul’s Cathedral far away in London, and closer, Oldcastle’s stone towers, and yes, Cromwell’s Aeslingham — places Kit was burning to write about. He felt privileged — this was living!
On May 21st Roger rode into the stableyard with Dane and two splendidly dressed young gentlemen. One was Lord Ned! His companion, a Frenchman named Denys, seemed to be trying to learn the English tongue.
Kit heard Roger talking to Jack: Walsingham had asked Roger to guard the earl for a while, as he was in an emotional state which Walsingham feared might subside into melancholy or mount into a kind of fury — Oxford was not well. He’d been trying to help with some of the queen’s financial affairs, and for several days he and Manwood got along fine, but yesterday, with Denys, and Dane as Manwood’s surrogate, the earl had gone to the lodgings of two secret service workers who were preparing to move bags of gold coin from the Tower mint to the Clerk of the Cheque at Upnor Castle, north of Rochester. Oxford had insisted, rightly, Roger thought, that such a large transfer should have a guard of outriders, and Oxford had offered to supply the men, but the agents said no.
One of them was John Wotton, whose father had moved royal treasure with no loss, and John was sure he could do it with his partner William Faunt. Angered, the earl blew the discussion into a shouting match, and at the end there were blows. 1
Oxford then went to Walsingham's office, saying he was going to teach those fools a lesson — that it would be a great espieglerie (a word contributed by Denys) to waylay the agents, steal the gold and carry it himself to Upnor.
Roger shrugged as he reported this, and Jack whistled.
"So," Manwood said, "Walsingham wants me to stay close and keep watch. The earl’s determined to play this trick; he’s set a rider to watch the couriers, and when they stop to rest, his man will hurry here to tell us when they’ll be passing our lane. Not till after dark, I reckon, so we’ll have time for beef and beer, but on the run, Jack. Will you come along?"
"Sir! I’d rather not!"
"I’ll need help. Dane’s going."
There was a clatter in the yard, where Ned and Denys were selecting fresh horses for the ride with the treasure to Rochester. Roger went out to talk to the stablemaster, and Kit followed.
"You’ll stay home, Kit," said Roger. "You’re too young for this prank, ‘n’ I’m too old! But I promised Walsingham I wouldn’t let the man go off without me. He could get shot. One thing I know — I’ll not let those treasury-men recognize me!"
Ned had picked Frescobaldi for his own mount and was leading out a gelding for Denys. The hostlers looked to Roger — should the horses be saddled?
"Yes, lads, we’re going down the hill tonight. The earl has planned a merry jest."
At that moment a tired man on a lathered horse turned in through the vine-covered yard-gate and called out as he swung from his saddle: "M’lord! They stopped at Dartford at the inn, and they’ll take the road again, soon’s they’ve ate!"
The earl rubbed his hands together. "Good man, Hannam!" He turned to the stablemaster: "Ropes! We’ll need ropes to tie the varlets!"
He fished inside his black-and white embroidered doublet, produced a fistful of domino masks and began distributing them feverishly. "Case yourselves — case yourselves in these, before we start down."
"Now, wait a bit," said Roger slowly. "We have some time, an hour at least. Time to eat, have a glass of wine…"
The earl interrupted, saying he’d dispatched a man from town this morning to order supper for all at the Blue Boar at Rochester, late tonight.
"Come to the kitchen anyway," Roger said. "We can’t do larceny on empty stomachs."
But as soon as they entered the house Roger left the others, saying he’d be back directly. They heard him in the parlor, then climbing the stairs.
The conspirators ate standing up — slices of beef, pieces of chicken, sherry from the decanter. Ned took a good deal of that — he was finishing it, in fact, when Roger returned to the kitchen door, transformed.
No treasury-courier could see in this highwayman any resemblance to Judge Manwood: he’d borrowed a doublet and trousers from big Jack’s wardrobe and stuffed them with pillows from the parlor and pillows from upstairs. He wore a bent-brimmed hat and a kerchief tied over his nose, mouth and jutting chin. One of the earl’s little masks finished the disguise, but walking was hard, for he wore a pair of Jack’s big boots.
Kit doubled up laughing, and though Ned was close to frantic he relaxed long enough to smile at the metamorphosis. Dane gave Manwood a helping hand. "Who are ye? Oldcastle’s ghost? How you going to get on a horse, sir?"
"A little help from my friends…"
Time to go. It was getting dark. Kit begged to be included.
"Certainement! Sans aucun doute! said Ned, drunk from too much sherry and excitement. "Can’t leave out the best actor! Sailor boy from the viscount's masque!
Roger, distracted, reluctant to contradict this volatile secret prince, didn’t say no. "Saddle Kit’s sorrel," he called out, and in a lower voice, "Stick by him, Jack! There’ll be danger. Idiotic trick!"
A few minutes later, seven masked robbers rode down the hill. Fighting to check Frescobaldi, Ned took the lead, Kit rode knee to knee beside him on his sorrel, and big Jack was right behind. Then came Ned’s man Hannam on a fresh mount, alongside Ned’s now thoroughly frightened friend Denys. Riding tail was the gross little man in the big-brimmed hat, his barely visible eyes crinkled in distaste, puffy paunch and buttocks stuffed between pommel and cantle.
A pale moon appeared among the clouds, and the fat man tried to make his jest about being a minion of Diana, but everyone was too keyed up to laugh.
They reached the highway. Ahead of the quarry? No doubt about it, Hannam assured them.
On one side of the road ran a deep ditch, along the other grew a tall hedge, and behind it they tied the horses while Roger, after being set afoot, reconnoitered the road, selecting a spot where it descended sharply and started to curve south.
Ned strode to the middle of the highway and glanced up the hill.
"Now, fellows," he said, his manner suddenly cool and directorial, "You four" — he looked at Roger, Hannam, Dane and Denys — "will front them as they come. No matter they be mounted; ditch and hedge will give them nowhere to go, and if they wheel and run back, why, the boy and I and Jack here will be waiting on the other side o’ the ridge to stop ’em! So hide in the ditch here, till they come close."
Roger hesitated. "I’d do better a’horseback. Climb out of that sewer? I’m forty-eight years old — what am I doing here?"
"Helping your friend!" said Ned emotionally, and then in a low voice, "That’s what Walsingham told you to do, isn’t it?"
In the near dark, Kit thought he detected a malicious smile under the earl’s moustache.
Leaving his four picked men to settle into the ditch clutching their coils of rope and their hooded lanterns, Ned himself ducked through the shrubbery to take a bundle from his saddle, and then, followed by Kit and Jack, he hiked over the hill toward Dartford — toward the enemy. 2
Under the walnut tree at the Mayfield garden party, Kit was remembering. He played the drone on and on, behind the recorders, using his brain to relive the twenty-first of May. The long wait with Ned and Jack in the ditch full of watercress, on the westerly side of the rise. No sound but the song of peepers in the woods and the snuffle of restless horses ahead, tied back of the bushes.
Ned unfolded his package and produced buckram tabards which they all put on. "To hide our clothes," he said. He also made Kit and Jack tie kerchiefs over their noses and mouths as further disguise — explaining, unable to keep from laughing, that they were going to let Roger and the three others take the gold, and then Ned, Kit and Jack would dash down the hill — and rob the robbers!
"We’ll take the bags of gold and then sneak around and let their horses loose, and they may hunt for ’em while we ride off to the inn at Rochester with the money! A great boutade!"
Kit was intrigued, but Jack complained and fell silent only when hoofbeats were heard. Four riders approached, then passed, going up the hill at a steady running-walk.
" ‘Tis they!" whispered Ned. "Wotton, Faunt, and two pages!"
For a moment the four shadows were silhouetted on top of the rise, then disappeared. A few seconds passed, and Kit heard his father’s deep voice: "Stand, varlets! And deliver!"
Other voices: "Jeesus bless us!"
"Get away from my horse!"
"No tricks now!"
A frightened whinney and sounds of horses struggling. Roger: "Get the bags, the bags, before they run!"
Other voices: "Fleece ’em!"
"Don’t start a fight. Ye’ll be hurt, man!"
"Unbuckle it, you fool!"
"Fuck!"
"Down — down with ye — all of ye!"
"I’ve a dag, here!"
"We have to live, too!"
"More rope!"
"Ye'll be hanged!"
"Fuck!"
When the noise on the road subsided, Ned whispered, "Now we go down and take their booty, lads, and when you have it in hand — remember, it’s heavy — duck through the hedge to our horses, each to mount his own. I’ll untie the other four — and we’ll off, to Rochester!
"That’s cruelty, m’lord!" said Jack boldly.
Ned hissed, " ‘Tis only a jest, and a good ’un, Jack." He drew himself up to his full height, took a deep breath, unsheathed his sword and ran up the hill.
Kit and Jack had to follow.
From the ridge Kit saw the scene below: Dane held a lantern for Hannam, who’d been checking the bonds of the writhing treasury-men and their terrified boys, all lying tied at roadside. Their horses had fled in panic. Roger in his fat-suit knelt, grotesque, in the middle of the highway. He and Denys were examining the treasury-bags.
Ned rushed toward them, crying "Stand!" His jewelled sword sparked in the lantern light. "You owe me your money, villains, or your lives!"
For a second Roger simply stared at the three buckram-clad apparitions. Then he struggled to his big-booted feet. "Put away thy blade, then. Take it, if ye must!"
He and Denys draped a pair of the leather bags over Ned’s thin shoulder. As he lifted the other brace of wallets, Roger’s eyes met Jack’s.
Ned was shouting in theatrical tones, "Don’t move, you rogues, or you’re dead!" and he scrambled through the hole in the hedge.
On the road Kit waited with Jack, who said softly to Roger, "I’ll see it safe, sir."
"Aye, aye, sir!" said Kit hoarsely, and the two turned and followed the earl.
Behind the bushes, in the dark, the money bags were strapped to Jack’s saddle, and Ned’s, while Ned fumbled from horse to horse, untying them. At last, astride the black stallion, he pushed along behind the foliage to the next opening, crashed onto the road and lit off toward the east at a run, followed by Jack and Kit in disarray. Off-balance, Kit clung with fingers and teeth to his sorrel’s mane. He prayed to stay aboard.
The riders thundered through the deserted streets of Frindsbury and Strood before slowing to a lope, then a trot. Ned turned in his saddle and spoke to his henchmen: "Almost there! We can eat, sleep a bit" — he smiled at Kit — "and on, to the castle in the morning!"
They clattered over Rochester Bridge and soon turned off the cobbled high onto an unpaved lane leading toward the waterfront. Kit felt uneasy — here in this alley they could meet real robbers and lose the queen’s gold forever.
Ahead was black water lapping at a wharf, and the tired party turned into a paved courtyard between a wareshed and an inn. A lighted lantern hung beside the tavern-entrance.
The stable was locked. All dismounted — and Kit suddenly slumped exhausted onto the flagstones.
Ned, after arousing the stableboys, began beating on the door of the tavern.
In the lantern light, Kit could see a wooden sign cut in the outline of a boar’s head, embellished with a toothy porcine portrait in blue paint, swinging in the brackish breeze.
A light appeared in a second story window. It opened, and the head of a woman came into view. Ned called up, "You’ve forgotten us! Au secours!"
"No Oscar here!" replied the head in the window. "Go sleep it off somewheres else — we’re closed for the night."
"Come down, mistress, for the Lord Edward — supper for the earl of Oxford — places reserved!"
"Oh my God!" said the woman, and slammed the window.
The door soon opened. Kit recalled the lighting of lamps, candles and fires — the booty stashed behind a hearth-side settle — Ned, sprawled at table, pouring sack into a big cup and telling Kit to drink up. Pork-pudding was heated in its pot and served by a sleepy waiter.
Ned, jubilant, could hardly wait for Roger and the others to appear: "Oh, they’ll be mortified to think they lost the gold to those highwaymen! And you’ll see — they’ll tell some fool story about how brave they were — how hard they fought — how many heads they cracked! And only then, we’ll show them the gold and say, ‘the trick’s on you!’ "
An hour later the bedraggled victims of Ned’s jest did arrive — they’d found their horses after a long scramble in moon-down dark. Ned taunted Roger because he still wore his stuffed disguise.
"You’ve no idear how costly good down pillows can be, lad," Roger sighed, wearily settling himself next to the fire. "And two of ’em have the Manwood arms embroidered on the front, by Doll! I’m not about to leave ’em by the wayside!"
"As you left the gold, I’ll be bound! Where’s the treasure, men? We thought you’d have it!"
"Oh, we took it for you, Ned, truly we did!" Roger squinted a look at Kit that froze him, then smiled a little. "We took it, and then a horde of evil-smelling banditti — ah — voleurs, that is — came down on us. Oh, we fought — didn’t we, men?"
A concordant chorus rose from his fellows, who’d begun to eat supper. Roger went on: "It was no use. The filthy brutes were too many for us."
Ned leapt up, laughing, and dragged the treasure-bags from their hiding-place. "Aha! Aha! I give you all the lie! It was we who took the gold away from you — two men and a boy, against four grown soldiers! But now all’s well — you never guessed — you never knew."
Manwood bristled. "By the Lord I knew! From the first! Your jewelled sword — your dance down the hill! The clincher was your speech: ‘you owe me money, villains, or your lives!’ Spoken like a very king, Ned," said Roger softly, looking into the fire. "Was it for me to attack your mother’s son? I let the treasury-men go, m’lord. They went scurrying off towards Frindsbury — hell to pay in the morning."
Manwood turned to Kit. "You’re shaking, boy! Lie down. Here, cover up."
Kit lay on the hearth-bench under Roger’s cloak and fell asleep listening to bicker and banter.
"I hate it!" said Roger.
"So why did you let it happen, old man, if you thought it was wrong?"
Suddenly Kit’s recollections were shattered; startled by a crescendo behind him he woke, back at the Mayfield garden party. The buzz of music was ending in a roll and a crash — rain had begun to fall, and guests and musicians scattered for shelter.
That night, in the chamber he shared with two other pages, Kit lay sleepless, his mind scrubbing back to the kaleidoscopic adventure. It remained a pivotal experience for him. For years he’d re-absorb it, seeing its principal movers in different lights — through scrims of elation and laughter, disgust and scorn, with added filters of comprehension, disillusion, love. On that August night at Mayfield he felt a wrenching sort of pity for the earl, a grudging admiration for his dad. They were finding places in his heart.
1. The Gad’s Hill Robbery. In Seymour Pitcher. The Case for Shakespeare’s Authorship of The Famous Victories. London: Alvin Redman, 1961, p. 73, the letter sent by William Faunt and John Wotton to Burghley in May 1573 (State Papers Dom. Eliz 91, #36) is described. According to this complaint, on 20 May 1573 Faunt and Wotton were attacked "at their lodgings in London…by three of my Lord Oxford’s men," and the next day this was repeated as the two couriers were "riding peaceably by the highway from Gravesend to Rochester" and "with full intent to murder us." Lord Oxford’s men were identified in the letter as Dane Wilkins, John Hannam and Denys the Frenchman. Faunt and Wotton asked Burghley for some redress. Back
2. Years later, when Kit dramatized the story in I Henry IV, he ran it backwards – as if the gold were being moved from east to west instead of the other way – and as if the perverse practical jest were indeed a triumph for the wild prince instead of a dangerous trick. If all is backwards, then Falstaff (Roger), becomes the foolish butt of the joke, and the vindictive prince becomes the clever shining star; and so it remains, for e-ver, as Kit puns with Ned's name. Back
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