Anonymous Page #8

I know what you've done.

Your head should be cut off,

not his.

Then take it,

in our son's stead.

Neither they nor I

conspired against you.

Cecil alone was our aim.

The King of Spain, Mary,

four French kings, eight popes,

they all wanted me dead,

but here I am,

because of the Cecile,

my commoners.

We would have protected you.

You? My loyal earls? Hm.

I could only ever trust

the Cecile

because their wealth, their power,

their survival, all depended on me.

Me.

Let...

our son live.

Does...?

Does he know?

And if I give him to you...?

He will never learn of it

from me.

But, Edward?

None of your poems,

or your plays

will ever carry your name.

None.

Is she still refusing to sleep?

For three days now.

And her physicians?

They say she's dying...

Majesty?

I have brought you

a document to sign.

The Act of Succession.

I beseech you,

sign.

O God, bless this crown,

and sanctify

King James of Scotland,

now and forevermore

as King James the First of England,

Scotland, Wales and Ireland.

God save the king!

God save the king!

No, no, no, stop!

It's supposed to be

a bloody comedy.

You lot are about as funny

as the plague.

Will!

Will Shakespeare!

Hello, Ben.

A command performance

for our new king.

Fraud! Charlatan!

A counterfeiter of wit!

You came to me, Ben.

You came to me.

Will! You're nothing but a puppet!

Get out!

Stay out!

Master Jonson?

His lordship is asking for you.

Excuse me, my lady.

Thank you, doctor.

Jonson.

Come closer.

Did you know my family can trace

its peerage back further than

any other family in the kingdom?

We fought at Crecy,

at Bosworth Field, at Agincourt.

When I inherited my earldom,

I was one of the richest men

ever to breathe English air.

And at last breath,

I shall be one of the poorest.

Never a voice in government.

Never a sword raised

in glorious battle.

Words.

Merely words shall be

my sole legacy.

You alone watch my plays

and know them as mine.

When I hear the applause,

the cheering of the audience,

the hands clapping,

I know they are celebrating

another man.

But in that

cacophony of sounds,

I strained to hear two hands only.

Yours.

But hear them, I never did.

You have never told me...

Never...

told me what you thought

of my work.

I find

your words

the most

wondrous

heard on our stage.

On any stage.

Ever.

You

are the soul of the age.

Promise me, Jonson.

Promise you'll keep our secret safe,

that you won't expose Shakespeare.

My lord...

I've seen it in your face.

He vexes you.

How could he not?

But he is not your burden.

He is mine.

All my writings...

"W plays, my sonnets...

keep them safe.

Keep them from my family.

The Cecile.

Wait a few years

and then publish them.

My lord, I...

I am not worthy of this charge.

I betrayed you.

I told them of your...

I have made it my life's work to know

the character of men, Jonson.

I know you.

You may have betrayed me...

but you will never

betray my words.

What are those?

These are my...

My lady, your husband was-

Get out.

You, your friends,

your blasphemous theater

have brought ruin

and dishonor to this family.

Ruin?

Dishonor?

My lady,

you, your family, even I,

even Queen Elizabeth herself,

will be remembered solely

because we had the honor to live

whilst your husband

put ink to paper.

The love I dedicate

to your lordship is without end,

whereof this pamphlet,

without a superfluous moiety.

What I have done is yours,

what I have to do is yours.

Being part in all I have,

devoted yours."

I can make

all this

go away, Jonson.

Or I can bring you so much

Pain.

Pain.

I know you have them.

All his manuscripts.

My sister saw you leave Oxford

Stone with them under your arm.

They were destroyed.

Burned.

Burned?

By your men.

Every word went up in flames

when you torched the theater.

He's lying.

My lord,

why would I lie?

He was something

I could never be.

An undeniable perfection

that plagued my soul.

And to him,

I was nothing.

A messenger.

He tells the truth.

Let him go.

Guard!

Release him.

And, Jonson?

Better him, won't you?

Wipe his memory for all time.

I'm afraid that is not possible,

my lord.

Your Majesty.

- Your Majesty.

- Your Majesty.

Marvelous.

Marvelous, marvelous.

Is it not marvelous?

O for a Muse of fire

that would ascend

the brightest heaven of invention.

A kingdom for a stage,

princes to act

and monarchs to behold

the swelling scene.

We had seen some

of this Shakespeare's plays

in Edinburgh, Sir Robert.

I must tell you,

we enjoyed them immensely

and look forward to seeing many

more, now that we're in London.

I assume you're as avid

a theater man as myself.

Of course, Your Majesty.

... that have dared

on this unworthy scaffold

to bring forth so great an object.

Robert Cecil

remained the most powerful man

in the court of King James,

though he couldn't prevent

the public theaters

from becoming ever more popular.

William Shakespeare, however,

spent the remainder of his days,

not in the playhouses of London,

but in the small town of his birth,

Stratford-upon-Avon,

as a businessman

and grain merchant.

Ben Jonson succeeded

in his desire

to be the most celebrated

playwright of his time,

becoming England's

first poet laureate.

And in 1623,

he wrote the dedication

to the collected works

of the man we call

William Shakespeare.

And so,

though our story is finished,

our poet's is not.

For his monument is ever-living,

made not of stone, but of verse.

And it shall be remembered

as long as words

are made of breath

and breath of life.

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