(///front.dock.charge – Shakespeare’s birthplace, Stratford-upon-Avon, UK)
“In conclusion then, you understand the necessity for the course of action with which we charge you,” Sir Francis Bacon said, pushing the parchment across the table.
The balding man nodded.
“And you appreciate the terms of our arrangement,” Edward de Vere added.
The man gulped slightly but nodded again.
“Then pick up your quill my good man, and sign your name,” William Stanley thundered. The others held up hands to calm him.
The bald man reached forward. Truth be told, he was not nervous of agreeing to the arrangement and being a front to their activities – the reverse in fact. He was simply anxious over betraying his giddy excitement over this turn of events. He feared them changing their mind in the mistaken belief that he could not be trusted to keep his counsel. He would show them there was no need for worry.
He pulled the parchment towards him and without another thought, appended his signature.
The illustrious trio across from him sank back in relief and looked at each other with satisfied expressions. “Then our pact is complete,” Sir Francis said.
“Your discretion is appreciated, and you are earning your reward,” de Vere continued. “Given our positions, we simply cannot be identified as the authors of these works, they are too populist for us. Those who detest us would have us in the dock for some spurious reason, and our standing in society would never recover. We must instead be remembered for our other accomplishments. So it will be your name in the literary annals for ever more, together with the money and the house as your reward for never telling a soul.”
They all stood up. The balding man held out his hand, which was warmly shaken by the others. “I am happy to help, and I have to say, not unexcited at the literary fame which now awaits me.”
They all started to walk towards the door.
“To think,” the man continued, “In the future, whenever The Woman With the Enormous Shoes or Thomas and his Magical Genitals is performed, the name Bartholomew Shoveller will be forever associated with such great works and will echo down the ages.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Stanley concurred.
Bartholomew stopped. “I nearly forgot. There was one other favour I would ask.”
“Go on.”
“My friend is trying so hard to persuade the theatre owners to stage his work, but to no avail. Would you be able to speak with one of your associates to see whether they could assist him.”
“But of course,” Sir Francis said. “Anything to help.”
Bartholomew beamed. “This news will bring great delight to Will. Finally, his Taming of the Shrew will be seen in public. And it will all be due to the good graces of the three of you.”
De Vere smiled. “Always happy to assist a fellow playwright,” he smiled.
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