To Pluck a Crow: To Pluck a Crow, #1

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear reader,

You may wonder at the title of this book. The expression to pluck or pull a crow was first found in a British work of fiction, The Towneley Mysteries, in the year 1460. Simply put, it meant a desire to get past an argument, to resolve conflict, to settle a disagreement with someone. Shakespeare also made use of this expression in the words of Dromio of Ephesus:

"A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?

For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather;

If a crow helps us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together."

Comedy of Errors, Act 3, Scene 1

What follows is an alternate history tale. I invite you to suspend disbelief for a little while and let your imagination run free. 

This book is a work of speculation. Can you imagine a woman’s hand writing the plays or sonnets, a woman’s voice behind any of the Shakespeare characters? Who might this woman have been? Could there have been another writer who worked closely with her, two kindred spirits who fed off each other’s passion for the English language?

The book alternates between two distinct, fictional worlds. The first time frame is the last quarter of sixteenth century England, with Elizabeth I on the British throne. The protagonists of these Renaissance chapters are Mary Sidney Herbert and her brother Philip Sidney, both very real people of history. There is a lot of factual research contained in their story, and the rest is simply my re-writing of history, asking the question, could it have been these two who wrote the works of the First Folio?

The second fictional world is set in modern day England, where two young adults, Sarah Churchill and Janek Wieczorek, follow a mysterious trail throughout the British countryside in the hope of discovering clues to the identity of the real Shakespeare. They are not alone and they are not safe.

I believe our free-floating thoughts are one of the things that define us as human beings, in as much as our hopes, wills and aspirations do. I think the Bard writes it best in The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1, Line 146:

We are such stuff as dreams are made on

This book is dedicated to my husband, Bob, himself a poet,

who has believed in and loved me unselfishly

throughout the hours and hours of following my dream

and

to my father, Donald Taylor, who never stopped encouraging

each of us to be the best we could be

CHAPTER ONE

I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1, Line 320

M

ary Sidney, on her favourite horse, Speedwell, had long since outpaced the boys. Her only mistake was to look over her shoulder to see how far behind they were. She turned her head just in time to see the approaching crest of a hill and to feel the horse beneath her stiffen and rear up. She was flung forward, neck crooked, feet in the air, legs flailing. Head over heels, she hit the ground, tall cocksfoot grass scratched at her face, and her long red hair flew about. Feet over, the sky and clouds circling above, her arms and hands outstretched, Mary clamoured for a finger hold. She slid along the damp earth, meadow rue and chamomile flowers crushed beneath her. Pain. Her knees and elbows burned, and as one arm made harsh contact with a bush, she came to an abrupt stop, rolled to one side and over onto her back. The clouds moved in a dizzying curve, the world turned much faster than it ought. She closed her eyes and waited.

Philip reached the crest, sprung from his horse and dropped to his knees, panting. He should never have given in to his sympathetic instinct to let her win. Why had he allowed her to pass him?

Crying out, Mary, are you hurt? he scrambled, half sliding, half galloping down the slope. He reached her and lightly touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes, tried to sit up, and failed as pain shot through both knees.

Are you harmed, Mary? So anxious, so caring. She smiled up at him, but his face swayed as the sky rotated in another long arc.

I got here first! she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Two other riders by now had reached the crest of the hill. They watched as Philip gently lifted her head into the crook of his arm.

Shall we run for help? one shouted down. Philip looked worried.

Fetch the cart and mare! Go quickly! They were off.

Opening her eyes once more, she frowned, You are being dramatic again! I’m as good as gold! She sat up, tried to bend a knee and let a cry escape. The white petticoat and smock were covered with smears of green and brown, mixed now with bright red.

Thank Providence that Mother is with Elizabeth! was her only thought. Though tears tickled her eyelids, she would not let them fall. If she wanted to be one of them, there would be no room for self-pity.

A

year later, Mary and Philip Sidney and their friend Fulke Greville, argued as they circled the garden of the Sidney residence in Shrewsbury on the border of Wales. The thirteen-year-old girl stopped and kicked at the dirt, prompting her brother to speak.

Mary, I tried to persuade him, I truly did, but Father was adamant. There was nothing more I could say!

It is not right, Philip. I am too accustomed now to running about with all of you. I shall shrivel and die at court! She tossed her bright red curls. No matter, I will simply refuse. I will not go!

It was Fulke’s turn to try.

Believe me, Mary, it will go far worse for you if you refuse. I have been Philip’s friend for many years now and have witnessed his efforts to escape court life. Do not follow in his footsteps. To court you must go or court disaster! The three friends laughed, but ruefully.

Most young women of Mary’s age would have given their eyeteeth to live at Court. To be constantly in the presence of the great Queen Elizabeth, the Protestant Tudor Queen; to attend lavish balls wearing beautiful clothing; to learn to dance, sing, and act in the theatrical plays Elizabeth so enjoyed; this was the life of court. The women would receive an extraordinary education in literature, languages such as French and Latin, history, etiquette, and needlework. Many a young girl dreamt of becoming a lady-in-waiting, a servant to her Queen. Much would be expected of each girl, but so much would be provided to her too. As a special feature, there would be handsome and gallant courtiers about the court, also vying for the Queen’s favour. Who wouldn’t want this life?

Mary Sidney did not want it. Born with a fiercely independent streak, she was already excelling in languages, history, theatre, writing, and literature, through the influence of her older brother Philip, her greatest teacher, and the tutors her father had provided for all his children. She knew all about court life, having as a very young girl often joined her mother, Mary, at various palaces as she faithfully served Elizabeth.

Come Mary, Philip urged. You must understand that the Queen wishes to protect you from the illness that took the life of our dear sister Ambrosia. Elizabeth attributes her death to the cold climate and mouldy atmosphere of Ludlow Castle. She wants you near her so you will be protected. And after all, you have the rest of the summer with us here in Shropshire. No one can stop us from having our fun and I have an idea that might cheer you. Philip caught a spark of intrigue in Mary’s eyes. We three together will construct a piece of theatre to amuse our friends and family. It will take a good deal of organizing, but you are up to it. Father will be pleased. What do you say? Philip’s look was both teasing and pleading.

Mary examined his eyes, caught the dare, and her face lit up.

That’s our Mary. She turns on a whim! Philip cried. The two young men slapped each other on the back, lifted Mary off her feet, and ran towards crumbling old Ludlow Castle in the distance.

Henry Sidney watched from a second-floor window of his newly built family extension. He sighed heavily. It appeared Philip had managed the challenge. His daughter Mary, oh yes, she was a challenge, so unlike her gentle mother, also named Mary, albeit a Dudley by birth.

His poor dear young girl. He pulled at his beard. She needed her mother, needed her sweetness to round out her edges. God knew he also needed his wife! But for Elizabeth’s demands and the young Queen’s smallpox, his wife would have been with them here at Ludlow Castle. Here to support Henry, as he arduously represented the Queen as President of the Council of Wales and the Marshes, which included the northern counties of Gloucestershire, Shropshire, Worcestershire, and Herefordshire.

What a year it had been! First the untimely death of dear Ambrosia and then his wife’s middle of the night summons to London, where, after a hasty two-day journey, she arrived to find Elizabeth in high fever and agitation. Mary Dudley Sidney was the only one Elizabeth would trust, half delirious as she was with smallpox, to care for her in her time of great illness. Mary’s family of origin, the famous Dudleys, had first earned this trust through loyal servitude to King Henry VIII and two of his children: the young heir, King Edward VI, and now Queen Elizabeth herself. More importantly, Mary’s brother, Robert Dudley, a dashing courtier, was the love of Elizabeth’s life. Elizabeth explicitly trusted Robert’s sister, Mary, who gently bathed her pock-marked body and ministered to the Queen night and day until Elizabeth, gradually cooled and healed, emerged from her sick bed completely unscarred.

Not so his wife. She, by then exhausted with worry and effort, fell ill with the dreadful disease. Yes, she had ultimately survived, a blessing to her family, but her face- her soft beautiful face-was forever marked by the pox.

No matter! he said aloud, turning quickly from the window upon hearing the advancing footsteps of Philip in the hallway. He had his dear wife back from near death. Rather, Elizabeth had her back. Having been so spoiled by his wife’s attention, Elizabeth, in gratitude, insisted on her almost constant presence at court.

And now the Queen had summoned young Mary as well. This, even after the early death of his youngest daughter in the summer. How his wife’s heart, her poor worn out heart, had grieved at the loss of their little Ambrosia! Grief had been the family’s constant companion, but especially young Mary’s. The Queen, knowing the family turmoil and wanting to spare them more of the same, now ordered that young Mary come for shelter in southern England. Yes, best for his wife to be near her daughter, and better that Mary be close to her mother now. But how quiet it would be in this bedraggled old castle that the remaining Sidney family called home, isolated as they were here on the Welsh border. His daughter Mary, like a candle, lit up every room she entered.

Ah, just as well, he mused, trying to convince himself.

Of late, Mary had proven herself unmanageable with boyish interests: her study of plants and animals, alchemy, astrology, mathematics, the classics, and sporting activities. These were all boys' pursuits, at which, he had to admit, she excelled. If he were honest with himself, he was quite proud of his daughter; her interests and intellect far outreaching his own at her age. She was like her brother Philip, to whom she was so attached. Despite a difference in age, Philip was protective and solicitous of young Mary. The two were always together, with their heads in some book, quietly reading or writing their stories, imagined out of their own brains. Philip would follow her back to court, so there was another loss. He sighed again. Best that Mary went to court where she would doubtless finally be tamed. But how he would miss her!

CHAPTER TWO

S

arah Churchill couldn’t believe her good fortune. She read the email twice and it was the same both times. The Dorset Art Society was permitting her to join their tour of Pembroke House, also known as Wilton House, in Wiltshire, UK, in two weeks’ time. The marriage home of Mary Sidney Herbert, who was the subject of her Master’s thesis, was normally closed right after the mid-May weekend until September,. This tour of the great mansion’s display of original art was the final event of the Society’s year.  Their chairman had agreed to include Sarah for the small fee of ten pounds. There would be tea, a tour of Wilton House, a walk around the grounds, a mini-lecture, and a visit to the on-site gift shop. She hit the reply button and sent a quick acceptance.

Sarah was thankful for the funding grant she had received earlier that month to travel to the British Isles to establish a concept for her M.A. After telephoning her thesis adviser, she spent two hours finding a place to stay and flights from Canada to England. She had three weeks and she planned to spend every minute conducting her research. She wanted as much information concerning the Sidney and Herbert families as she could discover. Visiting one of their ancestral homes in the Earldom of Pembroke was a great way to start.

Three hours later, she was hard at work at a local branch of the Ottawa Public Library, replacing borrowed books on the appropriate shelves. Sarah thought, not for the first time, that she could live in a library. In fact, she practically did. Between her work, research for her courses at the University of Ottawa, and the book-lined walls of the study in her apartment on Centennial Avenue, she was surrounded by books.

It had always been that way. Her mother was a writer and her father a local historian employed by the City of Ottawa’s National Historic Site, Billings Estate, one of Ottawa’s first homes. Constructed from local timber by Braddish Billings, in the late 1820s, the estate was two blocks from her parents’ home in the old, wooded Alta Vista area of town, a short stroll each day for her father and the family dog Bunji, who accompanied him to work. While Professor Churchill conducted tours of the stately home and grounds, Bunji slept in the shade of old trees on the large park-like property, or he rambled about its heritage gardens, much loved by adults and children visiting the site.

At five forty-five, the announcement interrupted Sarah’s shelving. The Library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please check out your materials before six o’clock.

One by one, patrons turned off computers or scraped their chairs back and proceeded to the circulation desk. The branch had so far escaped the serious automation that ruthlessly pursued other libraries. There were still familiar faces to greet patrons, process their books and audio materials individually by hand, and send them on their way with a smile. Sarah was happy for such small mercies. The descendant of a long line of bookish relations, she was not averse to storing her research on the small laptop computer that accompanied her everywhere she went, often strapped securely to her bicycle. But she awoke each day anticipating the familiar, peppery scent of the books she loved to hold physically in her two hands. She loved to turn pages that had been turned so many times before her. She appreciated the sheer weight of a book in her hands, representing many hours of an author’s hard fought battle with the words printed on those pages. At twenty-four, she had never quite lost her excitement at holding a new book, which still felt like receiving a gift, every time.

An hour later she was settled in her cubicle in the older section of the St. Paul University Library. Sarah loved this well-preserved section of the library with its creaky wooden floors, original circular balcony and oak railings overlooking the first floor, and the carrels which each had a window view of the university’s large garden and grassy area bordering the Rideau River. The smell of polished wood and ancient books filled her evening.

Her thesis research involved the family of Mary Sidney Herbert—specifically Mary’s relationship with her famous brother Philip Sidney, a courtier of Queen Elizabeth I and a serious poet and writer of his day. Mary herself, though lesser known, had been one of the most talented and respected women writers of her day. She was as well rounded and educated a woman of the sixteenth century as Queen Elizabeth. Mary Sidney Herbert more than held her own amongst the learned men of her time. She excelled at translation, was editor of her brother’s works, especially posthumously, practiced as a chemist, and founded the Wilton Circle, a group of writers who regularly met at her home, Wilton House. Close to the Queen through her mother, also a Mary Sidney, she had spent considerable time at court, where her education in all things Elizabethan was continued. Young Mary had married at sixteen, to a kind and generous, albeit much older, widowed courtier named Henry Herbert, second Earl of Pembroke, who was more than happy to support her further education and any of her varied interests.

The deeper Sarah delved into the lives of Mary and Philip, the more she was intrigued by the curiously supportive and connected relationship the two siblings had maintained, despite their seven-year age difference. They were kindred spirits, two halves of an amazingly talented, resourceful and sometimes formidable whole.

At five minutes to ten, the lights were turned on and off twice, indicating it was time to go. She grabbed her books and left the library. Cycling seven blocks brought her to her apartment. It had been a full day and she felt very tired.

As the days passed, Sarah’s excitement grew. Her thoughts turned to that part of England where the Sidney siblings had lived, written, debated, and entertained their peers with theatrical performances. With these thoughts in mind, she spent the remaining time packing,

deciding which books to bring with her, and setting up research contacts in the UK.

One of these contacts was the curator of the Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre in the tiny village of Wilton, a mile from Salisbury and home of a long line of Earls of Pembroke. She managed to speak to this curator on the telephone once. It was the Tuesday before her flight. She called about an hour after the small library and records office opened, thinking she would give him time to deal with