Stories by Louis Urbanowski

Queen Elizabeth I died on the 24th March 1603. Upon her death, her nephew, King James VI of Scotland became King James I of England.

These were the only two Monarchs to reign during the life of the Bard. William Shakespeare himself. 

Both adored his work, seeing many of his plays privately at court. 

Committed to the page, a dry uninteresting series of facts. Like so many words, perfectly perfunctory. Scratch a little beneath the unremarkable surface, however… 

…This is the true history of William Shakespeare.

December 1606

It was the sort of evening that gives British weather its drudging infamy. Ceaseless downpour, metronomic deluge. A persistent grey sheen cast over everything, everyone. London did its best to fight back, but the hum and din of nightlife was plainly second best. 

 James scrunched his face, rubbing his chin. He longed for spectacles but would not risk being seen with them on. A Monarch must be strong.

He placed the parchment down on his desk before turning to his courtier.

‘I will have your head if this is some trick.’

‘Yyy-Your Majesty,’ his eyes widened, ‘I swear it. Deliver this to you, tonight. That was the instruction, I know nothing of its contents. You saw, the seal, her wax seal, it was unbroken.’

James believed him. Dismissing him with a flick of his hand, he was alone now with the impossible letter. He stared at it before picking it up as if it were fragile. 

James began to read it, again:   

‘The Queen is dead, long live the King I suppose.

I died, didn’t I? I write this in February, I doubt I will see spring. 

Three years?

If my machinations have come to pass, then you are reading this on the night of Macbeth’s first performance. 

A prophetic whisper from beyond the grave. 

Entwined with bouts of coughing, I find myself laughing, near hysteria, heady with the breeze of youth as I prepare to shuffle off this mortal coil. 

I know not what finishes me, and I ought that no one ever does. Knowledge is power, and no man shall have it over me, especially in death. 

Our relationship is complicated, James. Or should I say, was. 

Your mother, my sister. Mary, Queen of Scots. She had to die, you know this to be true. 

I write to battle resentment. To quash self-interest. Allay revenge. I don’t doubt they are moored deep within. Every son should weep for his mother.

I find myself looking for similarities, for threads to draw us closer. 

We are both Monarchs. It is our role to play. 

You understand this, so I find no muse here.

What else then? And why this message tonight. 

All the world’s a stage.

Shakespeare. Let him educate us as to why Britain needs you to reconcile. Catholics against Protestants, end it. That was my war, this should be your peace. 

Tonight Macbeth will be performed at court. I made sure of this. 

It is a cautionary tale. Unchecked power, unbridled ambition. A thirst for revenge. It will not end well I assure you.

A Scottish King ascends the throne. He takes counsel from witches. My boy, my sweet nephew. This is you. This is your story. 

I met with William a few times, at court of course. Why would I ever need to go to the theatre? I knew every line, every sonnet, every curve of every letter.

As Queen I ruled with iron. As Shakespeare I shaped with ink. The man you’ll meet? My player, on my stage. 

Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear (just you wait), warnings for future Monarchs. Advice on how to govern. 

Love’s Labour’s Lost a lesson on desires of the flesh. Writing it convinced me to remain childless. Who needs offspring when you can create entire worlds out of words?

I tell you this not to brag, boast or shock. But to inform, to allow you to make a decision. 

There are more. More plays, more sonnets, more worlds yet to come. Hidden, guarded by those loyal to me. Released to the world only when needed.

It wasn’t easy. Even as Queen, imagine announcing myself as a serious play-write. I would be laughed away, the work instantly dismissed. 

The irony is not lost on me, I can create whatever world I want, except one where I can step out of the shadow. 

My strength fades, my point is made. Listen to the words tonight, understand the meaning. 

Avoid the pitfalls that are sure to come, and you will be a great King. A King who changes the course of British history. 

Or, do not. Let your petty feelings run amok, and you will be just another. Stunted by emotion and folly. 

To be, or not be. That is your question.

Queen Elizabeth I’

James shook with a mix of rage and fear, as he balled the letter up and discarded it to flame.  

‘Witchcraft!’ Some spittle flying across the room. 

 James wrote the book on it, literally. Since his time in Denmark and Norway he worked hard to hunt witches at home. 

This wasn’t it. Someone was baiting him. Using the words of his dead Aunt, the woman who made him King by removing the head of his Mother.

The idea that his Aunt, the decrepit rotting Queen could be the Bard! An idea so incredulous it defied the stories committed to the page. Clearly Shakespeare was too familiar, too comfortable with his station.

Kill them all. The thought was clear. Sit through the performance later that evening, see through this ruse and then be done with Shakespeare. James refused to be a pawn in this sick gambit. 

He stood, re-established control, his calm, and made for his seat in the atrium. 

After the performance, a quiet word with his guard would be enough. Down in the dungeon, dispatch them for treasonous rhetoric. His words are a loss to the world for sure, but more would come forward. Writers were ten a penny. Kings were divine gold. 

This was the plan. 

Except the performance finished and James sat there within himself as the players warily watched in between bows and curtain calls.

Just before the Bard left, James summoned him over. 

‘How did you know?’ James demanded. 

‘Your majesty, know what?’

‘The witches, they spoke the words I said to my wife on our wedding night.’

Shakespeare’s brow furrowed, a slight shrug of his shoulders.

‘I play a role for my Queen, she told me when we met “I look upon thy death.”’

‘Why continue the lie?’ James felt his anger rise.

Shakespeare said nothing, rather he handed James another scroll of parchment. 

The unmistakable wax seal of Elizabeth invited him to open it.

Shakespeare disappeared into the dark of the atrium. James rushed back to his chamber and opened the scroll. 

‘Do you believe me now? The man knows nothing, a puppet whose strings I pull.

The sense awoke in me one night when I was young. I could see. See beyond the mortal form. 

I saw you on your wedding night…’

What followed was a full transcript of every word spoken between James and his wife Anne that night. An impossible record of many years ago. 

There was more. Dates, times, suggestions of plots and challenges that would arise during his reign. Further down the page, even details surrounding his future death. 

King James I made his choice that night. He allowed Macbeth to become one of the most successful plays of all time. Save one change from his initial private performance. The dialogue of his wedding night was removed.

The man who called himself William Shakespeare continued basking in the glory. Plays were performed, sonnets written. 

Elizabeth’s secret died with James. 

His is a legacy of religious reconciliation. A Protestant raised son of a Catholic Queen of Scotland. Sometimes inconsistent, sometimes heavy handed, many were surprised at his determination to mend divides. 

What was his motivation? Well, witchcraft is a powerful force. One James fought against his entire adult life. 

Perhaps, just perhaps, a private performance showed him its true capability.

James folded up this scroll, storing it for future viewing. 

He found himself muttering. 

‘The Queen is dead, long live Shakespeare.’ 

By Louis Urbanowski – Inspired by the prompt: ‘What if Shakespeare was a woman?’