right boot lashed out, catching Burghley in the shins. The Lord Chamberlain jumped back, howling in pain. Bending, he clutched at his aching leg. "You little demon," Burghley gasped. Then he rushed forward and began his beating. Edward curled up defensively as a storm of vicious blows and kicks rained down on him.
"I'm going to save the holy sisters a lot of heartbreak over you, my boy," Burghley grunted through clenched teeth.
After a time, the Lord Chamberlain paused to catch his breath. "That should curb your appetite for kicking," he panted.
Edward looked up at Burghley, his face a blood-covered mess. The Lord Chamberlain hurriedly stepped back, out of kicking range. "And there'll be no more roaming around the stables, acting the fool. You'll confine yourself to the bookroom except for meals and sleeping, do I make myself clear?"
Lying on the floor, nursing his bruises, Edward stared up at him coldly.
"Good," said Burghley and with that, Elizabeth's senior advisor turned and stormed out of the room.
-:-:-
Many other clashes followed. Like all tyrants, Burghley was always eager to crush any barrier in his path. He took great delight in beating Edward for even the smallest transgressions. Eventually, the boy became reluctant to speak to any of the household staff for fear of getting them into trouble. Yet, despite all his cruel efforts, Burghley never succeeded in forcing his ward into submission.
Edward spent 4 years by himself in the bookroom. Its shelf-lined walls, peopled by towering minds from past generations, became his tutor. With the simple turn of a page, Edward was able to float effortlessly across centuries of ideas and discourse.
The young Earl had a special passion for stories about long-past triumphs and tragedies. Hours slipped by unnoticed as he sat with Holinshed's Chronicles or Thucydides' account of the Peloponnesian War. He was also fascinated by the abundance of rich material on Italy and its flourishing Renaissance.
-:-:-
In a far corner of Burghley House, Edward was still having difficulty sleeping. Since leaving Castle Hedingham, he had spent many nights lying in the dark, grinding his teeth, waiting for sleep. After a few hours of such misery, the young Earl usually lit a candle and wrote or read away the long, lonely hours until morning.
As long as he was reading or writing, Edward felt in control, but whenever the boy slept, his inactive mind fell prey to troubled memories. Violent, distorted images of his mother's betrayals would jerk him awake crying in terror, trembling with apprehension.
One night, around his thirteenth birthday, all this changed. Edward had finally fallen asleep, having slept only 2 of the previous 36 hours. After only an hour or so, he was wakened by a bad dream.
-:-:-
Instead of lying on the sweat-soaked sheets cursing his fate, Edward got up and crossed to the window. Opening it, he leaned out, craning his neck upwards. It was an unusually clear, crisp winter's night. An uncountable multitude of stars glistened against the pitch-black sky.
As Edward looked up, all the books he'd been reading, a wild succession of events, personalities, and ideas, the whole magnificent mural of human history, began spiraling through his mind like some great spring unwinding.
Edward had never before appreciated the enormity of history. Its great scope seemed mirrored in the incomprehensible vastness of the universe circling above him. Suddenly, Edward realized that all this had been going on for an incredible amount of time before his birth and that it would continue long after he was dead.
For one all-too-brief moment, gazing up at the stars, he held the concept of eternity clearly in his mind's eye. It hung there, immense, irrevocable, immutable, like some celestial spider in a wondrous, all-enveloping web made up of strands from human history. Then, as his joy soared skywards like some contrary comet, a dog barked down in the garden and the moment was gone. Fortunately, the awe remained.
Edward knew with crystal clarity what he had to do; he had to capture that eternal harmony, the true nature of life, now, on paper, for all time.
Closing the window, he sat down at a writing desk and lit two candles, his hands shaking with anticipation. Then Edward snatched up a quill pen and started writing. For the first time, he had no books open around him. This was not studying. This was writing.
The words crowded together in his mind, thousands of them, clamoring for release. They bounced off each other, jostling for position, all eager to make the short sprint down his arm, through his pen, and onto the page where they could live forever.
It was like a long-pent-up dam bursting. His words cascaded down in an irresistible torrent of sparkling riches. Edward's quill gathered speed, as he fought furiously to stay afloat amidst the rushing flood of verse.
He wrote until the sun came up and then he laid his pen aside. His right arm ached. He rubbed at it, gazing around the room. The desk and carpet were littered with pages.
Edward knew that at some point during the night he had committed to paper the scene that most haunted his sleep, two bodies slammed together in a frenzied rutting.
He rifled through several pages before finding the memory. He had penned it thus:
"The funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables...
Nay, it is no life to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty!"
In the cold, unflinching light of a winter morning, Edward stared at his lines. Surely he could improve on them. Edward lifted his pen, but a strange sensation washed over him. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. What was it? He was feeling sleepy.
Quickly, Edward gathered all the papers up and locked them safely away in his writing box. Then, he fell onto the bed and slept.
He awoke refreshed and ate a hearty meal. In the afternoon, the young Earl took a nap. When he climbed into bed that night, Edward fell asleep without any difficulty. Sadly, long before dawn, he awoke in a cold sweat.
Scrambling out of bed, Edward lit a candle. Then, he opened his writing box and read the new lines to himself. Soon Edward was writing again. He sat at his desk for hours, intent on getting every last detail out of his memory and onto the page.
As Edward scribbled away, his anxiety lifted. It was like magic, as if a fear once expressed on paper no longer had the power to hurt him. Edward felt exonerated, free! His bitter dreams faded away and he once again savored the sweet, golden bliss of peaceful slumber.
-:-:-
As his pen and mind moved through centuries, Edward's body advanced through years. The young Earl grew taller and sturdier as he drifting steadily towards adolescence. Suddenly, Edward found himself caught firmly in its irresistible swell. The voice he lifted to the bookshelves took on new, manly tones. Daily, a fresh tidal wave of hormones raged through him, filling every waking moment with urgent romantic longings.
Edward quickly discovered that Burghley's bookroom offered many tantalizing glimpses into the world of romance and love. Using a ladder, he regularly explored the higher shelves where
