The Beauty of the Wolf

by Wray Delaney

‘On what?’ I asked.

  ‘On how well you act.’

  I was certain that the Frenchman was not in my father’s employ. But that did not make him any less menacing.

  At the sight of the purse, Ben Shakeshaft’s attitude changed. He became full of apologies and ill-advised compliments of which the Frenchman took no notice.

  ‘My mistress,’ he said, ‘requests that you wear these clothes.’ He handed me a parcel. ‘They are better suited for the role you are to play.’

  One thing I had learned is that a ship is sooner rigged than a woman is dressed.

  The skirt was quilted, the sleeves slashed and the embroidery very fine. It was without doubt the most expensive female garment I would ever wear. Still, I was not eager to be imprisoned in it. As a woman dressed in all this finery it would be near impossible to defend myself should the necessity arise.

  Gally helped me and with much pinching, much girding, much clinging, I was pinned into the garment of a wealthy young lady.

  ‘You could go to court in that,’ said Master Shakeshaft when he saw the lavishness of the costume. ‘You could be presented to the queen.’

  Gally shooed him away and set to painting my face.

  ‘Be very careful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hurry,’ called the Frenchman. ‘The tide is on the turn.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I said to Gally. ‘He is not my father’s man.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’

  ‘Definitely not.’ And it sprung from nowhere – a longing to murder my father. I banished the thought and said, ‘Lord Rodermere cannot abide foreigners.’

  ‘Come,’ called the Frenchman. ‘There is no more time.’

  ‘No wig,’ said Gally. ‘Your hair is thick enough without.’

  She went again to her paintbox and took from it a light knife with the thinnest of blades.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Just be careful.’

  The Frenchman was impressed with my transformation and his attitude towards me softened. We set off towards the river accompanied by a lamp boy and there on the inky waters of the Thames sat a river barge.

  I had had time enough under Gally’s tutelage to master the whims of women, their walk, their heaviness of hip, their uncertain step, and was helped into the barge with great care. I kept my head low and hid behind my dark locks and wavered as if in need of constant reassurance from the Frenchman before I could move. Such was my performance that I had every bargeman, including my escort, treat me as they might a wilted flower. All the while, the feel of the steel blade concealed in my garter was my only comfort in this most strange of circumstances.

  The Frenchman sat next to me as the barge set off into the darkness of the middle of the river where the waters claimed neither bank. His voice had changed, as if brutality was not needed when speaking to a lady but his words were measured and the weight of them spoke of death.

  ‘If one word of this adventure spills from your lips then you had better have made your peace with God for I will not hesitate to cut your throat and take out your tongue. You comprehend?’

  I nodded and thought that I would be at peace only when I was on my way back to my lodgings and this night was done.

  The house was unlit and it was too dark to make out exactly where it was but I could tell it was on the city side of the river. It had a watergate and the barge took us underneath where we disembarked unseen. The Frenchman escorted me up an elegant staircase and into a chamber. He left, the door closed, a key turned. What I saw made my heart sink for I was certain the chamber must belong to the lady’s husband. The walls were lined with books and the room was dominated by a table on which there were piles of paper, used quills, and a decanter of wine. Two Venetian glass goblets stood waiting. But waiting for what? That was the question.

  The lady entered from an antechamber. She wore a mask and was dressed in a loose-cut mantle of crimson velvet, richly embroidered and scattered with jewels. She sat at the table and studied me as if I were a specimen to be drawn, to be noted.

  ‘You are more beautiful, more exquisite in person than you are on stage.’ She poured the wine. ‘Do you like women?’ she asked, abruptly. ‘I have heard that young actors who play the women’s roles are much loved by men. Do you prefer men?’

  ‘I prefer women, my lady.’

  ‘Where did you learn to speak French?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps, my lady, it is best that you know as little about me as I do about you.’

  She laughed. ‘Very astute, Mistress Sorrel. Do you play chess?’

  LVI

  That night I played chess badly and lost to a woman whose face I could not see and whose mind burned as fierce as a flame. We ate, we drank and drank some more. I acted the companion, for that was who she had requested me to be.

  ‘What is it like to be on the stage?’ she said after I had lost my queen.

  ‘There is fear and freedom in it in equal measures,’ I said. ‘If you do it well you can hide in the words of another.’

  She made notes of what I said.

  ‘Why is there so much time taken with entrances and not any given to exits? I have noticed that the actor, when he must leave the stage, seems in a muddle that near ruins the lines he has just said.’

  I smiled for I too had wondered why that was so. It was Ben Shakeshaft’s job as a plotter, I told her, to make sense of the exits and our places upon the stage.

  ‘The entrance, Master Cuthbert told me, speaks of the play to come and is the key to the role the actor is about to perform.’

  Again she took up her quill and made a note.

  ‘Then Master Shakeshaft cannot plot,’ she said.

  I laughed, and curious to see her surrounded by so much paper and ink, asked, ‘Is this your writing?’

  ‘It is no one else’s and it is of no consequence . . .’ She stopped.

  There was the sound of a door banging in some distant place in the house.

  She waited awhile and hearing no other sound to accompany it she said, ‘I have brought you here because I want to read you something that I have written. All I ask is that you tell me honestly what you think of it. If you feel it to be weak you must say so – I will not tolerate a lie.’

  Her voice was beautiful and being read to by her was a delight, even in this bizarre situation. It was a play, a thing a thousand times better than Ben Shakeshaft’s writing or any nonsense he had cobbled together.

  ‘It speaks with a truth that few playwrights possess. Your words would only enhance an actor’s skill, and I bow to your exceptional talent, my lady.’

  ‘You are flattering me with false words.’

  ‘No, my lady, far from it.’

  For a while she was silent.

  ‘My husband believes a woman can never own the cleverness or the wit of a man. Her mind is by its very nature inferior and subject to the ill-humour of her womb.’

  Forgetting my role that evening, I said, ‘Then he knows you not, my lady, and understands women even less.’

  The mask kept her features still but her voice had a laugh in it. ‘You know the art of dalliance,’ she said. ‘I ask you again: in all truth do you mean what you say?’

  ‘Most sincerely, it is remarkable writing.’

  She dipped a quill in ink and wrote on the manuscript.

  ‘I wanted you here tonight to listen, to tell me the truth of my verse. If I had given it to your Master Shakeshaft, he would have claimed it as his own and would be fool enough to change the text. My husband would not consider my writings to be anything other than madness. I want you to put your name to my play.’

  Before I could protest, we heard a voice that had in it an urgency, and for the second time that night I saw her motionless.

  ‘Take it,’ she said quickly. ‘Do not let my husband see it.’

  I slipped the manuscript under my petticoat as the door to the chamber was unlocked and in burst an explosion of rage.

  ‘Why, my lady, do you lock your door?’
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br />   Her husband was twice her age and half her height, no taller than a child. By any stretch of the imagination, he was a ridiculous match for such a woman. And he was a seething cauldron.

  ‘Checkmate,’ said my lady of the night.

  Finding us demurely playing chess, her husband was taken aback. ‘My lady,’ he said. ‘Will you not introduce me to your companion?’

  ‘This is Mistress . . . Sorrel,’ said the lady. ‘Mistress Sorrel – my husband.’

  I stood and curtsied.

  He glared at me and asked where I lived. I said Blackfriars and named a street that in my wanderings had struck me as presentable.

  ‘With my mother, sir, she is a widow.’

  I knew I was able to convince an audience that I was a woman and could only hope that in such close proximity I could convince this gentleman.

  ‘How did you learn to play chess?’

  ‘My father, sir,’ I said. ‘When I was but a child.’

  He reached up and took my face in his cold, damp hand. His grip was powerful.

  I pulled away, the innocent maiden from respectable Blackfriars, shocked to be treated in such a manner.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I was employed to keep your lady company. If I have displeased you then I am most sorry.’

  And more than aware of the manuscript, I lifted my skirts and made to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ he ordered. ‘Did you keep age from midnight’s door?’

  ‘I hope so, sir. I was unaware of its entrance.’

  ‘Good.’ He called for the Frenchman. ‘Escort Mistress . . . ah . . . Sorrel to her home,’ he said.

  I curtsied, regretting that my lady had told him my surname. Taking small steps, the manuscript gripped between my clenched knees, I left.

  Gally was waiting for me when I was returned to my lodgings. My fox trotted in after me from what appeared to be a good night’s hunting. Gally was so pleased to see me unharmed that she threw her arms about me.

  ‘Leave me be,’ I said, ‘you smell of the Badger.’

  ‘What did she want with you, this mysterious lady? Did you bed her?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Gally. I will tell you all tomorrow. Would you unlace me?’

  Before I fell asleep, I looked at the manuscript. Beneath the title, My Lady’s Revenge, she had written the words, A Tragedy by Master Beau Sorrel.

  LVII

  Gally was the first person, after me, to read the play.

  ‘There lies a foul and grim thing,’ she quoted. ‘And this is who I have wed. A man twice my age and who cannot satisfy me in bed. Oh, I can see myself saying that line. Unmask yourself, no longer such beauty should be shrouded. God’s teeth, but this is dramatic. It will have the audience on their toes looking at our play and not at the bottom of their tankards. Did you write it?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Gally stood up and stretched. ‘I do not want to know who the playwright is. But your name is on the manuscript and that will suffice.’

  ‘What do you think Ben Shakeshaft will make of it?’

  ‘It is not his usual dross so he will hate it.’ Gally looked down the cast list. ‘What part would you take?’

  ‘Her twin brother,’ I said. ‘In a Spanish beard, I thought.’

  ‘Oh, this is good – mistaken identities, blighted lovers, an ancient husband – all the ingredients for an outrageous success if acted well.’

  She laughed. ‘Her husband is the cuckold. Does it end badly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  ‘No!’ said Master Shakeshaft. ‘No, no, no, I will not put on another tragedy. We must make people laugh. Surely we can bring in some farce? You will have to rewrite it, Master Sorrel. As it stands, it is too much in the favour of the woman. Her husband appears a dribbling idiot.’

  ‘Take it as it is, or do not take it at all,’ I said.

  ‘Give it to me, I will work on it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Remember, I am your master.’

  ‘It will not be performed,’ I said, ‘unless every word of it is spoken as it is written.’

  Master Cuthbert was reading the manuscript.

  ‘This is fresh, original, Ben,’ he said. ‘I could bring something to the dribbling idiot of a husband.’

  ‘It would be better – much better – if the husband were not such a fool.’ Master Shakeshaft thought for a moment then said, ‘All right. But if it is not liked, it will not be performed again. And, Master Sorrel, do not think I am going to pay you more for it.’

  I had not seen my lady of the night again nor her Frenchman. His words of warning still rang in my ears. I thought often of that strange evening and through my lady’s writing began to understand the frustration of wasted women defeated by foolish husbands.

  After a while, I gave up any expectation of being invited to visit my lady. Rehearsals had started, and, to Master Shakeshaft’s surprise, were going better than he had expected. My part being long, I spent my time learning my lines and found it easier while walking. I was on my way to the Mermaid Inn to listen to the gossip of the day and to discuss our play, for next week the ban was to be lifted and the voice of the actor would be heard again on the London stage. I had just crossed the bridge and was imagining the taste of the ale when I was accosted by the Frenchman.

  ‘My mistress desires to see you, monsieur.’

  To be honest, I was not sure it was wise for I had by then heard a rumour that I suspected had to do with my lady of the night. Her husband was a merchant who imported cloth and silks. He married a woman who, in her time, was considered the most beautiful and clever woman in London. He was a jealous man and became furious at the attention she received at court – especially from the young Earl of Seaton. To make sure no other man would be tempted by her beauty he killed her lover in a duel and disfigured his wife. She was never seen at court again, with or without her mask.

  I wavered only for a moment and asked, ‘Shall I change?’

  ‘There is no need. The master is in Scotland. It takes a long time to reach Scotland and a longer time to return.’

  I had not agreed to go with him, but I had not said no. I thought to myself that I was becoming a lot more familiar with tight corners than I wished to be.

  This time the Frenchman did not speak a word as the barge made its way down the river, and I admitted to feeling a frisson of excitement at the thought of seeing her again. I was taken straight to her chamber. It was as it had been before except the connecting doors which had been closed were now open to reveal a large, four-poster bed. The room burned with so many candles reflected in bowls of water that they glimmered like stars on the ceiling. On the table, supper had been laid. Famished, I nibbled on a piece of chicken and waited.

  I was examining the globe that she had on her table when I realised there was someone in the room. I turned and was discomposed by her appearance. She was naked apart from a pretty ruff round her neck and the wire cage of her skirt frame. Her skin was white, her breasts petite, her nipples dark. She was strikingly more lovely without those stiff garments that do nothing to enhance a woman’s figure. On her feet she wore cork chopines which had the effect of making her look as if she was not quite connected to the floor, more that she hovered above it.

  ‘My body holds the last remnants of my beauty,’ she said, ‘and I thought you should see it for my face ruins the picture. How go the rehearsals?’

  ‘They go well, my lady. And they are amusing.’

  ‘Amusing? It is a tragedy.’

  I smiled. ‘Precisely – and it has shocked Master Shakeshaft.’

  ‘Then it will be a success?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘My husband permits Mistress Sorrel to be my nightly companion. It is an indulgence. He thinks it another sign of my lunacy. I do not care. I have wanted you since I first saw you on stage. Your beauty is unnatural – a charm, I would say.’ She came nearer and touched my face. ‘Smooth, without a mark. Is the rest of you made that way?’

/>   ‘Apart from a star on my thigh.’

  ‘I knew it. You are an elfin creature.’

  ‘I am at a disadvantage, my lady.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You are naked in both thought and body and wear the gown of your birth with much elegance.’

  ‘I thank you, Master Sorrel. I want you to make love to me. Does my forwardness offend you?’

  ‘The reverse, my lady.’

  I began to undress. She watched me until I stood before her, well risen for the occasion. Only then did she take off her mask. Her face was disfigured by a knife that had cut her from the corner of her mouth up her cheek and in a curve over her eye.

  ‘My husband took not only my money but my beauty. Do you find me repulsive?’

  ‘You are beautiful still,’ I said.

  She turned her face away. ‘Then you, like all other young men, are careless with the truth and speak out of fear, not desire.’

  I turned her face to mine.

  ‘I have a beloved sister,’ I said, ‘who is disfigured by the pox. So much so that a suitor sent her portrait back without even the courtesy of a letter. But she, like you, has beauty. It comes from within her. Such radiance of mind and body can never be hidden; it is a light that will shine a lifetime and age will fail to dim it.’

  I untied the ribbon that held the cage in place round her hips and removed her ruff. I picked her up in my arms and carried her to her bed.

  In the day I rehearsed the play and at night I made love to the playwright.

  Ben Shakeshaft, certain that the play would run for fewer than two performances, rented the Tabard Inn in Southwark where the performance area was small. He was a poor judge of plays and a poor judge of people. My Lady’s Revenge ran for three weeks and each afternoon the inn was crowded. The audience in the galleries hung over the railings to hear every word and Gally’s final speech before she sank the dagger into her breast was greeted with screams of horror followed by rapturous applause.

  I had hoped that my lady and I might say a sweet farewell but it was not to be. On the night we opened I learned that her husband had returned. My last glimpse of her was when she came to watch the play accompanied, I learned, by Master and Mistress Cassell, whose bored daughter had the face of a pug dog.