“Master Holland!” Mother’s voice came shrill with surprise.
Angela cried out in delight. Francis Holland was her suitor and Mother placed all her hopes in him, for he was a gentleman, the youngest son of a West Country knight. Even his footfalls sounded elegant as he strode the floors in his Spanish leather boots. Her sister was besotted with the man, but Aemilia despised the way he talked through his nose as though they were beneath him, the way he brayed like an ass when he laughed. Mother said his manner of speaking was a mark of quality, the way all rich men spoke.
Still hovering over the trapdoor, Aemilia considered pounding on it and begging her father and uncles to open up, to let her join them, but she knew they would refuse and even punish her for her impudence.
“What a pleasure,” Mother was saying to Master Holland. “Come watch Angela whilst she plays the virginals. I’ll fetch the Canary wine.”
“Ah, my musical maiden, queen of all the Muses,” Francis Holland drawled.
Angela giggled while she continued her arpeggios.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Aemilia scurried beneath the kitchen table and squeezed herself into a ball as Mother fluttered in to get the wine. Her mother sang to herself like a woman already drunk, as though to cover what was happening below. Meanwhile, Angela pounded the virginals keys as if her life depended on it. But if her sister drank wine with Master Holland, Aemilia reasoned, surely she would have to lift her hands from the instrument.
“Where has that child gone?” she heard Mother ask Angela.
“I thought she was with you,” said her sister.
Mother took over at the keyboard. Aemilia knew this because that unholy jangling could not have been her sister’s music.
“The moon is so lovely tonight, Master Holland,” Mother shouted over the jarring notes. “Why don’t you and Angela step out into the garden?”
Huddled under the table, Aemilia listened to them go out the back door, Angela laughing like a Bedlamite in response to Master Holland’s japes and jests. Mother waited a minute before dashing after them. Until they were formally betrothed and the wedding banns set outside Saint Botolph’s church, Mother would guard Angela as though she were a diamond.
When they were finally gone, their voices swallowed in the garden’s hush, the men’s song arose again. Aemilia pressed her ear to the vibrating floorboards. How she yearned to unravel her father’s mystery. She held her breath to hear him chant in the forbidden language he would not speak to any but his brothers.
Barukh atah Adonai m’kadeish haShabbat. Amein.
Seven years old, what could she comprehend of banishment and exile?
EVERY SUNDAY WITHOUT FAIL, the Bassanos attended church at Saint Botolph-without-Bishopsgate where Aemilia learned to stand with her spine rigid and not yawn lest Mother pinch her. The curate frowned upon organ playing, so they sang the psalms a capella. Though Aemilia adored the singing, the sermon on the torments of hell was so fiery that it raised her skin. In a panic, she gazed over to the men’s side of the church where Papa stood, his face unreadable. When the service dragged to an end, she launched herself into his embrace.
“Do you fear hell?” she asked, her heart pounding sickly. How was she to know if she was part of the Elect who would be saved or merely one of the countless damned?
Papa’s face crinkled as he lifted her in his arms.
“Aemilia, I will tell you a secret,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you promise not to speak a word of this to anyone?”
Solemnly, she nodded.
“Hell is empty,” he whispered.
As she gazed at him in astonishment, he kissed her cheek.
“All the devils live up here in plain sight.”
He pointed across the road to where a gaggle of idlers loitered outside Bedlam Hospital. Their guffaws pricked the air as they pointed and jeered at the poor Toms peering back at them through the barred windows.
“Angels live amongst us, too,” he whispered, turning to smile at Aemilia’s sister and mother. “Look to the angels and they will look after you.”
ONE SUCH ANGEL was their neighbor, Anne Locke. In the parlor, Aemilia read aloud from the Geneva Bible while Papa looked on and Mistress Locke listened, clearly impressed that he had taken such care to educate his daughter.
“When I was your age,” Mistress Locke told Aemilia, “the mere thought of young girls reading the scriptures was heretical. Why, it was my great patroness, Catherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk, who first petitioned King Henry to read the Bible for herself. But you, my dear, are the daughter of a brave new world!”
The Widow Locke might have appeared severe to some in her plain dark gown, her hair pulled back beneath her starched white cap, but her smile was as wide as her heart. Aemilia would have turned somersaults in a tempest to please her. Anne Locke was a poet, the first to write sonnets in English. Papa said she was one of the best-educated women in the realm. During the reign of Catholic Queen Mary, Mistress Locke had fled to Geneva with John Knox and there she had published a volume of her translations of Calvin’s sermons. Here in the Bassano parlor stood a great woman of letters. Mistress Locke beamed at Aemilia, as though she were her goddaughter.
Hope beat fast in Aemilia’s heart. Might she not tread in Mistress Locke’s own footsteps, become a poet just like her? Trembling in awe, she recited from Mistress Locke’s own sonnets.
The sweet hyssop, cleanse me, defiled wight,
Sprinkle my soul. And when thou so hast done,
Bedewed with drops of mercy and of grace,
I shall be clean as cleansed of my sin.
Yet even as Aemilia uttered Mistress Locke’s pious words, Papa’s secret reverberated inside her. Hell is empty. What deeper mysteries did her father conceal? Surely in time he would reveal them to her when he judged her to be old enough.
Glowing in the warmth of his gaze, Aemilia told herself she was heir to his magic. Weren’t she and Papa both born under the stars of Gemini, the Twins? This meant they had two faces, like the moon. One they showed to the world while the other remained hidden like a jewel in its case, only revealed to those they loved and trusted most.
2
APA WAS OFTEN ABSENT, his life itinerant, for court was held wherever the Queen happened to be. As royal musicians, Papa and her uncles traveled in Her Majesty’s train from one palace to the next. When he returned home, Aemilia devoured his tales of the grandeur of Whitehall, Hampton Court, Greenwich, Richmond, and Saint James. Elizabeth’s household moved every few weeks, Papa said, because with so many hundreds of bodies in one place even the most luxurious palace would soon stink like a cesspit if they tarried there too long.
A rare thing it was to accompany Papa to court. Aemilia was beside herself in excitement to learn that she and her sister were invited to Whitehall on New Year’s Day for the annual exchange of gifts.
Mother had awoken before dawn to dress Angela and arrange her hair. In her garnet-red gown cut in the French style, her sister appeared to Aemilia as a goddess. Every garment Angela wore was borrowed, for Mother and the girls’ aunts had ransacked their wardrobes in search of the most splendid things they owned. Aemilia merely wore her best Sunday gown—as a child of seven, her appearance was of lesser importance. Papa wore the red livery provided him by the Queen. But Mother, having sacrificed her finery to Angela, was obliged to stay home.
This was Angela’s day of days, her chance to shine like polished crystal in the Queen’s presence. Fortunes could be made at court, fates transformed in an instant. What if Angela made such an impression with her beauty and her accomplishments that the Queen took her on as one of her women? Papa made no secret of the fact that he thought Master Holland to be vain and bone idle, and that he believed Angela could do better. At court, she might catch the eye of a man Papa could respect.
AS THEY SAILED IN a wherry up the Thames toward Westminster, Aemilia drank in Papa’s tales of the glamor and glory they would soon behold. When Whitehall came
into view, Aemilia cried out and pointed, her fingers stabbing the cold air in glee. The palace stretched nearly half a mile along the Thames. This was the Queen’s principal residence, Papa explained, where her ill-starred mother had wed Old King Henry. Its grounds were vast enough to include the Queen’s privy gardens where she walked daily, the royal tennis courts, bowling green, and tilting yard where her knights jousted. With more than fifteen hundred rooms, it was the largest palace in Europe.
“Your best manners today, Little Mischief,” Papa told her. “Make us proud.”
Aemilia nodded solemnly.
“Remember, my daughters, when the Queen smiles upon you, it’s like basking in sunlight,” Papa told them. “But her moods can change as swiftly as the weather. Do nothing to provoke her wrath.”
Papa cradled a bulky package—their family’s gift to the Queen. Mother had complained mightily about the expense. After all, Her Majesty paid Papa only thirty pounds a year, so surely she had no right to demand such an extravagant gift. But Papa insisted that the dearest thing of all was the Queen’s favor. Without her patronage, they would lose everything. So Papa dipped deep into their savings to woo a woman who possessed seven palaces.
“Her Majesty speaks fluent Italian,” he said, his eyes fixed on Whitehall as it loomed ever nearer. “Mind your every word. Her spies are everywhere. Her enemies’ spies, too.”
THE GUARDS USHERED THEM into the Royal Presence Chamber, the biggest room Aemilia had ever seen, as though it had been built for giants. Long glassed windows flooded the space with light, and an endless banquet table ran the length of the room.
Every royal servant from the highest-born courtier to the lowliest boot boy was expected to present Her Majesty with a New Year’s gift. Though the legal year began in March, the Queen celebrated New Year on the first of January according to ancient Roman tradition.
Aemilia blinked before the magnificence of the courtiers. The men were like peacocks in their silks and lace, while the ladies were more exquisite still, as though the Queen, wishing to surround herself in beauty, had selected them for their looks. The high ladies of court flaunted their velvet, forbidden by law for those of lesser rank. With their faces painted in white lead and red vermilion, they seemed creatures set apart.
“But where’s the Queen?” Aemilia asked.
On the far end of the room, she saw the empty throne surmounted by its embroidered canopy.
“Her Majesty is in her Privy Chamber,” Papa said, pointing to a set of great double doors flanked by guards. “Only her most trusted courtiers and advisors are allowed inside.”
Aemilia’s impertinence was swept aside as a gentleman in silver brocade hailed Papa. She couldn’t keep herself from gawping at the man’s calves, which were encased in pink silken hose. Diamonds glinted from his earlobes.
“Daughters, this is the great poet, Sir Philip Sidney. Your lordship, these are my daughters, Angela and Aemilia. Little Aemilia fancies herself a poet.”
The young man seemed intrigued. “A noble vocation for a maid. My sister Mary is a poet, greatly favored by Her Majesty.”
He extended his hand to the girl who appeared at his side. Mary Sidney seemed to be no older than Angela, yet already she had the bearing of a great lady of the court. Pearls gleamed in her red-gold hair and draped her velvet gown.
“A femme savante,” her brother said. “Second only to our gracious Queen herself.”
Spellbound, Aemilia swept down as gracefully as she could and her sister did the same.
“What a striking child, you are,” Mary Sidney said, smiling at Aemilia, who blinked at her worshipfully. “I can just picture you in a masque as a Moorish princess. May all the Muses bless you, my little poet.”
With a wink, Mary Sidney and her brother melted back into the crowd while Aemilia trembled from head to foot, giddy from their blessing.
“Angelina mia,” a voice cried out. “You are as lovely as the first day of spring!”
Aemilia whirled to see her uncles sweep in. They clustered around, offering their kisses. Then it was time to take their places at the banquet table.
Though Angela only picked at her food, no doubt terrified of staining her borrowed clothes, Aemilia happily stuffed herself, for she’d never beheld such a feast. Roasted venison there was, and veal in orange sauce, stewed kid, pheasant with sliced onions, coney in mustard sauce, and capon cooked in ale. There were pasties of fallow deer and red deer as well as tarts, fritters, and gingerbread. Servants kept filling her goblet with claret, but before she could take a swig, Papa poured most of it away and watered down what little remained. He watered his own wine as well. Too much was at stake to allow himself to become drunk.
Aemilia’s eyes kept darting to the throne, which remained empty.
ONLY WHEN THE SERVANTS cleared away the empty platters did the Queen finally emerge with a trumpet fanfare. Flanking her were her most trusted advisors, William Cecil and Francis Walsingham, dressed in stark black as the sober men of government they were and setting a sharp contrast to the courtiers. The Queen set Aemilia quaking. This was no ordinary woman, but one who called herself a prince. It was impossible to judge her age, since her face was coated with so many layers of white lead. Sitting in state, high upon her throne, she was untouchable. It seemed impossible to believe that she ate and drank and used the privy pot like the rest of them.
At last the exchange of gifts began, each denizen of the court making an offering. In return, the Queen granted each royal servant gilt plate of a weight and value reflecting her subject’s rank.
Some gifts were spectacular indeed. With much bowing and sighing, the Earl of Leicester presented Her Majesty with a collar of diamonds while his nephew and niece, Philip and Mary Sidney, gave her a telescope and a celestial globe—the Queen adored stargazing.
A respectful hush fell as a most impressive man made his way toward the throne. He looked to be about Papa’s age and he carried himself with an austere dignity. On his arm he bore a hooded peregrine falcon, which he presented to the Queen with a deep bow.
“Henry Carey,” Papa said. “The Baron Hunsdon. He put down Mary Stuart’s northern rebellion against the Queen. Her Majesty rewarded him by making him her Master of Hawks. He’s her first cousin on the Boleyn side. His sister, Catherine, is the Queen’s most trusted lady-in-waiting.”
But Angela’s commentary, whispered in Aemilia’s ear, was far more thrilling. “He’s Old King Henry’s bastard by Mary Boleyn. The Queen’s half brother!”
Aemilia was awash in bewilderment, for she’d always thought a bastard birth like her own to be a mark of disgrace, yet there seemed to be no stain attached to this man. The very air he breathed seemed golden with power.
“If he had been the King’s lawful son,” Angela whispered, “he would be sitting on that throne. Not Elizabeth.”
With a flourish, Lord Hunsdon removed the falcon’s hood and untied the jesses. Aemilia gaped as, at his command, the peregrine soared over their heads to the far end of the room where it grasped in its beak a golden ring from a servant’s palm before winging its way back to the throne. The Queen stood prepared, her brocade sleeve armored with a stiff leather gauntlet. Papa is right, Aemilia thought. When she smiles, it’s like sunlight. Suddenly, the Queen seemed like a real woman, shining in mirth, filled with goodwill toward them all. Laughing, she offered her arm for the bird to perch upon. The falcon released the golden ring into the Queen’s cupped hand while her audience cheered until they were hoarse. What a spectacle! What a magician Lord Hunsdon must be to make the Queen drop her mask, if only for a moment, and grace her subjects with the light of her joy.
AFTER THE HIGH-RANKING COURTIERS had made their offerings, the lowlier servants surrendered their gifts.
At last it was Papa’s turn. Aemilia puffed in pride to watch him stride forward, bowing with fluid movements, as though he were performing a dance. But instead of a gift, he led her and Angela by the hand. Angela carried an exquisite Venetian lute.
“Your Gracious Majesty,” he said, “your humble servant introduces his daughters, Angela and Aemilia Battista Bassano.”
Aemilia and Angela curtsied while Papa backed discreetly into the shadows. Smiling sweetly to Her Majesty, Angela began to play the lute, and then she and Aemilia sang Italian madrigals. Madrigals were meant to be sung a cappella, but Angela displayed her virtuosity on the lute, her fingers leaping up and down the frets. The Bassano sisters’ voices wove in tight harmony as they sang the music of Palestrina, Cipriano de Rore, and Orlando di Lasso. Much Italian music was forbidden, being Catholic, but the madrigal was wholly secular.
Never had Aemilia been more terrified. Papa had impressed upon her that the Queen herself could play the lute and virginals with astonishing skill.
Their last song was in English to make their homage to Her Majesty plain for everyone to hear.
As Vesta was from Latmos hill descending
She spied a maiden Queen the same ascending
Attended on by all the shepherds’ swain;
To whom Diana’s darlings came running down amain
First two by two, then three by three together,
Leaving their Goddess all alone, hasted thither;
And mingling with the shepherds in her train,
With mirthful tunes her presence entertain.
Then sang the shepherds and nymphs of Diana:
Long live fair Oriana!
After the song, Aemilia swept in a curtsy so low that her hair touched the floor. When she dared to lift her eyes, she saw Her Majesty’s face soften before their tribute.
The Dark Lady's Mask Page 2