The Dark Lady's Mask

by Mary Sharratt

  Perhaps Alfonse could be mollified, at least for a time, if she bedded him. But the thought of such a loveless exchange sickened her. And what if he got her with child? They could barely manage as it was.

  Lord Hunsdon had done his utmost to be tender. In his way, he had truly loved her. She recalled how Master Shakespeare had asked her what hetaira meant. How she had sparkled in her role as Lord Hunsdon’s companion. She had played the virginals for him and read poetry to him in Latin and Greek, French and Italian. They had conversed on subjects as diverse as stargazing and statesmanship. He had adored her mind as well as her body. But at the age of twenty-four, it seemed her life was finished. Even if she was the most submissive and obedient wife that ever lived, Aemilia suspected Alfonse would always hold her past over her head.

  Regarding herself in the mirror, she considered how Doctor Dee, the Queen’s conjuror, was said to summon spirits in his magical looking glass. Might she do the same?

  “Come, you spirits that tend upon mortal thoughts,” she whispered. “Unsex me now.”

  She closed her eyes and imagined leaving Aemilia behind. Becoming Emilio. But a woman she remained.

  She dressed hastily, becoming Mistress Lanier once more. She worked her comb through her hair, ripping through the snarls until the tears came to her eyes. Beneath all the curses Alfonse heaped upon her, behind every mask she had ever worn, her true self lay hidden, and this was the one thing that could never be taken from her.

  AEMILIA SAT AT THE table with her husband, her hands clamped between her knees to still their trembling. Had he truly not recognized her when he grabbed Bathsheba’s reins that morning?

  The young man seated opposite her seemed subdued. He was scrubbed as clean as Prudence’s kitchen table, his curly hair combed back from his face. His eyes were shadowed and heavy, and his gaze seemed unfocused, as though he were seeing double, another face imposed upon hers that made him squint and shake his head. His voice seemed to be coming from beneath the waves. Aemilia put it down to the ravages of drink. His head must be splitting. Fortunately, Winifred had watered down the wine so that it tasted no stronger than cordial.

  “In three days I sail,” said Alfonse, staring at his plate of starling pie.

  In the interests of economy, Prudence had taken to snaring birds in the garden, a trick she had learned in Essex. Aemilia lowered her eyes as she skewered a piece of sinewy fowl on her knife. For months she had prayed for Alfonse to depart. Soon she would be free of him, at least for a time—she imagined he would be gone half a year at the very least. Perhaps this seafaring life is just what he needs, she thought. He could direct his wrath at the Spanish instead of her, possibly even reaping his share of captured gold. If and when he returned, he might prove wiser and kinder. Or would he come back with only a heap of gambling debts?

  “You shall speed well on your voyage,” she said. “The astrologer said so.”

  “Will you miss me?” he asked, in that querulous tone she had come to despise. “Will you think of me at all?”

  “Of course, I shall.” But her words sounded dishonest even to herself.

  “You think me beneath you,” he said, shoving away his pewter plate. “You think I am nothing. What must I do to win your tendresse?”

  His words left her reeling. She had never thought it possible that he could address her so plaintively, his naked heart bared. Could it be that in his fog of sack sherry and self-pity he harbored true feelings for her? She searched for the right words.

  “Just be a good man,” she said.

  She reached across the table to take his hand, but before their fingers could touch, he swayed on his chair and toppled backward, hitting the floor with a bone-cracking bang. She ran to kneel beside him. Wetting her handkerchief, she pressed it gently to his brow and temples, but he only looked at her blankly as though the blow to his head had wiped away all memory of their previous conversation. When he finally revived, the familiar look of disdain was set on his face as he winced and rubbed the back of his skull.

  14

  EMILIA SAT AT THE dining table with paper and quill, and tried to summon words that were vibrant and piquant, some idea for a play she could pen with the poet. Perhaps a comedy of errors or mistaken identity, of an intrepid girl who dressed as a boy only to fall in love with the gentleman she served in her male guise. But when Aemilia closed her eyes and attempted to picture these characters stepping out upon the stage, she saw only Alfonse’s accusing face. Yesterday he had sailed from Billingsgate, en route to Plymouth where the voyage to the Azores would officially embark. His parting words thundered inside her head: As soon as I’m gone, one hundred men will come to your door.

  If only she could use the power of art to turn her marriage into comedy, something to bring laughter rather than tears and pain. Surely, she thought ruefully, Alfonse and I could be characters in a tale of a man wed to a shrew. The play, of course, would be set in Veneto, and the shrew would be the daughter of Battista and she would have a beautiful golden-haired sister. The shrew would possess a tongue even sharper than her own. Aemilia would give her all the best lines.

  Eyes closed, Aemilia’s fingers tapped the table as she imagined their innumerable quarrels: the husband’s complaints and the wife’s spirited retorts spoken like a true Italian.

  ALFONSO: I say thou art a shrew.

  AEMILIA: That’s better than a sheep.

  Winifred trundled into the chamber, interrupting Aemilia’s train of thought.

  “Mistress, that astrologer’s at the door and says he must speak to you.”

  Throwing down her quill in annoyance, Aemilia stalked toward the door to see Master Forman in his black physician’s gown.

  “Good day to you, Mistress Lanier.” Puffing like a prized cockerel, he barged past her over the threshold. “Anon I have learned that your husband has embarked for Plymouth. Surely you wish to know whether he shall distinguish himself and thereby come to any preferment during his voyage to the Azores.”

  Before Aemilia could reply, the astrologer thrust two star charts into her hand.

  “Madam, I have drawn up charts of your past and future. As you see, you shall rise by two degrees—”

  “I cannot accept these,” she told him, trying to hand them back. “I can’t afford to pay you, sir.”

  “Ah, I understand you are very needy.” Master Forman wet his lips and chuckled. “Perhaps for fortune’s sake, you shall offer me special tokens of gratitude. Necessity does compel! I have divined your desires.”

  “I do desire we may be better strangers,” she said. “Please leave.”

  The astrologer refused to budge. “Your stars reveal that you are or shall be a harlot. Because, with your hot Italian blood, you crave the most outrageous acts of sensual pleasure.” His eyes gleamed like coins as he seized her arms, his breath hot on her bosom.

  “Away from me!” she snapped.

  “Death and damnation!” Master Forman sprang away from her and hopped on one foot. “What manner of monstrous giant?”

  Winifred loomed over him. “Did I chance to step on your foot, Master Astrologer, sir? Beg your pardon.”

  “Enormous cow, you have crippled me! You have broken my toe.” Master Forman turned to glare at Aemilia. “You shall pay for my loss of income owing to my injury.”

  “Lamed by a mere maid?” Aemilia tried not to gloat. “A country girl from Essex?”

  “I told you never to go near that piss-pot prophet, mistress,” Winifred said.

  “Piss-pot prophet?” Master Forman looked as though he might weep from the indignity.

  “Might I interrupt?” A second man approached the open doorway.

  Aemilia’s heart opened like a flower. “Jasper, what a surprise!” Shoving Forman out of her way, she seized Jasper’s hands. “I’ve hardly seen you since the wedding!” Her cursed wedding day that had been like her funeral.

  The two of them kissed and embraced in the Italian fashion while Master Forman looked on, his eyes bulgi
ng like a toad’s.

  “Dissembling harlot,” the astrologer muttered. “The day after her husband’s leave-taking, she throws herself at the first strapping young man to show himself at her door.”

  “I’m her cousin, if you please,” said Jasper. “And if you call her harlot again, I’ll break your other foot.”

  “Indeed,” said Aemilia. “More of Master Forman’s conversation would infect my brain.”

  “This creature is your cousin?” Forman shook his head. “Mistress Lanier, may I commend you on your handsome, red-blooded, virile young cousin.”

  But Aemilia had already turned her back on the astrologer. Taking Jasper’s arm, she drew her kinsman into the house.

  Meanwhile, Winifred flung the star charts at Master Forman and herded him out the door as though he were no more to her than a stray dog. Stationing herself upon the threshold, she scowled at the astrologer until at last he limped away.

  AEMILIA TOOK JASPER INTO the parlor, the best chamber. Instead of costly tapestries, the walls were hung with painted cloths depicting classical goddesses. Starry-eyed Venus in her celestial chariot drawn by doves. Juno enthroned and flanked by peacocks. Diana and her hounds.

  What a novelty to have a guest to entertain! She asked Prudence to bring cakes and wine then called Tabitha to come with the baby. Aemilia realized she hadn’t felt this light-hearted since before she fell pregnant. Jasper brought out the best in her. Her heart brimmed to see how tenderly he held Enrico.

  “I’ve missed you so,” Aemilia told her cousin, with both fondness and reproach. “How could you stay away so long?”

  Jasper smiled at her sadly. “I know how jealous Master Lanier is. That’s why I waited until he sailed.”

  “It’s so ghastly in this house,” she said. “Take me somewhere amusing. Remember when we were children and ran off to the Shoreditch playhouse?”

  Jasper laughed at the memory but soon sobered. “In truth, Aemilia, I wish to take you somewhere, but much farther afield than Shoreditch.”

  “What can you mean?” she asked.

  Jasper handed the baby back to Tabitha. With a nod from her mistress, Tabby carried Enrico out of the room but left the door slightly ajar, as though to listen in. Aemilia decided it didn’t matter. She and Jasper had nothing to hide.

  “A letter arrived,” her cousin said. “From our kin in Bassano.”

  “Bassano?” Aemilia felt a rush of blood behind her brow, for the very name conjured the stories Papa had told her as a girl. She could still see the picture his words had painted, as vivid as a master’s oil painting. The walled city with the castle and the old covered bridge, the surrounding forests and vineyards, all nestled at the foot of Monte Grappa. On the northern horizon rose the Alps, shining white with snow. On the oldest square in Bassano, facing the ancient well, was Papa’s family villa, its entire façade covered in a vast fresco.

  “Our fathers’ last surviving first cousin, Jacopo Bassano, writes that he has not much longer to live,” Jasper said. “He wishes to make a bequest to the Bassano brothers who emigrated to England.”

  “Marry, they’ve all departed this world.” Aemilia thought of the five headstones in the churchyard where Papa and her uncles lay buried.

  “The bequest shall then go to the descendants. His condition is that at least one of us should travel to Italy in person to claim it. The bequest involves property and some money as well.”

  “You are going.” Aemilia took his hand. It made perfect sense that Jasper should make the long journey for, of all her cousins, he alone remained unmarried.

  “I want to take you and Enrico with me.” He squeezed her fingers.

  For a moment, Aemilia couldn’t speak. Such an offer of deliverance seemed even beyond the power of her dreams.

  “You told me your marriage was hopeless and that you hated your husband.” Jasper spoke without judgment. Life at court with its countless intrigues and betrayals had rendered him unflappable and pragmatic in such matters. “Here’s your chance. Alfonse has sailed and so may you.”

  Her head ringing, Aemilia crossed the room to close the door Tabitha had left partly open. She leaned against it, facing Jasper once more.

  “What would I do in Italy?” she asked, in a voice that didn’t even sound like her own.

  “You might pass as a widow,” he said. “They know nothing of you there. You could even remarry.”

  “With a husband still living?”

  “How do you know Alfonse will even return?”

  Aemilia stood in silence. Would an Italian husband prove any better than the one she wished to flee? Then another idea seized her, one so potent she thought her mind might explode from it. In Italy she could become Emilio. At last she might make use of her education, earn her living as a musician or a translator. Her distant kin in Bassano knew nothing of Aemilia. So why wouldn’t they welcome Emilio, help him find a livelihood, a home for him and his young son? She could become Emilio and never look back. But could she? Could she truly let Aemilia die?

  “You must make ready.” Jasper took her hands. “Next week I’ll come for you.”

  She nodded, her heart filled with resolve. Either as Aemilia or Emilio, she must leave this house of pain. There were so many preparations to be made. Who would look after Bathsheba? And what would she do about the poet?

  “Her Majesty has already given me permission to travel,” said Jasper. “She’s even paying my way so that I might purchase musical instruments for the court.”

  “So you shall return,” she said.

  “England is my home. I owe the Queen my livelihood. But you, Aemilia—what ties you to this island?”

  “Nothing,” she breathed.

  “We’ll see the villa where our fathers were born. Jacopo and his sons now make it their home.”

  “How was Jacopo allowed to live there after our fathers were driven away?” Aemilia’s heart pounded, remembering Papa’s tale of loss. But not even to Jasper did she mention why Papa and his brothers had been banished. That was something she and her cousins never spoke of. It was as if their fathers had never crept down into the cellar on Friday nights to pray and sing. Their fathers’ religion lay buried in a well of silence deeper than the men’s graves.

  “The Church protected Jacopo.” Jasper spoke wryly.

  “How can that be?”

  “He’s a master painter. His religious art was the pride of the Veneto churches. So they left him in peace.” Jasper shrugged his shoulders at the cynical ways of the world.

  Aemilia recalled how even Anne Locke had believed Papa to be an ideal Christian. Jacopo, out of necessity, must have followed a similar course. Perhaps, unlike her father, Jacopo had undergone a genuine religious conversion. Or had he simply worn his mask so well and so long that he had become the mask?

  “ITALY!” TABITHA CRIED OUT, racing into the kitchen with such urgency that she caused the baby to spit up on her coif. “The mistress is off to far Italy! What if she means to take us along?”

  Pru and Winifred were so stunned, they dropped the pigeons they were plucking.

  In the silence that followed, the cat slunk in from the garden and dropped its kill at Prudence’s feet—the biggest rat the Weir sisters had ever seen.

  ON THIS, THE HOTTEST day in Aemilia’s memory, she and Winifred trudged toward Charing Cross in search of a breeze and a cup of whey to cool their parched throats.

  A thousand thoughts whirled through Aemilia’s head. Was she indeed bold enough to leave England behind or was she a coward intent on condemning herself to her familiar hell because the journey to Bassano seemed too intimidating? Italy was no paradise, but a jumble of city-states and principalities constantly at war with one another. The Moors threatened invasion, as did the French. At least England was at peace, a fortressed isle guarded by the Queen’s warships that had seen off no less a foe than the Spanish Armada.

  Her jaw clenched at the very thought of the long sea voyage, enough to tax the constitution of a health
y adult. How could she put Enrico through such an ordeal? For her son’s sake, should she simply swallow her pride and wild fancies, and resign herself to be Alfonse Lanier’s wife?

  Even Winifred was quiet for once, her head and massive shoulders drooping.

  As they neared Charing Cross, a crowd blocked their path. The people’s faces were drained and white, their voices a rumble of choked prayers.

  Linking arms with Winifred, Aemilia wound her way to the front of the throng to see the narrow house with the red cross painted on its door. Beneath the cross were the words LORD HAVE MERCY ON US. The door was bolted from the outside and flanking it were two armed guards. The words pest house, echoing from the crowd, drove panic up Aemilia’s gorge. She and her maid stared at each other. This was the first time she had ever seen Winifred frightened, her eyes threatening tears.

  The inmates of the plague house, be they living or dead, sick or healthy, were now held prisoner, forced into quarantine. The Black Death had come to Westminster. The murmurs in the crowd seemed to indicate that London, too, was infected.

  “The master of the pest house died of a bubo in his right groin,” an old woman told Aemilia and Winifred. “And he’d two spots on his right thigh. The mistress, children, and servants are locked up in there.”

  “They’re digging a pit grave near Saint Martin’s,” a man said, his cap clutched to his heart.

  Through the upper-story window, Aemilia heard an infant wail. Her arms burned for Enrico, burned with the longing to hold him tightly against her, to escape with him as fast as she could.

  WAGONS, RIDERS, AND FOLK fleeing on foot clogged the lanes, every man and woman intent on seeking refuge with kin in the countryside or some distant town. Heading against the stream of traffic pouring out of London’s city gates, Aemilia rode for Saint Giles-without-Cripplegate, this time as a woman like any other. In the oxcart behind her, the Weir sisters sat atop all the worldly belongings they had managed to pack at such short notice. Enrico gurgled in Tabitha’s arms. Swaddled against the sun, the baby alone seemed cheerful to ride in the cart. Winifred, who sat driving the ox, was frantic.