The Dark Lady's Mask

by Mary Sharratt

  Aemilia briskly dried her eyes and faced Ben. “I have written a long narrative poem, Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum. Now I would see it printed.”

  Ladies will rejoice in your work, Margaret had told her. In ‘Eve’s Apology’ you defend all womankind. Instead of allowing Will’s slanderous sonnets to define her, she would retaliate by publishing her own poetry that championed womanhood itself.

  Her sudden change of tack seemed to bewilder Ben. “An anonymous work, I take it.”

  “No.” She fixed her eyes beyond his head at the painted wall cloth depicting Pallas Athena with her helmet and spear. “I wish to write as Aemilia Lanier.”

  “Is that wise, especially in the wake of this?” Ben held up Will’s book of sonnets.

  “Not just wise, but necessary.”

  In the face of Will’s defamation of her character, she must step out of the shadows and reveal her own truth. Until this moment, she had been terrified to expose her soul to the public, but with the betrayal of his sonnets, Will had ripped away her every mask. She had nothing left to hide.

  “What will Alfonse think?” Ben asked her.

  Aemilia quailed when she thought of her husband locked up in their bedchamber. But she lifted her chin as she gave Ben her reply. “If I write of godly things, no man may hold it against me.” Her throat was so dry, she had to swallow.

  “ALFONSE?” AEMILIA PLEADED WITH him until he unbolted the bedchamber door. Entering the dim, shuttered room, she let out a shriek to see her husband gripping his sword.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  A tremor shot through Alfonse’s swollen fingers. With an ugly clang, the sword fell to the floor. The look he gave her left her devastated. “I should challenge this man to a duel, but I can’t even hold my own sword.”

  She sobbed aloud at the thought of her husband fighting Will to defend her reputation.

  “But Henry,” Alfonse said. “Henry could challenge him.”

  “Henry shall do no such thing, and neither shall you.” With shaking hands, she picked the sword off the floor and guided it back into its scabbard. “If you lose, you are slain. If you win, you are hanged. Remember what nearly happened to Ben?”

  Her cousin had once killed a rival actor in a duel. Ben had escaped the hangman’s noose only by his knowledge of an ancient law pardoning those who could read Psalm 51.

  “But your honor,” Alfonse said.

  Aemilia laid the sheathed sword in his trunk then sat on the lid. “What pride hath lost, humility repairs,” she said, quoting from her own poetry. She would challenge Will herself with the quill, not the sword.

  When her husband sat beside her on the trunk, she shrank before his wounded eyes. Cupping his crippled hands in hers, she kissed them then cradled his head against her breast.

  ALL MY LIFE I have waited just for this. At the age of forty, Aemilia would at last become a published woman of letters. She would do what even Papa had never dared—show her true face to the world. No more masks. She would trumpet her truth in the face of infamy.

  Let this, her Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum, be her riposte against Will’s cruel caricature of her, her reply couched not in drama or satire but in the only thing an Englishwoman might hope to write without condemnation—devotional Protestant verse. But as a woman writing in defense of Eve, Aemilia needed a circle of lady patrons to endorse her.

  One by one she laid out the tarocchi cards that spelled out her destiny, those nine heroic women driving chariots and brandishing swords, holding stars and imperial scepters. That august circle of women would not just materialize out of the ether. She must seek them out. Margaret and Anne Clifford had already graced her with their support. What if she called upon seven other distinguished ladies, such as Mary Sidney Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke, whose poetry she so admired, and Lucy Russell, Countess of Bedford, one of Ben’s most generous patrons? This was no simple thing, seeing as Aemilia had no title or distinction and had been exiled from court more than sixteen years ago.

  Ben had employed the language of courtly love to woo the patronage of Lucy Russell and the late Queen, a thing Aemilia herself could hardly do. Nor could she, as a woman, lay claim to the same kind of professional and public persona Ben had styled for himself as a poet-dramatist. In all England she had no female model to follow. She would have to forge her own way, soliciting the favor of lady patrons by praising their wit and virtue, comparing them to the biblical heroines of her poetry. She would call upon these ladies to support her so that she, in turn, could laud them and all women.

  As well as paying tribute to Margaret and Anne Clifford, Salve Deus would offer Aemilia’s heartfelt praise to Susan Bertie, who had educated her, and to the other ladies she most admired. And if she, being banished from court, couldn’t access her icons face-to-face, she would woo them with her poetry, inviting them to her feast of words. Saints like swans about the silver brook. She would preface Salve Deus with poems in honor of each noble lady whose blessing she sought.

  Aemilia’s swan-feather quill, a gift from Ben, quaked in her hand as she began to write her first dedicatory poem, shocking herself with her own audacity as she addressed it to none other than Queen Anne.

  Renown Empress and Great Britain’s Queen,

  Most gracious Mother of succeeding Kings,

  Vouchsafe to view that which is seldom seen,

  A Woman’s writing of divinest things.

  AEMILIA WROTE AND WROTE until her stack of pages doubled in height. Her manuscript now opened with nine dedications addressed to the aristocratic women whose patronage she most desired, beginning with three royal women: Queen Anne; Princess Elizabeth; and Arabella Stuart, the King’s first cousin. Next came her loving homage to Susan Bertie, a poem of pure praise as Aemilia knew she could not expect any material support from her mentor who, like her, had fallen into decline. Then came her adulation of the poet Mary Sidney Herbert, the verses enthroning the lady as a goddess encircled by Muses. Following this was a poem to the Countess of Bedford; a prose dedication to her beloved Margaret; a poem to the Countess of Suffolk; and finally a poem for dear Anne, her former pupil. So that none would feel excluded, Aemilia had also penned a dedication to all virtuous women in general and to the reader of her book, whosoever he or she might be.

  ALFONSE’S HEALTH KEPT DETERIORATING, and Aemilia devoted much of her time to nursing him.

  “Me, I do not fear the plague,” he told her, as he lay fevered in bed. “I am halfway to death’s door already.”

  “Don’t say such things,” she said.

  Though her husband was three years younger than she was, something in his eyes reminded her of Lord Hunsdon the last time she saw him before he passed away. Alfonse seemed filled with the stark recognition of the frailty of his own existence.

  “Read to me from your Salve Deus,” he said. “Your voice when you read your poetry, it is like music.”

  And so she read aloud from her verses until she saw the solace that illumined his face.

  WITH THE THEATERS CLOSED because of the plague, Will’s sonnets seemed to be all that educated folk could talk about—at least those who remained in the environs of London instead of fleeing to the provinces. Aemilia struggled just to hold up her head as she walked through Clerkenwell and endured the stares and surmisings of those who connected the scheming dark temptress of the sonnets with her own tarnished history. She lost more than a few pupils.

  Far worse were the sullen looks her son threw her way when he came home to visit. When they sat at the table and she anxiously inquired about his health in this time of pestilence, he hardly seemed capable of looking her in the eye. Aemilia thought she could have withstood any slight but this, her only surviving child’s throbbing contempt of her.

  Later, Aemilia overheard Henry speaking to Alfonse in his sickbed when the two of them were alone, no doubt believing themselves out of her earshot.

  “I can’t show my face anywhere without hearing murmurs that I’m the bastard son of a
foreign whore.”

  “How dare you?” The anger in Alfonse’s reply shook Aemilia to the marrow. “Nom de Dieu, she is your mother! Show some respect.”

  Aemilia crumpled to hear him, her much-betrayed husband, defending her to her own son.

  And Margaret wrote in her next letter:

  My dear, be bold and strong. The only humility we owe is to God, not to outraged men, even if they be our offspring. Write and publish your beautiful verses. Let your fountain never be diminished.

  AEMILIA LEAFED THROUGH HER dedication poems, her long narrative of Christ’s passion, and finally her elegiac poem, “The Description of Cookham,” and her postscript to the doubtful reader that described how the title of her work had come to her. She read and reread every page, fretting over each line, until finally Ben wrested the manuscript from her hands.

  In October 1610, a little more than a year after the publication of Will’s sonnets, Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum was entered into the Stationers’ Register and printed in January 1611.

  WHAT A MIRACLE TO hold the small quarto volume bound in vellum. Aemilia couldn’t keep herself from kissing it, the flowering of her life’s work. Instead of silencing her, Will’s denunciation of her had transformed her into a published poet. Here was her vindication of women, dedicated to the greatest women in the realm.

  SALVE DEUS

  REX JUDAEORUM

  Containing,

  The Passion of Christ.

  Eves Apologie in defence of Women.

  The Teares of the Daughters of Jerusalem.

  The Salutation and Sorrow of the Virgine Marie.

  With divers other things not unfit to be read.

  Written by Mistris Aemilia Lanyer, Wife to Captaine

  Alfonso Lanyer, Servant to the

  Kings Majestie

  “Lanyer?” Alfonse said, as he studied his copy. “This printer could not even spell our name?”

  “Peace,” said Ben. “It makes you both seem less foreign.”

  “Lanyer,” Aemilia said, taking the measure of her new nom de plume. It was not unlike Peregrine Willoughby’s renaming her when she first arrived at Grimsthorpe as an eight-year-old. Aemilia is far too long and cumbersome a name for a child. Instead I shall call you Amy. The printer’s error had given her a brand-new identity.

  Henry took the volume from Aemilia’s hand and paged through each poem. Her son seemed staggered, for no other Englishwoman had ever published a printed volume of her own verse. This was something so astonishing and monumental, it would eclipse everything else Aemilia had done, even committing adultery and bearing two bastard children. She trembled to see her son gaze at her with such pride.

  “I shall show my copy to everyone at court,” Henry said.

  “I shall ask Nicholas, my nephew, to give a copy to the Prince,” Alfonse said.

  Nicholas Lanier was Crown Prince Henry’s music tutor.

  With brimming eyes, Aemilia kissed her husband. “The Queen must have one, too. After all, the first poem is dedicated to her.”

  “I shall distribute your poetry in the highest circles,” Ben said. “Will you walk me to the gate, dear cousin?”

  When Aemilia and Ben were alone together, he whispered in her ear, “I shall even give a copy to You-Know-Who.”

  With a knowing wink, Ben placed the ten volumes he had purchased in his saddle bag and mounted up. His horse pulled a face as Ben settled his massive weight in the saddle.

  After waving her farewells, Aemilia sat a spell in silence. She felt both triumphant and terrified to imagine Will reading her naked verses. But no matter. He can no longer dismiss me or cast me into the shadows. For now she, too, stood in the public eye as a poet with her name on her own book.

  “MISTRESS, COME AND SEE the parcel that arrived!”

  When Winifred thrust the package into her arms. Aemilia couldn’t keep herself from squealing like a child.

  “By my troth, that’s the Countess of Pembroke’s own seal!”

  Before Winifred’s inquisitive gaze, Aemilia opened the sacking-wrapped box to find a volume bound in calfskin. On its hand-scribed pages were Mary and Philip Sidney’s poetic meditations on the Psalms. What a treasure, this book that was not formally published but only offered as a gift to a chosen few.

  Accompanying the book was a letter, which Winifred insisted Aemilia read aloud as she peered over her shoulder.

  To Mistress Aemilia Lanyer,

  How I rejoice in your praise of women’s virtue. Please accept this gift of the Sidney Psalter, the fruit of my collaboration with my great, departed brother. When you praise my poems over his, I fear you flatter me too much. Nonetheless, your words of admiration have touched my heart.

  I have ordered ten copies of Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum. God keep you and all the Muses crown you in laurels, good mistress.

  With many felicitations,

  Mary Sidney Herbert

  “Oh, Winifred, the great lady has read my poems!” The letter still clutched in her hand, Aemilia threw her arms around her maid.

  THE LETTERS ARRIVED LIKE answered prayers. Susan sent her warmest praise.

  My dear, how brilliant you are! The greatest reward for a tutor is to see her protégée shine as radiantly as you, sweet Aemilia. I only wish I could afford to buy a copy of your book, so it is with much gratitude that I accept this, your gift.

  The Queen conveyed her best wishes on behalf of herself and her daughter and son. The Countess of Bedford commended Aemilia’s work and ordered five copies. The Archbishop of Dublin gave Aemilia and Alfonse a gift of ten pounds. But Arabella Stuart had fallen out of favor and was imprisoned by order of the King. And the Countess of Suffolk was evidently too busy overseeing the building of Audley End House to respond.

  But steadfast Margaret ordered a staggering twenty-five copies.

  My dearest friend,

  I cannot describe my joy to finally hold your published book in my hands. Likewise, I know that Anne finds much comfort in your verses. Alas, these are trying times for my daughter. Her husband has proved himself a brute. He has all but abandoned her at Knole whilst he swans about London with his mistresses. Neither will he grant her an income to maintain herself. He hopes to break her spirit so that she abandons the fight for her inheritance and signs over the monetary settlement to him.

  Even the King seems pitted against Anne and me, yet whilst I have breath in my body, I shall battle on. My poor Anne says I am the only one left who takes her side. But I have witnessed with the gift of vision that victory shall indeed be hers if she only perseveres.

  Thus I have urged her to reread your verses celebrating the women warriors of Scythia defeating the King of Persia.

  The Scythian women by their power alone

  Put King Darius unto shameful flight:

  All Asia yielded to their conq’ring hand,

  Great Alexander could not their power withstand.

  If women in ancient times could take up arms, so must my daughter gird herself and keep her courage.

  You, too, my friend, must hold fast to your mettle in the face of those slanderous sonnets. Your divine poetry shall restore your reputation and bring you the accolades you so deserve. If I had even a small hand in encouraging your art, I shall die a happy woman.

  Your loving Margaret

  Aemilia’s eyes filled to learn that her former pupil was trapped in a marriage that sounded all too similar to the hell Angela had suffered—save for the fact that Anne had a strong mother who fought for her at every turn. But it tore at Aemilia that Margaret had closed her letter by alluding to her own death. With her prophetic gifts, did her friend see her demise glimmering on the horizon? Margaret’s voice whispered comfort from afar. I am always with you in spirit.

  WITH MARGARET’S CHERISHING WORDS, Fortune seemed to smile upon Aemilia and her household. Prudence came to join them in Clerkenwell Green, and under her care, Alfonse’s health rallied. He rose from his sickbed to walk with Aemilia through the winding summer lanes. Thei
r neighbors nodded to them, as if in deference to Aemilia’s literary fame. Some of the music pupils she had lost in the wake of the scandal of Will’s sonnets returned, their parents clamoring for Aemilia to teach their daughters Latin along with the virginals.

  But if Salve Deus restored her good name, it did little to bring Aemilia more than a trickle of income. Books were expensive luxuries, and for all the novelty of Salve Deus, its intended audience of literate women was small. Religious poetry written by a female hand could not reap the same profits as a stage play that even the unlettered might enjoy or, indeed, garner the same attention as saucier verses such as Will’s sonnets or his Venus and Adonis.

  Aemilia tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, for in 1612, a year after her book’s publication, Alfonse finally received his promised patent on the weighing of hay and straw entering the cities of London and Westminster. It seemed that now her husband might finally make headway paying off his debts. Aemilia told herself that she had every reason to be content, that a good woman couldn’t ask for anything more.