May 1580
Lady Suzan’s mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, sat slumped in her chair, her stout body swallowed up in the folds of her gown. Wrinkles crossed and recrossed her puffy face. Her thick-veined hands clasped and unclasped. Emilia had expected a lady of blinding beauty and power. Lady Suzan had told them how, years earlier, her mother and father had fled England with their small daughter—herself—and servants one step ahead of Cardinal Gardiner, who wanted to burn her mother for heresy.
“Once, at dinner,” Lady Suzan had said, “my mother said to the Cardinal, ‘Since I cannot choose to sit beside my husband, the gentleman I love best, I will sit by you, since you are the gentleman I love least.’”
The girls had giggled, and Lady Suzan had allowed herself a smile. “She was a wealthy young widow and had many suitors. The King of Poland wanted to marry her, and even King Henry showed her attentions. But she chose to marry my father, who was her gentleman usher.”
The Duchess of Suffolk had mocked cardinals, debated earls, and met with Queen Catherine Parr and other women to read the forbidden Tyndale translation of the Bible in English. When her friend Mistress Askew was racked and burned for heresy, the Duchess and her family had fled England. She had given birth to a child far from home, lit oil lamps in tents in a far-off German forest, and gripped the reins of a covered wagon as the family galloped for their lives, Papist soldiers in pursuit. They had ended up in Poland, where the King, perhaps remembering his old love, had asked her and her husband to govern a small kingdom on the North Sea. And there they’d lived in a castle surrounded by man-high snowdrifts and traveled by horse-drawn sleigh, until they’d heard that Queen Mary was dead and they were able to return home.
“Let me see these young maids better,” said the Duchess. “Come, girls, tell me who you are.”
Meggie curtseyed. “I am Margaret Carey. My father is Lord Hunsdon.”
The Duchess nodded. “You are Mary Boleyn’s grandchild, Queen Anne Boleyn’s great-niece, aren’t you?” Emilia was shocked. No one ever mentioned her Majesty’s mother.
The Duchess peered closer. “And who is this little dark one?” Her own dark eyes locked with Emilia’s, who saw the eyes in the portrait she’d been so fascinated with as a little girl: dark, unwavering, compelling. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Lady Suzan’s firm hand pressed her shoulder, and she found words. “Madam, I am Emilia Bassano, daughter of Baptista Bassano, musician to the Queen.”
The Duchess raised her eyebrows. “The Italian Recorder Consort, yes? And do you share your family’s talents, young Emilia?”
Emilia hesitated, not wanting to lie but not wanting to seem boastful.
“My Lady Mother,” said Lady Suzan, “our Emilia plays both recorder and lute, and is a fine singer. She also excels at her Latin.”
“Let me advise you, child,” said the Duchess, leaning closer. “Devote yourself to God’s word, for it is sweeter than all music. All beauties are His, and in Him only will you find rest.” Dark forests seemed to open in her eyes, and her voice, low but powerful, rang in the room. Emilia saw what Cardinal Gardiner had hated and Master Bertie and the King of Poland had loved. She wanted both to run away and to fall on her knees.
“Madam, I will,” she whispered.
The Duchess settled back. “Go to my chamber, child, and look in the large chest, where you will find a book with the names of John Calvin and Mistress Anne Locke on the title page.”
Emilia found the book and ran back to the parlor. As she started to open the door, she heard the Duchess say in a low voice, “Jews, are they not?”
Lady Suzan’s voice replied, “Mother, they are converts and true Christians . . . Master Vaughan, Mistress Locke’s brother . . .”
Emilia entered the room with the book, and Lady Suzan fell silent.
“Come see, girls.” They crowded around the Duchess, who pointed to the title page. “This book was dedicated to me by Mistress Locke, who Englished and turned it to verse.”
Emilia peered at the book. It looked no different from any other. “Madam, how is it that a woman wrote a book?”
“God inspired her, and she obeyed Him.”
“My mother says a woman should mind her house and not meddle in the affairs of men,” said Meggie.
“When God commands a woman to write or speak in His name,” said the Duchess, “she must obey. For there is neither male nor female in His kingdom, but all are equal in His sight.”
Emilia felt as though the words had opened up a door in her heart.
August 1582
“Have you heard about Lady Suzan?” whispered Meggie.
Lady Suzan had seemed remote since both her parents died. She told no more stories about her family’s adventures, and she was often away. Emilia felt change on the way, just as she knew autumn was displacing summer despite the warm air and deep blue skies over the red brick towers of Greenwich Palace. She felt change, too, in her thirteen-year-old body—which, to her dismay, had started bleeding each month—and in her restless mind, which got her rebuked when she asked too many questions.
“She’s getting married!” said Meggie. “My sister told me. She’s going to the Low Countries with her husband.”
Emilia stared. “What will become of us?”
Meggie shrugged. “I shall marry my betrothed, Sir Edward Hoby. You’ll go back to your family, I suppose.”
Emilia turned and started walking fast along the path.
“What’s the matter, Em?” asked Meggie.
Emilia kept walking.
“Is it because you must go home?” Meggie asked. “But you’ll be with your mother.”
Emilia turned and snapped, “And you’ll marry your wealthy husband and be called ‘My lady,’ while I’ll never have anything but what someone gives me, and on top of it I’m supposed to be grateful!” She turned and ran. Briars caught at her skirts, for the path around the kitchen garden was weedy and not so well trimmed as other paths. She took a quick turn and found herself facing a tall hedge with a small opening. She bent and squeezed through.
Quiet surrounded her. Broken potsherds lay piled around, and garden tools stood propped up against a shed. This was a place where gardeners worked, neither pretty nor picturesque, where the effects of the gardens were planned and the tools necessary to create those effects were hidden. Like rehearsals where none of the instruments were in tune and someone’s hautboy reed broke, but when they tuned their instruments and started to play it sounded perfect, all together as one.
Why can’t I be in the Consort? Then I could come to Court. I can play the recorder better than Alfi.
But if she’d been apprenticed to the musicians, she would never have met Lady Suzan, never heard her stories, never learned Latin, never met the Duchess. She breathed a prayer for the Duchess’s soul before remembering that Lady Suzan had said it was useless to pray for the souls of the dead since Purgatory was a Papist fable.
She sat on a weathered bench, next to a broken clay pot and surrounded by the dried stalks of the season’s last flowers. She had felt distant from God lately. Maybe I’m not one of His elect after all. She didn’t like to think He would send people to Hell just because He felt like it, but that was what Lady Suzan and the Duchess believed. There is nothing we can do, just as I can do nothing about Lady Suzan getting married, leaving Court, and sending me away.
She pulled out her copybook from the satchel she carried, along with a quill, penknife, and ink. She looked over her last translation of Tully. He had been one of the Good Pagans, and his wisdom was praised by Master Erasmus and other scholars, said Lady Suzan. Did he believe that God would condemn people to Hell just because he felt like it? But he didn’t believe in the same God that Christians did.
“Do you know what you read, little maid?”
Startled, Emilia leaped to her feet.
A tall young man with ginger hair stood leaning against the wicket gate.
“Yes, sir, I do,” she said, annoyed. Why w
ould she not? “Who are you?”
“I’m called a pilgrim. And you, little mistress?”
“I am Emilia Bassano, and I serve the Countess of Kent.”
“Ah. One of her little gipsies.”
“I’m not a gipsy!” Emilia had no idea what a gipsy was, but it didn’t sound good.
The man raised a corner of his thin mouth, giving him a mocking look. “Then what is it?”
“Tully.” She raised her chin and looked him in the eye.
“Oh-ho. Marcus Tullius Cicero? A writer for scholars, not girl babies.”
“I’m not a baby! I translated it, and my schoolmaster said I did well.”
“Read, then.”
She read: “Quo usque tandem abutere Catilina, patientia nostra.”
“Translate?”
“How long, O Cataline, will you abuse our patience?”
His lips still held that mocking smile. “You are a budding scholar. My sister has chosen well.”
“Your sister, sir?” Emilia felt growing excitement. Could he be Lady Suzan’s famous brother who had made such a name for himself fighting the Spaniards in the Low Countries?
“I am brother to the Countess of Kent.”
“Then you must be Master Peregrine Bertie!”
He bowed and swept his hat off. “That same unworthy pilgrim, at your service.” He took a book from a satchel. “Do you know Ovid, Mistress Scholar?”
“No, sir, I never heard of it.” She looked at the book with curiosity. Faded and worn, it had gold letters and scrollwork stamped on its cover and spine.
“He, not it,” said Master Peregrine. “The lighter sort read Ovid for tales of love and magic, but the wiser find in him both delight and instruction.”
“Is it a godly book?”
Master Peregrine laughed. “Not all books fall into one or t’other camp. Some tell of life itself—joys, sorrows, and passions, godly or no. This is such a book.” He touched the book with a careful forefinger.
Emilia reached out and started to touch the book herself. But at that moment, the wicket gate opened and footsteps approached. Looking up, she saw a young lady in a rich gown, mouth puckered in a mocking simper.
“Art hiding, Peregrine?” said the lady.
Peregrine turned to her and seized her hands. “Mary! I would hide from you only to be found.”
And, to Emilia’s shock, they kissed right in front of her.
“Ummm,” purred the young lady, pressing herself close against Master Peregrine. Her green eyes narrowed at Emilia.
Emilia dropped a stiff curtsey. “How do you, Madam?”
The lady inclined her head. “I do well, little maid.”
“My dear, this little black-browed scholar is called Emilia Bassano,” said Master Peregrine. “She is one of my sister’s students. Little Emilia, this is my espoused bride, Lady Mary Vere.”
Lady Mary said, “You are fortunate, child, to serve such a good lady. See that you serve her well.” She turned back to Peregrine. “How does my love this morning?” she murmured, stroking his collar and playing with the curls at his neck.
Peregrine whispered something in her ear, and she laughed. They continued to gaze into each other’s eyes, ignoring Emilia.
Emilia wondered whether she ought to leave or stay. Peregrine continued to smile his ironic smile, not taking his eyes off Lady Mary. Then, without a word to Emilia, arms around each other’s waists, they turned and went out through the wicket gate.
Emilia glared after them, fists balled up in the folds of her skirts. The fragrance of the great rosemary shrub permeated the air with its astringent scent. She put her copybook back in her satchel and shot a last look at the gate before starting to turn and go—but then her eyes fell on the bench. There lay the Ovid.
Emilia went and picked it up. It was the most beautiful book she had ever seen, with a cover of soft, pale vellum stamped with gold letters that read Ovid’s Metamorphoses. She opened it, turned a page, and stopped, her attention held by an intricate picture of a lady turning into a tree. She leafed through the book and saw more pictures.
She knew she ought to go after Master Peregrine and give him back the book. Instead, she slipped it into her satchel. Then she turned and hastened along the path, back the way she had come.
That night she read the book in bed, a single candle burning next to her. The tales led into one another like doors opening into room after room. They conjured flowers and garlands and pools, a young man who loved his own reflection, a girl who became a boy, and a king who turned his daughter into a golden statue by touching her and who grieved terribly until the spell was lifted, and she came alive again, and he no longer had the golden touch.
At some point Emilia looked up from reading, her eyes blurred. Meggie lay asleep beside her, snoring. The room seemed strange, as though she had never seen it before. The bed and its furnishings under and all around her felt new. She scrunched the covers in her hand and felt the thick weave. She stared at the chest across the room. It looked like a carved casket in a fable. She gazed with wonder at the curtains, noting how they hung heavy, like tapestries in far-off castles in Lady Suzan’s stories. She’d never known a book could cast such a spell.
January 1583
At the Twelfth Night festivities at Richmond, Emilia and Lady Suzan’s women were sitting together, still wearing their masks from a special dance they had performed, when the Queen, flanked by two of her ladies, sailed up to them. They quickly rose and sank into deep curtseys.
The Queen looked them up and down. “Cousin Suzan, I have not met the little black moth that flutters round you.” Her eyes raked the line of women and fixed on Emilia. “Unmask, child, that I may see your face.”
Emilia, heart pounding and blood rushing in her ears, removed her feathered mask.
“What is your name?”
Emilia opened her mouth but could not speak.
“Tongue that’s tied goes nowhere,” said the Queen.
Emilia spoke with an effort. “Your Majesty, I am Emilia Bassano.”
“Have a care, young Emilia, that you dance not too close to the light and singe your wings.”
Emilia swallowed. “Your Grace, those who love the light fear it not.”
The Queen gave her a sharp look. “They should, child, they should.” She waved a hand, and Lady Suzan’s party curtseyed again. The Queen and her ladies swirled away.
Emilia bit her lip, mortified. She spoke as though what I said was foolish. It was just courtier talk, it didn’t mean anything. I should have said something brilliant.
Later, a page came up to her and bowed, holding out a box. “Mistress Bassano, please accept a small token from her Majesty.”
Emilia opened it. There lay a dozen lute strings.
Lady Suzan smiled. “Her Majesty knows you excel at the lute.”
Emilia, speechless, hugged the box.
A dance started. Meggie nudged her. “That boy’s looking at you.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the dagger.”
Emilia followed Meggie’s glance and saw a youth of about seventeen in a short cloak and a dagger in a sheath at his back. “I’ve never seen him before. Who is he?”
“Don’t know. But he’s been looking at you all evening.”
A half hour later, another page brought her a note asking her to meet its author at dusk the following night in the orchard. It was signed, “Arthur Trevelyan.”
She thought about Arthur Trevelyan all next day as she sat at her lessons, ran errands, ate meals, or sat sewing. Should she go? She had almost decided not to, but at dusk she wrapped herself in her cloak, told a lie to Mistress Mary and another to the guard at the door, and slipped out, shivering, to the orchard. Ice crunched under her feet as she trotted over the path.
The boy was waiting. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
She felt awkward. What should I say?
He reached for her hands. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir.” She felt awkward.
“Let’s walk in the orchard.” He offered her his arm. She could hardly see his face in the dusk. “You’re a good dancer too.”
“Mayhap we shall dance together soon.”
Without warning, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips and teeth hard against hers. When she tried to pull away, he gripped her tighter and kissed harder, pushing his tongue into her mouth.
Emilia wrenched away and stamped on his foot.
“You little bitch!” His grip loosened, and she ran. She raced, panting, through the orchard gate, charged into the palace by a back entrance, raced up the back stairs, and did not stop until she reached her bedchamber.
That night, when she told Meggie, she was met with a superior smile. “You’re such a baby. Don’t you know how to save your virtue without offending a boy?”
That evening, Lady Suzan came to the girls’ chamber to speak to them. She went to each of their bedsides and spoke in a low voice. When she came to Emilia, she sat on the bed and took her hand. “My little moth, the Queen noticed you. I trust you will make good use of her gift.”
“Yes, Madam.” Emilia’s insides scrunched with pleasure.
“You know I am going to marry and go abroad. That means you must return to your home.”
Emilia nodded. Her pleasure drained away, leaving her chest heavy.
“I hope I have done you some small good in these seven years you have been with me, and I would that you take what you have learned and keep it always.”
Emilia looked down. “Yes, Madam.”
Lady Suzan smoothed the covers. “Emilia, you have a good heart. But you are over-rash. You are now fourteen years old, and of a marriageable age. You must take better care to guard your honor, for it is your treasure.”
“Yes, Madam.” Emilia felt her face grow hot. Does Lady Suzan know about what happened in the orchard?
“Be silent, obedient, and discreet. Read daily in holy Writ and other godly books.”
And Ovid?
Lady Suzan leaned over and kissed Emilia’s forehead. “Goodbye, Emilia. If it be God’s will, we shall meet again. If not, let my love go with you. You have many gifts. Use them to the glory of God.”
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