Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  A spark flew up, and a rushlight blazed. The cloak was pulled away from her face, and she saw two young men. One, holding the rushlight, was square-faced with a bent nose. The other was Arthur Trevelyan.

  “I knew you’d come.” He smiled triumphantly.

  “What mean you, sir?” She rubbed her arms and smoothed her skirts.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you, Mistress.” He looked her up and down, then pointed to a bench. “Sit?”

  Emilia, sat, flouncing her petticoats, and Arthur sat beside her. The other man stood in a relaxed, attentive stance, arms folded. Emilia wondered whether he was a friend or a servant.

  “Have you been at Court, sir?” she said to Arthur.

  “Not this year. My father says I must study hard at Gray’s Inn and not waste time as I did at Oxford.”

  How could you go to Oxford and not read every book you could get your hands on? “What is Oxford like?”

  “Oh, you read in Duke Humphrey’s library, where the books are chained to the shelves, and you feel chained as well. And you attend dry lectures where not two words make sense. Then you spend the rest of your time gaming, drinking, and wenching. I do, anyway.”

  She gave a weak laugh. “I should like to see the library.”

  “Oh, nothing’s there for a girl. Dry, dusty tomes that have never known the kiss of a nymph’s rosy lips nor lain against her quivering thigh.”

  Emilia felt annoyed. “I’d like it.”

  “You’re a strange girl. Pretty enough, but dull as a kitchen wench. And like a kitchen wench, fit only for one thing.” He glanced at the other man. “Think you we have talked enough?”

  The youth in brown smiled and nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Then . . .”

  With a quick movement, the brown youth thrust the rush-light against the floor, leaving them in total darkness. At the same moment, Emilia was shoved backward onto the bench.

  She tried to yell, but a hand clapped over her mouth. She struggled and tried to kick, but both men held her down. A hand reached through her placket, then a knee shoved between her thighs. Something pushed hard between her legs and then ripped inside her, going deeper than she had known anything could. Tears came to her eyes and she tried to scream, but the hand over her mouth prevented her. The man grunted and panted. She felt raw and scraped inside. Then the man jerked with an “Ah!” and pulled away. She felt a moment’s relief, but then the other took his turn, and it hurt worse.

  When they released her, she huddled on the bench, shaking, gasping for breath, clutching the edges of her torn placket, trying to pull together the ripped pieces of her petticoat and kirtle. Her arms ached where their hands had gripped her, and her face was streaked with tears. She felt a sharp, stinging pain between her legs, and something liquid was running down the insides of her thighs.

  The young men were breathing hard and fastening their own garments, tying the points that attached their trunk hose to their codpieces. She had not seen their bodies in the dark. The rushlight was flickering again. The man in brown must have re-lit it. Maybe he used the tip of his finger, she thought distractedly, as devils do. Or with his yard, his thing, that he put inside me. The thought almost made her giggle, but she was afraid that, if she let herself make a sound, she would start to sob.

  She drew herself to her feet. “I’ll go now.” Her voice sounded small and shaky.

  “Here’s something for you,” Arthur muttered. He jerked a nod at the other man, who reached into a purse and handed her two shillings.

  Her first impulse was to fling the coins to the floor, but she thought of what they could buy: white manchet flour, a bolt of cloth, a few pence for going to plays. The coins felt heavy and cool in her hand, the raised design of the crown like an unknown language against her fingers. She put the coins in her drawstring bag and gathered her cloak around her. The man with the rushlight opened the shed door. It hurt to walk, and she forced herself not to limp. She kept her back straight and walked slowly. But as soon as she passed the church on Bishopsgate Street, she broke into a run and did not stop until she reached her own house. She fumbled at the lock, let herself in, and rushed to the kitchen where Jenny dozed before the fire.

  Emilia shook her awake. “Jenny, bring water to my chamber, soap, and towels.” Her voice trembled so hard she could barely speak.

  Jenny gasped. “Oh, Mistress, what happened?”

  “Say nothing to anyone, especially not my mother, do you hear?”

  In Emilia’s chamber, Jenny poured water into the basin and laid down towels and soap. “Shall I wash ye?”

  “No. Leave and return in half an hour.”

  Washed, in a clean shift, still feeling soreness and stinging between her legs, Emilia went to bed and lay awake, shaking.

  Emilia stayed indoors now, and started at every sound. Even after her body healed, she felt sensitive. Her breasts seemed tender and swollen, and the fabric of her chemise pulled across them. She felt heavy, slow, and clumsy.

  “Emilia,” her mother asked one morning, “are you well?”

  “Yes, Mama.” She set down the bowl of broth. The brown liquid sloshed to the edge of the bowl. Bile rose to her throat, and she just made it to the close-stool.

  “What ails you, my dear?”

  “I ate something that disagreed with me.”

  It happened every morning, and then, one day, a terrible, bloody thing wrenched out of her, leaving her weak and retching and knowing what had happened. Not the way it was for Mama, she thought, lying weak on her bed. Proud and smiling, holding her baby, both wrapped in Papa’s arms. It didn’t matter if the Church hadn’t consecrated them; they’d consecrated themselves. But for Emilia, no consecration—only pain and shame, and a bucket that Jenny took out to the back courtyard and emptied into a hole in the ground. Emilia’s gorge rose and her stomach churned when she went out back and saw the fresh-turned earth by the wall. From then on, she avoided that part of the yard.

  Lying in bed, fingering the worn lace that edged her sheets, she thought of Lady Suzan’s mother the Duchess—married at fourteen, bearing her first child a year later. Had it been like that for her? No, for she’d brought a fortune that made her a delicate treasure. Her old husband would have possessed her with care and courtesy and honored her when she bore him one son and then another.

  August 1586

  “You must have a servant to help you,” pronounced her cousin Lucretia as they sat in the Lanyer parlor in Greenwich. “Alfonso says you’re all alone in that house with your sick mother and that half-witted servant girl and you’ll never let on you need help.” She leaned forward. “Emilia, tell me the truth. How are you managing?”

  “I manage, Cousin Lucretia.”

  “Your mother never asked for anything either.” Lucretia sighed. “Let me send you my cook’s boy, Marco.”

  “I can’t pay him,” protested Emilia.

  “I will give you money for his board and keep,” said Lucretia. “He can sleep in your kitchen. No arguments!”

  Tears pushed at Emilia’s eyelids. “Thank you, Cousin.” Looking up, her eyes met a painted cloth on the wall that pictured a man in a close-fitting cap reading from a scroll at a lectern. Other men in similar caps and long beards sat listening. “Cousin, what is that picture of?”

  “It is only an old painted cloth.”

  “It looks like a scene from Scripture. Maybe Christ in the Temple?”

  Her cousin gave her a sharp look. “Let’s go look at the berries. I will give you my compote recipe.”

  “Em, you need to watch yourself.” Alfonso leaned back in the chair, his long thirteen-year-old legs stretched at ease. He spit orange pips into the fire and watched it flare up in spurts and hisses.

  “How?” Emilia joined a length of lace loops together and tried to pull the thread through, but it resisted. “Ballocks!” she muttered.

  “You talk like a fishwife and act worse. The way you danced the other night, rubbing against that fellow . . .”
/>
  At a musical gathering, she had danced wildly to a French folk tune called “I’ve Seen the Wolf,” twirling and clapping and letting her partner hold her close. They had sung out the song’s words with their bawdy double meanings, and the boy had later kissed her in a corner and groped her breasts.

  “Em, you’ve changed. They say . . .”

  “What?”

  “That it’s time you had a husband to provide firm rule over you.”

  Emilia bit off the thread, tied a new knot, and started another row. “Any candidates?”

  “One of the Ferraboscos, a widower with three children . . .”

  “Not old Tomaso!”

  “He’s got a fine messuage with gardens and orchards.”

  “Huh.” Emilia looped her thread, squinting at the uneven rows of lace.

  “Em, there’s talk.” He swallowed. “One of the Gray’s Inn men said . . .”

  She stopped and looked hard at him.

  Alfi swallowed. “He said . . . he and his master had you for a couple of shillings.”

  Emilia jerked the thread so hard it broke. She threw down her lace, tears filling her eyes. “Bastard!”

  “I told him he was a filthy liar,” Alfi said. “Bloodied his nose for him.”

  “Oh, Alfi. You fought for me?”

  “No one says a thing like that about you when I’m around.” He ducked his head, face coloring.

  “You’re a danger to the world, Alfonso Lanyer.” Emilia grinned.

  He grinned back. “We play again at Gray’s Inn on Saturday. Come with us?”

  At Gray’s Inn, Emilia sat close to Lucretia and glanced around the crowded room. A young gentleman asked her to dance, and she hesitated, but she liked the music, so she took the floor with him. When the dance ended, her partner gestured at a curtain that concealed a chamber. “Let us draw aside and rest ourselves.”

  She tensed, not wanting to go with him into a concealed place.

  “Come on,” he urged.

  She had almost decided to go to avoid a scene when across the room she saw someone. No, I don’t want him to see me!

  But he had seen her and was making his heavy way through the press of gowns, cloaks, and farthingales, his bearded face smiling with delight. He swooped down upon her as he must have upon the army of the Queen of Scots when he drove them from the field. “Little Emilia, is it you?”

  “Lord Hunsdon!” She curtseyed to keep from throwing her arms around him as tears she could not stop ran down her face.

  He seized her shoulders and raised her upright. “Why sad, my girl? And you so lovely and all grown up!”

  “They are tears of joy at seeing you, my lord.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed, giving him a bright smile.

  He took her hands in his bear grip. The young man, who a moment ago had seemed such a threat, stood forgotten as the great lord, hefty and booted, his cloak sweeping over his shoulders and his broadsword clanking in its scabbard—not a fashionable rapier but a weapon that had seen battle—led her out to the floor for the liveliest dance of the evening, a volta.

  Emilia sprang and danced, and when Hunsdon lifted and swung her up as high as his shoulder, she felt as though the last few years had vanished and she was a child again.

  “Ha-ha!” laughed Hunsdon, and Emilia laughed too, feeling that joy itself had returned to her.

  Hunsdon delivered her to Bishopsgate in a small carriage drawn by two horses. “Emilia—Mistress Emilia, I should say—I cannot believe you have grown into such a woman.”

  “Indeed, sir, children grow into men and women if they live.”

  “You have lived and grown most splendidly, my girl.”

  Emilia reveled in the carriage ride, the cold air on her face and nose, her closeness to this big, bearded man who seemed to own not just the elegant carriage, horses, and warm robes that wrapped them both but also the very air that chilled them.

  “I shall call upon your mother tomorrow,” Hunsdon said. He kissed Emilia’s hand as he left her at her door—and the next day he appeared, good as his word.

  “So how is’t with you, Mistress Bassano?” He sat forward and took Margaret’s hand, heavy brows wrinkling.

  “I’faith, sir, I do poorly.” Margaret struggled to sit but fell into a fit of coughing. Emilia sprang forward and held her. “My daughter is such a comfort. I could not do without her.”

  “You are fortunate, Mistress Bassano, to have such a daughter. She is a pearl of great price.” He looked at Emilia, who felt her cheeks flush. “So,” he continued, “shall I scare up the finest physician in London for you? His name is Dr. Lopez.”

  Emilia’s eyes widened. Dr. Roderigo Lopez was physician to the most prominent people at Court.

  “I think you might use some meat and drink,” Hunsdon went on. “I’ll send a chicken or two, venison and bacon, manchet bread—do you like it? Jellies and preserves, a few bottles of claret wine. ’Tis good for the blood.” He stopped their protests with a raised hand. “Mistress Bassano, you must eat and gain your strength. Mistress Emilia, you do the same.”

  Emilia whispered, “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Lopez bled Margaret and gave her a cure for consumption invented by a German doctor named Paracelsus, compounded of peacock’s tongue, lungwort, powdered bezel stone, and blood of a basilisk.

  “Blood of a basilisk?” exclaimed Emilia. “Wherever do you get that?”

  “An apothecary in London imports it from Africk.”

  Emilia had learned from Lady Suzan’s tutor that basilisks were mythical beasts like phoenixes, unicorns, fire-dwelling salamanders, and werewolves. Basilisk indeed. I’ll bet it came from a pig. The only thing any good on his list is lungwort, and I can buy that from a simples vendor. She resolved to send Marco to the market for lungwort, dried lavender to sweeten the room, and feverfew. She would also buy mint and chamomile, for she liked a tisane herself in the evening.

  “The traitor Babington and his Papist cronies have been snared.” Hunsdon placed a piece of beef on Emilia’s trencher. They were dining at Somerset House in the great hall with hanging tapestries, dark polished wainscoting, and a sideboard, table, chairs, and chest of heavy oak. A fire blazed on the hearth and flickered in the panes of the mullioned windows. Servants stood against the wall, and two lutenists quietly strummed.

  “Why did they plot against the Queen?”

  “They have been cozened into believing their souls will go straight to heaven if they kill our Queen and put the Queen of Scots on the throne. The Holy Father”—Hunsdon’s voice dripped scorn—“tells his faithful that anyone may kill her Majesty since she is a bastard and a heretic.”

  “Did the Queen of Scots try to kill her Majesty?”

  “She swears she did not, but she sent letters in code to the traitors and wrote to the Duke of Norfolk, whom she planned to marry. His life was forfeit.”

  “Why should they not marry?”

  “Together they could raise the North, depose our Queen, and take the throne of England. We’d see the burnings again, be ruled by foreign Papists, and good-bye to godly religion and self-governed England.” He jabbed his knife into a hunk of beef. “Religion is not only about men’s souls. It is about who rules us, what laws we obey, how and why we are punished, and by whom.”

  Emilia savored the well-roasted beef with its sauce of rose-mary, sage, and peppercorns, and tasted the partridge dish and the brace of coneys. A dish of salad greens sat nearby, dressed with vinegar, oil, and sugar. She nibbled on the tasty leaves and wiped her fingers on her napkin. When she glanced at the flask of claret on the sideboard, a servant filled the crystal Venetian goblet beside her platter.

  Later, as they sat before the fire—Hunsdon in a chair and Emilia on a cushion at his feet—she asked, “What was it like, fighting the rebels?”

  Hunsdon grunted. “War is terrible business. I was governor of Berwick in ’68 when Dacre at Naworth raised an army of rebels. The Queen ordered me to attack him. I had but fifteen hundred men a
nd no cannon. He met us at a river crossing, and we stood and fought.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ha!” laughed Hunsdon, eyes flashing. “We routed ’em! They scattered like crows—some went north, some south, and some went into the river.” He took a swallow of wine and wiped his mouth. “Dacre took off and never looked back till he reached Liddesdale. The Queen, God bless her, praised me to the skies. I still have her letter; I know it by heart: ‘I doubt much, my Harry, whether that the victory was given me more joyed me or that you were by God appointed the instrument of my glory.’” He paused. “I have served her since she was a slip of a girl, straight and slim as a young oak, riding into London in her green gown, the crowds cheering and weeping for joy that the Papist, half-Spanish Mary was dead and we had a true English, Protestant Queen.” He smiled. “Since that day, it has ever been my charge to preserve her for England and the glory of God.”

  “I would I had your courage.”

  He grunted. “Men—and women—show courage in more than one way. Women oft have the harder part.” He paused. “You yourself have shouldered the burden of a household and caring for your ailing mother. That shows courage in one so young.”

  Emilia murmured, blushing, “I would have liked to fight with you.”

  Hunsdon smiled. “Would you put on armor and take up a sword like la Pucelle of France?”

  “Yes! I would be your esquire and carry your armor, and make your bed on the ground as soft as could be, and keep watch while you slept.”

  The room was still but for the crackling of the fire.

  He looked steadily at her, and she heard her words echo: make your bed . . . soft as could be . . . while you slept.

  Full of confusion, she rose. “It is late, sir. I must go.”

  “I will send for the carriage,” said Hunsdon. His eyes gleamed. “What would you say, Mistress Emilia, to your own carriage and pair?”