Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  “I would say, sir,” she said with a laugh, “that it was far more than I needed.”

  “I have a small carriage I do not use. It will suit you just right.”

  “No, my lord! I can’t accept such a gift. What will people say?”

  “I care not.” Hunsdon’s eyes flashed. “Cannot I make a gift to a friend?”

  “I will accept it only as a loan.”

  “I’ll ask it back when I need it.” Hunsdon beamed, eyes sparkling, bearded lips turning up in an irresistible grin. “Now, Mistress, shall I have your carriage brought round?”

  The carriage and horses were kept in a mews outside St. Botolph’s Gate, and Marco became a coachman, with a new russet coat and his first pair of boots. The carriage held two persons—three if one was small. Emilia rode in it to the Exchange and to St. Botolph’s, and she delighted in the trot-trot sound of the horses’ hooves on the packed-earth and cobblestone streets and the rush of the air past the window.

  Before the end of September, Anthony Babington and his accomplices were put to bloody death at Tyburn.

  “They cut Babington down and he wasn’t dead yet,” said Alfi. “He was all blue in the face, gagging and trying to breathe, and the hangman plunged a knife into his naked chest and ripped it open from throat to belly, then reached in and brought out his heart, all slippery and red, and Babington gave such a scream as you never heard in your life.”

  “Please stop, Alfi.” Emilia closed her eyes. “Why must traitors suffer so? Is not death punishment enough?”

  Alfi shrugged. “That’s the way it is.”

  “What will happen to the Queen of Scots?”

  “She’s done for. The Queen dare not let her live.”

  “Lord Hunsdon said he advised her Majesty to have her killed years ago.”

  Alfi frowned. “Em, why do you visit Lord Hunsdon so often?”

  She stiffened. “Why should I not?”

  “He’s given you gifts and hired the most famous doctor in London for your mother.”

  “He is a kind gentleman,” she snapped. “Is it so hard to believe that he would be generous to a family left fatherless?”

  “What is he getting in return?”

  “How dare you!” She seized the poker and attacked the fire. Sparks flew, and the nearly consumed log fell apart, opening to reveal a nest of fire within, the flames writhing like red-gold snakes. She poked until the log lay in pieces.

  After Alfi was gone, Emilia still fumed. The idea. A gentleman cannot even show me kindness. But she saw Hunsdon’s crinkling dark eyes and bearded smile, and heard his booming voice that could suddenly lower to a compelling whisper, and smelled the rich scents of leather and wool mingled with his own heavy, complex odor. She blew out the candle and lay in the darkness, the covers pulled close around her.

  November 1586

  Lucretia sat chin in hand in her Greenwich parlor, elbow propped on the armrest of her chair. “What troubles you, Emilia?”

  “Cousin Lucretia, I need your advice.” The cup in Emilia’s hand began to shake, and she set it down. “A great lord”—she drew a deep breath—“a man of position and wealth . . . seems interested in me.”

  Lucretia raised her eyebrows. “As his wife?”

  “No, he is married. I think he would . . . have me as his paramour.”

  “Ah.” Lucretia gave her an appraising look. “Have you yielded?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Say your honor is greater to you than life and you will die before giving it up.” She paused. “Too bad he is married. You could make sure of him before witnesses and bed him; then you would be married in all but the church rites. Do you have feelings for him?”

  Emilia twisted her hands together. “He is kind, merry, and brave. I feel safe with him. We get on well. If I could marry him, I would.”

  Lucretia narrowed her eyes. “Did I not hear about you and a young man a few years ago?”

  Emilia looked at the wall.

  “Emilia.” Lucretia leaned forward. “Have you lost your virtue?”

  “I was not at fault!” Emilia burst out. “They forced me.”

  Lucretia’s brows rose. “They?”

  Emilia looked down. “A nobleman and his servant.”

  “Oh, child.” Lucretia’s voice held pity, but hardened. “How came you to be alone with two men?”

  Emilia said nothing.

  After a pause, Lucretia said, “This is what I advise. If this lord offers to become your lover, accept him. An opportunity has come your way. Seize it. It is your best hope. He will provide for you and stop tongues from wagging.”

  “Do they?” faltered Emilia.

  “Of course,” her cousin answered. “Last week Alfonso got into another fight when someone said you dined alone with Lord Hunsdon at Somerset House. That you sang and played for him and sat at his feet.”

  Emilia clenched her fists. “Oh, how can I stop this gossip?”

  “Gossip thrives on secrets. Once you become this lord’s paramour, it will no longer be a secret.” Lucretia narrowed her eyes. “What a powerful lord does is accepted. He will provide for you and your mother. When he tires of you, he will send you away with gifts.”

  The fire crackled, and a log fell.

  “Emilia.” Lucretia held Emilia’s eyes. “What do you know of your family?”

  “What do you mean, Cousin?”

  Lucretia sighed. “Your mother told you nothing?”

  “About what, Lucretia?”

  “Emilia, your mother was born a Christian, but your father was a New Christian, a convert. A Jew.”

  Emilia frowned. “My father, a Jew? But . . . he came from Italy.” But memories flashed up: candlesticks and hushed gatherings; the Duchess murmuring to Lady Suzan, Jews, are they not?

  “Our family left Spain and settled in Italy in a town called Bassano di Grappa. They converted there and took the name of the town. Some of them moved to Venice and became musicians and instrument makers. They made stringed instruments for the Doge himself.” A proud smile touched Lucretia’s face. “But they kept the ways of their fathers in secret. My parents told me when I was very young. They said I should be glad to know that we are chosen by the Lord to serve Him, follow His commandments, and be a light to the nations.” She stopped and took a breath. “Emilia, dear cousin, our people have been persecuted, killed in horrible ways. Burned in auto-da-fes in Spain, hundreds at once, friars preaching and choirs singing to drown out the screams.” She took another shuddering breath. “Then King Henry invited them to come to London to be his own Court musicians.”

  Emilia nodded slowly. It was very like the story her father had told her.

  “We live outwardly as Christians,” said Lucretia. “We worship in Christian churches, pray, fast, marry, and baptize our children as Christians. The Spanish name us conversos. Some call us marranos, but that is an evil word. We keep our laws as best we can. I myself light no fires and do not cook on the Sabbath. My Christian servants cook and light fires for me. They know our feast days and holidays. We pay them well, but the ones I trust most are of our people.”

  Emilia held on to the stool she sat on as though she might fall. Everything seemed to be tilting out of balance. “My father was buried at St. Botolph’s Without Bishopsgate.”

  “Your mother is not of our people. But she and your father loved each other. Uncle Gasparo forbade them to wed, but they said their vows before witnesses and declared they were married in the sight of the Lord. Margaret promised Baptista that she would cleave to him and his people.”

  “Why didn’t they tell me?”

  “They may have meant to protect you.”

  Emilia thought of Lucretia’s French Protestant husband. “Cousin Nicholas . . .”

  “My husband is a Christian. We married for the sake of the Consorts, to bring our families together. But we grew to love one another. Our sons, though, want to be English in everything.” She sighed.

  “What about St. Christopher o
n the door?”

  Lucretia laughed. “The image of St. Christopher conceals a sacred prayer. We touch it for a blessing whenever we pass through the door.”

  Emilia glanced around the familiar parlor. How could it look the same, and everything so changed? “Cousin, I am a Christian. My parents taught me to believe in the Lord Jesus. Lady Suzan taught me the reformed faith.”

  Lucretia sighed and shrugged. “Believe what you choose. But when the Christians come to root out heretics and infidels—as they will—they will not care what you believe. To them, you will be only a Jew.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Do as we all do. Continue going to the English church, say the prayers, take communion. And come to my house on Friday nights and on our holidays. When you marry and become a mother, light the candles, say the prayers, keep the laws, and teach them to your children.” Lucretia’s face was heavy with sorrow under her plucked brows. “Emilia, my cousin, you are one of us, whether you wish it or no.”

  January 1587

  That winter the winds blew cold, whistling around the house on Bishopsgate Street, rattling windowpanes, stirring rushes, making attic beams groan. Dr. Lopez brought a potion made from a peck of salamanders’ tongues, while Emilia gave her mother hot tisanes of feverfew and lungwort. Margaret could not stop shivering.

  In mid-January, on Emilia’s eighteenth birthday, she received an invitation from Hunsdon to supper. At Somerset House, she sat with him at a small trestle table as a consort provided music. Her mother’s brother, John Johnson, a lutenist long in Court service, was there with three other musicians. She felt a little embarrassed, but he nodded and smiled.

  After bread, comfits, and wine, Hunsdon asked, “Mistress Emilia, would you favor us with some music?”

  She looked at Johnson, and he nodded. “Do you know this?” he asked, strumming a familiar melody. She did, and he handed her a lute. As the two of them played together, Johnson fell back and strummed, inviting her to improvise. At the finale, they both strummed hard and ended with a flourish.

  “Brava, Mistress Emilia!” Hunsdon called. “Now will you favor us with a song?”

  Johnson whispered, “You know ‘Mignonne, allons voir,’ don’t you?” He strummed the introduction.

  “‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose / Que le matin avait déclose . . .’” The plangent tune and melancholy words of Ronsard’s song cast a spell over the room. On the second verse, Johnson added his soft tenor to her soprano. When the last note faded, the room remained still.

  “Brava, bella,” said Hunsdon softly.

  After the musicians departed and servants cleared the supper and took down the trestle table, Emilia joined Hunsdon by the fire, slipping to the cushion at his feet as always.

  “Here’s to the fairest demoiselle I know and a fine musician—Mistress Emilia.” Hunsdon raised his glass. The fire reflected through the crystal, making the red liquid gleam.

  She smiled up at him. “Sir, your flattery is great as your generosity.”

  “Flattery, is it?”

  “Are not all men flatterers? And you’re a man, sir.”

  “Aye, none doubt that, i’faith.” He chuckled.

  Her face felt hot.

  “May I ask you a question, Mistress? Is there some fellow you have set your cap for as a likely husband?”

  She swallowed. “No, sir.”

  He set down his glass. “Emilia, courtiers’ games do well enough for those that play them, but I’m a plain, bluff man. I tell you now that I will never lie to you, and I ask that you promise me the same.”

  “I will never lie to you, my lord.”

  He narrowed his black eyes at her, firelight flickering on his face. “And will you, then, my Emilia, gather your roses before they fade, as the poet bids?”

  “Roses may look fair and smell sweet, yet oft bear thorns.”

  “So young to know that,” murmured Hunsdon. “But no need to toss out the roses, is there?”

  The air seemed to swirl like water between them. Emilia took his hand and pressed her lips into his palm.

  He murmured, “Oh, my Emilia, what kind of rare creature are you?”

  She felt her own breathing, and the blood that raced through her body. She could feel his body with a sense other than touch, as though his blood were coursing at the same rhythm as her own. He touched her hair, pressing down the springy curls, then took her by the shoulders and drew her to him, pulling her up into the chair, then gently kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, feeling beard and rough skin, wool and linen and leather, and his hard breathing.

  In his bed, their coming together was slow and gentle and gave her no pain or fear—only a small smart, and that quickly over. She lay afterward with her head on his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall with his snores.

  After that first night, Emilia told Hunsdon, “I must not come here again but stay with my mother, for she has not long to live.”

  “Do your duty, girl. We have time enough.”

  Her mother had lain unconscious for three days. Her chamber was close, dark, and fetid; the room of someone who has come so close to death that there can be no going back. Dr. Lopez palpated her chest and abdomen and eased her eyelid open. When he offered her a cup of his latest potion, she turned her head away with a grimace. Emilia suggested a tisane. The doctor would not admit that tisanes made his patient feel better, but he did not forbid them.

  One day, as he was leaving, Doctor Lopez drew Emilia aside. “Mistress Emilia, she will not live more than a day.”

  She had expected the news, but her voice shook. “What can I do, doctor?”

  “Give her what I cannot—the love and care of a faithful daughter. Help her take her last few steps to God.”

  “Yes, sir.” She drew a deep breath. “Thank you for all you have done.”

  Soon Lucretia and another cousin, Barbara Locutello, arrived. That night, Lucretia sat by Margaret’s bedside until one o’clock; then Emilia replaced her. Around four, she rose, stretched, and went to the window. As she looked out onto the dark street, she heard her mother breathing hard. Emilia rushed to her. She was trying to sit up.

  “Do you hear it?” her mother whispered. “He’s playing again.”

  “Who, Mama?” Emilia lowered her mother down onto her pillows.

  “Baptista, of course. He’s playing his recorder for me.”

  “Oh, Mama,” said Emilia, “can you hear him playing now?”

  “Why, yes. Can’t you?”

  Emilia listened to the wind soughing and the house creaking.

  She was not sure of the exact second when her mother drew her last breath. Between one moment and the next, the sheet over her chest stopped moving, and her wasted hands lay still. Emilia waited a moment and then closed her mother’s half-open eyes, laying coins on them. She folded her own kerchief and bound it around her mother’s head to close her open mouth. She straightened the coverlet, placed her mother’s palms together, and knelt by the bed.

  Thank You, Lord Jesus, for ending her pain and taking her to Yourself. And please, help me.

  When she told her cousins, Lucretia demanded, “Why did you not call us? We should have turned her face to the wall.”

  “I did not know.”

  “Never mind. Send to Augustine and bid him come.” She turned Margaret’s steel looking glass facedown. “Are there more looking glasses in the house?”

  Emilia shook her head.

  “Have water brought to wash her. Have you prepared a shroud?”

  “Yes, cousin,” said Emilia. “I had it made long ago.” At least I did something right.

  They washed her mother’s body, dressed her in a clean shift, and wrapped her in the linen shroud, placing sweet herbs in the folds. They stripped the bed and threw away the sheets. They lit candles and placed them on either side of the bed.

  Soon Augustine arrived. “We must prepare for her funeral,” he said. “She must be buried before sundown on the day she dies.”r />
  “Why before sundown?”

  “It is the way of our family. We will arrange all.” He hastened away.

  Emilia had feared she would be alone and not know what to do, but her relatives took over. Bustling women brought food and gave orders, and men carried the coffin outside, put it on a cart, and conveyed it to St. Botolph’s.

  After the funeral, everyone returned to Emilia’s house. Lucretia’s servants kept ale jugs filled and full plates on the tables. Emilia ate and drank without thinking, speaking only when spoken to. When the tables were cleared and most of the company gone, Lucretia called her aside.

  “Emilia, cousin, you are our flesh and blood. You know you can call on your kin in time of need. In the future, do not wait.”

  Part 2

  “For well you know this world is but a Stage /

  Where all doe play their parts . . .”

  “Two loves I have, of comfort and despair . . .”

  1587–1593

  CHAPTER 3

  The Player

  June-August 1587

  Hunsdon leased a house for Emilia in the liberty of Westminster with a walled orchard, a small formal garden with winding paths, and a kitchen garden. She often had guests for midday dinner, for Hunsdon brought men from Court there to talk of great matters and walk in the garden. Then he returned alone at nightfall. That first summer, she took her leisure like a highborn lady, walking along the brick path under the fruit trees to a shaded garden seat where she sat and watched the sun dapple the walls with leafy patterns. When the weather grew warm, she sat under the pear trees trained against the wall and watched their green knobs of fruit swell into ripeness. She delighted in the heady fragrance of the grape arbor, how its round clusters soaked up sun and slowly turned dark and sweet. When the noon heat beat down, she sought out shade, and when rain fell, she took refuge in a summerhouse covered with twisting vines, inhaled the sharp scent of the rain, and watched dew-hung spiderwebs on the shrubs and water as it ran over fast-drying flagstones into puddles on the grass.