Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  Hunsdon gave her permission to visit the royal library, and she reveled in its riches, reading book after book, from herbals to romances to religious volumes. She played for hours on the clavier he gave her. She read or sewed beside her new gentlewoman, Marie, in the garden. Marie sat stiffly, plying her needle, filling her embroidery frame with flowers that bore no resemblance to those blooming around them. Emilia had refused to dismiss Jenny, despite Lucretia’s urging, but had agreed to restrict her to the kitchen, where she scrubbed pots and peeled vegetables for the cook.

  In the fall, the Queen would return from summer progress and with her would come the Court. Emilia would go with Hunsdon and be part of it all. She both longed for and dreaded it. She wanted this summer—this hot, still, bee-buzzing summer—to go on until its ripeness overflowed and melted the world into stillness.

  She waited for the long twilights and short nights with open windows and curtains pulled back, lying in the half-dark, skin prickling, waiting for caresses and lovemaking. Her chamber had become a theater with the performance not on lute strings but on bodies—no songs but rather soft laughter, groans, whispered words, and more laughter.

  But sometimes an unbidden memory rose up. One night, she turned abruptly away from Hunsdon. When he reached for her, she shrank from him.

  “What ails you, girl?”

  She could not say, only that the scent-memory of an aroused male body suddenly overwhelmed her with a feeling of terror at being pushed down, held in the dark . . . She jerked upright, flung her feet off the bed, and rushed to the open window. She leaned into the dark and swallowed gulps of air. A breeze floated in from the garden below. She felt Hunsdon behind her, the heat from his body.

  “I was not your first man, was I?”

  “You know you were, Master Carey,” she said, calling him the name he asked her to use. (“No ‘my lord’ when we are together alone,” he’d said.)

  He picked up a small paring knife from the table where some early apples lay in a bowl. Emilia shrank back against the window ledge. He took an apple and began to pare it. He held out a wedge to Emilia. She shook her head.

  “Dissembling so soon?” He sighed. “Ah, well, no sooner ripe than rotten.”

  Emilia felt nausea. He reached out and touched her bare shoulder where the chemise had slipped down. She shrank away and pulled it up.

  “Emilia,” he said. She did not reply.

  Is he going to throw me out? Send me to Bridewell to be whipped? Could I leap out into the garden and get away? In my chemise, barefoot?

  “Whatever has been in your life before is in the past. Ask me no questions, and I will ask none of you.”

  She tried to slow her breath.

  “I knew,” he went on, “that you would not have yielded so readily if you yet had your virtue.”

  Stung, she turned back to the window. “What is virtue, sir?”

  “I’m no philosopher to answer that.” He chewed reflectively. “But I know what I see, and I see a girl afraid of something to do with a man, and that man not myself. I should like to banish her fears and make her smile.”

  Emilia looked out into the darkness. She breathed slowly, trying to release her fear.

  Hunsdon went back and sat on the bed, slicing the apple. “You know of my kinship with her Majesty?”

  “I know you are the Queen’s cousin, sir.” She went and sat beside him. The chemise had slipped off her shoulder again, and she did not pull it back up. Give him something to look at.

  “Old King Harry, y’know, loved my mother, Mary Boleyn. For a time, he loved her as well as he later loved her sister,” said Hunsdon. He sighed. “But for a matter of the wrong side of the sheet”—he took a corner of the sheet and made a flapping movement with it, back and forth, back and forth, with such a droll raising of his eyebrows that Emilia laughed like a child—“the wrong side of the sheet”—flip-flip—“my life might have been quite different. For Aunt Anne held out for the crown before granting him the last liberty, while my mother did not. So Anne, God rest her soul, had her head separated from her body.” He shook his head. “While my mother married Master Carey and lived to a good old age.” He crunched the apple between his strong teeth. “Do you know that, before me, there was another Henry, surnamed Fitzroy? The King acknowledged him, made him a duke, said he should succeed to the throne if no legitimate male heir was born. But the boy died young, as Tudor lads are wont to do.” Hunsdon lifted an eyebrow. “That might give the lie to my story, mightn’t it, since King Harry’s sons all faded and died, yet here I am, hale and hearty, over sixty and still full of vim and vinegar, eh, my girl?”

  Emilia’s breath had almost returned to normal.

  “Have some apple, sweeting.” He held out a slice. They both chewed apple, the only sounds their munching and the call of frogs outside.

  Hunsdon said casually, “’Tis said some of the Court musicians are Jews, converted and living as Christians. I judge them not, for Christ tells us not to judge. I care not how other men pray so long as they live according to the laws of our Queen.”

  Emilia’s breath quickened again.

  He paused. “Whatever your past or parentage, my Emilia, what counts is being true to your word, your liege lord, and your sovereign. King’s child or yeoman’s, it goes for all. Keep to that, girl, keep to it always.” He finished the apple and tossed the core into the rushes. “It’s pleased I am, my dear, that you’ve cast your lot with me. I’m a plain man that speaks his mind in Court, on battlefield, or in chamber with lady. I will be true gentleman to you, and you be true gentlewoman to me. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, sir.” Emilia gave him her best smile, her breath steady.

  “Ah, my brave, clever girl!” laughed Hunsdon, and he wrapped her in an embrace, sheet and all.

  “Emilia!” Hunsdon’s voice echoed through the hall. “The Queen’s Men are putting on a rare fine play at that new playhouse, the Curtain. I heard the rehearsal the other day and thought you might like it.”

  “Who are the Queen’s Men?”

  “Why, the finest actors you ever saw. The very best, whether for comedy, tragedy, pastoral . . .” He stopped to catch his breath. “We shall see Tarleton himself, and boys will caper in farthingales and wigs, looking like the prettiest girls ever.”

  She laughed. “Prettier than me?”

  “Never, my poppet!” He swung her up and kissed her.

  They rode across town over the cobblestones and mud through Cheapside and the Exchange, through Bishopsgate, past the Spital Fields and the Theater, where they turned down Holywell Lane and stopped at a six-sided building with a pennant flying from its tower that announced a play that afternoon.

  “Here we are at the Curtain!” exclaimed Hunsdon. They crossed the yard with other theatergoers, and Marco called a horse-boy to keep the coach and horses. Seated in a box after climbing a narrow flight of steps, Emilia gasped to see how high they were. “We can look right down on the tops of the players’ heads!”

  “And hear every word!” Hunsdon said. “Get us some bottle ale and nuts, my man,” he ordered Marco, “and treat yourself as well.” Trumpets blared over their heads. “Look!” He pointed to the stage below. The actors were marching onstage in their finery, some in ladies’ gowns and wigs, cheeks rouged.

  “There’s Tarleton!” Emilia exclaimed. The famous Tarleton and another clown pushed and clouted each other until other players separated them to cheers and hoots. A player with a high forehead stepped forward, bowed, and began to speak. His voice was soft yet clear, and the crowd grew quiet. As he spoke, the other actors melted behind the stage until only two remained. The player finished speaking and exited.

  Emilia thought the play was silly. After much heartrending dialogue at which she could hardly hold back her giggles, each lover was united with his true love, all danced and bowed, and the clowns came out and traded bawdy jokes with the audience.

  After the jig, Hunsdon and Emilia descended the narrow stairway, Marco g
oing ahead with a rushlight.

  As they emerged into the courtyard, Hunsdon called to a young man trotting past, “Hold up, fellow! D’ye know where I might find Master Tarleton?”

  “He’s in the tiring-house,” the youth said. “Sir,” he added, taking in Hunsdon’s fur-trimmed cloak, plumed hat, gilt scabbard, and burnished boots. “My lord,” he added, bowing. “Shall I fetch him?”

  “Aye, go, and there’s tuppence for you.”

  The youth darted off.

  “Quite a place, what?” Hunsdon looked around, hands on belt. Emilia gazed at the stage. It was still daylight, but afternoon shadows lay across it, and the dark pit at the front yawned as men flung open its trap door and stuffed properties into the below-stage area.

  “Have a care now!” shouted one, balancing what looked like a chariot made of paper. “Don’t crumple it.” He unloaded his burden to another man, who reached his arms out the trap door for it. One of the girls from the play rushed past, skirts swinging like a bell. She cast a glance at Emilia and gave an arch smile before pulling off her wig to reveal her short boy’s hair. Emilia laughed and curtseyed, and the youngster swept her a bow, his farthingale flying up in back.

  “Well met, my good fellows!” Hunsdon greeted Tarleton and the player who had spoken the prologue. “Exceeding well played!” He shook the clown’s hand and clapped him on the back.

  “Thank you, your Lordship.” Up close, Tarleton’s round, mobile face was crisscrossed with lines and his bright blue eyes crinkled. He gestured toward the younger player. “My Lord, may I present our newest member, Master William Shakeshafte.”

  “Master Shakeshafte! I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Your lordship.” The player bowed. He had reddish hair; an egg-shaped, fair-skinned face; a small moustache; and arched eyebrows that gave him a surprised look.

  “Will the two of you join me for a drink at the sign of the Red Bull?” Hunsdon asked.

  Emilia and Hunsdon sat in the Red Bull Inn, sipping wine and waiting on their guests.

  “What do you wish to tell the players, sir?” Emilia asked.

  “I’ve got a weakness for plays, don’t mind admitting it. As Lord Chamberlain, I arrange pastimes at Court. I once had a small playing company of my own, and I’d like to have one again.” He wiped his mouth. “The Queen’s Men aren’t doing so well. They’ve traveled from pillar to post all over England, playing in guildhalls, innyards, the occasional manor hall, paid well in one place and nothing the next. My royal cousin pays them nothing. Plague’s hit the playhouses hard, but the City’s hit them harder. The Mayor and aldermen of the City don’t like them. The Puritans and reformers want to drive them out. The mayor’s issued edicts against playing in the City proper. That leaves the suburbs and liberties. Players deserve better.”

  “What’s your plan, Master Carey?”

  Hunsdon started to answer, but Tarleton appeared with the younger player.

  “Be seated, my men.” Hunsdon gestured to a bench.

  “I have not the acquaintance of your lady, sir,” said the reddish-haired player.

  “Oh, I forgot! Mistress Bassano, these are Master Richard Tarleton, comic player extraordinaire”—Tarleton bowed—“and this is Master William Shakeshafte.”

  The player started to speak, but Hunsdon said, “I hear you have been with the Queen’s Men only a few months, but in that time you have proved yourself to be a regular Johnny factotum. They tell me you can sing, dance, play any part, and even pen a play to boot.”

  The player’s blush rose to the edge of his forehead, leaving the top of his head pale. “My lord, I have but cobbled and patched some old plays to bring them up to date.”

  Emilia inclined her head. “I am glad to meet you, Master Shakeshafte.”

  The player swallowed. “Actually, Mistress, my name is Shakespeare.”

  Hunsdon burst out laughing. “Ah, what’s in a name?” He raised the bottle. “Would the two of you join us in this excellent Canary wine, here all the way from Spain?”

  One August morning, Marco announced the arrival of a man in the Queen’s livery.

  For a wild moment, Emilia thought the Queen or Margaret Hoby had sent for her. But when she saw the man in the red and gold doublet, she drew in her breath with surprise. It was the player from the Red Bull.

  He lifted his feathered hat from his high forehead, his curling reddish hair, half plastered down with sweat, springing out around his head. “Mistress, I have a message for Lord Hunsdon. A servant at Court whispered he might be here.”

  “No, he is at a Privy Council meeting.”

  “When he returns, please give him this letter.” He held it out, folded and sealed. “It holds thanks for a gift he gave us.”

  “How like him to make a secret gift!” She took the letter and put it in her drawstring bag at her waist. “Will you sit, sir?” She did not want him to leave just yet.

  “Thank you, Mistress.” He sat on a joint-stool. “Do you like plays?”

  “I do. The first play I ever saw was at the Theater. It had knights and ladies and a dragon.”

  “Ha!” laughed the player. “One of those old sword-and-buckler romances. Would you like to come and hear a play this afternoon? I wrote it myself.”

  “Are you a maker of plays?”

  “Maker of new plays and patcher of old; fetcher and carrier and keeper of accounts; holder of prompt-books and scrounger in rag-and-bone shops for cloaks, trunk hose, hats, and feathers; carrier of letters and poster of messages; dresser of drunken actors—I throw a mug of ale into their faces to wake ’em up and get ’em going after playing for twenty-one days straight without a holiday and wenching a’nights to boot . . .” He paused to take a breath. “You see before you, Madam”—he made a sweeping gesture—“the one and only, never-to-be equaled Johnny-Do-Everything around a playhouse and some more things that were never even thought of until I thought of ’em. And, of course, I fetch and pay for the cakes and ale and sherry-sack as required.” He plunged into another exaggerated bow, his hat brushing the floor. Then he snapped upright and popped the hat back onto his head with a comic blink.

  Emilia giggled. “When do you rest?”

  “Alack, Mistress, poor players never rest. Only when disgruntled Puritan lord mayors or privy counselors decide they must purify the City and render it free from corruption. Then they issue edicts and the like, ordering us to cease causing sin and ungodliness and close our doors.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “Pack up and take to the road.”

  “Is that going to happen?”

  The player shrugged. “Quien sabe.

  That is to say, in the Spanish tongue, ‘Who knows.’ Or que serà, serà, which signifies in the Italian, ‘What will be, will be.’”

  Emilia started to tell him the second phrase was also Spanish, but she decided not to embarrass him. “I might come to see your play. What’s it about?”

  “A shrewish maid tamed by a man who can match her. It may not please womenfolk, especially shrews.” A smile twitched on his lips.

  “Men call a woman shrewish when she but speaks her mind.”

  “’Tis not the place of a virtuous woman to speak her mind.”

  “Not speak her mind? That’s tyranny.”

  “You have a peppery tongue, Mistress. A woman should speak gentle, soft, and low.”

  “I? You haven’t yet tasted the heat of it!”

  His eyebrow raised. “And shall I?”

  Emilia felt her face grow hot. “Have you business elsewhere, sir? I would not keep you from it.”

  “Have I offended you, Mistress? If so, I ask your pardon. I am but a simple countryman.” He bowed. “In token of my penitence, I invite you to hear my play at no cost. Be at the Rose at two o’clock this afternoon and tell the gatherer at the door that you are the guest of Will Shakespeare.”

  She felt tempted. “A generous offer, sir.”

  “Not generous, Madam. I need auditors.
I’ll even pay them to come.” He grinned.

  “Very well, Master Player. It may be that I shall come to hear your play.”

  “With that may-be, then, may I be content.” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed, then left so quickly that Emilia, following, saw the courtyard gate rock on its hinges but no sign of him.

  Alone, she almost doubted he had been there at all. Is he some kind of sprite that can come in, insult me, then turn charmer and whisk himself away like a puff of smoke? She felt that a wind had blown over the garden wall—fugitive, restless, unrestrained, leaving her feeling quicker, lighter, a little more alive.

  That afternoon, Emilia, accompanied by Jenny, went to hear The Taming of A Shrew. She had never laughed so much. When the lady made her speech at the end about how a wife should humbly place her hand beneath her husband’s foot, Emilia could not help but guffaw.

  “Why are ye laughin’, Madam?” Jenny asked.

  “Why, she’s lying through her teeth,” Emilia said. “She fancies the man, and plays his game in order to get him.”

  Jenny did not look convinced.

  Afterward, as Emilia stood with Jenny, blinking in the afternoon sunlight and waiting for Marco to bring the carriage around, she heard a voice call, “Mistress Bassano!” She turned and was nearly knocked down by someone’s sliding to a stop a fraction too slow and colliding with her.

  “I say, Mistress Bassano. Hold up!”

  She grabbed onto the man’s sleeves and his rough woolen cloak to keep from falling. The two of them slid in the mud and clung to one another.

  “What—!” Emilia shouted.

  “Easy, there, easy, jennet,” he cooed, as though gentling a filly. “One false step and we’ll both be mud-steeped, ready for a mud-pudding, madly mudded, mud-suet, muddled madly, wouldn’t you say, Madam?” He helped her to steady herself, then stepped back and bowed. The sun shone on his reddish hair, lighting its auburn and gold glints.

  “Master Shakespeare! You gave me a start.”

  “Did you enjoy the play? Or was my lesson in shrew-taming too harsh for you?”