She adjusted her hat. “It amused me. I should, however, like to see a sequel that shows the tamer tamed.”
“Actually, Henslowe’s asked me to write one.”
“Would you show your Kate besting Petrucchio?”
“That’s what the ladies would like to see.”
“And do you always give the ladies what they like?”
“They seldom complain.” His eyes twinkled.
She felt her face flush. “I must go, Master Player. Thank you for an enjoyable afternoon.”
“My goal is ever to please.” He took her hand and bowed. She noticed the sleeve of his shirt, the row of bobbin lace edging his sleeve. He had changed in the time it took to get offstage and out to the courtyard. She smiled into his crinkling hazel eyes, memorizing his fair-skinned oval face, carefully trimmed beard, and small, secretive smile.
A voice called, “Will!”
“Duty calls,” said the player. “I hope to see you again, Mistress.” He walked alongside her as though reluctant to leave. “Do you like books?”
“Very much.”
“There is a fine bookseller’s shop in Paul’s Churchyard where all manner of books are sold: romances, tales, poems, books of advice, translations from French and Italian. ’Tis called Vautrollier’s, but it’s now owned by Dick Field, a friend of mine. I work there some mornings, usually Tuesdays.”
Emilia raised her mask and looked at him through its almond-shaped eyeholes. “I have need of new gloves. If I go shopping next Tuesday, I may visit your bookseller’s.”
“Madame’s hand is so small!” exclaimed the glovemaker, drawing around her hand with charcoal. “I have a piece of fine kidskin that will do well.”
Emilia negotiated with the glovemaker about the quality of kidskin, the price, and when the gloves would be ready. Then she stepped into the carriage and ordered Marco to drive to St. Paul’s.
They arrived at the great cathedral, its vast shadow looming over bookstalls with their shelves spread with all manner of books and broadsides. The stalls—semi-permanent structures with porches and sometimes second stories—loomed over the heads of booksellers and apprentices who stood behind the shelves, really doors that could be raised or lowered to close the stalls. People thumbed through books or stood absorbed in reading. Sellers waved sheets with ballads printed on them and called out invitations to read about the latest hanging or shipwreck. Vendors hawked pots and pins, ginger, cumin, and cinnamon, fresh eels, and dried stockfish. Carriages rattled along with mud slinging from their wheels, and horses trotted past, hooves splashing puddle water onto passersby. Footmen shouted, horses whinnied, and everywhere the crowds pressed and jostled and shoved.
Open gates led to the huge cathedral, the largest in Europe, its cavernous space appearing less like a church than a warehouse. Soldiers clanked in armor; farthingales met broadswords; silken, bell-like skirts swayed and floated above the mud and muck; masks smiled under headtyres at plumed hats and pointed beards, their wearers’ chopines raising them above the other people who ceaselessly moved in and out all around the great hub of commerce that was St. Paul’s.
Emilia and Jenny left the carriage with Marco and strolled among the bookstalls, looking at books, pamphlets, maps, and illustrated folios.
“Aren’t they afraid someone will steal the books, Mistress?” Jenny whispered.
As though in answer, a man catapulted out of a shop yelling, “Come back here, you thieving scum!” He raced after a youth who was pelting away with a broadside snatched from a table.
The bookseller caught up to the boy, seized him by the ear, and gave it a hard twist.
“Ow! That hurts!”
“You’ll yell worse when they brand you!” shouted the bookseller. “Give it back!” He tried to grab the broadside while still holding on to the boy’s ear. The boy wriggled away and was gone with his prize, dashing between the stalls until he was lost in the crowd.
“Damned thief!” the bookseller called, shaking his fist after the youth.
“Master Player!” called Emilia.
The scowl on his flushed face turned into a smile. “Mistress Bassano!”
“So you have thieves here?” She glanced at the table spread with books and pamphlets.
“That’s the second broadside those Billy Burglars have made off with this week.”
“What’s a Billy Burglar?” asked Emilia, picking up a thin book whose cover read, The Marvelous Adventures of the Two Englishmen in France.
“A Billy Burglar,” answered the player, seizing a broom and sweeping hard, “is a worthless, lazy rascal who thinks it fine sport to snatch books from under the noses of poor booksellers and sell them to ballad makers who lack the wit to make their own tales and must have a story already made afore their weak twit-brains can conjure up any more than a twitter-twitter-cheep-cheep. That lack-brain story will be set to some thumpety-dumpety-dump tune and bellowed from the Sussex side of the river all the way to Charing Cross in the west and up north to the Spital Fields by tomorrow.”
“They’ll make a ballad of it?”
“At least one, probably half a dozen.”
“What kind of story is it?”
“Oh, some scurvy tale of a woman that killed her husband and was hanged for it.” He swept harder, making clods of dirt fly.
“Mayhap he tried to tame her.”
The player exploded into laughter. “Ha! Mayhap he did.” He put down the broom. “So what do you like to read, Mistress? A tale of love?”
“I was looking for Master Calvin’s Sermons on the Song of Hezekiah.”
He raised both eyebrows. “Heavy matter. In the French?”
“I read French, but I’d prefer Mistress Anne Locke’s translation.”
His forehead wrinkled, and he began to dig among the books. “Maybe this will do?” He held up a small volume.
Emilia read aloud, “Book of the City of Ladies. What is it about?”
“Virtuous ladies. The other book you wanted was by a woman, so I thought you might like this one. I’ll give you a special price.” He paused. “From what I hear, Mistress Christine of Pisa tells it from the woman’s point of view.”
“How much?” She had never bought a book before.
“Seven shillings sixpence, but you can have it for five shillings.”
“That’s as much as three pairs of kid gloves.”
“Two, if they’re good kidskin and well stitched.”
She frowned a question.
“I used to work in a glove shop.”
Emilia opened the book and read aloud, “‘One day, as I was sitting alone in my study . . .’ I’ll take it,” she said, snapping it shut. “Give him five shillings, Jenny.”
“Shall I wrap it?”
“No.” Emilia stroked the book, reluctant to let it out of her hands. “I’ll carry it with me.”
The player counted the coins. “Be careful. You don’t want to read just anything written by a woman.”
“I don’t want to read just anything written by anyone,” said Emilia. “Can’t a woman write a good book?”
“I’ll say a woman can write when she writes a book as good as this.” He held up a volume with a cover of beautifully tooled leather. “Boccaccio tells stories of love, women’s falsehood, men’s labors for their mistresses, and the heartaches they suffer for their true love unreturned, all in exquisite poetry. Even in translation, it shines through.”
“Women’s falsehood? What about men’s?”
The player laughed. “Women are more false, as authors show.”
“Authors know but the half of it, being men.”
“Ah, you take the woman’s part! Do you deny that women are cruel and false?”
“What mean you by ‘cruel and false’?”
“Why, spurning he that loves her for another.”
“But mayhap she cannot love the one who loves her,” said Emilia. “If she cannot, she’s not being cruel and faithless, but true to her own heart.”
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The player raised his eyebrows. “Since you haven’t read the book yet, you can’t very well talk about it.”
“I’d like to write a story from the woman’s point of view,” said Emilia.
“Would you show us men bested by all the Shrew-Kates in Christendom?”
“I would show the truth.”
“What is truth, as Pontius Pilate asked the Lord?”
“Pilate had the chance to know the Truth, since it stood before him in the flesh,” answered Emilia. “But he turned his back and washed his hands.”
He frowned and shook his head. “I’d like to talk more, Mistress Emilia, but I must get back to the bookstall.”
“Farewell, sir. Thank you for my book. I can’t wait to read it.” Emilia hugged the volume. “And if you happen to see Mistress Locke’s Calvin, I’ll buy it as well.”
That night, she read until late. Before she was halfway through the book, the author, whom she now thought of as Christine, seemed like an old friend. At ten o’clock, she looked up in a daze to see the candles guttering on the table and the fire only a few glowing sticks.
After putting the book down, Emilia fell asleep at once. Her dreams were full of sunlit gardens where exquisitely dressed ladies walked along orderly paths, discussing ideas and gesturing with slender hands, white veils floating around their faces.
CHAPTER 4
Return to Court
September 1587
The Queen returned by torchlight on the first night of September with her train, riding into the City through Ludgate from her summer’s progress, ladies in waiting, gentlewomen of the bedchamber and privy chamber, and maids of honor riding behind her. Gentleman pensioners went before, led by Hunsdon. Next to her Majesty rode her Master of Horse, the Earl of Leicester. Peers and knights rode next, followed by wagons, litters, and pack mules that had been laden with provisions for the Court’s three-month stay in the country. A palace dismantled lumbered along in those wagons and litters: curtains and bed-hangings, plates and goblets, and wagon after wagon of wardrobe—gowns, farthingales, chemises, petticoats, bodices and stays, points and collars, caps and cloaks.
Emilia watched with Marie, Jenny, and Marco, who held a rushlight. When they saw her Majesty, they cheered and called, “God save the Queen!” Emilia thought the pale face under the jaunty feathered hat caught her eye and smiled.
The day arrived that Emilia finally returned to Court. It was a forenoon in November, and the Queen was expected to make her appearance soon. Courtiers and would-be courtiers were packed into the Presence Chamber. As they walked through the crowd, Hunsdon smiled and bowed to one after another. Emilia held herself straight and smiled at everyone.
Everyone stared when she swept into the presence chamber on Hunsdon’s arm. How she paced in her crimson satin with its green-and-gold-striped taffeta petticoat and sleeves; black-embroidered, snow-white lawn chemise like the Queen’s; and deep green velvet sleeves hanging off her shoulders. Pearl drops dangled from her ears, and a splendid necklace of rubies set in gold with a cunning design adorned her neck. All the right colors to set off her creamy skin and black, curling hair. How tiny her waist, how light and sure her calfskin slipper-shod feet as she flowed into the hall on Hunsdon’s arm. On all sides she saw stares, looks of astonishment, mouths whispering behind hands.
“Who is that?” she heard a voice mutter behind a fan.
“Hunsdon’s latest whore,” came a harsh whisper from the fan’s neighbor, a feathered headtyre with loops of golden wire circling a crown of rigidly arranged curls. “Word has it he bought her from the Jews for the price of a small castle.”
“She’s a Jewess?” gasped the fan.
“Hush!” rasped the feathered headtyre. “No one speaks it aloud. Between the Hebrews and old Hunsdon, you might find yourself facedown in the river.”
Emilia, smile fixed, swept past them and smiled at a lady in a garnet necklace. The wearer of the necklace smiled back, clearly not knowing that the bravely costumed lady before her was a sham. His latest whore. Bought her from the Jews. My face is red as fire, everyone can see. Keep steady, brazen it out. She tried to cool her cheeks by waving her fan.
The cornets blared, and the door to the Privy Chamber burst open. Twelve girls dressed in white, their hair arranged in curls down their backs, their necks and chests exposed by low necklines—the Queen’s maids of honor—paced in rows of two abreast. Behind them marched the gentlewomen of the privy chamber and the bedchamber, followed by ladies in waiting in black-and-white damask gowns, sleeves slashed to reveal the gleaming white satin beneath. Emilia saw Lady Margaret Hoby, looking dignified and erect like the noblewoman she was, walking with her sisters Catherine, Lady Howard, and Philadelphia, Lady Scrope. Meggie’s face was set, a smile on her carmined lips. All the ladies colored their lips with carmine and used white of egg to lighten their complexions, reflecting the pale-moon hue of the Queen.
A fanfare sounded, and the Queen appeared. Everyone sank into deep curtseys and bows. When the horns ceased, the rustling and exhaled breaths signaled that Emilia could look up and rise. The Queen stood on the dais, her black, white, and silver gown held out by an immense farthingale, her face framed by a silver-embroidered standing collar. Her neckline plunged as low as those of the maids. Her waist, cinched in by her bodice and an immense silver-embroidered stomacher, was as narrow as theirs. But the skin of her neck and chest had a puckered look like silk crepe, painted and powdered soft white. Her face was a narrow shield of white lead with a thread of crimson for a mouth, and her hooded eyes were two chips of black jet.
The maids of honor went and stood on either side of the Queen, their faces fixed, though twelve sets of eyes cut around the room before quickly facing front again. Released by a signal, the girls scattered themselves among the ladies in waiting like pear blossoms among darker blooms. Emilia recognized two of the older maids: Bess Throckmorton, with her long, intelligent face and sensual lips, and Mary Shelton, fair and plump. The Devereaux sisters, Penelope and Dorothy, stood among the ladies in waiting since they were now married. Their tall, red-haired brother, Robert, Earl of Essex, stood next to his stepfather, Leicester. The three Carey sisters, Catherine, Philadelphia, and Margaret, stood nearest to the Queen.
The Queen’s gaze cast about the room and settled on Hunsdon. He stepped forward and bowed, and her bejeweled hand stretched out to him, a ropy network of blue veins crossing its back. As he stood upright, he gestured toward Emilia and started to introduce her.
His royal cousin snapped, “How is your wife, my Harry? Is she still at Hunsdon? Must you keep her forever busy overseeing your estates while you disport yourself in town?”
Emilia’s heart fell like a stone.
Hunsdon opened his mouth, but the Queen interrupted, “Say me no nays. Bring her to Court, for I am sure she wishes to see her daughters.” The royal hand waved at the three Carey sisters, and they sank into curtseys. Their hard eyes looked through Emilia.
After leaving Court that first time, Emilia swore she would not go back. But Hunsdon said, “Courage, my girl! Don’t let those hens peck you away.”
“Do you call her Majesty a hen, Master Carey?”
“Tush! I’ll get round her. Only come back with me, sweeting.”
So she returned to Court. The Queen ignored her, but she heard no more hateful words. Mary Shelton greeted her kindly and drew her into conversation, and Bess Throckmorton complimented her gown. Emilia took pains to be merry and witty, played on the virginals and lute, and was always ready to play primero. But the Carey sisters ignored her.
One evening, as the Queen was receiving dignitaries, a young lady appeared, so elegantly dressed and beautifully coiffed that Emilia thought she must be visiting royalty. Several maids of honor whispered, “It’s Mary Sidney, Lady Pembroke!”
The lady was not tall, but she bore herself like a queen as she sailed into the chamber, resplendent in a blue and silver gown adorned with pearls. Her golden hair was elaborately cur
led; her face looked strong and firm, her complexion smooth and flawless. When she reached the Queen, she sank into a deep curtsey. Her Majesty rose and extended her hand. “My sister of Pembroke, how happy we are to see you once more at Court.”
“Who is she?” whispered Emilia.
“The Countess of Pembroke, she that was Mary Sidney,” Bess Throckmorton whispered. “She’s the sister of Sir Phillip, who was killed at Zutphen fighting the Spaniards. She is wife to the Earl of Pembroke, who is old and dotes on her.”
Looking at the elegant young lady, Emilia felt a heavy weight inside. Her own finery all at once seemed gaudy and overdone. Even though she had made friends with most of the maids and ladies, did not lack dance partners, and had been led out to dance by great, portly, white-whiskered Leicester himself (when he swung her in the volta, the Queen had looked hard at them, face a white blaze); though she could balance headtyres on her head, bobbing and swaying as she moved, and could walk in a wide, swinging farthingale, fan dangling just so; though she had read vellum-covered books in the Royal Library and played on the virginals for ladies to sing; she felt it all swept into nothingness. A void too deep to cross lay between her and this golden lady who talked with the Queen almost as an equal. Nothing I have is my own and neither is the man who gave it to me. I am deceived. I am a false lady, no lady at all.
“Will you come and play for us, Mistress Emilia?” called Mary Shelton.
Emilia raised her head high, set her mouth in a firm Court smile, and joined the maids and ladies gathered around a small table with cards laid out for primero. Margaret Hoby stood among them.
Mary Shelton placed a lute in her hands. “Would you give us a song fit for primero?”
Emilia had only strummed one chord when Lady Hoby snapped, “I’m sure I have better things to do than sing bawdy songs to a courtesan’s lute.” Her hard eyes met Emilia’s, and she stalked away.
“May I sing with you?” a clear voice rang out.
Emilia turned and saw the lady in blue.
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