“You’re Mistress Bassano, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Madam,” answered Emilia, wary. What fresh insult is on its way?
“I am Mary Herbert, Lady Pembroke, Mary Sidney that was. Now we have two Marys again, don’t we—hello, Shelton!” She gave Mary Shelton a jaunty nod and smile, and that young lady beamed back. “Penelope!” Mary Sidney exclaimed to Lady Rich. “And Dot!” She reached to take the hands of both Devereaux sisters. “How lovely you both look.” She gathered them all into a cluster like an elder sister herding a flock of small children. “Now, let’s sing, shall we?”
Emilia strummed the introduction to “Give Me My Yellow Hose Again.” As they all joined in, Mary Sidney leading with her strong alto, Emilia felt her spirit lift, and she joined her voice to the others’ in song.
One drizzly autumn day, Emilia was reading aloud to Marie and Jenny from The City of Ladies as they did needlework. Lady Reason had just told the story of Queen Semiramis, who ruled over the East and conquered the King of Persia. She paused and looked around the room, at the fabric of her skirt, the polished wood of her chair, the crackling fire, Marie’s quick hands and Jenny’s slower ones working their shuttles in and out, making lace. She thought, Christine once sat like this among her women, holding a book as I do now.
She was alone with the servants, for after a long Privy Council meeting one afternoon, Hunsdon had announced that he must leave at once for Berwick on the Queen’s orders. Emilia saw him off with kisses and watched as he galloped away down King’s Street toward the road leading north.
As she was about to start reading again, Marco appeared. “Mistress, it’s the Queen’s man.”
Unaccountably, she felt her heart jump. She smoothed her gown and patted her cap as the player strode in.
“Well met, Sir Player. Or should I say, Sir Bookmonger?”
He bowed. “I am bookmonger today, Madam, for I’ve brought you a book.” He held it out with a flourish. “Behold! The sermons of Monsieur Jean Calvin rendered into sonnets by Mistress Anne Vaughn Locke. It fell into my hands yesterday.”
“I hope you did not snatch it from a stall like that Billy Burglar.”
“Of course not! I paid for it with Queen’s sterling, for I knew I had a buyer.”
Emilia pressed the leather-covered volume to her heart. I have three books of my own now. I have a library.
“Must you now return to sweep the pavement?” she asked.
“No, I left Robin Goodfellow to sweep it for me.” He winked at Jenny, who sat struggling to hem a pillowcase.
“Robin Goodfellow?” asked Emilia. “Is that your apprentice?”
“Ha!” he laughed. “No, though he might play at prenticing if he saw fit. He’s a spirit who plays pranks, but helps good house-wives and servants. He will clean the kitchen for a tired maid if she but set out a bowl of milk for him.” Jenny looked up. “And she’ll wake to find the floor swept, the pots scoured, the milk covered and put in the cellar, and the fire laid for morning. He hates dirt and slatternly housekeeping like the plague,” the player continued in a solemn voice. “If maids be not scrupulous about their housekeeping, and especially”—he looked around and placed his finger on his lips—“if you forget to put out his dish of milk, Robin will”—he gave a sudden jump—“pinch you and pull out y’hair by the roots!”
“Oh!” Jenny clapped her hands to her head.
“What a cruel sprite!” exclaimed Emilia.
“Nay, he’s but full of mischief. He is your friend if you’re kind to him. Sometimes he’ll leave a token, a dried flower or a leaf.” He smiled. “When I was little, I used to think he’d left them just for me.”
A smile crept across Jenny’s face.
“And when there’s a wedding, Robin and all the fairy folk, even Oberon their King and Queen Titania herself, sing and dance throughout the house and bless it so that no evil spirit dare disturb it that night.”
Emilia listened, caught up in his wordspinning as much as Jenny.
“And they wave their wands over the marriage bed,” he went on, “to ensure the couple’s children will be fair and fine with good wits and strong, straight limbs.” His voice softened as his eyes fell on Jenny’s wizened face and crooked shoulder.
“Can we get him to come to our house?” asked Emilia.
“Set out a bowl of milk on the hearth. Then see if your house be not kept better, your kettles gleam brighter, your hearth glow more merrily. You might”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“even see him!”
The Curtain playhouse was half full on a midweek fall afternoon. Emilia sat in a box, Jenny at her side. A blare of cornets startled her, and she looked up at the musicians’ gallery to where four liveried cornet players were blowing a fanfare. One was a stocky young man with black hair.
Emilia gasped. “Alfi!”
It was her cousin—the same round, dark head and stocky build. He looked more muscular than when she had last seen him. He lowered his cornet, and his eyes looked directly into hers.
When the play was over, Emilia hastened down the stairs and emerged blinking into the light of day to find herself face-to-face with him.
“Cousin Alfi, how are you?”
His eyes met hers with no warmth. A line of stubble edged his chin, and his close-fitting hose outlined his short, muscular legs. He slowly raised his cap. “Good day, Cousin.” His new, grown-up voice was gravelly.
“I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re—taller.”
“I had no trouble recognizing you.”
“You played well. That Italian dance . . .” Her voice trailed off at his stony face.
He gazed at her, arms folded. “That’s a fine gown you’re wearing, Cousin. You have plenty of fine clothes now, don’t you?”
“Oh, Alfi . . .”
He shrugged. “I wish you joy of your new life.” He turned away.
She moved quickly and caught his arm. “Alfi, are you angry with me?”
He shook her off. “And why should I not be? You’ve disgraced the family, flaunted yourself all over town in your carriage, your silks and velvets and jewels with that—that—gross old man! You have no shame!” Alfi spat on the ground. “You hang on his arm while he smiles and paws at you. You wear an estate’s worth of jewels hung around your neck and dangling from your ears, you’re wrapped in enough silk to feed a prentice for a year—”
“Alfi, hush!” Emilia looked around. A few nearby playgoers had turned to look. “Come to my house,” she said in a low voice, “where we may speak in private.” When he hesitated, she took his arm again. “Come on.” He did not shake off her hand this time; he followed her to the carriage.
In front of the Westminster house, Alfi muttered, “I’ll not go in that man’s house.”
“We’ll talk in the garden.” She led the way through the gate to the seat under the pear tree. “Now, Cousin, what would you say to me?”
Alfi raised his eyes, full of so much pain that her prepared words dried up. “Emilia, why?”
She hesitated. “Alfi, please try to understand. I had nothing. My mother had just died. I didn’t know what to do.”
“My parents would have helped you. You could have lived with us.”
“Maybe. They did not offer.” She would not tell Alfi that his own mother had advised her to become Hunsdon’s paramour. “I would have liked to stay in my mother’s house, but if some busy-body constable had noticed I lived alone, he could have clapped me into Bridewell as a masterless maid.”
“Why not marry?”
“My choices? Old Tomaso? Some apprentice looking to get into the Consort and take my father’s place?”
“Are you too proud to marry an apprentice? I’m one, and proud of it! No, you wanted to prance in finery at Court.”
“That’s not true!” she snapped, feeling the lash of truth in his words.
“Then why did you sell yourself to this lord? You care more for fine clothes and a carriage than your honor.” He spat.
&nbs
p; “You can leave my house if you’re going to talk like that, Alfi Lanyer.”
“I never wanted to come in the first place.” He sprang up and charged away.
“Cousin, come back!”
He turned.
“Don’t hate me.” She went to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I miss you.”
He did not pull away as he struggled for words. “I don’t hate you, Em. I could never hate you.”
“I could never hate you either, Alfi.”
They were quiet. Then she took his hand. “Why don’t you come in the house? I have a fresh-baked seed cake and some pear compote I made myself.”
Alfi gave a sideways smile. “You always did make good compote. Now your sewing, that’s naught to boast about.”
She snapped her fan shut and thwacked his arm. He danced away with a guffaw, and she chased him. Then he stopped and held out his arm, and she took it. Together they went into the house, the rays of the sun slanting long and gold along the brick garden path.
CHAPTER 5
Winter and Rough Weather
December 1587
That winter the entire country seemed to hold its breath. Hunsdon was still in the North, and Emilia had not heard from him. Rumors flew: the Spanish were preparing to invade with a monstrous great navy of ships like floating castles bristling with bloodthirsty Spanish sailors and heathen Moors. Or so cried Jenny after coming in from the street, gulping out her terror in the kitchen as water dripped from her cloak.
“They’ll cut our throats and ravish us all,” she sobbed. “They’re goin’ to make King Phillip King of England, an’ we’ll have to turn Papists or burn.”
“Nonsense.” Emilia marched over. “Who told you that?”
“A boy in the marketplace,” sniffed Jenny. “He bain’t a Christian, not after sayin’ what he said.”
“Nay, for sure, he is a cursed heathen,” said Goodwife Min Prescott, the cook. She put an arm around Jenny and handed her a cup of small ale.
“He could ha’ been a Moor,” said Jenny, gulping ale. “Them Moors worships a devil they calls Mahomet. I seen it in a play.”
“Nay, Jenny,” said Emilia. “We will be safe. We’ve got Lord Hunsdon and the Earls of Leicester and Essex with the armies, and we’ve got the Lord Admiral with our navy. They’re a match for any Spanish galleons any day. And we’ve got our sovereign lady the Queen.”
“God save the Queen,” Jenny and Min both murmured.
Marco burst into the kitchen. “Mistress, pardon, but Sir George Carey is in the parlor.”
Emilia gasped, heart in her throat. “Lord Hunsdon—?” Dead or injured?
“He didn’t say.”
She rushed to the parlor, where Hunsdon’s eldest son, Sir George Carey, stood before the fireplace.
“Mistress Bassano,” he greeted her.
“Sir George, I hope you are well.” She willed her breath to slow. “Pray sit, sir.”
“I will stand.” His dark eyes flickered over her, and he sniffed a clove-studded orange. “You have been at Court of late.”
“I went to the Accession Day ceremonies.”
“I know you are my father’s paramour.” He spit out the words. “It is the folly of his dotage, so we in his family endure it. But we will not allow you to insult our mother.”
Emilia felt his words like a blow. “Sir, I have never . . .”
Sir George interrupted. “She will arrive on Wednesday next and will spend Christmas and the New Year at Court. Stay away, or you will be sorry.”
“I shall do nothing to offend her. She will not even know I exist.”
“Oh, she knows.” He drew back his upper lip like a cat. “She has not been spared it. I intend that she catch no whiff of your stench.”
Emilia started to speak, but he raised a hand. “Make no protest. If you disobey, you will be sorry. If you obey, your reward will be—to be let alone.”
Meaning I will not be thrown into Bridewell and whipped. She lowered her eyes. “Yes, sir. I will do as you say.”
“See that you do.” He turned like a figure on a clock and left.
The room rang with silence. Emilia’s eyes fell on the clavier. She put out a finger and pressed one smooth, cool key. She shivered at the sound. She spread her fingers and played a chord. Then she began a loud, pounding Spanish dance. As she played, anger welled up in her and out through the music, her pounding heart given metallic voice. She played hard and fast, teeth gritted. When her rage was spent, she let the dance trickle away on a silvery trail of melody.
The door creaked. She walked softly toward it and threw it open. Jenny, Min, Marie, and Marco jerked back.
She smiled at their anxious faces. “Well, my friends! Shall we have a mug of cider apiece and drink to the clouds of winter? One just left the house, in fact.”
They laughed and crowded into the kitchen, and Min hastened to pour mugfuls of cider.
“A toast!” called Emilia, raising her mug. They all smiled and clinked their mugs as if they could drive away cold weather, war, and ill will just by shouting a toast.
“To Winter!”
That winter was the coldest Emilia remembered. She went to St. Margaret’s each morning wrapped in a fur-lined robe, with Marco driving and Marie or Jenny by her side. From the shelter of the carriage, she watched passersby dodge slush flung by wheels or snowballs pelted from the hands of small boys. Over her garden gate, icicles hung like thick daggers. She remembered Lady Suzan’s stories about fur-covered trolls in the frozen North who shaped wondrous things out of metal, finer and sharper than any wrought by human hands. Walking through her garden, she saw one heavy, pointed shape, dirty white and slightly wavy, and imagined a troll king with a beard as long as himself wielding it against his Northmen foes.
Her household was well stocked, thanks to Hunsdon’s generosity and her own housewifery, on which she prided herself. We have blazing fires in kitchen and parlor; meats dressed as well as those the Queen nibbles; and wine, ale, and small beer in plenty. We have produce and preserves; meat pies sealed in butter in the larder; pork, bacon, beef, and fowls both pickled and smoked; and apples and pears dried in sand to keep through the winter. She shivered and drew her cloak with the fur-lined hood closer around her. She traced a fairyland tangle of ice-encrusted fruit-tree branches with one finger, tiny buds already visible in their transparent cases. She gave the icicles a final glance and went indoors.
Bustle and noise greeted her. Appetizing odors wafted through the half-closed kitchen door, and loud singing rose in a raspy, off-key voice. Marco was regaling Min with a bawdy Italian song. Marie was berating Jenny in half French, half English, while Jenny cowered.
“Madame,” Marie turned to her, face tight. “The rushes have not been changed. That girl has neglected her duty.”
“Marie, we do not know how long our supply of rushes will last, so I have instructed Jenny to change them once a fortnight.”
Marie sighed and retreated upstairs. Jenny slipped back to the kitchen.
Emilia took a small volume from the stack of books on the table in the center of the room. She went to the window seat, arranged a cushion behind her back, and began to read. After half an hour, she stretched, set the book aside, and went to the window. The snow had stopped falling, and a bit of blue sky was visible. She heard the outer door of the kitchen slam shut and much stamping of boots. Marco’s gruff voice mingled with Min’s laughter and Jenny’s piping giggle.
Then she heard a different male voice, and Marco burst in. “Madam, that player is here.”
It was indeed the player, red-nosed with cold, hat pulled low, wearing a woolen cloak that he unwrapped from his shoulders as he swept a low stage-courtier bow. He replaced the hat and declaimed, “A poor frozen player and chill-ridden poet at your service.”
“Come in and warm yourself by the fire,” said Emilia. “What brings you here?”
“Your serving man was passing me in the market when his foot slipped on the ice and he fell—spl
at!—into a puddle. I gave assistance as best I could.”
Emilia turned to the mud-besplattered Marco. “Take our guest’s cloak into the kitchen to dry, tell Goodwife Prescott to heat some cider, bring him some, get yourself dry, and have some cider yourself.”
After the dripping Marco hastened out, Emilia indicated the seat by the fire. “So, Master Player, are you enjoying the cold?”
“It’s like winter in Warwickshire, when icicles hang by the wall, and milk freezes in the pails before we can get it home, and everybody’s nose is red and raw, and you hear coughs everywhere, especially in church when the parson is droning on.”
Emilia made a face. “Don’t bring raw noses into my parlor, I beg you.”
“And should I leave my poor nose at the door waiting in the cold? Shivering, dripping, unkerchiefed?”
Emilia laughed. “Bring it in, but covered, I pray you, by a clean handkerchief.”
He pulled out a large kerchief, applied it to his nose, and blew.
“Sir, I’m dying to hear the news. What goes on at Court?”
“I’ve been on tour with the Queen’s Men, so I haven’t heard much. My lord of Leicester’s been ordered back from the Low Countries, and troops are being mustered all over the counties.”
Jenny arrived with a steaming mug of cider, and the player winked at her as she handed it to him.
“We’ve been down in Kent and Sussex, and nothing reached us on the road but winter and rough weather.” He circled his mug with both hands and sipped.
“What towns?”
“Bath, Maidstone, Coventry. We go on the road again in a week. I’ll spend a few days in Stratford, then return to play at Greenwich for Christmas.”
“What will you play at Court?”
“Don’t know. I made the mistake of letting old Laneham find out I used to be a schoolmaster, and he said, ‘You’re our man! Get out your quill. I want both of these old shows revised and ready to go into rehearsal Monday morning!’” He grinned. “So this week I’m rewriting a couple of historical clunkers called The Troublesome Reign of King John and King Leir and His Three Daughters.”
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