“What are they about?”
“Bad kings. People like to see royalty get their comeuppance.”
“How do you rewrite a play?” She had never before thought about how plays came to be.
“I read the playbook, cross out slow scenes, write new ones, add some dialogue, and smooth out the verse.” He blew on the mug and took a cautious sip.
“You make it sound like building a chair.”
“Not too different. I get tired of hearing that same old da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-DUM. And all of it in rhyming couplets—ye gods!”
“Aren’t rhyming couplets good?”
“They’re well enough, but if you don’t vary them, the audience will die of boredom. And there’s no play without an audience. And no play, no players, no playhouse, and no money.” He took a swallow. “This cider has just the right bite. Reminds me of my mother’s. She made the best cider in Warwickshire.”
“I expect you’ll be glad to see your family.”
“I can’t wait to see the children. They grow so fast I may not know them, though I’ve only been gone since June.”
“How many children do you have? How old?”
“Susanna’s four, and Hamnet and Judith, the twins, are almost three.” His Warwickshire accent became stronger.
“Hamnet’s an unusual name.”
“It’s Danish. We named them after their godparents.”
“You’ve been with the Queen’s Men since June?”
“They came to Stratford then. I never missed a chance to see a play. We were waiting for the show to start when a player comes out and says there’s going to be a delay. Then my brother-in-law, Davy Jones, comes up and whispers that the players want to talk to me. I went back behind the scrim with Davy and saw a dead man lying on the ground, blood all over him. They said he was Willy Knell, and he had got in a quarrel with a local lad. Swords came out, and it got nasty. One of the players said he would play Knell’s part, but they needed another fellow to march on with a spear and march off again, then sing a duet with Tarleton. If I could go with them and finish the tour, I’d get a share of the earnings.
“I can sing and play the lute, and I’ve got a good memory. I’d done some Whitsuntide shows that Davy organized. Davy, by the way, is the single reason the area around Stratford still has miracle plays. Puts them on in a wagon in the old way. Fine fellow, Davy. I wonder why he didn’t step in and play the part himself.” He shook his head. “So I did the show, and next day when they left, I went with them. I planned to go home when I got paid, but once we were in London, they kept asking me to fill in and do things about the theater. I found I had a knack for acting. I played small parts at first, then bigger ones. When the QM went on the road again, I went with them. It’s been four months now. I keep thinking I’m going to leave, but there’s always something else to do. Now they want me to write.” He took a breath and sipped cider.
“How long do you think you’ll stay with them?”
“Right now, I’d be a fool to leave. I’m making money. If I went back to Stratford, what would I do? Work in my dad’s glove-making shop? I’ve tanned hides and dyed ’em and cut ’em into enough gloves for a lifetime. You work in dyes, your hands get so stained you can’t scrub it off.” He held out his hands, and she saw black stains in the creases and under his nails. “The plan was, I’d go up to Oxford.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“We fell on hard times.” His face closed. “So I did a stint assisting the schoolmaster at the grammar school. If that’s the way to get ahead, no thanks.” He grimaced. “So it was back to the glove shop. Since I could read and write, I kept the books—that is, until I got into trouble with some of the local lads.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “We’d go out in the dark with our crossbows to hunt, put some meat on the table. One night, we broke into a local manor park, and I shot a deer. Some have lost their ears for that, so I made myself scarce.” He shook his head. “My father has always wanted a coat of arms; he’s even had the design drawn up. When I left, I told him I’d get it for him if it was the last thing I ever did. I failed them once, and I’m not going to do it again.” He sighed, then looked up and smiled. “Your cider must be bewitched, Mistress Bassano. It has loosed my tongue.”
“You failed them?”
He drained his mug. “I thank you for your hospitality—but I must be going.” He jumped to his feet, and before Emilia could say a word, he bowed, tipped his hat, and whisked out through the door. She heard him in the kitchen: “Mind you put down that bowl of milk each night.”
Jenny giggled. “Aye, sir, I do. But I never see ’un.”
“You may see him when you least expect to.”
The kitchen door thudded shut. Emilia returned to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out onto the ice-encrusted garden. An icicle fell and shattered on the path below.
CHAPTER 6
Holidays and Secrets
December 1587
Bassano family celebrations were always full of secrets. The children knew not to tell anyone about the evenings in Mark Lane when the numerous Bassanos and their kin gathered to eat, talk, and mumble prayers. The windows were tightly sealed so no shred of light could leak through.
In September, they had celebrated a holiday called the Day of Forgiveness. They spent the entire day together, the adults sitting and praying and eating no food until evening. The chamber swelled with joy, secrecy, anxiety, and fear. People started at sudden noises and relaxed with uneasy laughs when they realized no one was at the door. Emilia remembered how one year, when she was small, her older cousin, Jeronimo, had asked Uncle Lodovico to forgive him for breaking something in the shop. Lodovico shook his head and turned away. Jeronimo asked again. Again Lodovico shook his head, though he didn’t turn away this time.
Jeronimo drew a deep breath. “Will you forgive me, uncle? I’ll not ask again, for I’ve now asked three times.”
Lodovico thought it over and nodded. “Yes, nephew. I forgive you.” He put out his hand and grasped his nephew’s, then pulled him into an embrace. All the adults smiled or laughed.
Emilia remembered their watchful eyes, the candles burning on the table, the white tablecloth, the solemn songs and prayers. Drowsing on her father’s lap. Her mother reaching out to smooth her petticoats. Baptista smiling at his daughter and reaching to grasp her mother’s hand.
Around Christmastide came the Feast of Candles. An old brass candlestick with blackened grooves in the carvings came out of its wrappings from the bottom of a trunk and, freshly polished, was placed reverently in the center of a table. Hushed quiet descended as Aunt Elena set candles in the nine sconces and lighted the center one, then another one each night for eight nights. The aunts and female cousins bustled in with delicious food piled high on silver and brass platters.
In the spring, they had another solemn ceremony. They ate lamb and flat bread and raw onions, and said prayers as they ate. One year, Emilia was instructed to ask why this night was different from all other nights. She dutifully repeated it, but did not understand the answer. At the end of the evening, she was carried home half asleep in her father’s arms. The adults embraced, wiped tears, and as they left they brushed their fingers against the worn, painted image of St. Christopher on the wall just inside the entrance door.
Now that Emilia knew more, she dreaded yet looked forward to learning more about these holidays. And finally, one December afternoon, Alfi appeared, his dark hair close-cropped under his cap, a thick woolen cloak wrapped around him.
Emilia pulled him into the parlor. “Come sit and warm you by the fire. What brings you here?”
“Two invitations and a custard,” said Alfi. “First, my mother would have your presence this Monday for dinner and musical pastimes. Second, I am playing with some friends at Gray’s Inn next week and would like your company. Third, my mother sent this custard with strict instructions for me not to taste it on pain of losing my ears.” He opened his canvas bag and took
out a chunky package.
“Is that Cousin Lucretia’s famous cheese custard?”
“How famous I have no notion, but it is good, for I’ve tried it.”
“Marie,” said Emilia to the hovering Frenchwoman, “please take this to the kitchen and tell Min to serve it for supper.”
Marie said, “Yes, Madam,” and went out with the package. Emilia knew she would taste it on her way to the kitchen; her sweet tooth was as well known as Cousin Lucretia’s custard.
On Monday, Emilia sat at the dinner table in Lucretia Lanyer’s house in Greenwich, surrounded by cousins, brothers- and sisters-in-law, and nephews and nieces. Lucretia, in a large white ruff, sat at one end of the table, while her husband Nicholas sat at the other. Augustine sat at his hostess’s right. Emilia occupied a bench with Alfi on one side and his half-brother John on the other. A few curious glances fell her way, but Augustine took her hand and said something kind about her mother.
After Lucretia had taken her seat, servants brought in many dishes and poured wine. Emilia helped herself to salt from a gilt saltcellar. A consort of apprentices—two recorders, a treble and bass, a lute, and a cittern—began to play. Emilia accepted a choice piece of roast fowl that Alfi cut with his own knife and offered her. When the last bites were eaten, leftovers, goblets, spoons, knives, and trenchers were whisked away, and the trestle tables were dismantled and carried off. An apprentice brought in a keyboard and set it on a table, and other instruments appeared and were taken up and tuned. One cousin took up a pipe and tabor like Tarleton at Court—a drum hanging from a loop over his left wrist, a long pipe between his left fingers, and a stick to strike the tabor in his right hand. The musicians began to play, and dancing began. Emilia danced three dances and then flung herself down, gasping for breath.
“What, Cousin!” exclaimed Alfi, trotting up. “I was going to ask you to dance.”
“The next one, please,” Emilia said, panting. “I haven’t done a volta in a while.” She pulled gulps of air into her lungs, and her breathing slowly became quieter.
“That was a lively one!” Alfi exclaimed.
“Sit by me for a little.” She patted the cushion at her feet.
He sat and mopped his brow. “We’ll all dance a bit more, and it will be dark. Then my mother will light the candles and say the prayers.”
Emilia paused. “Your mother told me about the prayers.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“And everything else.” She searched his face.
“She holds to the old ways,” he said sharply. He leaped up. “I’m going to dance.”
Later, after they had danced and rested, the apprentices played soft music. Darkness fell, and a heavy quiet settled over the room. A servant entered with the old candlestick, its brass polished and gleaming. Lucretia took a taper and lit the tallest candle, then took it out of its sconce and used it to light the others. When she had lit them all, everyone murmured, “Amen.”
Augustine began to sing, and the others joined him. The odd, minor melodies and foreign words seemed familiar as breath to some, while others merely hummed. After the song ended with a soft “amen,” Lucretia extinguished the candles. They all sat a moment in silence, then Alfi’s father, Nick, opened the Christian prayer book and led them in evening prayers.
At bedtime, Lucretia said those who had traveled were welcome to stay the night. Emilia accepted her offer gratefully. As they climbed the stairs, Lucretia going before her with a candle, Emilia said, “It was a beautiful day, Cousin Lucretia. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You are always welcome in my house, Cousin,” Lucretia said. “We must stay together.” She gave Emilia a meaningful look, took her hand, and pressed it.
Gray’s Inn was got up for Christmas, with wreaths of holly and mistletoe and gold, green, and red banners draped around the hall. Alfi found a seat on a bench for Emilia and Lucretia. He and Roberto sat beside them for a few minutes, nibbling sweetmeats snatched from the refreshment table. Emilia anxiously surveyed the room but saw no sign of George Carey.
A group of men burst into the room to cheers and shouted greetings. One wore a slashed velvet doublet and a double collar of cobweb lawn. The flame-colored lining of his doublet showed through the slashing like tiny tongues of fire, and the polished hilt of his dagger glinted. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead as though stirred by a restless wind. He made a quip that set the group laughing.
“Who’s that?” she asked Alfi.
“Kit Marlowe, a scholar from Cambridge. He writes for the playhouses. You’ve heard of Tamburlaine?”
“What is it?”
“Where have you been? It’s the greatest play ever written!”
“I haven’t been to a play in a while.”
“You’ve got to hear it. It’s about a shepherd named Tamburlaine who conquers Egypt, Babylon, Greece, every kingdom they had back then. He knows no law but his own. Not birth nor title nor riches make a man, he says, but only his own will.”
“He sounds like an outlaw.”
“An outlaw who becomes an emperor! ‘Is it not passing brave to be a king?’” Alfi said in a stage voice. “‘Usumcasane and Theridamas? / Is it not passing brave to be a king / And ride in triumph through Persepolis!’” He popped a bite of pastry into his mouth.
“What do you know about Marlowe?” Emilia asked.
“He came down from Cambridge a few months ago, and he’s already famous,” her cousin mumbled as he chewed. “Tamburlaine’s all the rage. Ned Alleyn, who plays him, gets mobbed in the streets. Ladies snatch at his garters.” He snickered. “Everyone knows his speeches.” He washed down his pastry with a gulp of ale and cried, “‘Divine Zenocrate! Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.’”
“I’d like to see it. Will you go with me?”
“How about Wednesday?”
Marlowe and his friends were drinking a toast. He tossed down his wine and declared in a clear, high voice, “Hypocritical Puritans can’t tell their arses from . . .”
Laughter burst out.
“This isn’t Cambridge, Kit,” one man said, shaking his head.
Emilia whispered, “I think I know who he is. Last summer Lord Hunsdon went to a Privy Council meeting about a scholar at Cambridge. They weren’t going to let him have his degree. They thought he might go to the Jesuits at Rheims. His name was Marlowe.”
“What’s at Rheims?” asked Alfi, biting into an apple.
“A college for English Catholics,” murmured Roberto. “They go there to learn sedition and return to overthrow the government.”
“My Lord of Hunsdon said the Privy Council ordered Cambridge to grant him his degree because he’d done her Majesty good service. He wouldn’t say more.”
“We’d better get over to the musician’s gallery,” Alfi said. “They’re starting to tune up.”
Throughout the play, Emilia kept glancing back at the young man in the doublet with tongues of flame.
CHAPTER 7
Armada
April 1588
Spring arrived slowly and fitfully. Shoots of green poked through the ground; birds piped hesitantly. Wind and rain came every day, unrelenting; then came a day or two of melting ice and clear, blue skies.
All the talk was of Spain and the threat of invasion. Soldiers clanked through the streets, horses galloping through mud and slush, their riders heavy with swords and armor. Rumors flew: The King of Spain had the greatest armada the world had ever seen, tall Spanish galleons bristling with cannons, arrows, and armed men. Prophecies foretold that 1588 would bring eclipses of the sun and moon and the end of the world. Tension gripped the city. With the rivulets of winter’s thaw ran the colder fear of the enemy, palpable as ice, wind, or mud.
A letter arrived for Emilia from the North. She tore it open and read:
My derest chuck, I retorne to Londone in twoe or thre weekes and wil com to se thee as soone as I may. Alle is well with mee and I hop it is with thee. I have much to tell ye.
“Jenny! Marie! Marco! Come at once.” She rushed in the carriage with Jenny and Marie to Cheapside and purchased meats from the butcher; cheeses and curds, eggs and butter from farm women setting out their wares; and spices sold from bins—ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom, their spiky smells making her nose tingle.
Back home, Min, Jenny, and two hired women set to roasting and baking and stewing.
“Lord Hunsdon likes sweet things,” Emilia said, tasting a plum sauce.
“How about a cake with marchpane, Mistress?” suggested Min.
“Yes! With a strawberry compote filling,” cried Emilia. “And covered with meringue.”
Next morning, Emilia heard a clatter of horses’ hooves and jangling of reins outside. Men’s voices shouted, and at the sound of one familiar voice, she raced down the stairs.
Hunsdon burst through the door, almost knocking Marco down. When he saw Emilia, a smile spread across his bearded face. He held out his arms, and she ran into them.
She had not expected to, but she started to weep, sobs that seemed to come from the bottom of her soul. “Master Carey, M-Master C-Carey,” she sobbed, her tears wetting his woolen doublet.
“Ah, there, my little Em,” he murmured, soft and gruff. “Dry those eyes, my chuck. We want no rheum to sully such bright stars.”
She pulled away and dropped a curtsey, smiling, face wet. “Welcome home, Master Carey.”
The dinner, music, wine, and cake were all enjoyed, finished, and praised. The remnants were removed. After music and talk, Hunsdon declared it was time for bed.
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