Emilia muttered, “It’s a wonder we don’t have to bring our own plates.”
Kit laughed, throwing back his head. His dark hair caught the firelight, and its chestnut tints glowed a moment before falling back into shadow. He leaned forward. “Tell the truth, mon petit. What’s your connection to Will?”
“I’m his friend, sir.” Emilia crossed her arms.
Kit smiled. “Very well. I’ll find out another way.” He lifted his goblet. “Santé.”
The wine was good, strong, and not overly sweet. Emilia took a swallow, thumped down the goblet, and wiped her mouth with her hand. As they ate, she tried to use knife and spoon the way Alfi and his friends did. She sawed at her meat, elbows high, conveyed chunks to her mouth with the point of the knife, and chewed vigorously, making grunting noises.
Suddenly Kit exclaimed, knife in mid-air, “I know where I’ve seen you. Are you kin to the Bassanos?”
Emilia almost choked. “No, sir.”
“I could swear I’ve seen you with them. Do you know Alfonso Lanyer?”
Emilia shook her head and ate the last piece of mutton on her plate. All at once she remembered she didn’t have enough money to pay for her food, so she said quickly, “Master Marlowe—Kit—thank you for my supper, but I must be going.”
“Oh, don’t go so soon. I’m not nearly so boring as I seem.”
“You’re not at all boring, sir. You’re—” She cast about for words. “You’re a ripping fine poet. I like your plays very much.”
Kit gave a surprised laugh. “Is there one you like best?”
She named the first play she could think of. “Tamburlaine. I went with my cousin Alfi . . .” She stopped, face blazing hot, armpits moist.
“Your cousin Alfi?” drawled Kit. “That wouldn’t be Alfi Lanyer, would it?”
“No! His name is Warbeck, same as mine.”
Kit gave a soft laugh. “If you say so.” Smoke rose from the pipe, thinly veiling his face. “By the way, I’ve started a new play for the Rose called The Jew of Malta.”
“Have you, sir?” She moved to the edge of the bench.
“It’ll be full of gore, even bloodier than Tamburlaine. You’ll like it.”
“Sir, I must be going.” She stood up, wrapping her cloak around her.
“Are you walking far?” asked Kit, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. He knocked the pipe against the table, scattering ashes, tucked it into his pouch, and stood.
“Aye, to Westminster.” She mentally kicked herself for telling him.
“That’s rather far at night.”
“I’ve walked it before.”
Kit put coins on the table and signaled the innkeeper. “Let’s go to the river and get you a wherry. It’s quicker and safer.”
“I can’t afford a wherry!”
“I’ll pay.”
“But—it will be out of your way.”
“Do you know where I live, pipkin?”
“No, sir,” Emilia mumbled. Will had told her Kit lived in Norton Folgate.
“I could live in Seething Lane”—he gestured west. “Or Clerkenwell, where the stews are”—his arm swung north—“or I might dwell in the bell tower of Paul’s”—the arm swept overhead as though following bats or birds in flight. “I might live anywhere—or nowhere.” He smiled and steered her toward the door.
Closer to the river, the streets grew grimy and narrow. A crash sounded, followed by shouts. They reached the river’s edge in time to see a wherry pass, oars dipping and lantern swaying and casting light in rippling circles on the dark water.
“We’ll get the next one,” Kit said. “Let’s sit a moment.” He sat on a low wall, drew out his pipe, filled it, and lighted it. When he got it drawing well, he took a puff and offered it to her.
It was light-colored clay with a long stem and small bowl full of a tamped-down, burning herb. The clay felt rough against Emilia’s fingers. She held it gingerly, feeling the heat from the glowing bowl. She placed it carefully between her lips.
“Now draw in slowly,” said Kit. “Not too much.”
She drew. Fire raced down her throat and smoke hot as coals came back up, scorching her nostrils and throat. She gagged, gasped for breath, then turned aside and spit, holding the pipe at arm’s length, her eyes streaming.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Kit. “Now you’ve been initiated into the Secret Society of Smokers.”
When she could speak, she sputtered, “Do you like that?”
“One gets used to it, and it becomes a friend that soothes and calms you. Tom Harriott claims it keeps the plague away.”
He took the pipe back, drew, and exhaled a huge puff of smoke that floated over the wall and out onto the black water.
“Where are you from, sir—Kit?”
“Canterbury. My father was a shoemaker, and I went to the Cathedral school. I was saved from the gentle craft by being awarded a scholarship to Cambridge.”
“When did you start to write plays?”
“At school. It’s part of a classical education to put on plays by ancient poets. Then I thought, why not try writing for the theaters?”
Emilia thought of her own education—superior to that of most girls, yet she had read no plays by ancient poets.
“Did you read Ovid?” she asked.
“Ovid is my favorite!”
“I have a book of Ovid.” She felt a sudden pang of fear that Will might not give it back.
“Wherever did you get it?” He looked excited.
“It was a gift from a friend.”
“So you have friends who give you books.”
Another trick, confound him! She said nothing.
“Then you must know the ancient poets believed love can take many forms.” His voice sounded casual, but with underlying tension.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“That the love between a man and a youth is more ennobling than that between man and woman.”
She spoke carefully. “Doesn’t the Church condemn that form of lust?”
“Yes, of course.” He paused. “The Church condemns many things. Once it condemned us if we did not fast on Fridays. A new set of churchmen come in, and lo! we get condemned if we do fast on Fridays. Images once holy that stood for hundreds of years in churches have been smashed and defaced, painted murals are whitewashed over, and glass windows that burned blue and red with dyes we don’t even know how to make anymore have been smashed and replaced with clear panes so our eyes will not be corrupted by too much beauty. And we sin if we regret what was lost.” He gazed somberly out over the water. “And if you tell anyone I said these things, I will say you said them yourself and you’ll find yourself soundly whipped.”
“I will tell no one.” She wanted to comfort him, for his sadness spread out from him around them both like a shadow.
“That’s a good lad.” He leaned back, legs spread boldly, head tilted. “Well, pipkin, will you come sit on my knee?”
She drew back, startled. “No, sir.”
“Why not? Do I stink? Are you afraid of me?”
She started to say no, but all at once she was.
He murmured, “You’re a lovely creature, you know.” He looked at her under half-lowered lids, a half smile on his lips. “No stranger to kisses either, I can tell.”
She stood. “Sir, you’ve mistaken me.”
“Why play the innocent? We both know it’s a sham.” He reached out and tried to take her hand, but she sprang back, trembling. He took her wrist in a tight grip. She kicked his shin.
“Ow!” He let go.
Emilia darted away, thinking of nothing but getting as far away as possible. Her foot slipped, and she fell.
She heard him call, “Robin, please!”
She stood up, rubbing her scraped knee, and turned. The moon had risen. In its light, she could see almost as clearly as by day.
He whispered, “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” He held out open hands. “I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you.” He gestured back to
the wall. “Come back? I won’t touch you, I promise.”
She said nothing, watching him, ready to run again.
He stepped nearer, keeping distance between them. “You gave me a good thump.” He stooped and rubbed his ankle. “Serves me right.”
“Why”—her voice cracked—“did you do that?”
“I don’t know.” He looked puzzled. “I suppose I was trying to get the best of Will. He’s such a moralistic ass, works day and night, says he can’t go drinking, frowns at me and my ‘immoral’ life. Then I see him sitting in a tavern tête-a-tête with a pretty fellow.”
“Didn’t you think I might not like being grabbed?”
“If you really were a boy, it would be different.”
“How? He might not like it either.”
“He’d have known what I was about and told me to back off.”
“What if he didn’t know?”
“A boy that looks like you, in a tavern, after dark alone, waiting to meet a man? He would be the fellow’s ingle or something worse.”
“‘Ingle’?”
His knowing look answered her question. Her face grew hot. “What do I look like?”
“You’re not only beautiful; you have a look of experience.”
A dark feeling, unfocused and heavy, dropped over her.
After a moment, he said, “Let’s find you a boat, shall we?”
They walked to the water’s edge, space between them. “Boat!” shouted Kit, waving his arms.
When a wherry pulled up, lantern bobbing, she ignored Kit’s hand and stepped in, steadying herself as the boat rocked crazily. “Westminster Stairs,” she said before Kit could speak.
She had been in a boat on the river at night, but this was different. The thin boys’ hose she wore did not keep out the chill, and she shivered. She watched the shoreline move past, great houses with lights in their windows or on their roofs, the dark hulk of the humble dwellings and warehouses that lined the river.
When they disembarked at Westminster Stairs, Kit said, “Farewell, Mistress. Do you think we can forget this and be friends?”
She hesitated. “Aye, Master Marlowe.”
He smiled. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“I’ll tell you when we meet again.”
She watched the boat pull away, then hastened to King’s Street and home.
CHAPTER 11
The Upstart Crow
December 1591-September 1592
Emilia would always remember 1592 as the year her life changed utterly. Christmas of 1591 and New Year’s saw great festivities at Court. The Bassanos played in concerts, masques, and plays, and Emilia went to hear them. She saw Lady Cumberland, and they sat and talked about Court plays. Lady Cumberland especially enjoyed one by Will, saying it was full of most wholesome mirth.
In London, bonfires flared on every street, and bits of greenery hung from every bookstall, tavern, and shop. Paul’s Churchyard was a fairyland hung with winter green. The mild winter made new shoots spring forth, even in the place of dry leaves and needles. Emilia dug in her garden, pulling weeds from around the green blades of bulbs Hunsdon sent her from the Low Countries.
Plays were shown all winter and into spring. Wherries plied their way across to Bankside carrying citizens, gentry, lords, and ladies to the rumbustious joys of Henslowe’s Rose playhouse, where half the former Queen’s Men had gone, while carriages rumbled and jostled along the muddy road leading north to Shoreditch and its two playhouses, the old Theater and the newer Curtain. Will and the newly reorganized Lord Admiral’s Men were working hard on the south bank to compete with their Shoreditch rivals and former colleagues.
Then, in June, like a blow out of the sky, came the announcement that the playhouses were closed. A riot had broken out near the Curtain between some rival apprentice gangs, and the Lord Mayor of London had decided that theaters were the cause. They were to be closed for only a few weeks, until September. But then July came, and a dreaded word sounded: plague.
The first Emilia heard of it was from Jenny. “Oh, Mistress, they say the plague’s come. We’ll all be boarded up and die!”
“Not so, Jenny,” Emilia soothed her. “I have heard nothing of plague.” But when Jenny left the kitchen, Emilia asked her cook, “Min, have you heard aught?”
“There’s talk of folk taking sick south of the river.” Min set her mouth in a grim line.
“Oh, God. It will reach the City in no time.” Where will Will go, now that the theaters are closed? Plague can arrive by ship. Lucretia’s house at Greenwich is on the water. And where is Master Carey?
One morning, Hunsdon arrived. “God give you good morrow, Madam.” His face looked red and furrowed, and he was breathing hard. In his hand he held an orange studded with cloves.
She led him to his chair and sat on a joint-stool close to him, willing herself to be calm.
“Plague has reached the suburbs and the south bank.” He peered at her from under his graying brows, forehead creased. “It’s only a matter of time before it reaches the City.”
“Are many struck ill?”
“Only a few so far, but it will spread. The City authorities have closed all theaters. The Queen has gone to Nonesuch, and most of the Court to their homes.” He paused. “Have you kin in the country?”
“Some cousins in Sussex. I don’t know them well.”
“It would be best if you could leave the City.” He sighed. “I would I could help you to a safer place, but I must go to Hunsdon.” His eyes implored her to understand. “Oh, my Emilia, I would it were otherwise.”
She gripped his hand tight.
He shook his head. “My son, my daughters—they—” He heaved a sigh.
“Master Carey,” she murmured. “Will you come to my chamber for a while? I have not been with you in many weeks.”
“I cannot stay long.”
“I will make sure you do not.” She called Jenny and told her to bring spiced wine upstairs, and some fresh bread and apples. As she led him to the stairs, she wondered, Why am I doing this? She quickly found her answer: Because it will be the last time, and I would be close to him once more. She took his hand and helped him climb.
In her bed behind the latched door, before the fire that burned in summer to keep the damp humors at bay, Hunsdon held her tight and close. “Emilia,” he groaned, “I have been good to you, have I not?”
“You have.” She felt near tears, so she smiled and played with him in ways to make him smile. Afterward, he held her close, and she laid her head on his shoulder. As she circled him with her arm, she felt how his body had shrunk and become weaker. Forgive me, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Master Carey, I promised I would not let you stay long. So let us not fall into snoring.”
He laughed. “I, snore?”
“You know you do. And so—” She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. “I will dress, get you back into your boots and cloak and hat, and give you a cup of spiced wine to send you off to your home.” Her voice almost broke on the last word.
When he was dressed and had swallowed his wine, Hunsdon reached into his purse. “This may be of help.” He pressed coins into her hand. “Good-bye, my Emilia. Fare well.”
After he was gone, she walked slowly through the parlor. She touched the clavier. He cannot help me. He is caught up in the web of his family. He came to say good-bye. He didn’t have to. She counted the coins: four sovereigns. They would go far—if the shops held provisions. We will lay herb of grace and rosemary in the windows and burn juniper and frankincense in chafing dishes to ward off the unhealthful air. She drew a deep breath and walked briskly to the kitchen, listing in her mind what they must buy. Soon, shops would close, merchants would lock their doors, and the marketplace would be empty of all save beggars.
“Now that the theaters have closed,” said Will, “I need a plan.” He wrinkled his forehead and paced the chamber. “The preachers say that the cause of plague is plays and playhouses, since the sickness is pa
ssed around by infected vapors in the air. So any place where people gather and crowd close to one another, breathing the same vapors, is a place where plague may spread.” He laughed. “Odd they don’t say sermons cause plague.”
Emilia reclined on his bed, the meager pillows pushed up to make a backrest. In the early August evening, warm air barely moved the threadbare curtains at the window. “What will you do?”
“I could go to Stratford, but that would mean no income.” His forehead grew more wrinkled. “The plague passed me by when I was an infant. Maybe it will again. And the Burbages say they will pay me for some new plays.”
“That’s good.”
“Good? Well, I do need the money.”
“But?”
Will shook his head. “Writing for the playhouses is a trap: rehearsals, writing, revising, rewriting, more rehearsals.”
“But you enjoy it.”
“Aye. I also enjoy telling stories by the fire. And just as when I feed logs into the fire, my hands become begrimed. I’m a motley to the crowd. A jest, if you please, William, and a jig to go with it!” He sprang in the air and did a few dance steps. “A tale of bawdry and ripping adventure? Coming right up. Don’t forget some lyrics.” He lifted up an invisible lute, struck a nonexistent string, and played a few silent chords. “Count the takings, sweep up the garbage, shovel the horseshit in the yard, pick up the empty bottles the groundlings have swilled from and thrown away.” He seized an invisible broom and mimed brisk sweeping. Emilia almost expected to see the papers on the floor float into a pile. “Brush and put away the king’s gown and the archbishop’s hat . . .” The broom turned into a pen, wielded with a flourish. “Oh, and while you’re at it, Willy Boy, go and write up the parts for the actors from that new play you wrote yesterday. We need them by tomorrow morning.” He dropped into the chair.
Emilia reached for his hand. “Will, you’re tired.”
“This is not what I expected my life to be.” He raised her hand to his lips and nuzzled the palm. “And now I’ve acquired notoriety. The one and only Upstart Crow. Caw, caw, caw!” He gave a series of realistic crow calls and flapped his arms like wings.
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