Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  Emilia was confused. “What?”

  “I’ve managed to attract the attention of a despicable fellow called Robert Greene—sometime playwright, author of coney-catching pamphlets, and general drunkard. While he lived, none escaped his vitriol. Now he’s dead, but still scribbling.” Will picked up a pamphlet and rattled its pages. “Look.”

  On the cover, Emilia saw a woodcut of a man tied up in a piece of cloth out of which his face and arms protruded. He held a pen in his right hand, poised over a page.

  “‘Trust them not—’” she read aloud. “‘. . . Upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers . . . bombast out a blanke verse as the best of you . . . absolute Johannes fac totum . . . the onely Shake-scene in a country.’”

  “‘Shake-scene’?” She laughed. “Will, he’s just jealous. You write better than any other poet, and they all know it.”

  “Whether I do is beside the point. Not being a gentleman, I’ve no right to even try.” He paced again, stepping over books and papers. “That scurvy, rotten, cozening lowlife!” He kicked a pile of papers. “Any drunken fool or sodden knave who’s been to Oxford or Cambridge, even if he didn’t stay long enough to take a degree, can call himself a gentleman, wear a sword, and put his pitiful, piss-poor, pathetic pulings on paper and pass for a poet.”

  He slumped beside Emilia on the bed. The worn mattress, so thin it seemed to be a couple of sheets sewn together around a few scattered feathers—most of them coming out the seams—sank even lower, making Emilia fear, not for the first time, that the ropes crisscrossed beneath it would give way and deposit them on the floor.

  She put her arm around him. “Pay him no mind, Will. He’s dead. And he’s done you a favor. Now people know you.”

  “Min, I’m ill,” Emilia said. “Help me get something to settle my stomach and help me to bed.”

  When she was in bed, night rail on, face washed, and tisane sipped, she held onto Min’s hands. “I have a fear. When Master Carey was here, I . . . we . . . And—and I’ve been with . . . the player.”

  Min’s face did not change.

  “I’ve had the nausea about two weeks. I didn’t want to believe it. I always lose them!” she burst out. Her voice broke, but she controlled the tears that wanted to come.

  “That might be a blessing, Mistress, if you understand my meaning.”

  Emilia swallowed. “Yet I hate for it to come to naught.”

  “If it comes to naught, it’s God’s will. If it does not—”

  “If it does not, that too is God’s will,” said Emilia. “And God help me.”

  “Em, great news!” Will sat beside her on the bed. “Do you remember when Pembroke’s Men put on The Shrew at the Earl of Southampton’s house? I had a chance to speak with the Earl, and he said to me, ‘I hear you are the poet.’ I admitted it, and he said, ‘Your views on marriage are the same as mine. I see no reason for a man to lock himself too early into that holy state. The pleasures of the mind and of friendship suit me far better.’ I mumbled something, he clapped me on the back, and he said, ‘Master Poet, we must talk further. I like having men of intelligence around me.’”

  Emilia shifted. She had laced her bodice loosely but could not get comfortable.

  “Next day, he sent his carriage to take me to Southampton House off Holborn Road. I was led to a chamber, where I sat staring at coats of arms on the wall for half an hour. When the Earl arrived, he asked my pardon for keeping me waiting, said he’d been hunting in the park. He introduced a mustachioed fellow in black as his tutor, Florio, and led the way to an enormous library. My head was spinning at all those books! A servant brought us claret. Mustache said he was translating Montaigne. Thank goodness I had heard of the fellow. The Earl said he enjoyed Shrew but said, ‘You can write better stuff than that.’ And he asked me to write something for him. When I found my voice, I said, yes, I would like to, I was honored by his Lordship’s request, and so on. He said he would be the one honored.” Will shook his head. “I found my way out the door without crashing into anything, and I believe I promised to write him a poem by spring.” He smiled. “He’s only seventeen, but he’s got a mind of his own. Fair, blue-eyed, skin like cream and strawberries. He affects a rather wild-Indian hairstyle, long locks spilling over one shoulder. That outfit he wore would feed Stratford for a year. He’s rich as Croesus, and he’ll be heir to a huge fortune when he comes of age.”

  “How can he help you?”

  “If he likes the poem, he’ll pay me. Two pounds is usual, I hear.”

  “He’ll pay you two pounds for a poem?”

  Will’s eyes gleamed. “That’s right. I won’t have to worry about the playhouses closing. I can stay away from crowds and avoid the plague. He will be my patron. He might even hire me, and I’ll have time to write something good and make a name for myself.”

  “Is working for him better than writing for the playhouses?” Emilia frowned. “Wouldn’t you have to go and live in his house and be at his beck and call?”

  “It’s what poets hope for, to get a patron. Someone who has money and understands what you’re doing.”

  She tasted her wine, grimaced, and set it down. “I hope it works.”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  Later, as she was readying to leave, Emilia noticed a sheet covered with writing on the table. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing,” said Will. He had seated himself, clad only in trunk hose and stockings, points dangling. He began crossing out lines and scribbling.

  She picked it up. “‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.’”

  “Give me that!” He snatched at the paper and knocked over a heavy volume entitled Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

  She pulled away. “‘Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.’ What is this?”

  “I said, give it back!” He lunged.

  She stepped sideways and continued: “‘If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.’” She laughed. “This is funny.” She sat down. “‘I love to hear her speak, but well I know / That music hath a far more pleasing sound.’ Ha! That’s good!”

  Will stood back, arms folded.

  She read on: “‘. . . the breath that from my mistress reeks—’” She looked up. “Reeks? Are you saying my breath reeks?”

  “What makes you think it’s about you?”

  “Do you have another mistress?”

  “It’s just a poem.” He grabbed the paper. “It isn’t about anyone.”

  “Why did you write it?”

  “All the old sonnets say that the poet’s mistress has gold wires for hair and roses for cheeks, and her eyes blaze like the sun. I thought I’d turn it round for fun.”

  “My breath doesn’t reek, does it?”

  “Of course not. I’m turning those clichés on their heads.”

  “You’re a wonderful poet, Will.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. Her stays cracked and dug into her expanding waist.

  He buried his face in her neck and whispered, “Oh, my Emilia.”

  Each morning plague carts rolled through the streets. One morning, Emilia heard muffled thuds close by, heavy, as though they would knock down the house’s walls.

  Jenny ran in. “Mistress, they’s plague on our street! They’re nailin’ th’ door shut. The people will be shut up and die.”

  “No, Jenny,” said Emilia, taking her hands. “The Orders for the Plague say not. The orders that have been set up at the church door—you remember when we went on Sunday last and I read them to you?—they say if anyone in a house is taken with the plague, the house must be shut up for twenty-eight days, and an official of the parish is appointed to bring food, fuel, and necessaries to them.” She wondered if the parish officials would perform these errands of mercy or if they had fled the city themselves.

  “What if we’re stricken?”

  “We shall not be, please God, but if we are, they will not leave us to die. I promise you that.” For if there is no p
erson to bring us what we need, I will go myself to Greenwich and demand the Lanyers help us. And if any here is found with the purple swellings, I will dose her with decoction of valerian and wrap her warmly and lay her before the fire till she recover or die. And if she die, we will bury her at night and no word will pass our lips. She lifted Jenny’s chin. “Now go to the kitchen and help Min.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Jenny said with a gulp. “You are wise enow and know best.”

  Wise, am I? Let us hope so. But what will become of them if I am stricken? She went to the window and pulled the curtains closed. She went to the clavier and began to play but could not drown out the hammering.

  Whenever she was not worrying about the plague or wondering how many bushels of apples she could afford to buy, she heard a cold whisper in her mind: You are with child and do not know the father. And we all may be dead soon, and then it will not matter.

  They ate less beef and more chicken, fish, cheese, eggs, milk, and butter. She grew fond of eggs cooked with milk and herbs, and she drank small ale instead of wine. Min cooked nourishing stews with skerrits, onions, turnips, and carrots, adding herbs for flavor.

  Once Hunsdon sent some money with a note: “I hope y- are welle, I am th- same.”

  She thought of Will. We cannot marry, for he has a wife and three children. Would she marry him if she could? He would not make the most comfortable of husbands. Although a kind and gentle lover, full of wit, fun, and fancy, he could sink into morose silence. And on the rare occasions that she had seen him angry, she’d wanted to run.

  Near the end of September, they had supper at the Cross Keys Inn near Blackfriars. She wore one of her best outfits, bodice loosely laced and russet outer gown worn open. On her carefully dressed hair, she wore a smart, feathered hat.

  “This is my great chance!” Will’s face glowed in the flickering candles. He wore a new embroidered shirt and worsted doublet and sported a gold earring in his left ear. “I have a wealthy patron—or will when I finish this poem.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Emilia sipped her excellent wine. They were having oysters, to be followed by roast beef in a savory pepper sauce. Will was spending money on this meal.

  “He wants me to stay at his country manor, Place House in Hampshire. Think of it, Em! A personal invitation.”

  “How long will you be there?”

  “I’m leaving next week and will stay there till May.”

  Emilia’s savory beef all of a sudden tasted like paper. She put down her knife. “Seven months?”

  “He said, ‘I want my poet away from that breeding ground of disease they call London. He must stay healthy to finish my poem.’” Will jiggled his feet, and his hair almost rose and crackled about his head. He frowned. “You don’t seem pleased.”

  “Of course I am.” She looked away. Seven months. My child will be born by then.

  “I have something for you.” He produced a string-tied package. “An early New Year’s gift from Old Shagbag, the Upstart Crow.”

  “You generous creature!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise.

  “Open it.” He watched as she unwrapped the package and pulled out a quarto: Songs of Sundry Natures, by William Byrd.

  “Oh, Will! Thank you.” She opened the book and began to leaf through it. “I don’t have anything by Byrd. I can’t wait to play these.”

  He gave a shy smile. “I’ve never heard you sing or play.”

  “And you may never, if you’re leaving town.”

  “I’ll be back in spring.”

  “Things may have changed by spring.”

  “How?” His face darkened.

  She shrugged.

  He looked combative, jaw set. “You have someone else? Other than his Lordship, of course. Mustn’t forget him.”

  “No. Would I know that thin featherbed of yours so well if I did?”

  “I know not.” He wiped his mouth, wadded his napkin, and threw it on the table. “How do I know how many men you have?”

  “Will!” She threw down her spoon.

  “Do you even know whose child you’re carrying?”

  “What! How do you . . .?”

  “I know what a woman three months gone looks like. I married one.”

  She pushed the book away. “Take back your book. I don’t want it.” Her voice shook. “You knew about Hunsdon; he introduced us. I respect him, and, yes, love him. He has been good to me. He has not been with me since the plague began. He has gone to be with his wife.” She could not keep bitterness from her voice.

  When Will said nothing, she burst out, “What would you have me do? You yourself have a wife.”

  “It’s not the same. A man has to know whether his children are his.” He sounded like an impatient schoolmaster. “No man wants to leave his property to another man’s child.”

  “Men and their property!” She slammed her hand on the table, rattling the cutlery. “What grief they cause me and all women! I could not remain alone in my parents’ house because of the laws about masterless maids. I quaked at the sight of a constable. I could not make a good marriage because . . . because men took my maidenhead against my will.” She drew a shaking breath. “I could not make my living by music because women cannot play in the Consorts. How was I to live, by selling apples in the streets?”

  “You could have married.”

  “Everyone knew.” Her voice was low and hard. “Any man my family proposed would have known. He would have shamed and beaten me for being damaged goods. Better Hunsdon, who was kind to me. A thousand times better.”

  “You wanted to live in luxury.”

  “You want to gain wealth through a patron,” she shot back. “How is that different?”

  “You’re angry because you were not born a man.”

  “No, you ninny! I am angry because no one holds me as good as a man, because I cannot make my living honorably like a man, because I am treated like dirt because men took my honor, that I am judged by everyone, even you.” She spat out the words, tasting bile.

  “Don’t call me a ninny.”

  “Can’t you understand?”

  “But how else could it be?” His brow furrowed. “Women’s chastity is crucial. Without it, all would be chaos and confusion. Can’t you see?”

  Emilia sighed. “I know not. I only wish things were different.”

  They were quiet. The wind seemed to have gone out of both their sails.

  “I’m sorry I called you a ninny.”

  He shook his head. “I wish no quarrel between us, Em. But it galls me to share you, even with a spindle-shanked granfer who only gets it up every six months when he remembers his old battles.”

  She reached for Will’s hand and caressed his fingers.

  He turned her hand over and held it. “Before we got to quarreling, I was going to ask if you would let me ride with you in that smart carriage of yours to Hog Lane, where we could give one another a fond farewell, as we are accustomed.”

  She smiled into his eyes. “No.” At his look of surprise, she continued, “I am inviting you to my house tomorrow for supper and to stay the night.”

  He was momentarily speechless.

  “I want to say farewell to you in my own house.”

  He inclined his head. “Mistress, I accept.”

  In her candlelit parlor, Emilia waited for Will, dressed as fine as for Court, jewels around her neck, in her ears, and in her hair. Her taffeta bodice and petticoat were embroidered with gold and pearls. Her loose velvet gown hung open, half concealing her body’s fullness. Gold tissue oversleeves fell over her taffeta sleeves, and embroidered lawn peeked under her sleeves and from her low-cut neckline. On her head she wore a fine gold net shot with tiny pearls, and her hair was braided up, with curls falling to her shoulder on one side.

  The evening was chill, and a full moon had risen. She went to the window and watched its light spread over the street. And then he was there.

  “Good evening, Master Shakespeare. Welcome to my home.�
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  He looked around the room, awestruck, at the candles, the gleaming furniture, the trestle table laid for supper. “Are you Queen Mab of the fairies?”

  “I am not so cruel as she.”

  Marco brought in French wine in crystal goblets. They ate a light supper of capon in herbed sauce, berries and cream, manchet bread, and pastries of almond and dried fruit. Emilia played the clavier, and the two of them sang a few songs.

  As the music of the last song died away, Will took her hand, gently pressing her fingers. “You play and sing as beautifully as I knew you would,” he said softly.

  After a long pause, Emilia asked, “Shall we retire?”

  In her chamber, a fire blazed on the hearth. A hot bath with steaming herbs waited before the fire, towels laid out beside it. Jenny, silent for once, helped Emilia with her lacings and hair, pulled her nightgown over her head, and departed.

  Will looked about in wonderment. “You have spared nothing.”

  “I would send you away with pleasant memories.” She untied his collar and unfastened his doublet. They bathed together with much merriment and splashing. She dried him with scented linen towels and he dried her, and they slipped between the fragrant sheets and into one another’s arms.

  After making love, they lay quiet.

  “Does something trouble you, Will?” she murmured, tracing her finger along the reddish hair on his chest.

  “How could I be troubled when my mistress is the loveliest woman alive?”

  “Liar.” She gave him a quick kiss.

  “I wish you were mine alone.” He put his arms around her and pulled her on top of him.

  “I don’t.”

  “What?” his eyes flew open. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t wish to be any man’s.” She ran her finger along his rounded brows, one at a time, then down his nose. She traced his lips and jawline. “I wish to belong to myself.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Let us not open that quarrel again.”