Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  “Like her Majesty, I would be no man’s property, not even yours.”

  He tried to pull her down beside him, but she resisted. “I’m staying here,” she murmured, straddling him and stroking his nipples. She stayed on top, pulling him inside her and rocking until he gasped with pleasure.

  Afterwards, lying side by side, they whispered and laughed.

  “You are amazing,” said Will.

  “I want to make sure you miss me while you’re gone.” She stroked his hair. Then she swung her legs off the bed and walked naked to the window. She pushed it open and looked out.

  “Careful, love,” said Will. “You don’t want the entire City of Westminster gawking at you.”

  “Then bring me something to cover up with.”

  Emilia felt a coverlet slide over her shoulders. She leaned back against Will’s chest, and his arms encircled her. They stood there, breathing in the cool autumn air. The streets were quiet. The full moon was caught in a tree, and as they watched, it floated free of the branches and hovered above a bank of clouds.

  “The moon watches over us,” said Will. “She will guard me and bring me safely back to you.”

  Emilia shook her head. “I fear she will rather keep you for herself in unending sleep, like Endymion.”

  Will gazed at the moon. “She’s fancy free, is she not? No love, no entanglements. Only the stars that chase after her, the clouds that never can long keep her covered, the tree branches that can never catch and hold her. Like you, for I cannot hold you either.”

  “Nor I you.” Emilia turned and pressed a kiss into his bare shoulder. “So let us enjoy what we have while we can.”

  “Carpe diem, as the poets say.”

  “I have you now, my poet, and I am seizing and holding you as Queen Mab would, no matter what happens tomorrow.”

  The autumn wind rose and rippled the curtains at the window and on the bed. The moon may have slipped behind the clouds, but they were too occupied with one another to look for themselves.

  CHAPTER 12

  Marriage and Motherhood

  September 1592-March 1593

  “So.” Lucretia’s black eyes bored into Emilia’s. “You have not told the Lord Hunsdon?”

  “No. He is in the country.” Emilia looked around. In this very parlor, Lucretia had advised her to accept Hunsdon as her lover. The room felt warm and stuffy. Dried herbs—rue, rosemary, wormwood, and juniper—lay bunched on the window ledges. The same herbs burned in a chafing dish on a table. An orange pomander stuck with cloves rested on the stool next to Lucretia’s sewing basket. A fire of sweet applewood burned on the hearth. The household was taking all precautions against the plague.

  Lucretia laid down her yarn. “How far gone are you?”

  “Almost four months.”

  Lucretia raised her almost invisible brows. “You must marry, the sooner the better.”

  “But Master Carey—”

  “What about him? He’s not going to marry you! And the player is married and three times a father.”

  Emilia almost fell off her seat. “How do you know?”

  “I keep my eyes and ears open.” Lucretia took up a pair of scissors and snipped off a length of yarn. “The question is—who shall we find for you to marry?”

  “Cousin . . .” Emilia protested. Lucretia looked as though she might pull a prospective husband for Emilia out of her sewing basket.

  Lucretia picked up the pomander and turned it in her hand. “Let us think. Who is available?” Her face lit up. “What about Roberto? He’s in the workshop and wants to be in the Consort.”

  Emilia shook her head. Roberto had grown up to be a lean, scraggly, fox-faced fellow who smelled of garlic.

  “Well, then, what about—”

  A door slammed and merry whistling sounded below, then feet came stomping up the stairs. Alfi burst through the door.

  “Mama! You’ll never guess—hullo, Em.” He threw his cloak onto a table. “How’s it going?” His smiling, flushed face looked from one to the other.

  Lucretia’s jaw dropped and her eyes narrowed. “Of course.”

  Alfi’s smile became uncertain. “What are you two talking about?”

  Lucretia tossed the pomander to Emilia and reached out her hands to her son. “Nothing, my Alfonso. Come sit by me and tell me about your day.”

  Two weeks before the wedding, the Bassanos and Lanyers held a family meeting in Lucretia’s parlor. Candles burned about the room. The odor of peeled Seville oranges and burning rosemary, frankincense, and juniper filled the air.

  “We have gathered here this evening,” announced Lucretia, “to witness the betrothal of our son Alfonso to my cousin Emilia.”

  Astonished, everyone turned their faces to Emilia and Alfi, sitting side by side.

  “What?” said Augustine. “We were not told of this.”

  “They decided between themselves,” said Lucretia. “And because of the love and esteem they bear for one another, they wish to marry as soon as possible.”

  Murmuring went around the room. Several people glanced at Emilia’s belly.

  “Nicholas,” said Augustine, “I expected you to keep closer watch over your son. You could have arranged a better marriage for him.”

  Emilia glanced at Alfi. He winked. As an apprentice, he knew Augustine well.

  “Well, I say—congratulations to the young couple!” called out John, Alfi’s eldest brother.

  “Congratulations!” called others from around the room.

  Lucretia raised her hand for silence. “Now we will witness their exchange of vows.”

  This is it, thought Emilia. The church ceremony will be only the public announcement of what has already taken place in the sight of the Lord. Goose bumps prickled along her arms.

  Everything had happened so quickly. Lucretia had orchestrated events so efficiently that Emilia had hardly had time to think. It seemed the best solution to her dilemma: pregnant, unmarried, and without Hunsdon’s protection. She liked Alfi and knew he adored her. He would become part of the Bassano family and have a place in the Consort. All Emilia wanted at the moment was to get the marriage accomplished.

  Emilia and Alfi rose and walked to the center of the parlor, where they stood facing one another, hands joined. Alfi swallowed. “I, Alfonso,” he began, “take thee, Em—Emilia, to be my wedded wife, for better, for worse, and thereto I plight my troth.” His voice grew stronger on the last words.

  Emilia smiled encouragement to him and spoke her own words clear and strong. “I, Emilia, take thee, Alfonso, to be my wedded husband, for better, for worse, and thereto I plight my troth.”

  Some onlookers sighed, and everyone seemed to relax. A servant entered with wine and ale. Another followed with cakes and fruit. Sounds of sipping and munching filled the room. Emilia relaxed and nibbled on a cake. Alfi drained his mug of ale and looked around.

  After everyone had eaten and drunk, Augustine cleared his throat. “Alfonso, now that you have married our cousin, you have a place in the Recorder Consort.”

  Alfi answered, “I thank you, Cousin Augustine.” He hesitated, and Emilia squeezed his hand. “I will do my best to bring honor to our families and the Consort.”

  “Where will you live?” asked Augustine.

  “In my house in Westminster,” said Emilia.

  He frowned. “It belongs to Lord Hunsdon, does it not?”

  “I asked him if we might lease it.”

  “Without asking us?”

  “I meant no offense, Cousin. Since he gave it to me, I felt I should ask him.”

  Augustine snorted. “What about your parents’ houses? Will they be part of the marriage portion?”

  “They are mine, and will remain so. Master Vaughan manages them and pays me the rents quarterly.”

  “What does he charge you?”

  “Nothing. He does it for the friendship he bore my parents. All four houses are rented. They belong to my husband and myself while we live, reverting to whoev
er outlives the other. We have discussed these matters with his parents. I can show you the papers, signed and witnessed.”

  “I am sorry you did not consult your own family, the Bassanos, before entering into a contract.”

  “My cousin Lucretia is a Bassano,” Emilia pointed out.

  Augustine turned out his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  Next day, a messenger in Hunsdon livery arrived at the Westminster house with a letter. Emilia broke the Carey seal and read,

  My dere Emilia, I offer my wishes for yre happiness and that of yr husbande on the occassioune of yr marriage. A solicytor from Lincoln’s Inn will visit ye and make gifts and settlement from mee. You may lease the house for ten pounds a yere .Yrs, HH.

  She looked at the letter once more and quickly wrote a reply:

  Dere Master Carey, I thank you fr yr noble generousitee. I look to meete yr solicytor. Yrs, EL.

  When the solicitor arrived, he presented her with a document saying she might lease the house in Westminster at ten pounds per annum so long as she and her husband dwelt there.

  “And the Lord Chamberlain sends these gifts to you.” He handed her a leather pouch.

  Emilia took it, feeling objects through the leather. She pulled the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the table. There lay a rope of pearls, exquisitely matched, and a pair of pearl earrings. “Sir, are these for me?”

  “Yes, Madam.” The solicitor’s voice sounded as neutral as though dry documents, not gleaming jewels, lay on the table. “My lord said they were for your dowry.”

  A dowry, as for a daughter. Tears stung her eyes. She lifted the pearls and slipped them through her fingers. A rocking boat, blinding sun on the water, a big, bearded man reaching out to lift and set her down on the steps, his warm hand grasping hers.

  “I will give you a letter of thanks for him,” she murmured.

  “He asks no reply, Madam,” said the solicitor. “He wishes only to know that you are happy and well provided for.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Please tell him he has my greatest thanks and gratitude and that I wish him the best life can bring.”

  He did not want a letter from her that his family might see. The solicitor might or might not convey her words. But the house was hers and Alfi’s for an affordable lease, and the pearls would only gain in value. Hunsdon, as always, had looked out for her.

  Emilia and Alfi were married in St. Botolph’s Without Bishopsgate on the last Sunday in October in front of a small group of family members and friends. People huddled together, holding pomanders, chewing orange peel, pulling their cloaks up around their necks against the chill. The brisk autumn wind lifted feathers on hats and ruffled cloaks and skirts. Emilia wore a new dark blue worsted bodice, loosely laced, and an open gown, cut from the same dark blue bolt of cloth. Over it she wore her cloak, for the massed gray clouds promised rain. Her hat sported a feather, and on her feet were new leather boots. Alfi looked solemn, gazing out over the heads of their gathered kinfolk and friends. At nineteen, he was a head taller than she. He seemed dazed by how quickly everything had happened. He had been an apprentice and her younger cousin two weeks ago. Now he was her husband and a man with an occupation.

  After the vows, everyone thronged around to offer congratulations and toasts. Nick produced bottles of good French wine and goblets, and they toasted the union between their families. As everyone drank, Emilia thought, Augustine is pleased; this marriage will benefit him. He is now kin to the Lanyers, with their French know-how and their talent. Alfi, meanwhile, had gained a place in the Consort, and she had gained respectability, a name for her child, and her own secure ties to the Lanyer family.

  She looked north up Bishopsgate Street to where it became Shoreditch, then south to the City gate leading into London. She felt a lump in her midsection that had nothing to do with pregnancy—a rock of pain and loss. Part of her wanted to run away, back to that evening when she and Will had held each other on a thin mattress on a creaking bedstead and laughed at a poem about a mistress whose eyes were nothing like the sun, whose breath smelled nothing like perfume, and who, unlike a goddess, trod on the ground.

  Instead, she returned to the house in Westminster with Alfi, surrounded by relatives and friends. Apprentices strummed on lutes and blew on recorders as they crowded into the house. One broke out into a bawdy Italian song, and others joined in. All the young people laughed and sang along, Emilia included.

  Then came the bedding of the married couple. Lucretia, Frances, Bianca, and the women surrounded Emilia and hustled her upstairs. Her bedchamber had been swept and fresh rushes put down, the bed made up with clean sheets and a new coverlet and all strewn with fragrant dried herbs, it being winter; no fresh rose petals were available. In the chamber, a middle-aged woman whom Lucretia introduced as Marcella stood waiting.

  “I am lending her to you as a waiting woman,” Lucretia explained.

  “Lucretia!” Emilia did not know whether to protest or thank her cousin. Lucretia took the poker and stirred the fire into a blaze. Frances closed the window curtains, while Bianca turned down the bed, revealing linen sheets embroidered with the Lanyer “L.”

  “Come here, Cousin, and let us help you undress,” said Lucretia. “Go, Marcella, and bring the bride’s cup.” She removed Emilia’s outer cloak and sleeveless gown while the other women untied her points, removed her sleeves, unlaced her bodice, and untied her petticoat. They removed her clothes and dressed her in a new night rail embroidered around the neck and sleeves. Marcella brought in the bride cup—Lucretia’s gift, an imposing silver gilt goblet with cupids in a raised design.

  “You must drink and give it your husband to drink also,” said Lucretia. “It will make all easeful and pleasant.”

  “Cousin, I believe I need no easing with drink,” Emilia murmured.

  “Your husband might.” His mother gave her a significant look.

  As the women left, Lucretia whispered into Emilia’s ear: “Put this under your pillow to bring you healthy offspring.” She thrust an amulet into her hand.

  Emilia touched her stomach. “I don’t think I need it.”

  “For the future,” whispered Lucretia.

  For a real Lanyer-Bassano child. “Thank you, Cousin.”

  The sound of male voices laughing and singing rose up the stairs. The door flew open, and Alfi, wearing only a nightshirt, stood in the doorway surrounded by his brothers and male cousins. John gave him a push, and he stumbled in.

  “Farewell, married man!” shouted one of the boys. A few others shouted instructions and then slammed the door. The sounds of singing and laughter faded down the stairs.

  They will stay most of the night singing, drinking, and telling bawdy jokes, Emilia thought. At least there will be none of that bloodstained sheet nonsense.

  Finally, they were alone.

  “Let’s sit by the fire a bit,” she said.

  Alfi sat on the joint-stool, hands clasped between his knees, his round, boyish face solemn. Emilia noted the soft, black curls on his neck, the line of black stubble along the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders, the well-shaped strength of his calves and thighs. A sturdy young man tending toward stockiness, English through and through in his manners, gestures, and speech, he resembled both the Bassanos and the Lanyers with his olive skin, round head with dark hair growing low on his forehead, and liquid, dark eyes.

  He looked up and met her eyes. “We’re married,” he said in a wondering voice. “Did you really want to marry me?”

  “Yes, Alfi, I did.”

  He looked at the fire. “I’ve always loved you, Em.”

  “Oh, Alfi.”

  “Your child will be a Lanyer.” She started to speak, but he put up a hand. “I am glad for him to have my name.” He looked as though he had debated something within himself and resolved it. But he still looked troubled.

  She said gently, “Alfi, have you ever been with a woman before?”

  “Of course!” He frowned
and bit his lip. Then he burst out, “But no one like you.” He looked down, twisting his hands together.

  Emilia smiled into his eyes. “All will be well.”

  She held out her hand and led him to the bed. They each drank hot spiced wine from the bride’s cup. They fumbled and had a few awkward moments, but Emilia’s experience and Alfi’s young body’s need allowed them to consummate their marriage.

  After, they lay together, her arm across his chest, both of them quietly breathing.

  It is done now. We are husband and wife and cannot be put apart. Memories passed through Emilia’s mind, but she firmly put them away. That is past. This is my life now. She pulled the covers up over herself and her already snoring husband, and fell soundly asleep.

  In January, a week before her twenty-fourth birthday, Emilia rose from bed to go to the window and peer out at the icy rain. She longed to throw open the shutters, but windows must be shut in a chamber where a woman was lying in. The herbs to ward off plague—rosemary, rue, wormwood, juniper—lay on the sills and burned in a chafing dish on the hearth. The fire burned with sweet wood, making the room warm and stuffy. Her eyes watered with smoke. The smell of vinegar and rosewater, sprinkled on the floor that morning, tickled her nostrils. Her enormous night rail, sewn wide to accommodate her belly, had twisted around her as she lay on and under feather beds and thick-quilted coverlets. Behind her back were plump feather pillows and a long, fat bolster. It would be luxurious, if only she were tired and longing for sleep or about to enjoy the delights of love. She suppressed a giggle. Alfi, with the assistance of her skills and patience, had become quite a satisfactory husband.

  He was at the Bassano instrument works in Mark Lane being tutored by Augustine on being a member of the Recorder Consort. “There’s more to it than just playing,” he told her the morning after his first day. “You have to look and bear yourself a certain way.” He straightened his stockings and inspected his trunk hose, then pulled on his doublet.

  “Um-hmm.” Emilia nodded as though this were news. “When will you get your livery?”