Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  “The cloth has been ordered from Court, but they’re late. Augustine said he’ll go over and pressure them to hurry. It has to be made up into a doublet and a short cloak.”

  “You get a cloak too? My father got only a doublet.”

  “The Lord Chamberlain wants her Majesty’s Consort to look equal to any Court musicians in Europe. He’s paying for our livery himself.”

  His generosity again, she thought with a pang of loss. “How I should like to see her Majesty again.”

  “She’s not much to look at.” Alfi struggled to tie on his sleeves, and Emilia went to help him. “Just a dolled-up old tart with red spots on her cheeks and her bosom hanging out.”

  “Alfi!” Emilia tied his last sleeve point. “She’s the greatest queen England has ever had.”

  He shrugged. “She’s still an old tart.”

  She almost snapped a rejoinder but instead asked, “Are you dining at Mark Lane today?”

  “Aye.” Alfi pulled on his trunk hose and laced the points that attached them to his doublet. “I’ll be back after dark.” Dressed, cloaked, and hatted, off he went whistling.

  In late afternoon, Emilia lay in bed, missing him. She had taken to her chamber just after Christmas at the insistence of Lucretia, who was staying a few days to supervise. Her new mother-in-law had rules about everything. Emilia must remain in bed with no exercise except to relieve herself at the chamber pot and take a quick wash before the fire, with Marcella standing at the ready to wrap her up in a drying sheet and bundle her back to bed. She managed to sneak a few minutes of walking up and down the chamber a few times a day, stretching her arms above her head and turning her head to ease the crick in her neck, but it wasn’t enough. She was ready to explode with boredom.

  “You have waited overlong to start your lying in,” Lucretia had said. “You must keep to your chamber at least six weeks.”

  “But I feel perfectly well!”

  “We want you to go on feeling well. When you are near your time, I will return and stay until the child is born.” She shook out a new night rail and put it on Emilia. “Now, get into bed.”

  “I can’t stay in bed all the time!”

  “You wish your child to be born healthy and well formed, do you not?”

  “Of course, but . . .”

  “No buts.” Lucretia pushed her toward her bed. “Lie and think about how beautiful your baby will be.”

  “What about Alfi? Can’t he visit me?”

  “For a few minutes morning and evening. But absolutely no coupling, understand?”

  She had only brief visits from Alfi, who had moved downstairs. He poked his head in to say good morning and good evening, but he ate below in the hall, while she had meals in her chamber.

  Emilia nodded. “Since I can’t go downstairs, I want my lute and recorder.”

  “Faith, no!” exclaimed Lucretia. “Such exertion would tire you. You may hear a little music in the evenings if Alfonso is not too tired to play for you.”

  Emilia sighed. “May I have some books and candles to read by?”

  Lucretia pressed her lips together and frowned. “Reading is not good for the babe. You must keep your mind quiet.”

  “Cousin, I will go quite mad in this chamber with nothing to do! Let me at least have a few books.”

  Lucretia shook her head and sighed. “All right, you may have one book a week and four candles a day.”

  I will get Jenny to bring me as many books as she can carry when Marcella isn’t looking, Emilia thought.

  Jenny had been another bone of contention.

  “I can’t believe you have lived here all this time having noble visitors in your house with only that feeble-minded girl to wait on you.” Lucretia sniffed.

  “She is devoted to me.”

  “Marcella is a reputable woman and nobody’s fool. She has helped women in their lying in and assisted a midwife.”

  “I will not give up Jenny. I am all she has in the world.”

  “Keep her in the kitchen, then.”

  Marcella strictly enforced Lucretia’s rules. “Mistress Lucretia says that a woman lying in should not traipse wantonly about the house nor open windows. She might catch her death from the freezing air.”

  “Yes, yes.” Emilia sighed. “Then go tell Min to make me a tisane of mint and chamomile to settle my stomach, and bring me more candles.”

  “Mistress . . .” Marcella hesitated. “Mistress Lanyer told me you were to have no more than four candles a day.”

  “I need candles! I cannot read without them.”

  “Mistress,” Marcella hesitated. “Should you be reading so much? How will it affect the child?”

  “He will be as short-sighted as a mole and know the entire Faerie Queene by heart!”

  Marcella frowned. “Is that Faerie Queene a godly book?”

  “Yes! It is better than sermons. And when I finish it, I’m going to read Lodge’s Rosalynde, and follow that with Master Marlowe’s play of Tamburlaine, both parts. And then I’ll re-read Machiavelli’s The Prince and Master Greene’s pamphlets on coney-catching and cutting purses.”

  Marcella sighed. “You’re mocking me, Mistress.”

  “I ask your pardon, Marcella. But I pray you, bring me the books I named and candles enough to last till supper.” She smiled her most winning smile.

  “Yes, Mistress.” Marcella turned to go.

  “Also paper and pen,” Emilia called after her. “I have a mind to write somewhat.”

  She spent the afternoon writing, propped up in bed with the bolster and pillows, her penner and paper on the coverlet before her. She intended to write a poem about her impending motherhood. But that thought led her to muse on woman’s lot. Why do women have it so hard? Eve’s disobedience. But Eve simply tried to share with her husband something she thought good. She didn’t know the fruit would bring sin into the world. And didn’t Adam bear some blame? After all, he was supposed to be the stronger. Besides, even if Eve’s sin of disobedience was great, didn’t Pontius Pilate commit a worse crime when he handed over Our Lord to be crucified? Wasn’t it worse for the soldiers to beat and mock Him? For the people to call for His death and jeer at Him when He was dying? Weren’t those crimes great enough to cancel out Eve’s?

  Emilia sharpened the end of her quill and dipped it into her inkwell. She carefully wrote a line, paused to read, shook her head, and crossed it out. She dipped the quill again and wrote:

  Our Mother Eve, who tasted of the Tree,

  Giving to Adam what shee held most deare,

  Was simply good, and had no power to see,

  The after-coming harme

  She paused, thought, wrote again:

  But surely Adam can not be excused,

  Her fault though great, yet hee was most too blame;

  What Weakness offerd, Strength might have refused,

  Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame

  She scribbled furiously, pausing only to dip her quill. Her letters, carefully formed at first, became untidy scrawls. She imagined talking directly to Pontius Pilate:

  But you in malice Gods deare Sonne betray.

  Whom, if unjustly you condemne to die,

  Her sinne was small, to what you doe commit;

  All mortall sinnes that doe for vengeance crie,

  Are not to be compared unto it:

  This Sinne of yours, surmounts them all

  The candle guttered, and she was plunged into darkness.

  “Marcella!”

  Marcella appeared in the doorway, haloed by the light of a candle she carried.

  “I need more candles!”

  Marcella shook her head. “Mistress Lucretia gave strict orders to allow you but four candles a day.”

  “But I need to finish this poem!”

  “At supper time, I will bring your meal to you with a candle, and you may have light to eat and prepare for sleep. In the meantime, you must rest.”

  “Oh, Marcella!” Emilia pounded her fi
st on the coverlet. “I am so tired of being in bed.”

  “I know, Mistress,” Marcella’s voice crooned. “It is so with most women. I myself cursed every day under my breath, God forgive me. But then it was all forgotten later.”

  “After your child was born?”

  “Faith, no. When I was in labor,” Marcella said, laughing. “The pain was so great I clean forgot the lying in.”

  “I pray you, don’t frighten me. I’m afeard enough.”

  “Mistress.” Marcella set the candle down. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave you this candle.”

  “Oh, Marcella, thank you!”

  Marcella smiled. “Make the poem good, then.”

  After Marcella left, Emilia began to write again, forgetting everything but the page and her pen scurrying across it. The candle threw a curved tent of shadow over her and hollowed out a space of light from the darkness all around.

  Emilia was scribbling one afternoon when she felt the first labor pain. She sat up and looked around the stuffy room. The curtains of her bed had been pulled open, but the window curtains were drawn. She knew the day was bright and icy, for that morning she had gone to the window and looked out at the blue sky and the sunlight reflecting off the ice and sludge and mud of the streets. A small fire burned in the fireplace. Before it stood a cradle of dark wood, carved with flowers and fruits, made up with tiny sheets, a pillow with an embroidered pillowcase, and an embroidered coverlet. All was ready.

  She felt the pain again, like an iron fist gripping her belly. She lumbered out of bed and pulled the cord that rang a bell in the kitchen. The bell was another of Lucretia’s improvements.

  Jenny’s quick step pattered on the stairs, followed by Marcella’s.

  “Mistress, is it time?” Jenny squeaked.

  “I feel a twisting pain,” Emilia said, groaning.

  Marcella pushed Jenny aside. “How often?”

  “There—there it goes again.”

  Marcella ordered, “Jenny, go down and bring warm water in plenty and old sheets. And tell the cook to prepare some hot spiced wine.”

  Jenny made a gulping sound and disappeared.

  “Now, Mistress,” said Marcella, “you must walk up and down, rest, then walk again. It will help bring on the baby. Where is the small joint-stool?”

  Jenny burst into the room, carrying several large sheets draped over her arms and a huge basin of water slopping over onto the floor.

  “Jenny, send Min to me,” Emilia gasped out, leaning on the bedpost.

  “Nay, Mistress,” said Marcella, taking the basin and setting it before the fire. She seized the sheets and began to lay them, several thick, on the bed. “The cook had best stay in the kitchen.”

  “I want her with me,” snapped Emilia. “She is my trusted friend!” As another pain gripped her and doubled her over, she yelled, “Go and fetch her! Now!”

  Jenny fled.

  “Oh!” cried Emilia. She grabbed her belly.

  “You don’t need to be crying yet,” said Marcella. “Save your breath. You’ll need it later.” She put an arm about Emilia and began to lead her around the room.

  Emilia let herself be led up and down for a few steps, then shook free. “I can walk by myself.” She marched up and down in front of the fire, circled around to the door, and walked back again. She was getting used to the pains and had decided they were not so bad. Then another struck that bent her over double and left her crying, “Oh, oh!” She felt a trickling down her legs and looked down. To her horror, she saw a puddle on the floor.

  “Your water’s broken. Do you feel heaviness low in your belly?”

  “I think so. I’ve been heavy so long.” She felt a weight that seemed to pull her insides downward. The pain came again, harder. She gasped and clutched at the edge of the bed.

  When she could speak again, she breathed out, “It’s—it’s moving.”

  “Aye.” Marcella helped her to stand. “You must walk now to help it.”

  Min appeared in the doorway and rushed to Emilia’s side. Emilia seized her hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, grimacing.

  “Aye, little Mistress, I’m here with you.” Min embraced her and patted her back. Marcella turned to Jenny, hovering. “Go tell the boy to fetch Mistress Lucretia. Tell her the water’s broke.” Jenny nodded and ran.

  Marcella left the room and reappeared with a steaming flagon. “Here is the mother’s caudle.” She handed it to Emilia. “It is hot wine with spices, a drink of great power to bring cheer and comfort to a woman in labor.” Emilia sipped the potent drink and felt warmth, if not cheer and comfort, spread through her body.

  Lucretia soon bustled in, ice clinging to her cloak. She threw it off and ordered Marcella to build up the fire and lay warm towels and sheets before it. She instructed Jenny to go to the kitchen and bring a sharp knife to cut the cord. She inspected the cradle and the swaddling bands. She took over from Marcella in helping Emilia walk up and down.

  “Now you must sit,” she said, placing Emilia on the joint-stool. “With each pain, you must breathe deep and push.”

  Emilia felt that when the pains came, they were everything in the world, and she endured, breathed, and pushed. When the pains subsided, she lay back against Min’s arms and broad bosom and sipped spiced wine, and Lucretia knelt between her legs and inspected the progress of the birth.

  Suddenly Lucretia cried out, voice trembling with excitement, “I see the head.”

  Emilia felt a great wrenching. “Oh, God!” she said. “It’s tearing me!”

  “Push! For your life and the life of your child, push!” cried Lucretia. Emilia felt she was trying to push through a wall that would not open, a wall that was her body. A huge dark barrel swelled inside her. She had to push it out, and by God she would. She pushed and pushed, and heard herself cry out at every push. Then she gave the hardest push of all, and the dark barrel whooshed out of her in a great rush. She heard a thin wail, a small cough, and a louder wail.

  “It is a son!” shouted Lucretia, voice triumphant.

  “Ahhhh,” sighed the other women.

  Emilia felt she might fall unconscious with exhaustion. But she had to see him. “Give him to me,” she murmured.

  Marcella laid something wet and wriggling in her arms.

  Emilia looked for the first time at the little red wrinkled animal with its tuft of black hair. “He’s so tiny.” His sex looked oddly too large for his body. A ropelike thing protruded from his belly. He twisted and wailed.

  Min pulled Emilia’s night rail off her shoulder to uncover her breast. The creature seemed to smell her milk, for he rooted around with his tiny mouth until he found her nipple and began to suck.

  Emilia watched the baby as he nursed. He’s dark, not fair. He is Master Carey’s. “I’m so tired,” she said.

  “Wait for the afterbirth,” said Marcella, draping a warm shawl about her. “Then you can go to bed and sleep.”

  “It won’t be long now, little Mistress,” echoed Min, putting an arm around her.

  “Let me hold my grandson.” Lucretia took the baby.

  Emilia leaned back against Min. She felt a mild contraction in her belly and pushed. A dark mass emerged from her body. She closed her eyes. No, not that—bloody and terrible—

  “The afterbirth,” said Marcella. “We will take and bury it in the garden.”

  “The child is all right, isn’t he?” Emilia asked weakly.

  “Yes, of course. He’s healthy and beautiful. Now let’s get you both in bed and keep you warm.”

  The women helped her from the stool to the bed. They washed her, laid clean sheets under her, and pulled off her stained night rail, slipping a clean one over her head. Lucretia put the baby in Emilia’s arms, and he quickly found her breast again. She held him and watched him suck. When he stopped, Lucretia put him on her own shoulder, patting his back until he burped. The women washed and wrapped him with long bands of cloth.

  “Now,” said Lucretia,
“you must rest, and so must he. Both of you have worked hard. See, here he is, all clean and swaddled.” She held him up, securely wrapped, a tiny embroidered cap on his head. With his wrinkled red face, he looked as though he were concentrating with all his might. Lucretia placed him in the cradle and pulled the covers up to his chin. She gave Jenny a grudging glance. “Your girl can sit here and rock him.”

  Emilia reached out and grasped Jenny’s hand. “Oh, Jenny, you were such a help. Thank you.”

  Jenny’s face transformed from plainness to glory. She leaned close and whispered, “I put a knife under the bed to cut yer pain.”

  Emilia had almost drifted away when she remembered something. “His name is Henry,” she murmured. Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  She woke to the sound of someone moving about the room. Shadows thrown by a candle climbed and shrank against the walls. Then a soft creaking as the cradle began to rock.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Mistress,” said Jenny. “I’m come to rock th’ li’l un.” She sang a tuneless lullaby that sent Emilia into a light dream, cut by the baby’s thin wail.

  “Aye, eh!” said Jenny. “’E wants ’is Mama, ’e does.” She brought the wailing bundle, and Emilia sat up and applied him to her breast, where he sucked hungrily. She felt the pull on her tender nipples, an ache in her belly like a leftover labor pain, the baby lying warm and heavy against her. When he was done sucking, she lifted the milk-heavy bundle to Jenny. “Bring some candles and give me my books.”

  “Mistress Lucretia says you must have no light. I—I’ll fetch her.” Jenny backed away and ran.

  In a moment, Lucretia charged into the room. “What’s this about candles?”

  “I feel better after my sleep.” Emilia smiled what she hoped was a winning smile. “I would have candles to read by.”

  Lucretia frowned. “You have been through an ordeal, Cousin. It has weakened your body. Your eyesight will be harmed if you are exposed to light so soon after giving birth.”

  “How can giving birth harm my eyesight?”

  “It is well known that labor weakens the eyes.”

  Emilia snorted. “I didn’t use my eyes to give birth.”

  Lucretia sighed. “You were not reared properly and were not taught what women should know.”