“Lady Suzan—”
“Lady Suzan was of the nobility. How would she know anything?”
“How long must I remain in darkness?”
“Three days. Then you may begin your time of upsitting. You may move about your chamber and women may come and cheer you with food and drink.”
“Three days! But I must go to the christening!”
“No mother goes to her child’s christening! His father and godparents will take him to church to be christened on Sunday.”
“How long must I stay closed up in here?”
“If all goes well, you may rise and move about the house in two weeks. I stayed in my chamber for a month after Alfonso was born, but only three weeks after Jerome.”
“I will die if I cannot leave my chamber!”
“You will not die.” Lucretia smoothed the coverlet. “Have you and Alfonso decided on the child’s name?”
“I wish to call him Henry.”
Lucretia frowned. “That is not a name in our family.”
“The babe is mine, and I will select his name.”
Lucretia looked at her as though she had proposed jumping out the window.
“I am his mother.” Emilia set her jaw.
They glared at one another. Then Lucretia shrugged. “Talk to Alfonso. The baby must have three godparents: two godfathers and one godmother.”
Emilia had not thought of godparents. “I will speak to Alfi. Where is he?”
“Rehearsing. They perform tonight at Court.” A touch of pride filled Lucretia’s voice.
“His first performance at Court! How wonderful.”
“Aye. We are right proud of him.”
“When he returns, ask him to come see me.”
As her mother-in-law turned to go, Emilia added, “And, please, I would like some candles and books.”
“Absolutely not.” Lucretia closed the door hard as she left.
Emilia lay in the dark, slipping from dream to dream. Lord Hunsdon lifted the baby and exclaimed in a loud voice, “His name is Henry!” Alfi was playing the recorder while she read a poem. In a garden, women were dancing; Christine the poet smiled and waved to her. The ladies stepped aside, revealing a lectern with a book. As Emilia approached and tried to read, she heard an insistent pounding. She realized that someone was tapping at the door. Groggy, she called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and a hand holding a wax candle appeared, followed by a dark head.
“Alfi! Come in!”
Alfi slipped around the door and tiptoed to Emilia’s bed. He set the candle on the table. “How do you feel, Em?”
“Alfi, I’m ready to explode! Your mother has shut me up here in the dark like a prisoner in a dungeon. She won’t even let me have candles and books.”
He leaned forward shyly and kissed her. “You look well.” He glanced around. “Can I see the baby?”
“He’s sleeping now. Let’s not disturb him. He’ll wake soon.” She patted the bed. “Sit down and tell me how it went at Court.”
“I thought I’d be fearful.” Alfi settled himself against a pillow. “But it went so fast. We rehearsed in the withdrawing room. Then the steward came to get us, and we went out and took our places in the gallery. We started playing, and her Majesty came in with Lord Essex, and her ladies and maids of honor marched behind her.”
Emilia drew in her breath. “What did she look like? What was she wearing? Who was there?”
“Don’t you want to hear about me playing?”
“Of course, but I want to hear about Court too.”
“Well,” said Alfi, “the place was lit up with thousands of candles as bright as day.”
“I wish I could have a few,” muttered Emilia.
“All the ladies wore white and silver, and her Majesty’s dress was black and white and silver.”
“Her colors,” said Emilia, nodding.
“We started with a slow Spanish pavane, and of course everyone was very proper and correct. The Queen kept hold of Essex, although he looked at one of the maids of honor. Then we struck up a volta. Augustine winked and said to me, ‘All right, young fellow, give it all you’ve got.’”
“I think he likes you after all.”
“Aye, mayhap he does.” He stretched. “So they danced the volta, and the Queen had to jump higher than anyone else. Once she almost fell, but Essex caught her and she leaned on him and simpered.” Alfi batted his eyelashes. “Augustine signaled us to start playing a slow piece without a break. The old girl finished out the dance and went to sit on her throne, fanning herself with the front of her dress. She pulled it open and exposed her bosom. Everything was showing.”
“You mean—?”
“Tits, everything.”
“Oooh!” Emilia giggled.
A wail rose from the cradle. Alfi jumped. “It—it’s him. He’s awake.”
“He’s hungry. Would you bring him to me?” Emilia untied her night rail and opened it to expose a breast.
Alfi tiptoed over to the cradle, peered down, and touched the baby’s cheek.
“Just keep your hand under his bottom and support his head. Lift him gently.”
Alfi nervously picked up the baby, who began to scream.
“What did I do?”
“He wants his supper. Bring him here.”
Alfi, walking as though on hot coals, brought the small swaddled log and laid him in her arms, his embroidered cap askew. Emilia set it straight and laid the baby to her breast. He stopped fretting at once and began to nurse. They watched in silence. When he was finished, Emilia put him on her shoulder and burped him. “Want to hold him?” She held him out to Alfi.
“I might hurt him.”
“No, you won’t.”
Alfi hesitantly took the baby. “Hey, little ’un, ’tit chou.” He waved his finger in front of the baby’s eyes. The baby gave a sleepy whimper and flailed halfheartedly at the finger. Then his eyes closed, and he emitted a soft grunt.
Alfi looked at Emilia. “What shall we name him?”
She took a deep breath. “I want to call him Henry.”
The light went out of Alfi’s face. He nodded, lips tight. “I’ll put him back in his cradle.” When he returned to the bed, he did not sit. A few moments passed.
“Whom shall we ask to be godparents?” asked Emilia hurriedly.
“Why don’t you ask Lord Hunsdon?” Alfi’s hard eyes met hers.
“Alfi!”
He shrugged and looked away.
“What about Master Vaughan? His name is Henry.” When Alfi said nothing, she said, “Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t have a say, do I?” He turned away. “He’s not my child.”
“Alfi!”
“I must get my supper.” And he was gone.
The next day, as Lucretia was plumping up Emilia’s pillows, she said, “Cousin, you must forget Lord Hunsdon.”
“I wish to honor him.”
Her mother-in-law folded her arms. “Emilia, you cannot always have what you want. You have a husband now.”
They stared at one another. Then Lucretia said, “Have you thought about the godparents?”
“I would like to ask Master Vaughan.”
“Ask Augustine to be the second. He will help Alfonso advance at Court and watch over your son as his own.” She paused. “And I will speak to Alfonso about the name.”
“Oh, Cousin, thank you.” Emilia pressed Lucretia’s hand.
Lucretia clucked her tongue. “You are willful, Emilia. If you struggle with your husband, your marriage will not fare well.”
“I never thought I would have to struggle with Alfi. We’ve always been friends.”
“Husband and wife should be friends. But a wife should never forget that her husband is her head and she must submit to him.” She turned to go and turned back. “Cousin, let me advise you. When another disagreement comes up between you, make a show of submitting. Choose a matter important to him, though perhaps not to you. If you submit in
small things, you will get your way in greater ones.”
“You sound like Nicolo the Florentine.”
“That godless man.” Lucretia sniffed. “When I hear of such wickedness, I am glad I never learned to read.”
Emilia smiled. “But you are as crafty as he.”
“You may yet learn to be a wife, Emilia.”
The baby was carried to St. Botolph’s by his father, accompanied by his godparents, where he was christened Henry Lanyer and baptized a member of the English Church. After the christening, the godparents, family, and friends came to the house in Westminster to drink his health.
Emilia held court in her bedchamber with sounds of Italian, English, Portuguese, Spanish, and French filling the room. Alfi played the proud father, offering ale and wine, showing off the baby, while Roberto dangled a piece of colored string to make him laugh. When Henry was put into his cradle, toddler Nicholas rocked it vigorously until the baby wailed in protest. Alfi picked him up again, jostled him, and sang to him in five languages until he fell asleep.
Emilia, propped comfortably in bed, sipping cups of wine and nibbling kickshaws, drifted off. Her dream was interrupted by Alfi’s saying, “Emilia, our guests are departing.”
She opened her eyes. “Forgive me, friends. Thank you for coming.” She held out her hand.
Mistress Vaughan took it. “He is a beautiful babe, Emilia. We will be like parents to him.” She stood beside Master Vaughan, who beamed in his black furred robe and feathered hat.
Finally, all the guests were gone.
“Well,” said Lucretia. “That was a fine christening-ale.” She raised a cup of wine and took a long swallow.
“Aye,” agreed Alfi. “It was a good idea to give him Master Vaughan’s name. He will be a good godfather.”
And that was the last anyone said about Henry Lanyer’s name.
In spite of the plague, the theaters were open for a short time that winter. Emilia and Alfi went to the Rose to see Marlowe’s new play, The Jew of Malta. As they descended the stairs, Emilia heard voices behind them: “Ought to do that to all the Jews.” A lady’s voice: “But surely there are no Jews in England?”
“Ha! Th’Exchange is crawling with them.” Another voice: “That doctor of her Majesty’s, Lopez, says he’s a Christian, but look at him.”
Emilia’s heart pounded. There it is again: what we all know, but never speak about. She heard Alfi’s quick breath. He was listening too.
“Aye, the Queen cares more for them than the likes of us,” said the first. “They play their pipes and fiddles at Court and rake in more gold a night than an honest man makes in a year.”
That Friday, they went to Lucretia’s with baby Henry. They arrived in the carriage in the morning for dinner and stayed the afternoon and night. Emilia reluctantly gave Henry into the keeping of Lucretia’s waiting women, who scooped him up. When she left them, they were playing peek-a-boo with him as he crowed with delight.
“This is an important holiday,” Lucretia said as she, Emilia, and some of the women cousins sat in her chamber sewing. She was putting the finishing touches on a costume for a little girl cousin who was going to play Queen Esther that evening. “It is the Feast of Esther. It was during the time of exile in Babylon. Esther was the niece of Mordecai, an important man among the Jews. The King of Persia admired her beauty and took her to wife, but he knew nothing about her family. Now this king had a wicked general named Haman, who hated the Jews.” Lucretia took on a singsong tone, her storytelling voice. “Haman persuaded the King to issue a decree to kill all the Jews. Haman especially hated Mordecai and prepared a special gallows for him. When Mordecai heard of the decree, he went to Queen Esther and begged her to go to the King and ask for the lives of the Jews. At first she didn’t want to, for it was death for anyone to approach the King without being invited.”
Emilia had never heard this story before, so she stuck her needle in a pincushion, put the embroidery in her workbasket, and leaned her chin on her hand, listening.
“Queen Esther dressed in her most beautiful clothing, put on her finest jewels, and went before the King. Kneeling, she said, ‘O King’”—Lucretia put down her sewing—“‘if you kill the Jews, you must kill me as well, for I am a Jewess.’”
“And the King said, ‘Who has said that the Jews must be killed?’ And Esther answered, ‘Haman.’ So the King ordered that Haman be hanged on the very gallows he had prepared for Mordecai. And it was so.” Lucretia gave a sharp nod.
A pause filled the room. Emilia felt the heaviness of the story. A courageous woman taking her life into her hands by going to speak to her own husband. Living with him holding the secret of who she was. The Jews living in fear of their lives always. This story lasting for hundreds of years. She almost felt Esther’s light hand on her own shoulder, as though the long-ago Queen wanted to tell her something.
The spell was broken when Lucretia put away her sewing and exclaimed, “Let us go to the kitchen and see to the sweetmeats for tonight’s festivities.”
That evening, family members and servants gathered in the hall. Emilia saw relatives she had not seen since Henry’s christening-ale. Children sat on parents’ laps. Apprentices and servants, Christians and Jews alike, stood against the wall. The dim room held the air of mystery that Emilia always associated with family gatherings. Candlelight, soft and dim, rich painted cloths on the walls, dark carved wood furniture from overseas that had a look of Spanish and Moorish influence. Instruments, both stringed and wind, lay on tables and propped against the wall. Sheets of music lay stacked and ready on a table.
Cousin Nicholas, Lucretia’s husband, rose to lead them in prayer. “Our Father,” he began. Emilia murmured along with everyone else. She thought of what she was grateful for. No one in the family, thank goodness, had been struck with the plague. She had a healthy son. Her husband had a good post with the Consort. All in her household were well.
At the end of the prayer, instead of the usual “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen,” they all said, “In the name of the Lord, Adonai, Amen.”
Nicholas sat down. There was silence, then a general murmur of conversation. A few laughs broke the quiet, and the atmosphere of mystery evaporated. A servant filled Emilia’s goblet with wine. It was sweeter than she liked, but she sipped and savored it.
Lucretia rose and said in a ringing voice. “We are glad to be together once more for this Feast of Esther. For it might have been otherwise. The kings and powers of this world drive us out and persecute us, yet we survive. We live to see our children and our children’s children around us. And we will not forget our stories, our history, all those who have gone before us. We will not forget them, and we will not forget our God.”
“Amen,” they all said.
Lucretia went on, “And why have our people suffered so much?”
A light murmuring went around the table.
“For what have we been driven out of Spain and Portugal and made to fear for our lives wherever we have taken refuge? Why must we hide even now in this country where we were invited to live?” Her voice rose.
“My dear,” Nicholas said softly.
“Why?” cried Lucretia. “Even now, they perform plays that show us as monsters.”
Emilia glanced at Alfi, but he was looking down. Frances, John’s wife, said something in a low voice to her husband. Augustine’s face turned dark, his brow furrowed. Someone whispered to Nicholas.
Lucretia cried out, “What are Jews that they hate us so?”
Her voice choked with sobs, and she burst into tears. Everyone sat frozen. Nicholas rose, put his arm around her, and gently led her to a bench in the corner. Around the table, conversation slowly began, with a subdued clink of goblets, knives, and spoons. An apprentice took up a lute and played softly.
Emilia looked where Nicholas and Lucretia sat apart. As she watched, Nicholas pulled his tearful wife close against him and held her in his arms.
CHAPTER 13
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Place House
April 1593
Emilia looked around in amazement at the great hall of Place House. Carpets lay on the flagstone floor, an enormous fireplace filled one end of the hall, and gothic stone arches held up the roof of what had once been the refectory of the Abbey of Tichfield. A musicians’ gallery, where the Bassanos would play that evening, loomed above.
Back in February, Alfi had casually dropped the news that the Earl of Southampton had invited the Bassano Consort to his country manor and Augustine had invited him to go along and bring Emilia. Her first thought was delight at getting away from the endless round of sewing baby clothes, making possets, and supervising meals for her now-enlarged household. But her second thought was, Oh, God, Will is staying with the Earl. At his country manor. He’ll be there. I’ll see him. What will I do; what will I tell him?
“I don’t know if I can leave the baby,” she said.
“Em, he’ll be fine,” Alfi said. “You worry over him too much. It’ll do you good to get away.”
In the end, Emilia decided that she would deal with Will when she saw him. What was done was done. She reluctantly surrendered Henry to his wet nurse, upon whom Lucretia had insisted, and began practicing her best songs.
So early one April morning, as green shoots pushed up from the ground, Emilia found herself jouncing along in a coach with Alfi, Augustine, and four other musicians on the rutted road to Place House. Their instruments followed in a covered wagon.
They arrived shortly before eleven. The Earl of Southampton, long hair falling over his left shoulder and a light sword swinging at his belt, strode out to meet them.
So this is Will’s Earl, thought Emilia.
“Welcome, musicians!” he cried, opening his arms. “Welcome to Place House.” He shook hands with Augustine and greeted others in the Consort by name. To Alfi he said, “Master Lanyer! I hear you are in the Recorder Consort now.”
“Yes, my lord.” Alfi bowed low.
“Congratulations. May your playing be even sweeter than before.”
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