Alfi turned red.
“And who is this lovely gentlewoman?” He stopped in front of Emilia, his eyes smiling into hers.
Her face felt warm. “I am the wife of Alfonso Lanyer, my lord.” She sank into a curtsey.
“Ah,” said the young lord, his lips curving into a half smile. “Fortunate are you, Master Lanyer.”
“I am honored to meet Your Lordship,” Emilia said.
The earl clapped his hands. “We shall have the best music in the land tonight. Steward!” The man in livery behind him stepped forward. “Show the musicians to their lodgings and practice hall so they can prepare.” He turned back to the Bassanos. “Masters, you are welcome all to Place House!”
“Well,” Emilia murmured to Alfi as they followed the steward, “that was quite a show.”
Alfi whispered, “Did you see that sapphire ring on his finger?”
The steward led the Bassano men to a chamber with several beds and pallets. “You will sleep with the menservants,” he told them. To Emilia, he said, “I will send a maid to guide you to one of the women’s chambers.”
A girl in a white cap led Emilia down a flight of stairs to a large chamber with four narrow beds, a rough wooden table, a joint-stool, and a screen that hid the close-stool. The sheets were threadbare, and the coverlet hung barely over the edges of the bed.
When the girl had left, Emilia looked around and saw one narrow window. She unlatched it and pushed open the casement. Outside, she saw a kitchen garden with rows of sallets and root vegetables, surrounded by a brick wall with a row of espaliered fruit trees: apple, pear, and damson. Herbs grew at the end of the rows—hyssop, thyme, and rue.
A sour-faced servant maid entered. “Mistress Bassano, you are to join your husband and the musicians for dinner.”
The Southampton household and its guests gathered to eat in the great hall at noon. Emilia, wearing a fresh lawn collar and a new French hood, linked her arm with her husband’s as they walked to the hall. Alfi, cleaned up and brushed, face shining and curly hair slicked down, was clearly trying to look as though he dined with nobility every day.
“Husband, dear,” Emilia whispered before they entered, “hold still.” She took her handkerchief and wiped a fleck of shaving soap off his chin.
At the other entrance to the hall, three men in dark clothing walked in. One was short and dark with stooped shoulders; another was of medium build, fair-haired, with an open, pleasant face. When Emilia saw the third, she felt hot and cold all over. It was Will. His clothes were dark and well cut, and his boots were polished. His white, falling-band collar looked fresh and starched, and his beard and hair were neatly trimmed. He gave a quick glance around the hall but did not indicate that he saw her.
The Earl strode in, resplendent in a fresh white shirt and velvet doublet. He headed toward the Bassanos. “My dear musicians, you will sit today at the high table as our guests.”
Emilia glanced at the trestles set up in the hall. One, on a raised dais, was set at right angles to the other; both were draped with fine linen. Silver trenchers, spoons, and saltcellars were set at each plate. No one had to bring their own spoons to this table.
The Countess of Southampton, tall and fair like her son, rustled up. “Let me bid you welcome. We are pleased to have you as our guests.”
Alfi managed to stammer, “Good day, my lady.” He bowed and almost stumbled.
“Let us proceed to table,” said the Earl, offering his arm to Emilia. “May I lead you to dinner, Mistress Lanyer?” As he bent closer, she could smell soap, rosemary, and lavender. His almost-beardless face had been freshly shaven. His linen shirt was open-collared, freshly starched, and immaculate. She smiled and inclined her head. Dinner might not be so bad after all.
During the meal, the Earl talked to Emilia almost exclusively and placed choice bits of venison on her trencher. “The venison’s from our park. I killed it myself yesterday. So convenient, isn’t it, to be able to go and shoot your own dinner?”
Emilia thought of Will’s story of poaching deer. “One of the many benefits of nobility, sir.” She dipped a bit of venison into the sauce, ate it, and wiped her fingers daintily.
The Earl gave her an intimate smile, stabbed a piece of venison with his knife, and popped it into his mouth. “Quite right, Mistress Lanyer. A benefit to offset the liabilities.”
“What liabilities, my lord?”
“Being under Master Secretary Burghley’s thumb, for one.” He scowled. “I’m still his ward for another year until I reach my majority. I can’t wait.”
“Is it so bad, sir, to be under the care and attention of the most powerful man in the kingdom?”
The young lord snorted. “He has me in a stranglehold. I can’t spend my own money. I can’t even sneeze without his permission. And now he wants me to marry his niece and threatens me with an outrageous fine if I don’t.” Taking his spoon, he scooped up some sallet dressed with oil, vinegar, and sugar and sprinkled with nuts and fresh berries. “Mmm, this is delicious.”
“Does the lady not suit your lordship?”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with her. I just don’t wish to marry.”
“Surely you wish to continue your family.”
“Does everyone in the world sing the same song? My mother, Burghley, even my friend the poet all harmonize at me in the key of M—matrimony!” His voice grew louder, and his mother, sitting on his other side, gave him a hard look.
His friend the poet, thought Emilia. Will? “Is matrimony so bad, my lord? Without it, how would we get the next generation?”
“Mistress Lanyer,” he almost spat, “if you wish to stay in my good graces, do not, I repeat, DO NOT speak to me about the next generation.”
“Sir, forgive me.” Emilia bowed her head.
“My pique was not directed at you, dear Mistress.” He smiled, sun breaking out from behind clouds. “It’s a sore spot. My poet writes sonnets that praise me to the skies, and then urges me to marry to perpetuate my wonderful qualities. I’m getting tired of it, even wrapped in a poetic sugar pill.”
“Who is your poet, sir?” she asked carefully.
“Over there,” said the Earl, pointing with his knife. “Will Shakespeare, the player. He said you were acquainted.”
She felt the blood rise into her cheeks. “Did he?”
The Earl looked at her, eyebrow raised.
She hardly glanced at the subtlety, an airy concoction iced with marzipan birds and flowers, borne in to “ahs” of approval.
That evening, she again sat beside the Earl while Alfi, Augustine, and the other musicians played in a consort made up of lute, cittern, viol, bandore, and two bass viols.
“I much prefer mixed consorts,” said the Earl to Emilia. “It’s more modern. Do you play an instrument?”
“I am a Bassano, sir,” answered Emilia. “I play recorder, lute, and clavier.”
“I must hear you!” he exclaimed. “I have a lovely clavichord. You must try it.”
“I would be pleased to play for you, sir.” That will show Augustine.
The musicians finished their first piece and began a Spanish pavane. As the sonorous measures washed over the hall, Emilia tried to relax. No one could fault her appearance. Her bodice and kirtle were cut simply of good fabric, suitable for a musician’s wife. Her only extravagant touch was the pair of pearl earrings Hunsdon had given her. As the Earl turned back to her, she lifted her chin, making them swing, and flashed a flirtatious smile.
The pavane was followed by a sprightly hornpipe. The Earl sprang to his feet. “Let’s have dancing!” Immediately, servants and household members began to move benches and seats, and in minutes the floor was cleared. The Earl bowed to Emilia. She curtseyed, and they joined hands and galloped down the hall, other couples following. She had not danced in over a year, and soon she was breathing hard and perspiring. The room spun, its colors and sounds flashing by: petticoats, glinting jewels, buckles, and dagger hilts. She thought only of getting t
he next step right, not gasping but breathing steadily, ignoring the stitch in her side, keeping the look of effortless control she had learned at Court. At the end, the Earl spun her around and bowed, and she swept him her deepest curtsey.
“Mistress Lanyer!” said the Earl, his fair face flushed. “You are a wonderful dancer.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He tossed back a damp strand of dark-blond hair that had fallen across his forehead and wiped his face with a lace handkerchief. He smelled of sharp sweat, rose, and musk. His strong, warm hand, palm damp, gripped hers a moment longer than was needful.
The Consort struck up a galliard. Couples formed in stately lines, then began to pace, turning one way, then the other.
“Shall we foot it again?”
Emilia, still breathing hard, pressed her hand against her side. “My lord, I have not danced of late and am short of breath. Your guests are waiting to dance with you.”
“If you insist. But do sit with me at supper?”
Emilia murmured her assent, and the Earl asked a young woman in blue to dance. The Countess beamed.
Next to a wall tapestry, Will and two other gentlemen stood talking. Will’s hands gestured and made shapes in the air, and the men burst into laughter.
That night at supper, the Earl sat beside Emilia, offering her sweetmeats of honey and dried fruit, spun sugar comfits of pastry and jellied fruit, and a bite of the evening’s crowning glory, another subtlety more splendid than the one at dinner, a concoction of spun sugar and white of egg beaten to an airy froth and fashioned into the shapes of violets, roses, and apple blossoms. Emilia found it tasteless and turned to a bowl of strawberries. She took one and dipped it in thick cream, and closed her eyes in pleasure as the tastes mingled in her mouth.
“Do you prefer berries and cream to the subtlety, Mistress Lanyer?” asked the Earl.
“In sweets as in life, my lord, I prefer nature to artifice.”
His eyes traveled over her French hood and the gown she had put on for the evening, adorned with Hunsdon’s earrings and rope of pearls. “Do you, Mistress?”
She smiled and adjusted an earring.
“What about wine, then?” He refilled her glass of canary.
“Wine is a creature of nature, sir.”
“Aye, but it requires some artifice of the winemaker to reach its full potential.”
“Yet no winemaker can make good wine from bad grapes.”
“Well,” said Southampton with an air of triumph, “anything can be said to begin with nature—our leather, tooled by crafts-men”—he gestured toward his own boots—“the silk cocoons of silkworms, by art transformed into a lovely gown”—he brushed Emilia’s skirt—“and even our grandly artificial subtlety began life as a clutch of humble eggs in the henyard but has been combined with sugar made from cane brought to us from the Indies and transformed by the artifice of my pastry cook into the splendiferous edifice you see here.” He gestured toward the confection, which was now somewhat the worse for wear. Its daffodils, roses, and violets were slipping into soggy, pastel heaps.
“But I don’t believe you’ve spoken yet with your old friend,” the Earl said—and to Emilia’s alarm, he leaped up, took her by the hand, and pulled her in Will’s direction. “Will!” he exclaimed. “You two know each other, don’t you?”
“I know Mistress Lanyer, sir.” Will inclined his head, face expressionless.
“Excellent,” exclaimed the Earl. “Since both of you love music, would you join me in the solar tomorrow? You may play my clavichord, Mistress Lanyer. As for you, friend poet, I know you can sing and handle a lute.”
“My poor talents are at your lordship’s disposal.” Will gave the ghost of a bow.
The Countess appeared. “Son, Lady Mary is waiting. You have hardly spoken to her.”
“Mother,” said the Earl, annoyed. She met his eyes, unyielding. “Very well, Madam. I shall go and do my duty.” He bowed and left, the Countess rustled away, and Emilia and Will were left together.
After a pause, she said, “Master Shakespeare, you look well.”
“So do you, Mistress Bassano—Mistress Lanyer, I should say.”
“Yes. I am married and a mother.”
“I hear you have a son.”
“Yes. His name is Henry.”
“Ah. Hen-ry.” He spoke slowly, rolling the name in his mouth.
Another pause.
“Married life suits you,” he said. “You’re more beautiful than ever.”
“Thank you.”
“Ah . . .” He glanced around and spoke quickly in a low voice. “Do you think we could talk privately?”
“Will, you know that’s impossible.” Her heart was turning somersaults.
“What about tomorrow afternoon? In the garden by the kitchen? Meet me there at four o’clock?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Waking early, Emilia lay listening to the birds calling in the garden. I will see Will today. She slid out of bed, went to the basin, and splashed water over her face.
She could not suppress her excitement. You are a fool, Emilia, she told herself. You must not go. She thought of baby Henry, and could almost feel his warm little body, his soft head under her chin, his milky smell, his small hand grasping hers. How he waved his arms and legs about and laughed when his swaddling bands were taken off. She had not been away from him this long since he was born. Her breasts still ached from her drying-up milk.
They breakfasted with the servants, eating fresh-baked manchet bread with butter and soft cheese, apples, and cups of small ale. As they left the servants’ hall, the Earl appeared. He smiled and said something joking to the musicians, then touched Emilia’s shoulder. “Be in the solar at ten,” he murmured in her ear.
“What’s he want?” asked Alfi when the Earl had gone.
“He asked me to play for him.”
Alfi nodded. “That’s good. Now I must go practice.” A quick kiss, and he rushed away.
When Emilia reached the solar, the Earl was playing on an elegant little clavichord, its harp-shaped back open. He stopped. “Mistress Lanyer! How do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Play, please!” He stepped aside and waved her to the keyboard.
She played a French galliard, and at the end she heard two pairs of hands behind her applauding. Next to the Earl stood Will.
“Excellent, Mistress Lanyer!” exclaimed the Earl. “Now, Will, take a lute, and I’ll take the other while Mistress Lanyer plays the clavichord. Here’s some music.” He handed them both sheets of music.
Will studied a sheet. “This is new.”
“It’s by Giovanni Bassano. One of your cousins, Mistress?”
“Yes, sir, at St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice.”
“The talented Bassanos,” said the Earl. “How about your family, Will? Are they musical?”
“My mother plays the clavier and taught us all to sing. As for my father, he enjoys a round or a jig. He used to carouse and caper every Mayday.”
The Earl nodded. “Aye, the old May dances and games. They’ve almost all disappeared. Stained-glass windows smashed, stone saints and bishops with their noses knocked off. We’re more godly now.” He and Will exchanged a look. “Did you ever see a miracle play on a traveling wagon?”
“I did once, my lord,” answered Will, “at Coventry.”
“Noah and his wife and the shepherds and angels?”
“Aye, I went with my father.”
The Earl gave him a quiet smile. “Let’s have more music. D’you know this? It’s by Byrd. A Papist, but a fine composer.”
They sang and played for two hours. Emilia and the Earl played duets, she on the clavier, he on the lute. Emilia sang “Now, Oh, Now, I Needs Must Part.” She and Will sang “John Come Kiss Me.” All three sight-read an Italian madrigal, Will’s light tenor blending with the Earl’s baritone, and Emilia’s soprano weaving high above them. When the last notes faded, they listened as
the music echoed in the air. If we could but have such harmony in the world, Emilia thought, as we have in music.
The Earl broke the silence. “It must be time for dinner. Shall we go down?”
Will turned back, touched Emilia’s hand, and murmured, “Four o’clock.”
She found Will waiting in the garden. He took her hands and looked at her a long moment. “You played so beautifully this morning.”
“Thank you,” she said. His face looked sharper and older somehow, despite being more filled out. His beard was well-trimmed, his hair brushed back. A tightness hovered around his eyes and mouth. It made her uneasy.
He kissed her fingertips. “The keys may kiss your fingers,” he whispered, “but I may kiss your lips.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, pulling back. “We’ll be seen.”
“Let’s go into the orchard. Here’s a path.” He led her through the gate. The fruit trees spread low, just leafing out. Fresh grass sprang among wild violets, primroses, and other tiny wildflowers. A stand of tall grass stood unmown. He guided her behind it and put his arms around her.
“Will, I’m married.” She pushed at him, not very hard.
“Do you no longer love me, then?” He nuzzled her neck.
“I do. I’ve thought of you constantly.”
“Con-stant-ly.” He said the word as though tasting something bitter, and its meaning fell heavy on her. “Did you think of me—constantly—all through your wedding day . . . and night?”
“That’s not fair, Will. Please listen . . .”
“Aye, you thought of me now and then. And now you have me, your Will.” His lips curled over the word’s obscene sense. His voice sounded thick and breathy. His hands tightened.
She laughed—aroused, still uneasy.
He seized and kissed her, and his hand moved to lift her skirt.
“No, Will!” She tried to pull away.
“What, my Lady Virtue? You’ve had me on the stairs, on the floor, against the wall, in my bed, and now you say no to me in the orchard?” He pulled her skirts up roughly. When she protested and struggled, he covered her mouth with his hand, pushed her to the ground, and rolled on top of her. She tried to kick him—“Will, I mean it!”—but he held her down and pushed inside her.
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