Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  Doctor Forman looked intently into her eyes. “My daughter . . .”

  “I am not your daughter.”

  “You are in spirit.” His amber eyes glowed. “You are bound to me.”

  “Bound to you?” She stepped back. “I am not bound to anyone.”

  “I feel a bond that goes deep from my soul to yours.”

  She shook her head and twisted her hands around her handkerchief.

  “To be plain, dear Mistress Emilia, I would halek with you.”

  “Halek?” she frowned. “What’s that?”

  “The word derives from the Hebrew, the sacred texts of the Kabala. I would join body and soul with you in the sacred marriage of opposites, of sun and moon, of dark and light, of cold and heat, uniting the power of the elements.”

  She stared, incredulous. “Doctor, I most certainly will not . . . halek . . . with you. I am my husband’s faithful wife.”

  “Many married women have lovers. You yourself . . .” He raised an eyebrow.

  She gave the handkerchief an especially tight twist. It ripped. “I was—I was lovers with two men before my marriage.” She spoke with difficulty.

  “And at least one after.”

  She looked down and said nothing.

  His garments rustled as he rose. She felt his hands on her shoulders and his breath on her face. A single finger lifted her chin. “Open your eyes.” She did. “My dear Mistress Emilia.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips. When she did not resist, he bent and kissed her shoulder. She felt the heat of his mouth even through the thick layers of cloth. He was so insistent, so close.

  “Please don’t,” she murmured.

  “I will do nothing against your will.” His breath was warm on her neck. He stroked her shoulders. She felt unable to move. A sound rose up inside her but could not come out.

  He reached into his pouch and drew out a vial. She watched as he tipped it and poured a few drops into her wine cup. He poured another drop into his own. “To our friendship,” he murmured, lifting his cup. When she did not move, he said in a quiet voice, “Drink it.”

  She watched her hand, as though moved by wires, reach, take the cup, and raise it to her lips. She felt the liquid run through all her veins and warm her to the tips of her fingers.

  He raised his cup to his own lips, set it down, took up a candle, and blew it out. When all the candles in the room but one had been extinguished, he took her by the waist and pulled her out of the chair. Holding her close, he kissed her mouth. She tasted cloves and spices and felt the rough texture of his cloak. Under the cloak he wore a velvet surcoat. It smelled of dried herbs, spices, and smoke.

  “Oh, my daughter,” he whispered. He stroked the front of her bodice and trailed his fingers along the low neckline of her gown. He pushed his hand down her neckline enough to touch her nipple.

  She drew in her breath sharply.

  He removed his hand and gave her the wine cup again. She sipped and again felt warmth rush through her veins. She leaned, unresisting, against him as he held her firmly and slipped his hand inside her placket. She felt every touch with heightened senses, every brushing and stroke of a finger. She felt unable to move or make a sound as unwanted pleasure and desire rose in her body. He did no more than touch her. His touch was enough.

  “Ah!” she cried out and slumped against him. He drew her into his arms, kissing her neck and shoulder. The room swirled. She shook her head but could not clear it. “Doctor Forman,” she whispered, “please go.”

  “I will return,” he murmured.

  Emilia slept late the next morning. When she finally rose and dressed, she had a headache and felt wobbly. She looked into her steel glass. Steel was supposed to show the most truthful image, but her face looked like someone else’s—puffy, pale, mouth drawn down. Even after a tisane brought by a frowning Min, her head still felt thick, her thoughts slow.

  She took the potion several times a day and slept more and more. Two weeks later, it was nearly gone. By late afternoon, her hands were trembling. She held the bottle over a glass half full of wine, shook in the last two drops, and drank. She set down the glass. She drew aside the curtains and looked out at the dark street. “Marco!” she called. She gave him money and told him to go to Dr. Forman’s and bring back a bottle of the potion. She paced her chamber.

  At nine o’clock, she heard the doctor’s voice. “Mistress Lanyer.” He bowed over her hand. “I am exceeding glad to see you.”

  “I need the potion.”

  He set a bottle on the table. “You need not pay me now.”

  “I thank you, doctor,”

  “Let us go to your chamber,” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  A smile of mock sorrow touched his lips. “Mistress, would you make me false promises?”

  “I promised you nothing.”

  “Not all promises are made in words,” he murmured.

  Her head felt thick, and she craved to lie down. “I am tired, doctor. Please go.”

  “I will come with you,” he whispered. “I will do nothing against your will.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Please go.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I have never forced a woman, and I will not force you. But you try me exceedingly, Mistress Lanyer.”

  “I do not mean to try you.” She pulled away from him. “I do not wish to lie with you.”

  He shook his head. “I am not an evil man. I am a doctor; I have helped many sick folk. When famed physicians ran from London to escape the plague, I remained. I cared for the sick and dying. I saved the lives of many who would have died had I not stayed. Yet they say I am no true physician because I did not attend university.” His mouth drew down in anger, the lines around it cutting deep. “I give medicines that ease suffering. I do not bleed my patients needlessly. I look for causes of disease. I am not afraid to touch the sick.” His yellow eyes looked into hers as though beseeching her for understanding.

  “Doctor Forman, I do not doubt your skills as a physician. But I do not wish to lie with you.”

  He shook his head as though weary. “Then good-bye for now, Mistress.” He pulled his cloak tight about him and exited.

  She had pulled herself together enough to go to the headtyre shop in Silver Street, for she needed something more elegant to wear to Lucretia’s festive evenings. She had not seen the doctor since the last visit, although he had sent a message a day or two ago asking if he could come and see her—a message she had ignored.

  As she listlessly examined a construction of silver wire threaded with crimson feathers, in came a lady in a plain cloak, followed by a gentlewoman and a girl of about ten.

  “Headtyres!” said the girl.

  “Hush, Lady Anne,” said the gentlewoman.

  “Mistress Bassano?” said the lady, tilting her head, her shortsighted eyes squinting. Then her face broke into a smile, and she grasped Emilia’s hands. “How are you, my dear?”

  It was Lady Cumberland. Emilia, astounded, forgetting to curtsey, held the peeress’s hands and said the first thing that came into her head: “My lady, I had to leave your rosemary in Westminster.”

  “Did you, my dear?” said Lady Cumberland. She gave Emilia’s hands a squeeze. “My own old shrub, alas, died long ago. I have others from Greenwich. I’ll give you one.”

  The little girl Anne peered at them, frowning.

  “Anne, dear, greet Mistress Bassano, a friend of mine and a learned gentlewoman,” said Lady Cumberland. Turning to the shop’s proprietor, Mistress Mountjoy, who was openly gaping, she said, “Mistress Bassano and I are old friends.”

  Emilia said quickly, “I am Mistress Lanyer now, my lady.”

  “Mistress Lanyer, this is my daughter Anne,” said the Countess. “Go on, Anne, make your courtesies.”

  Anne dropped a quick curtsey. “Good day, Mistress Lanyer. I hope you are well.” Her dark eyes looked frankly into Emilia’s. Her oval face had a small, firm mouth and arched brows. Her thick, glossy brown hai
r, like her mother’s, grew in a peak on her forehead.

  “Good day, Lady Anne,” said Emilia, dipping a curtsey.

  “I must have a new headtyre for Court,” said Lady Cumberland. “Nothing to do but try on a few.”

  Anne laughed with delight at the sight of her diminutive mother under an elaborate concoction with gold wire birds and flowers and a billowing, transparent veil.

  “Mother, you look like a butterfly! A large one with golden antennae.”

  Lady Cumberland shook her head, trying to keep the contraption from falling. “I’m afraid this will not do. Here, help me get it off—” She bent over so that Mistress Mountjoy could lift it away, stray wires pulling some of her hair loose. “I had in mind something simple.” She smoothed her hair. “Whatever my daughter says, I do not wish to look like a large butterfly with golden antennae.”

  Anne laughed. “You would be the most gorgeous lady at Court.”

  “That role is better filled by others,” said the peeress. “Mistress Mountjoy, I will take the small one with the violets. Send it to my house in Clerkenwell.”

  She turned to Emilia, looking closely at her. “Have you been well, my dear?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Emilia answered quickly. What can she see on my face?

  Lady Cumberland still looked worried. “You look as though you have been ill.”

  “An ague, Madam. It is nearly gone.”

  “Do you still write in your commonplace book? I remember that you said writing eased your heart and cleared your mind. I have often remembered those words.”

  Emilia laughed, a bit shamefaced. “My lady, I have not writ in a long time. The duties of a mother . . .” she felt the lie in her words and bit her lip. She glanced at the dark-haired little girl, who was looking around the headtyre shop as though appraising its contents. Lady Cumberland was also a mother. She felt the pull of her darkened chamber, a glass of wine with a few drops of potion shaken in, the blessed oblivion of dream-sodden sleep.

  Lady Cumberland was speaking. “Some friends of mine, ladies, are forming a group to meet and read poetry. Would you like to join us?”

  Emilia heard herself say, “I would be delighted, my lady.”

  Lady Cumberland beamed. “We meet next Wednesday at three at my house in Clerkenwell.”

  Emilia said, feeling awkward: “How is your garden, my lady?”

  “I have the most wonderful collection of medicinal herbs now. I started them indoors. When the weather grows warmer, I will move them outside. And you must see my distillery! I have had great success with decoctions.”

  “Mother is an alchemist like Doctor Faustus.” Anne gave her mother a sly glance.

  Emilia started at the name, for she thought she had heard another.

  “Anne!” said her mother. “I certainly am not. That doctor was wicked and ungodly.”

  “You are still an alchemist,” Anne insisted.

  “And you are still an impudent imp,” said her mother, “despite the care I have taken for your education.”

  Anne giggled.

  “Remember, Mistress Lanyer, next Wednesday at three.” Lady Cumberland briskly left the shop, daughter and waiting gentlewoman in tow.

  As Emilia left the headtyre shop, she saw a man approaching who looked familiar. Her heart gave a hard thump and her breath came quickly. It was Will. As she stood there, Jenny by her side, he approached the door of the shop. He saw her and stopped.

  “Mistress Lanyer.”

  “Good day, Master Shakespeare.” She lifted her chin. “We have fine weather, do we not?”

  “So you are buying a new headtyre for Court?” His voice held a hint of scorn.

  Instead of answering the question, she said, “What brings you here?”

  “I lodge here.” And without another word, he entered the shop and closed the door.

  Emilia blew out her breath. “Come, Jenny, don’t dawdle.”

  The following Tuesday, Emilia went to take the potion. She shook the vial, but only a few drops fell. She thought about sending Marco to Doctor Forman asking him for a bottle, but she decided to wait. As the day wore on, she felt more and more tense. She paced the parlor, wringing her hands. When Marco in late afternoon announced Doctor Forman, she felt mingled dread and relief.

  When he arrived, she let him take her hands in greeting and kiss her on the cheek.

  “I asked the stars if I should come to you today,” he said. “They gave me no clear reply, so I decided to come try my fortune.”

  “Your fortune, sir?”

  “Aye, Mistress.” His smile teased, a hint of flirtation. “To see whether you intend me any more villainy or no.”

  “Villainy, Doctor? A strong word.” She was shaking with desire for the potion.

  “I thought you might need more of the potion, so I brought a bottle.”

  A whole bottle. I can take a little today, a little less tomorrow . . .

  He drew a bottle from his pouch. She reached for it, but he grasped her wrist and murmured, “Let us go to your chamber.”

  “No.” She pulled away.

  He drew a deep breath. “Mistress, after all I have done for you.” He replaced the bottle in his pouch.

  She gasped, suddenly dizzy, and clutched the chair. “Leave the bottle. I will pay you.”

  He gave her a sad look. “Is this how you reward me?”

  Marco appeared in the doorway. “Mistress, a messenger from my Lady of Cumberland.”

  She read the letter while Doctor Forman stood by, impatience rising off him like steam. The letter reminded her of the next day’s meeting and ended with wishes for her good health.

  She went to her desk and with deliberation wrote a reply, sprinkled sand on the paper, folded it, dropped a bit of wax, and pressed her seal into it. “Here.” She handed it to the messenger, “take this to your mistress. Here is payment for your trouble.” She gave the messenger a few coins. He bowed and was gone.

  She turned to Doctor Forman. “And now, Doctor Forman, I also ask you to leave.”

  He gave her an injured look. “My dear Mistress Emilia, do you think this highborn lady is your friend? She is not. I am. I have come at your call, taken risks, done much for you.” He shook his head. “Is this how you repay me?”

  She saw him as though she stood afar off: his belted robe with the pouch, his soft leather shoes, his flat cap with his frizzy hair around it, his curly beard. Repay you for what? For causing me to walk through my days in a drugged half-sleep, to lie wrapped in a dense, thick-coated cloak of oblivion while you finally get me to “halek” with you by drugging me with more and more of the potion until I would give up everything, betray anyone, to get it, until I cannot remember the time of day or the year or even who I am?

  As she hesitated, he stepped forward and extended a hand.

  She stepped back, and her skirts brushed a small table. Glancing down, she saw a book lying there: The City of Ladies.

  Sudden, calm resolve rose up in her. “Doctor Forman, you gave me a potion that has nearly enslaved my soul and my body. I do not wish to continue thus. I am done with you. Now go.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. His face turned dark red. “You are nothing but a whore, Mistress Lanyer. You will never be a lady, and that fool of a husband of yours will never be a knight. Neither of you deserve rank.” His voice grew louder with fury. “You fancy yourself the equal of your betters because you once lived at Court. A fostered orphan, taken in out of pity. A blossom plucked by a powerful lord as a plaything, then discarded. Oh, I know your story. Many a girl in the brothels has the same. Do you think this Lady Cumberland will let you soil the floors of her house when she knows what you really are?”

  “Get out,” Emilia said through gritted teeth.

  He stared, breathing hard. After a moment, he pulled his cloak around him, turned on his heel, and exited, slamming the door.

  Silence fell around her. After a moment, she heard a voice calling as though from far away. She threw o
pen the door.

  “Mistress?” Min stood just outside. Behind her stood Marco, Marcella, and Jenny. Emilia’s breathing slowed. She looked up at her household, gathered together, worry and concern for her on their faces.

  “Mistress.” Min hesitated. “Would you like to come to the kitchen for a tisane?”

  Emilia smiled. “Yes, Min, I would. Thank you very much.”

  Next day, she asked Min to help her break her dependence on the potion.

  “If you are resolved,” said Min, “you must sleep.”

  “But I can’t sleep today!” Emilia protested. “I must go to Lady Cumberland’s this afternoon at three.” She threw off the covers, tried to stand up, and fell back, dizzy.

  Min rushed forward and helped her lie down again. “Aye, you must go to your ladies’ meeting. We’ll start the cure tonight.”

  She went to Lady Cumberland’s that afternoon. She could not have told anyone what the book they discussed was about. When Lady Cumberland was saying good-bye to her guests, Emilia remained standing before the fireplace.

  Lady Cumberland came over to her. “Mistress Lanyer, I hope I am not intruding. But I feel you are not well.”

  Emilia hesitated, then told the truth. “No, my lady. I am not.”

  Lady Cumberland looked at her with compassion. “Would you like to tell me?”

  “My lady, I have not been well. I . . .” Then something broke in her, and her words poured out. “My lady, I am so weary I long not to live.” Her eyes stung with tears.

  “Child, what troubles you?” Lady Cumberland took her arm and gently led her to a seat.

  “My daughter . . . I couldn’t save her . . .” She could not go on for sobbing. She felt Lady Cumberland’s hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, my lady—”

  She wept, the floodgates of her control breaking, all her grief and guilt and shame washing over her in an overwhelming flood.

  She felt Lady Cumberland’s hands take hers. “Child, child,” the peeress murmured. “It is so hard, I know. I too have lost an infant.”

  After a few moments, Emilia pulled back, sniffing, gulping, fumbling for her handkerchief. “I ask your pardon, my lady.”