“No need for pardon.” Lady Cumberland looked keenly into Emilia’s eyes. “Your eyes are dilated. Have you been taking potions for pain?”
Emilia drew back. “I have taken a—a sleeping draught from time to time.”
Lady Cumberland nodded briskly. “Discontinue it at once. Take tisanes made with mulberry leaves and mullein to help you sleep. Take warm baths before bedtime, and add a tea of valerian to your bath water. I will send you some, and mandragola as well, although it is potent and must be used sparingly.” She laid her hand on Emilia’s arm. “Mistress Lanyer, I know we met again for a purpose. You were meant to come here today that you might be healed through physic and poetry.”
That night, Min brought her a tisane. “It’s made from mulberry leaves and mullein with cowslip leaves, as that lady said. They are wholesome herbs that mimic the potion but will not enslave you. We had some in the storeroom, dried from last summer, and the lady sent some more this afternoon.”
“I remember when we gathered them,” said Emilia. It seemed so long ago when they had bundled the herbs and hung them in bunches from the storeroom rafters.
Emilia drank Min’s tisane and waited for sleep. She wanted the potion desperately. If I added a drop or two to the tisane? But that was the demon calling.
The second night, she could not fall asleep. As the night wore on, she felt that her limbs jerked and crawled.
The next night, Min gave her a stronger, more pungent drink. “I brewed this from the mandragola sent by the lady.” Min laid bundles of dried yellow flowers and gray leaves along the windowsills and the door. “’Tis wormwood and Saint-John’s-wort, gathered last summer on St. John’s Day. I’m sealing the chamber against evil spirits.”
“Can Saint-John’s-wort banish this spirit?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “Jenny’s been callin’ on the Fair Folk and settin’ out her bowl of milk for Robin Goodfellow.”
“Min, such childish stuff cannot help me. I’m too far gone. The doctor is a sorcerer.”
“Nonsense! He’s just a man that wants to have his way with ye.”
Emilia looked at the dried yellow flowers and pale leaves that lay on the windowsill like faded May garlands. I am past my life’s May and into my November. Like these herbs, I am faded and worn.
“Min,” she whispered, “would you bring me some of the rosemary that Lady Cumberland sent?” When she held the spray of fresh rosemary to her nose, its strong, clean scent flowed into her, giving her heart. Sorcerer or not, he will not have his way with my body or my soul. She put the rosemary under her pillow. Lady Cumberland, pray for me.
That night, she slept—and after many days, the craving lessened, and her dreams became ordinary once more. But one dream she remembered: She was in a high-ceilinged chamber facing a lectern, and before her lay an open book. She saw a printed row of Latin text that read: Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum. She tried to turn the page and woke.
CHAPTER 16
Alfi’s Flight
February 1601
Alfi returned from Ireland in February, still unknighted, with a leg wound acquired in a skirmish near an unpronounceable bog. “All the knights Essex made, and he passed me by! Some say he never draws his sword but to make knights. He kept it sheathed when I was around.” He sat before the fire and gulped ale. “And the child died of a fever? You called no doctor, then.”
“There was no warning! She was healthy one day. The next, she took a fever and—and . . .” She broke off, then continued with an effort. “We did all we could.”
“I suppose my daughter was not as important as his Lordship’s son.”
“That is a hateful thing to say!”
“And your boy has gone to be fostered with Andrea. My brother might have asked me. But then I’m not the father.” He turned and stomped out. The heavy door to the street slammed.
He spent his days and nights with comrades and fellow soldiers at taverns or at a trestle table in the parlor. They talked in low voices about Essex, how he had parleyed with Tyrone on horseback in the middle of a stream with no witnesses, then sailed to England and rode in hot haste to Nonesuch where he burst, mud-covered and filthy, into her Majesty’s bedchamber. She greeted him kindly, then had him arrested.
“What will the General do now?” asked one man, lighting a pipe.
“He won’t wait longer,” said another. “Many men as fought wi’ him would join ’im.”
“Would you?” The man with the pipe blew a cloud of smoke.
“More ale, gentlemen?” asked Emilia, entering with a fresh jug.
That night, she asked Alfi, “Husband, what is happening with Essex? What did they mean when they asked would you join him?”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
He sat on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. A long red scar ran the length of his thigh, and faint bruises bloomed on his muscular upper arms. His hair fell in untidy tangles to his shoulders.
She sat beside him. “You’re my husband. What you do affects me. Is he planning some sort of uprising?”
He glanced around the chamber. Then he muttered, “His enemies plot against him. Cecil, Raleigh, the Privy Council.”
“What does he plan to do?”
“We’ve been led by an old woman too long!” Alfi burst out. “We need a king. And she’s stripped him of his rank and taken away his livelihood. So, yes, he will gather his men, raise the City: gentlemen, citizens, apprentices. He’ll lead them on Whitehall and demand she dismiss the Privy Council.”
Emilia drew in her breath. “He would rise up against the Queen?”
Alfi said nothing.
“He’s mad!” said Emilia. “You’re not thinking of joining him?”
“I’m his sworn man.”
“If you join him, you’ll die the death of a traitor!” Doctor Forman’s prediction rose to her mind: He will not live two years after his return. She shuddered. No! I won’t let him die.
“Alfi, promise me you won’t join him.”
Alfi rubbed his face with his hands. “Emilia, I know not what to do.”
“You owe loyalty to your family and those who love you, not to a madman.”
“They will find me.” He stared into the darkness.
She thought a moment. “Go to Jeronimo’s farm in Hoxton. He will hide you. If they come here, we will say you have gone away on business and we don’t know where.”
Next day, Alfi stood hatted and cloaked before the door. “Augustine will send you my quarterly pay. Tell mother not to worry.”
Emilia forced a smile. “I can’t tell her anything; you know that.” They embraced. “Oh, Alfi!” she whispered, nuzzling his rough chin and neck. “Stay alive.”
“I’ll do my best.” He kissed her once more and gave each of the servants a sixpence in farewell. The clop-clopping of his horse’s hooves died away up Bishopsgate Street toward the City gate.
On February seventh, Emilia went to the Globe to hear a play. She saw the Earl of Essex enter, looking gaunt and unkempt. Beside him walked Southampton, and three or four other men followed. The party took their seats onstage as the trumpets sounded and the players marched on to announce The Tragedy of King Richard the Second. She wondered why they were putting on that old play when they hadn’t played it in years. It told of how Bolingbroke usurped the throne from King Richard.
Will Shakespeare, as the King, drew out his slow surrender: “Now mark me how I will undo myself, / I give this heavy weight from off my head / And this unwieldy scepter from my hand . . .” His voice was soft but clear, and the audience leaned forward to hear.
Emilia, watching Essex, saw him stare as though hypnotized. A fierce-browed, red-bearded fellow beside him smiled and touched his dagger. Emilia felt the back of her neck prickle.
“What troubles you, Mistress?” asked Marcella.
“I but worry about my husband, as wives do.”
On Sunday morning, Emilia went to St. Botolph’s to hear a sermon about the duty of subjects to
obey their sovereign. Around two o’clock as she was reading in the parlor, a commotion drew her to the window. Armed men were clanking past just as Marco rushed in.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The Earl of Essex an’ his men’s marchin’ through the streets calling for people to join ’em, but everybody’s going into their houses and locking their doors. I were in Gracious Street and saw ’em go by wi’ swords drawn. I run back here fast.”
Emilia told him to call the servants to the parlor. When they had assembled, she said, “Listen, everyone. Do not leave the house. Keep the doors locked. If anyone comes asking for Captain Lanyer, tell them he is out of town on business and you do not know where. If anyone questions you, answer the question only; volunteer nothing. Not even, ‘Captain Lanyer left on such-and-such a day, at a certain time of the clock, and he was wearing a cloak of thus-and-such a color.’ Say nothing. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” they replied in a ragged chorus.
They heard pounding at the door.
Marcella went and came back, face pale. “Mistress, some gentlemen would speak with you.”
In the parlor, two men waited, mud-stained and wearing swords. One was the fierce-looking, red-bearded man at the Globe.
“Mistress Lanyer, I am Sir Gelly Meyrick, steward to the Earl of Essex.”
“What would you, Master Meyrick?”
“I seek Captain Alfonso Lanyer.” Meyrick glanced around the room as though Alfi might be behind the curtains or under a chair.
“He is away on business.”
“Where?”
“Sir, my husband does not discuss his affairs with me.”
Sir Gelly glared. When she said no more, he turned to leave. At the door, he turned back. “When my Lord of Essex comes into his power, he will reward those loyal to him. The disloyal will wish they had never been born.”
When the clatter of hooves died away, Emilia hurried to the kitchen. “God willing, that’s the last we see of them.”
“But, Mistress,” whispered Jenny. “Where is Captain Lanyer?”
The short, dark day ended. That night, the street was quiet.
Emilia, like most other people in London, lived out the month of February 1601 in shock and disbelief. Essex’s closest servants, including Sir Gelly Meyrick, died miserably at Tyburn, hanged and cut down while still living, their privates hacked off and stuffed into their mouths, their bellies slashed and their guts yanked out, the four quarters of their bodies torn away from each other and boiled, and their heads chopped off and stuck on poles on London Bridge.
Robert, Earl of Essex, was privately executed on Tower Green, not suffering the full penalty of the law since he was the highest-ranking peer in England. The Earl of Southampton remained in the Tower, his beheading expected shortly. Lady Cumberland’s nephew, the Earl of Bedford, had been tracked down, and he too resided in the Tower.
Emilia received a message from Alfi in March saying, “Dere wyfe I am welle. Doe not fret yrslf about mee. Godd keepe ye, AL.”
March 1603
On March 24, 1603, the Queen died at Richmond Palace. Rain had fallen hard that night. Emilia stood in the doorway of her house in Bishopsgate looking up at the ironclad sky. A new and different sky, for Elizabeth no longer lived under it. No outbreaks occurred, no riots, no rebellions. All was orderly as changing of the guard on a quiet night, thanks to Master Robert Cecil. Margaret Hoby’s sister Philadelphia was at the Queen’s bedside when she died. She gave a ring from off her Majesty’s finger to her younger brother, Robert Carey, who took it and galloped from London to Edinburgh, stopping only to change horses, to put it into the hand of James of Scotland and tell him that he was now King of England.
Bells rang all night, and bonfires burned. At Charing Cross, at Paul’s Cross, at the Exchange, sermons exhorted good subjects to welcome King James with open hearts and loyal minds. No one spoke of praying for the soul of the late Queen, for that was a Papist practice. But Emilia noticed her servants quietly muttering prayers.
The first green shoots would be putting out from the vines and espaliered fruit trees in the palace gardens at Greenwich. The stairs at Whitehall would be slick with falling rain, the rain falling into the river. Little Nonesuch with its onion-dome towers would stand like a forlorn fairy palace in the countryside with green, rain-sodden fields all around. Elizabeth would never again walk their garden paths or dance in their great halls or ride laughing up to their gates with her blazing retinue. Rain would be falling in the garden at the Westminster house where Emilia had lived. Hunsdon had loved the rain, laughed when it thundered overhead as they sat huddled together in the pleached arbor, she wrapped in his cloak.
Drops of water fell off the edge of her cloak, and a large drop splashed on her hand. She shook it, scattered the water, and went back into the house.
At Lucretia’s on Friday night, Augustine led them in the prayer for the dead for the Queen. Emilia felt her heart was full to bursting. We here, who pray forbidden prayers, were also her subjects, and we loved her well. Now she will join Doctor Lopez and Queen Mary of Scotland and all the priests, and Anthony Babington, and Kit Marlowe, and Sir Gelly Meyrick, and Lord Essex. What will she say to them?
The Queen’s body was taken by barge from Richmond to Whitehall by night. People lined the river, Emilia among them, holding torches, as the black-draped barge went silently by, the boatmen quietly lifting and lowering their oars. A great silence lay over the river and all its banks.
The funeral was held on April 28. Emilia stood alongside the street in the crowd, watching as the procession went by, taking Elizabeth to Westminster Abbey, her last resting place. Bell-ringers and marshals marched first to clear the way. Next came two hundred and sixty poor women and sixteen poor men, marching four abreast. Servants from the royal household followed, pushing empty barrows. Two horses draped in black were led past, saddles empty. Standards were carried on poles bearing heraldic images. Court musicians, including the Bassanos, blew melancholy fanfares. Emilia saw Alfi among them. Thank goodness he showed up. The choirs of the Chapel Royal marched, singing dirges. Bishops and ambassadors walked by, trailing their long trains. Robert Cecil himself, Master Secretary, walked with his slight limp, one shoulder higher than the other.
The crowd drew in its breath when the Queen’s hearse appeared, pulled by four horses draped in black and covered by a canopy carried by three earls on each side. A waxen effigy of her Majesty covered the hearse, wearing rich garments of gold-embroidered velvet, a crown on the head and a scepter under the folded hands. The hooked nose and sunken cheeks bore no resemblance to the vivid red-and-white face Emilia had known. Behind the hearse trotted the Queen’s favorite palfrey, led by the Master of Horse. Her two Robins, Leicester and Essex, had held that title, and she had outlived them both.
Emilia stayed until the procession moved out of sight. She said to Marcella, “We have seen the end of the world as we know it. Perchance some better thing will come after, though we know not what it will be.”
Part 4
“A woman writing of divinest things . . .”
1603-1611
CHAPTER 17
Cookham
May–June 1603
May came in finally with warm sun, green shoots in the garden, and fresh, clean scents. Emilia, in spite of herself, felt her spirits lift with the warmer weather and the sight of growing things. Her tiny garden plot was overgrown, and she remembered the orchard and garden of the Westminster house with a pang of longing.
One warm day, she received a message from Lady Cumberland inviting her to her Clerkenwell house. Ushered to the garden along a brick path edged by thyme and hyssop with rue, lavender, and mint growing in fragrant green beds, she found Lady Cumberland, Lady Anne, and Lady Anne’s governess, Mistress Taylor, seated on a bench under an arbor laced with thick vines.
“Mistress Taylor, take Anne indoors, please,” said the Countess. “I would speak with Mistress Lanyer.”
“Oh, tell me what it is!” said Anne. “You’ll tell me anyway.”
“Go, you disgraceful poppet,” said the Countess calmly.
Anne laughed and bounced to her feet. Mistress Taylor took her hand and led her away. The girl had shot up almost a handspan in height.
Lady Cumberland turned to Emilia. “Mistress Lanyer, my daughter is now thirteen. She has a fine tutor who once taught Lady Pembroke’s children, and she has Mistress Taylor. I have an excellent music tutor for her also, but he cannot go with us this summer, as he has a commitment he cannot break. I know you are an accomplished musician.”
Emilia’s heart beat fast. “I play the lute, Madam, the recorder, the clavier, and the clavichord. And I sing passing well.” She paused. “Some say that had I been a man, I could have been in the Bassano Consort.”
“Ah,” said Lady Cumberland. “That ‘if’ mars much for us women. But I have a proposition for you. My nephew’s wife, Lady Bedford, has asked Anne and myself to join her for a month at Cookham Dean. Will you go with us? As my waiting gentlewoman, you will have lodging and board as well as a stipend. It would be only for the time we are there.” She looked at Emilia anxiously.
Emilia could not believe her ears. “My lady, I would be honored.”
“Wonderful!” Lady Cumberland beamed. She lowered her voice. “Anne is as good at the clavier and lute as she is at anything she sets her mind to. She may test you, but if you brook no nonsense, she will settle down.”
Emilia smiled. “I know well about spirited children. They learn best if one is gentle yet firm.”
Her mind was whirling: She must pack her personal belongings, her lute and music books. Min could oversee the house in her absence. This is an opportunity for me. Alfi left home to pursue his fortune; I will do the same.
“And you must meet Master Samuel Daniel, Anne’s tutor,” went on Lady Cumberland. She turned to a waiting woman. “Please ask Master Daniel to come here.”
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