Dark Lady

by Charlene Ball

  Anne nodded. “I am Lady Anne Clifford.”

  “Yes,” said Emilia. “You will always be Lady Anne Clifford.”

  Anne gave a brilliant smile. “Mistress Lanyer, I am so glad we talked. You are a wise woman.” She looked out over the promontory, her face ardent. “Oh, I wish I could fly! Right over this cliff, over all those counties below, right up to the sky.” She whirled to the tree and placed her palms flat upon it, then pressed her lips a moment against the bark. “Farewell, great tree. You have been my true friend.” She turned and ran down the path.

  Emilia started to follow but looked back at the tree. She placed her own palms flat against the rough bark, then impulsively kissed it on the spot where Anne had. A bit of bark clung to her lip when she pulled away, and she picked it off. Oh, Lady Anne, she thought. You know who you are. But who am I, to speak such brave words to you? Who am I?

  CHAPTER 18

  Treachery

  November 1603

  A new reign had begun, with a new monarch and a different Court. King James declared that he wished to be a peacemaker, to unite England and Scotland as one country called “Britain.” He named his son Arthur after the ancient king of the Britons. His Danish wife was Papist but more interested in dancing and colorful masques at Court than in religious disputes.

  Lucy, Countess of Bedford, with several other Court ladies, had ridden hard to Berwick-upon-Tweed at the news of James’s succession in order to be first to meet the new Queen. Pretty Danish Anne was immediately charmed by the lively Lady Bedford, and they had become close friends. Lucy now spent time almost every day with the Queen, and she danced in all the masques, including one disastrous performance in which she and the Queen and selected young ladies, including Lady Anne Clifford, blacked their faces, arms, and legs and danced in skimpy costumes as the “Daughters of Niger.” Emilia, who often went with the Clifford women to Court, watched from the sidelines and felt grateful that she was not among them.

  Will’s old friend and rival, Ben Jonson, had written the script for the masque.

  “Master Jonson,” she asked, “what inspired you to write the blackness masque?”

  He snorted. “Master Inigo Jones sold it to her Majesty with flattery about how lovely she would look with boot polish all over her face.” He shook his head and downed half a cup of malmsey.

  “It might have gone well,” said Emilia, “if everyone hadn’t fallen down drunk.”

  Jonson guffawed. “All’s different now at Court, that’s for sure.”

  Lady Cumberland frequently asked Emilia to attend upon her in Clerkenwell and at Court. Emilia found the work busy, engaging, and satisfying. In addition to continuing to teach Anne music, she was in charge of organizing Lady Cumberland’s frequent literary gatherings, where ladies and men of letters shared wine and sweetmeats while hearing and discussing one another’s works. Master Jonson and Master Daniel were frequent visitors. Emilia felt more intellectually alive than she had for a long time. She thrived in the company of these literate, intelligent women and men.

  Then everything changed.

  It was a cold November afternoon when the news came. Mary Sidney, now the Dowager Countess of Pembroke, was reading from her translation of Mark Anthony by the French playwright Garnier. It had been quite a coup to get her, as she now spent most of her time dealing with obstreperous Welsh magistrates who resented the Pembrokes and wanted local control.

  Lucy of Bedford sat attentive, although her foot tapped constantly. She was expecting the release of her husband from the Tower. He had escaped a traitor’s death for his involvement with the Essex rebellion, and his wife had been lobbying the King tirelessly for his release.

  Katherine, Countess of Suffolk, was in attendance with her thirteen-year-old daughter Frances, an exquisite girl with red-gold curls and a porcelain complexion. Lady Suffolk’s handsome, pockmarked face looked often on her daughter with an appraising, anxious expression, while Frances pouted and sighed.

  Mary Sidney had written the play as though she had every right to do so, never mind that no play by a woman had ever appeared on the boards of any of the outdoor or indoor theaters. She assigned parts to read, and as the play unfolded, Emilia imagined how it would play on the stage. She had to admit that it had rather too much talk and not enough action to be effective. Mary Sidney clearly had not had the groundlings in mind.

  Lady Cumberland sat listening, a thin line between her brows, seeming to absorb every word. Anne’s chiseled features and calm demeanor presented a model of female propriety, but Emilia knew that her quick mind was ranging about, probably planning her next adventure with Richard Sackville. She had been spending more and more time with the young man, with her mother’s approval.

  When they finished the play, Lady Cumberland said, “Dear Mary, you have captured both the nobility and fatal flaws of Anthony.”

  “Some might say I ought not to write of profane matters. Our dear departed friend Mistress Prowse, for instance.” A smile touched Mary Sidney’s lips.

  “Your play is moral to the core,” said Lady Cumberland. “You are as much a poet as your brother was.” Murmurs of agreement went around. “I suggest we read Master Daniel’s play Cleopatra at our next meeting, as it makes a good companion piece to Anthony.” To the nods and enthusiastic yes’s, she said, “I will invite him to join us.”

  “My lady,” said Emilia to Mary Sidney, “Your play applies much to our day, it seems to me.”

  Mary Sidney turned to her. “I intended that, Mistress Lanyer. If we want to see lasting reform in England, we must keep the ideas of the godly reformers constantly before our eyes. Master Beza, that great thinker who inspired Lady Jane Grey; Master Mornay, whose work I have translated; Master Tyndale, who died a martyr so that we might read the Bible in English. It is not for ourselves only that we write, but for our country and our religion. We have the opportunity to affect public policy. Especially now, with a new king.”

  Lady Cumberland said, “He says he wants to be known as a peacemaker. But I worry that he will tolerate abuses from Papists in the name of peace.”

  “He has relaxed the laws against Catholics,” said Mary Sidney. “I would we could have a true peace between Catholics and the reformed English Protestant church. I would like to think we can. But I despair sometimes.”

  Lady Bedford said, “And then we have the hot gospellers, who would do away with bishops and ritual altogether. Puritans, some call them.” She made a face.

  “I sympathize with their desire for simplicity in worship,” said Mary Sidney, “and for keeping to Scripture. But they hurt their own cause by their ranting.”

  “Preaching those views from every pulpit and post—for hours,” said Lady Bedford with a sigh.

  Emilia asked Mary Sidney, “Lady Pembroke, did you intend your translations of the Psalms to affect policy?”

  Mary Sidney nodded. “I did. My brother started translating the Psalms so congregations would have a good version in English to sing. When he left his project unfinished at his death, I completed it. My purpose is to encourage the godly who are persecuted. The power of the Psalms is often lost, but when the persecuted sing them, they bring strength to the powerless, support to the fallen, courage to those who are ready to fail.” She looked around the room. “And we women, though weak, can make our voices heard through our writings.”

  “What of those who say women should not speak before men?” Emilia asked, sure of the answer but wanting to hear it.

  “The word of God gives us authority,” Mary Sidney said. “Men may forbid women to write and speak, but when we write on behalf of our faith, we have the support of almighty God, whose authority is greater than that of man. And we can influence those in power through our writing.”

  Emilia felt she heard an echo of the voice of the long-ago Duchess of Suffolk in Mary’s words. We are in a direct line from her, she thought, she and Lady Cumberland’s father and the martyrs who were their friends. But wise Mary Sidney would never i
nsult a bishop merely for fun.

  “Mary,” said Lady Cumberland, “you have already influenced the King, from what I have heard.” She raised an eyebrow. “In the case of a certain seafaring knight.”

  Mary Sidney smiled. “I hope so. Poor Raleigh has had nothing to do with any conspiracies, Catholic or otherwise. But he is honest to a fault and much too proud for his own good.”

  “It was really because the King loves plays so much, wasn’t it?” Lady Bedford asked.

  “I hoped the promise of a play would bring him to Wilton, and it did,” said Mary Sidney. “As well as a chance to meet his favorite playmaker. All I had to do was dangle before him the prospect of meeting the man Shakespeare, and he was there in a trice.”

  Emilia sat quietly, hands folded.

  “The King’s Men,” went on Mary Sidney, “they that used to be the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, performed the play about the forest and the girl who dresses as a boy. His Majesty met the playmaker and was delighted by him—they say he’s a man of great charm. The King was in such a good mood that I had no trouble persuading him to postpone Raleigh’s execution.”

  “Brava, Mary!” said Lady Cumberland.

  “Brava, indeed!” chirped Lady Bedford.

  “I’m going to keep on until I get him released.”

  “And I’ll work on the Queen,” said Lady Bedford. She gave a start. “Oh, it must be nearly four o’clock, is it not?”

  Lady Cumberland gave a nod to her gentlewoman, who quietly went out and returned on the instant.

  “Half past three, my lady.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Bedford. “I apologize, dear friends, but the Queen expects me at four, so I bid you farewell.” She gathered her skirts and stood.

  “I too must go,” said Lady Suffolk. “Come, Frances. No dawdling.”

  “I’m not dawdling, Mama.” Frances tossed her coppery gold curls and rose at her mother’s stern look.

  As soon as they were gone, Mary Sidney murmured, “You know they are already planning Frances’s marriage.”

  Lady Cumberland said pointedly, with a glance at her daughter, “We should not talk of what we do not know for sure.”

  But Mary Sidney continued, unheeding. “To the young Earl of Essex, can you imagine? He’s hardly out of the nursery.”

  Lady Cumberland sighed. “They’re both but children.”

  “Makes no matter,” said Mary Sidney, “when it comes to alliances.”

  Lady Cumberland shook her head. “Many children have been sold to increase their parents’ wealth and power. Myself, I do not believe in marrying children too early or forcing them to marry against their wills.”

  “You certainly do not believe in too early a marriage for your own offspring,” murmured Anne.

  “Hush, impertinence,” answered Lady Cumberland.

  At that moment a servant came to the door, looking frightened. “My lady,” he said to Lady Cumberland, “there’s news from Court.”

  “Can it wait?”

  The servant shook his head. “I think not, my lady. Please come.”

  Lady Cumberland rose and quickly followed him. Alarmed glances traveled from one face to the other.

  Before anyone could speak, Lady Cumberland returned, much agitated. “The Houses of Parliament have been blown up.” At everyone’s gasps, she quickly added, “No one was hurt. The King and Queen are safe. It was done early this morning, before anyone arrived. No one knows yet who did it.”

  “I am afraid it may have been Papists,” Mary Sidney said, shaking her head.

  Lady Cumberland said firmly, “Let us pray in gratitude that the King, his family, and Parliament have been spared.”

  They all bowed their heads.

  All hope of peace had been destroyed. Although Guy Fawkes and the other conspirators—disaffected Catholics enraged with the new king’s failure to lift anti-Catholic laws—were caught and executed, the damage was done. Suspicion, mistrust, and hostility rose between Protestants and Catholics, foreigners and English, the Church of England and Reformers, now called Puritans. New laws were laid down specifying what Catholics and strangers could and could not do. As an attempt to bring some sort of harmony, the King ordered a new translation of the Bible that would replace all others. He hoped thereby to create some agreement at least among Protestants. He gathered a team of scholars from the most prominent churchmen and university scholars to be the translators. Needless to say, no Papists nor Puritans were among them.

  The Bassanos and their kin lived in fresh fear. Lucretia went out almost not at all, and several of the cousins bought property outside London and stayed there. Alfi stayed away, but sent messages and a little money from time to time.

  In January of 1604, Frances, Lady Suffolk’s daughter, was married to the Earl of Essex. She was fourteen, and he was thirteen. Masques, balls, and jollity went on at Court for days. The two children, like festooned dolls, took their places on the dance floor and paced, turned, curtseyed, and bowed hand in hand to glorious music played by the royal Consort. Emilia stood beside Lady Cumberland, soberly dressed like the middle-aged gentlewoman she now was. She noticed that Alfi was missing from the recorders.

  Lady Anne, graceful as a tall young willow, was dancing with Richard Sackville, both laughing as though they had a great secret that only they knew. He was a handsome-enough young man, fun-loving and a bit of a dandy, judging by his lace cartwheel ruff and the huge rosettes on his shoes. Emilia hoped he and Anne would be happy.

  Emilia was sitting with Anne at the clavier one morning, and the girl was having trouble with a quick series of chords.

  “No, Lady Anne, play it like this.” And Emilia executed the chords. “See, they’re supposed to sound like a waterfall.”

  “Oh, it’s easy for you!” exclaimed Anne. “My fingers all bunch up when I try.”

  “Just relax your fingers and hold them so—” Emilia demonstrated.

  Just then, Mistress Taylor appeared. “Mistress Lanyer, my lady wants to see you at once.” Her face looked unwontedly grim.

  When Emilia entered the parlor, she knew something was awry. A fresh breeze touched her face as it blew in from the orchard through a partway-open window, and she started to comment on the sweet spring air. But Lady Cumberland’s words stunned her to silence.

  “Mistress Lanyer.” The Countess’s voice was low but hard, and her mouth made a straight line. “I have heard something of you that troubles me deeply.”

  Puzzled, Emilia answered, “Yes, my lady?”

  “I would never have believed it of you. What you have done is terrible, but what is worse is that you have deceived me.”

  “How have I deceived you, my lady?”

  “When you said you had repented of your sins, I believed you. But you were still carrying on in those damnable practices. It is your deception I cannot forgive. I trusted you!”

  “My lady, I have not deceived you!” cried Emilia. “What damnable practices?”

  “A friend tells me you have been meeting with a man, a sorcerer and so-called diviner. You have met with him secretly to practice the black arts.”

  Emilia stared, shocked and unbelieving.

  “I cannot have you near my daughter. Her welfare is my greatest care and concern. You must go.”

  Emilia stood frozen, unable to say more. When she found her speech, she could only whisper, “My lady, no! I have not . . . please let me explain . . .”

  Lady Cumberland held up a hand. “I beg you, say no more. What you have done is between you and God.”

  Anger welled up in Emilia. “Lady Cumberland, you do me wrong!”

  Lady Cumberland’s voice sounded uncertain, but she set her lips tight. “You must not come here again. Now go.” She turned away.

  Emilia stayed closed up in her house and ate nothing for two days, despite Min’s urgings. Then one day, Jenny came to her chamber door. “Mistress Lucretia is here to see you, Mistress.”

  “I will not see anyone.”

  T
he next minute, Lucretia pushed her way past Jenny into the chamber. She stood, hands on hips. “We need to build up this fire. I’ll bring you something to eat. A little broth and bread will do wonders for your disposition.”

  “Cousin, I cannot eat.” Emilia turned her face into the pillow. “I have lost a dear friend. I have lost her trust.”

  “You know that Christians will turn on you in a trice. They always have betrayed our people. And the nobility do what they will.”

  “Lucretia, I am sick of hearing you say the Christians cannot be trusted!” Emilia pounded her fist on the coverlet. “I am myself a Christian. And Lady Cumberland . . .” She started crying again.

  “Emilia,” said Lucretia, “whatever you have lost, you are still alive. You must wash and dress and come out of your chamber.”

  “You do not understand. I have lost everything.”

  “You have not,” said Lucretia. “You are still breathing.”

  Alfi returned home long enough to tell Emilia that he had applied for and received a patent from the Crown to receive the profits from the weighing of hay and grain. He brought her a purse.

  “My first quarter’s income,” he declared. “You see, I do provide for my family.” But he would not stay longer than a week. “I have business to tend to in Hoxton.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Roaring Girl

  May 1609

  Emilia lived frugally now, without the income she’d received from tutoring Anne Clifford. But she still visited bookshops and attended the occasional play, and one day, as she was leafing through a folio in a bookshop near Christ Church, a book seemed to leap up before her eyes. She picked it up and read the title: SHAK-SPEARES SONNETS, Neuer before Imprinted. Two parallel horizontal lines went across the page, and at the bottom were the printer’s, publisher’s, and bookseller’s names: “By G. Eld for T.T. and are to be solde by William Aspley. 1609.”