Dark Aemilia

by Sally O’Reilly

  ‘Wine can accomplish that much,’ says the woman.

  ‘Indeed it can, and I told you at the time that there was wine in that mixture and by all accounts it did its work.’

  ‘He loved for one night, that is true.’

  ‘So our deal is sound.’

  The woman draws breath deeply, and I realise that she is on the brink of tears.

  ‘It is not enough, Mistress Daunt! I demand more! I want more from you!’

  Joan Daunt leans forward across the counter. ‘What more would that be, mistress?’

  ‘I want him to love me!’ wails the woman. ‘I had him! I had him for one night – and what joy it was! And, when day broke, he looked down on me and fled the chamber. Make him love me! I demand you make him love me!’

  ‘How shall I do such a thing?’

  ‘Give me another potion! A stronger one this time.’ She nods, and the manservant produces a money bag.

  ‘Something to make him love you for longer?’ asks Widow Daunt.

  ‘I want you to make me young again. And beautiful. Forever. I have money. I don’t care what pain I suffer, or how vile the treatment.’

  Widow Daunt seems to find this a very good joke. ‘Madam, I am an apothecary, not Almighty God. Take your business elsewhere. Or you could always pray.’

  The woman nods to the servant and he takes the Widow by the shoulders. ‘Do as my mistress says, or take the consequences,’ he says. ‘Do it, old woman, or you will suffer for it.’

  ‘Get away with you, you buffoon!’ says the Widow. ‘I will not be spoken to like that in my own shop! Get out, the pair of you!’

  Then the woman leans forward and slaps her hard, across the face.

  This is quite enough. I throw the hood from my head and approach them. ‘Kindly do the Widow’s bidding and leave this shop, if you have no further business,’ I say. ‘I have waited long enough to be served, and you are wasting my time as well as insulting her. You can’t bully your way to beauty, madam, nor bribe your looks back from Time. They’ve gone, and there’s an end to it.’

  The woman turns her tear-stained face to me. ‘It is all very well for you,’ she says. ‘Old age comes to all of us, but you are still young.’

  ‘Get out, the pair of you,’ I say. ‘Leave the Widow be, and go about your business.’

  The servant keeps his grasp. I draw out Hunsdon’s paper-knife and point it at his neck. ‘This knife was given me by the great John Dee himself. There is venom in this blade. One prick from this and you’ll fall stone dead, right on the spot. The last person to feel its point lived for just two minutes. It’s not a sight I’d wish to see again.’

  The servant lets go of the widow and leans away from me, his veined eyes full of terror.

  ‘Who on earth are you?’ shrieks the woman. ‘Who is John Dee to you?’

  ‘I am Queen Mab,’ I say, ‘for all it’s got to do with you.’

  The strange pair leave. Joan Daunt waits until the door bangs shut, and then turns to look at me. She seems neither alarmed nor grateful for my help.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asks, looking me over. ‘I see you have plenty of need for cures.’

  ‘Do you, indeed?’ A wave of sickness comes over me.

  ‘You’ll end up keeping it,’ she says.

  ‘Keeping what?’

  ‘The child.’

  ‘I never said…’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Well, you are quite wrong. I do want rid of it..’

  ‘Yes, but I just told you –’

  ‘I need something strong. And I don’t mind what you put in it. A hanged man’s sperm is fine with me. It can burn my womb out, for all I care.’

  ‘So that you could never have a child?’

  ‘Why should I want one? All they do is bind you, and I am bound enough already.’

  The Widow stares at me, and I see something unexpected: kindness. ‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘I’ll do you something. But you won’t drink it.’

  She collects together some jars and bottles, takes out a pestle and mortar – of larger than usual size – and fills it with leaves and fragments, which she begins to grind. Then she scoops a hideous little fish from a jar and scrapes the scales from its wriggling form. These she places into a clay burner and a most obnoxious perfume fills the air. What she has made – a sickly, semi-liquid paste, the colour of a dog turd – she squeezes into a tiny vial and stops with wax.

  ‘Your remedy,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘Swallow it in one draught. The babe will come out in three spasms, whole and pulsing, but too small for you to see its face. It will be dead in five minutes.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her finger.

  ‘Be careful. You are in a bad way. And your old life is over, have no doubt of that. And… when you need me, send word.’

  ‘I have servants, Mistress Daunt. I am well cared for.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I wait upon your word. And, when I hear from you, then I will come. Remember that.’

  I look at the vial and its horrid contents, puzzled. The potion is not still, but heaves and oozes, as if in some low kind of pain. And the stench is such that I can smell it through its coat of glass.

  Scene VIII

  I will wait one more day, to see if my curse might start. Another night of prayer might see the unborn child bleed harmlessly away. The potion looks so horrible, and the thought of swallowing it is disgusting to me. But it is hard to wait for anything. I sit at my virginals in my parlour, and try to play a tune. It is a pretty piece called ‘Giles Farnaby’s Dream’, which can usually calm my nerves but today it only vexes me: its brightness seems too far removed from the world I know. I look at the painted wainscot, the Turkey carpet which takes pride of place over the fireplace, the half-finished skirt that lies in a ripple of azure satin across my bed. Nothing seems real. I am like a child’s toy, which is now broken and must be mended. My head aches. My eyes are sore. My velvet bodice digs into my flesh. I slam the lid down on the virginals, so that the strings let out a plaintive note. Snatching up my cloak, I rush down the stairwell and into the courtyard. I feel as if there must be a way out of all this trouble, if only I could clear my head and think. The gateway to St James’s Park is open. I slip through it, and hurry into the darkening trees.

  I put my face in my hands and moan. What to do? What to do? It is Will’s child, I am sure of it – the fruit of all our hidden passion. I am not certain where the souls of unborn, unbaptised children are supposed to go, now that the Queen of England is our Pope, but in the old days they dwelt in Limbo. It does not sound like a good place for my unborn babe to be. Yet what else can I do but kill it? There is no way out. I should have kept away from Will. But I did not, I could not. Now what will become of me?

  Just as I am racked with another bout of sobs, I find that I am not alone. Someone is by me. Someone’s arms are around me.

  ‘Aemilia – my love! What’s wrong? You’re cold – you’re trembling!’ Will’s voice is soft and tender.

  ‘Will!’ I cry. I am almost afraid to look him in the eye, in case he can see what I am thinking. But I can’t look anywhere else. How can he not know? How can I hide my knowledge from him? ‘What are you doing here? What is the matter?’

  ‘My love,’ he says. His face is shining, as if he has found some new wonder in the world. ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘But… You know we must be…’ I catch my breath. When were we ever ‘careful’?

  ‘Listen – listen…’ He stares down at me. ‘I came because there is something I must say.’

  It is so sweet to see him, and look at his face, and hear him speaking so tenderly to me that I cannot help but weaken. Silently, I weep against his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ He looks down at me, eyes shadowed in the moonlight.

  I struggle with myself, not knowing what to say. ‘Oh… I am so unhappy that I can’t be with you, and must live with Hunsdon, in the palace…’ This is almost the trut
h. And yet, of course, I want to say, Will, I am pregnant, and I cannot say for sure if it is yours, and yet I believe it is, and I’ve got a draught to get rid of it, and I thought that I could do this, and go on as before, but now I find I’d rather die. Please help me. Even with his arms around me, I feel alone, and as if I have betrayed him.

  He kisses me, and holds me tight against him. I can smell the leather of his doublet and the tavern stench of old ale and tobacco. ‘Come, come, we can’t stay here,’ he says. (And how this sweet ‘we’ tears at me.) ‘We must find somewhere warmer… there is an inn on the other side of the park where we can go. Here – look…’ He pulls a stage mask from his sleeve, made of black velvet stiffened with bombast. ‘You can be the mysterious lady and I will be your humble squire.’

  When we are settled by the fire in an upstairs room, he takes my hands and holds them. ‘Still cold, so cold, my love.’

  ‘I am better now.’ I stare at him, lulled by the fire and by a mute happiness that he is here.

  ‘Aemilia, come and live with me.’

  ‘Oh, Will! But what of Hunsdon?’

  ‘I will care for you. You don’t need him.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool.’

  ‘Leave him, and be my mistress.’

  ‘Living how, exactly?’

  ‘I’ll be your protector.’

  ‘And where shall we live?’ I ask.

  ‘I… have expectations.’

  ‘Expectations?’

  ‘My plays will make me rich. I am certain of it. How can it be otherwise?’ He kisses my hand, and then reaches across and touches my icy cheek. ‘You know that this is what should happen. You know that we can only be happy if we are joined together – think of it: to have each other in the daytime, in the open, instead of these furtive fornications and sneakings round at dead of night! To eat together, or stroll in the Exchange!’

  He speaks as if he was offering me a chance to live with him in Heaven.

  ‘I never heard such foolishness… how can this be possible?’

  But he is determined. ‘Listen, my love. There is a logic in the universe that goes beyond mere common sense – and this is the logic of our two lives, intermingling.’

  ‘Will, I –’

  ‘Our two selves, undivided. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Of course, but –’

  ‘Come with me! Come away with me, and who knows what will happen to us? Let’s take our chance.’

  ‘If only it were possible!’

  ‘It is possible, my sweet Aemilia! It is possible. Just think of it…’

  I close my eyes and see it.

  He leans closer. ‘Aemilia. You cannot deny me. You cannot deny yourself.’

  Scene IX

  Could I un-lord myself, and live with Will? I suppose I could. If there were no baby, and I had money, and I was sure I wouldn’t starve. If there were no censure; if poets’ mistresses were not seen as tavern whores. Should I drink Joan’s brew, and end the baby, and live with my love – be that whore? At least my life will be a sort of whole; I’ll be a common doxy, but I’ll have the right man in my bed.

  I pray for forgiveness, open that dread casket once again and take out the vial. The shifting, surging potion has expanded and mounted up the sides of the glass, like a semi-liquid fungus. My guts heave. I take the stopper out, and am assaulted by its appalling stench.

  But what’s that? I hear a sound and whirl around to see what it could be. It is – I could have sworn – the sound of a newborn crying. Plaintive, urgent, relentless. I turn full circle, startled. Outside the sky is grey and heavy rain is falling: a ceaseless rhythm is beating at the window panes. Of course, the noise must be a seagull’s cry, echoing down the chimney. I raise the vial and tip it slowly towards my lips.

  There it is again, even clearer than before. I lower the glass, trembling with nausea. I have never heard a seagull make such a sound. I replace the cork, open the window casement and the rainstorm rips into the room, drenching my dress and hair. Hardly noticing the sudden cold, I peer out into the storm, half-expecting to see an abandoned infant lying by the palace wall. It is not unknown for women to leave their newborn babies there, in the mistaken belief that royal largesse will ensure that they are well looked after. On this day, though, there is no baby. There is nothing.

  I feel so sad about the empty, lonely gardens, and the fact that there is no crying child that I begin to weep. I think of those poor girls who bring their babes and leave them in this place, open to the elements: tiny, weak, milk-smelling creatures, unshriven, unbegun. And this in a city which pities no one, in which wealth is everything and penury the norm. Those poor children! Those wretched, abandoned souls! I weep silent, penitent tears. I cannot do it. I cannot kill this child. I hurl the vial out of the window. I hear a soft crack as it hits the ground and – in spite of the rain – I smell something sourly burning. I lean out and let the rain mix with my tears. And I know that, if I can’t kill this unborn infant, then I can’t leave my rich protector, furious and betrayed. Because if I am going to have this child I need him. No, let me be honest: I need his money. I do not know who has fathered this child, but I know who the mother is well enough. A penniless, bastard whore, half-Jewish, long orphaned. Nobody. I think of Will, expectant and full of love. If I could unmake everything so that I could be with him… but no. My thoughts fly to the four corners of the world, and then return, defeated.

  The rain pelts harder and seems to wash some sense into me, and in the end I reach the conclusion that I like least and which pains me most. But I cannot see another way.

  This next morning I wake early and lie still. I open my eyes and stare at the canopy above me. I have the whole bed to stretch out in, and I do so, pushing my warm feet into its coldest corners. The new day brings no hope, but in its light I know that I have made a wise decision. I have come up with a stratagem that will save my child, and keep us from the streets. It is not a design of any great cleverness or cunning. It is simply this: if Hunsdon thinks the child is his, he will provide for me. If he thinks I have betrayed him, he will cast me out with nothing. Therefore, my affair with Will must end, and never be discovered. As a loyal but careless mistress I might be married off to some lowly courtier – one happy to take the dowry Hunsdon settles on me as his bribe for taking on spoiled goods.

  Hunsdon is due back from York at any time. Better to do nothing, and let my failure to appear convey its own message to Will. I curl myself into a ball, and pull the eiderdown around me, and wait for the time to pass. My head aches with grief, and I am filled with bitter anger that this must be my lot. If I am such a faithless whore, why am I disabled by scruples I can’t afford? A depraved and desperate woman should be ruthless in the execution of her desires. There is no place for me in the hierarchy of mankind, and, to make things worse, my own character is wrongly put together. I have the mind of a philosopher, the education of a prince and the morality of a nun. The agony of my condition forces me to puke into a bucket with more violence than usual.

  Spent and white-faced, I get up and dress and read the Bible with such fierce attention that I fear my eyeballs will drop out. Then I think again of the letter that I have not written, and this reminds me of those Will has sent to me, so I pull them out from beneath the mattress and throw them on the fire. I do not cry. I do not think of all those lost times, crumpling and burning to black ash. And yet, in spite of all this, and of all my determination to do nothing, when I look at the clock I find that just forty minutes have passed. I think that Hell must not only be a place of fire and punishment, but of clocks that tick and tock in an eternal present, where nothing ever happens.

  I stand up, and pace up and down the chamber saying, ‘It’s Hunsdon’s child. It’s Hunsdon’s child.’ As if I were casting a spell. I can’t be still. I can’t stop my ceaseless walking, so I continue in this manner until at last, exhausted, I fall down senseless on the bed.

  When I wake, Hunsdon himself is sitting beside me, his clothe
s still mud-splattered from his journey. He is looking down at me and stroking my hair, but he is not smiling.

  He says, ‘I have a gift for you.’

  I struggle up on to my elbows and we kiss each other softly. I try to read his expression.

  ‘A gift! You are so kind!’

  ‘Not kind, my dear. It is only just that you should have it. I have loved you very well.’

  A chill comes on me. ‘Why do you say “have loved”?’ I ask. ‘I’m not dead.’

  ‘No, my dear,’ says he. ‘Too full of life.’ He pats my tight belly. His face is heavy.

  I feel the world lurch, and look down at my body. ‘You know,’ I say. But I pray he only guesses the half of it.

  ‘I shall build you a house, at Long Ditch. At Westminster, quite close by.’

  Hunsdon is a soldier, not a politician. When there are decisions to be made, he makes them quickly.

  ‘I… I’m sorry for it,’ say I. ‘So many years without falling pregnant, and then… it was my carelessness. My fault.’

  He sighs and begins to pull off his boots. ‘You can’t blame yourself, my poor child,’ he says. ‘I put it there.’

  I say nothing, at once relieved and quite bereft of hope.

  ‘What shall I do there, all alone?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice from rising to a wail. ‘Like some dowager, pensioned off?’ My mind says, Do not question your salvation, Aemilia; take the house and keep silent.

  He leans across and kisses me gently. ‘You are to marry,’ says he. ‘You won’t be alone.’

  My mouth is dry. ‘Who shall I marry, my lord?’

  ‘Alfonso Lanyer.’

  ‘Lanyer! Oh, Henry! Whose thought was this?’

  ‘He’s always had his eye on you.’

  ‘But sir –’

  ‘Enough, Aemilia! He is one of your own.’