Dark Aemilia

by Sally O’Reilly

  One of my own! This is a cruel blow indeed. Alfonso Lanyer is a prize fool, a womaniser and a gambler at the tables. Handsome enough, for sure. But as a husband! I want to cry out, to explain that this can never be, yet of course I cannot, in case my reluctance to marry one man suggests I might have a preference for another.

  The wedding is all agreed. I stay in my room, reading and praying and seeking peace of mind. When Alice brings me letters, I make her put them on the fire. I know who they are from. I walk through my life like my own spectre, my heart and soul torn out of me, sustained only by the love-child that grows inside.

  I do have one remaining hope. Which is that I might take with me, out into the cold world beyond the life of Court, a little of my learning. And that I might be allowed to write my poetry and to improve it, sustained by a patron willing to support me. This is a man’s business, but I am as well educated as any man, and so, if any woman could succeed in such a project, it might be me. If the Countess of Pembroke is celebrated for her verse, is it so extraordinary an ambition to hope that I might be celebrated for mine? She has made her country home a supposed ‘paradise for poets’ – could I not make my own small house a place of industry and reflection?

  The day before I am to leave Whitehall, I give Hunsdon some of my poems, which I have copied in my best script.

  ‘They are pretty, my dear, thank you,’ says Hunsdon. He sits apart from me, on a cedar wood chair, and seems preoccupied. ‘You know me: I do like a play, and a good ballad that tells a tale, but… I’m not a man for sonnets and such fancification.’

  ‘I wrote them all for you.’

  ‘Indeed, I know it. And I am touched, very touched indeed. Now, tell me, do you like the house?’

  ‘I like it very much. Thank you my lord. I am grateful – beyond grateful.’

  ‘I think you will be very well accommodated. The solar, in particular, I have appointed to the highest specification.’

  ‘The specification is quite perfect.’

  ‘You will be married soon, as you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  I look down, so he can’t see the expression on my face.

  ‘He is a bloody fool, Alfonso, but they say the ladies like him,’ says Hunsdon.

  ‘They do indeed,’ I say.

  ‘He’s always admired you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You said so.’

  ‘So he’ll be… good to you. You know. Shame for it all to go to waste.’ He nods to me in a general way, which hints at our gaudy nights.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I take a breath. ‘Henry, I should like to have a patron.’

  ‘A what, my dear?’

  ‘A patron.’

  He stares at me, speechless with astonishment.

  ‘I know it is unusual,’ say I.

  ‘Unusual…? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I mean… someone who has position, who might be interested in my…verse.’

  ‘Christ’s blood! These lines you’ve scrawled, you mean?’ He waves my poems in the air. ‘These funny little ditties?’

  ‘They are poems, my lord. I know they need more work.’

  ‘Good God,’ he says. ‘I fear that your condition has affected your faculties, poor child. You’re barking mad.’

  ‘No, indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Whoever would have thought it? You always seemed so sharp.’

  ‘I don’t believe I am going mad at all, sir. I have always wanted to make more of my poetry, to learn how to improve it, and how to… apprentice myself to it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I will tell you this, Aemilia, you’re a strange one. The night-walking is just the half of it.’

  This makes me want to weep. I think of the night-walking that had first made Hunsdon notice me, soon after my mother died. But there is no time to mourn the passing of his gentle but insistent courtship.

  ‘Would it be possible to find someone, now that I’m no longer your mistress?’ I say. ‘I mean, there would be no disgrace attached to you, would there?’

  He stares at me with his calm grey eyes, that only see what is solid and tangible. ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

  I let my words spout out, madly, in case I hesitate and never get them out at all. ‘I don’t want to vanish quite away. I’ll cause no trouble, keep from the Court, not bother you or speak out of turn, or do anything that might displease you… but if I had some support, some patronage… as a man would…’ I look at him beseechingly. ‘Might anyone consider it?’

  He seems dumbfounded, then begins to chuckle. ‘My dear girl, how will I do without you? You are quite as entertaining out of bed as in it. Why not? Why not, indeed?’ He laughs so merrily that I have to fight to hide my irritation.

  ‘What would you suggest, sir? For someone in my situation? I have some verses – I could send them, if you are happy for me to do this.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Whomever you suggest.’

  ‘Lord above! I’ve no idea. Did you like the inlaid stools I gave you? Did you like the Aldersgate tiles, and the silver tankards? I have thought of everything, have I not?’

  ‘Everything is there. It is perfect.’

  He smiles, very pleased with himself. ‘Of course, I did ask Lady Anne for her advice. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

  I smile so hard my cheeks ache. It was logical for him to ask his wife’s opinion, though hardly kind to either of us. ‘Her ladyship has exquisite taste.’

  He gets up and warms his back before the fire for a moment. ‘I shall not see you again, after this conversation. I am sorry for it, and I shall miss you sorely. But a break has to be made, and I am afraid the time has come.’

  I nod silently. My hands are very still. My heart beats slowly, slowly. I can control myself, no matter how the world might heave and lurch around me.

  Scene X

  God still being in his Heaven, though mightily indifferent to me, the morning before my wedding day I take myself off to the quiet of the abbey. I sit down on the rush-strewn flags and pray.

  ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul… I acknowledge my transgressions and my sins…’

  ‘Aemilia!’

  I open my eyes. My pregnant state makes my mind slow, my view of the world outside my body more hazy with each passing day. Is God speaking to me? But no, it is a white-faced Will. His eyes are set in dark rings; he is hatless and his hair is pushed behind his ears as if had just risen from bed.

  ‘We must speak – come!’

  He drags me down the damp passage to the high-walled abbey garden. At the far side of the quadrangle, an old servant is sweeping up dead leaves.

  I stare at Will, shocked and yet for all my woe relieved to have him near.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asks. ‘They say you’re pregnant!’

  I cover my face with my hands and turn away.

  He pulls me round and prises my hands away. I am forced to look at him, and see that his eyes are wet with tears.

  ‘Are you having a child?’

  I can’t reply.

  ‘And are you marrying… Alfonso Lanyer?’ He seems barely able to speak the name.

  I look down at the muddy ground, licking the salt tears from my lips. Last night was stormy, and a fat worm is slithering in a puddle. Avoiding his gaze, I say, ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘Oh, Aemilia! Look at me!’ He seizes hold of me and shakes me, gently. I don’t want to look at him, but I am forced to. His gaze seems blacker and darker than it has ever been, as if it were a reflection of my own eyes. ‘Have pity! I’ve never loved, never known what it was to love, never known such pain and wonder as I have known since I met you.’

  I can’t help myself. ‘My love,’ I say. ‘My heart will break!’ I take his face between my hands and kiss his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. We embrace as tenderly as we had on that strange and silent ni
ght at Titchfield. It seems as though a thousand years have passed since that sweet time.

  He draws back and tucks a strand of my hair inside my bonnet. ‘Answer me one question.’

  I smile up at him, full of sorrow. ‘I will answer it, I promise.’

  ‘Are you having a child?’

  I swallow bile. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then – come with me! Be my mistress, be mine…’

  ‘It isn’t yours.’

  His face hardens and his arms drop to his sides. We stare at each other.

  ‘How do you know?’

  It is all I can do to remain standing. I put my arm out and steady myself against the cold stone wall. ‘I lay with Hunsdon, just as I lay with you.’

  He winces and turns his back. For a moment I think he will walk away, but then he says, ‘As you did for years before you met me, and nothing came of it.’ There is no tenderness now; each word is hard and separate.

  I go over to him, and turn him around to face me. I see, with a wrench of grief, that his face is contorted with pain. I want to embrace him, hold him close, and pretend that things could be as they were before. But I can do nothing. ‘You can’t protect me,’ I whisper.

  ‘He’s marrying you off!’ says Will, with a great sob. ‘To a brainless knave who cheats at dice! A fine way to “protect” you! Are you grateful to him for that? Are you really such a whore as to be bought so cheap?’

  ‘He has given me a dowry, and a house. He has bought me a place in the world. I will be respectable. With you, I would have nothing. Don’t you see? We had a room, nowhere else. We were like conspirators, not man and wife.’

  Now he weeps openly, shuddering sobs that seems to tear out of him. ‘You would have everything. Everything! What is there, that is greater than our love? What in this whole world? Tell me! Tell me!’

  My tears flow too, but all this weeping makes me angry. ‘A lord may have a wife and keep a mistress,’ I cry. The old man has stopped sweeping and is staring over at us. I lower my voice, but speak with desperate fury. ‘A playwright can barely keep himself! Half of your noble profession are in the debtors’ prison! I’m not living with my child, as a poet’s whore, in some filthy ale-house! Or a back-street alley, like a pauper – how can you even ask me to think of such a thing?’

  Will breathes deeply and closes his eyes, as if searching for the incantation that will change my mind and make me his. ‘I can ask you because I love you. I can ask you because, without you, my life is a just a shabby, ceaseless repetition, and I don’t believe there are two other people, in this whole great City, who have loved as we have loved. I can ask you because you are the woman I will always need, and look for, and revere. That is why I can ask you. And you, you speak of money! My God, has the Court so corrupted you? Is that all you can conceive of: the bald, material world?’

  I shake my head. ‘You cannot keep me, Will. You are being a fool.’

  ‘I have my work to keep us.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Play-making, and poetry! You’re one step up from vagrancy.’

  There is silence again. I think, I cannot go on with this. I cannot keep pretending that I am strong enough to live without you.

  Will pulls his cloak around him, as if in preparation for departure. ‘I thought you wanted to be a poet yourself? How can you speak of what I do with such contempt?’

  ‘It’s all words. Words, words, words. What are they? Flimsy, floating, fancy things, not real. You make it sound as if I expect a suite of rooms at Whitehall – that’s not fair! But I do need a house, and bowls, and spoons, and chattels. And food and clothing and a safe haven from the streets. I’ve traded in my virtue, and now I’m trading in my love, so I can look after my child. If Hunsdon is marrying me off – so be it.’

  He stares down at me, breathing hard. ‘You’ll bed that worm Alfonso, instead of lying with me? You’ll let him have you, night after night? You’ll do with him all those sublime and secret things that you have done with me?’

  ‘You are not free! Will you keep the baby in a box of feathered hats? Shall it crawl across the stage-boards before it speaks? Will you feed this babe before you feed the ones that are already born, at Stratford? In wedlock? Leave me be! Stop torturing me with what you call love, and which is a sort of twisted lust!’

  He stares at me as if I were at the bottom of an abyss. His face is as white as a winding sheet. Even his lips are pale. ‘How can you say that? You know I love you.’

  I close my eyes. ‘I know it.’

  ‘And you love me.’

  He comes back and holds me in his arms and I hide my face in his neck. After a moment, I look up at him and say, ‘I do love you. Will. If love alone could keep us, we would never part.’

  ‘Then…’ He hardens his grip around me, but I pull away.

  ‘But love never kept anyone,’ I cry. ‘Did it? And we are joined to others. And we must survive and so must they. I am to marry Lanyer, and he will be my lord, and I will be his wife and his word will be my law. I will be tamed, like poor Kate in your play. See – how wise and prescient you were!’

  ‘It’s not possible. My darling, darling Aemilia. It cannot be.’

  ‘It is the only way.’

  And then, not able to bear another word of this, I turn and run across the garden. Will yells after me, ‘It is not finished! I will not let you go! Hear me, Aemilia! We are not done!’

  I look over my shoulder, my hands pressed to my mouth. Will has disappeared. The old man is staring after me, his broom suspended in mid-air.

  Scene XI

  For the first few weeks of my union with Alfonso, I try to pretend that he does not exist, and he pleases me by keeping away. I spend my days writing, sitting in the solar and looking down at the street, watching my belly grow. I soon look like a plum pudding.

  A letter arrives for me one day. To my surprise, it is from Hunsdon. I tear it open, wondering if he might have changed his mind. Perhaps he wants me to be his mistress again. Perhaps Lady Anne has driven him mad with boredom. But no. It is a short note.

  My dear Aemilia,

  I trust you are well. How do you like the set of Antwerp porringers?

  I had a thought, in answer to that odd question of yours. William Cecil is your man. Old Burghley takes a somewhat utilitarian view of the printed word, but the fellow has more influence with publishers than anyone at Court. He will know who – if such a fellow exists – might back a woman. (Though I warn you, my sweet lady, your ambition is quite absurd.) Good luck with him, dear girl.

  Your loyal servant,

  Henry

  Burghley House is on the north side of the Strand. It is a handsome brick building, three storeys high, built around two courtyards. I am shown into the library, which looks out over the gardens and the fields of Covent Garden which lie beyond. I can see two youths playing tennis on a paved court, and a servant working in the orchard. As I watch the young men, I reflect that I have about as much power as the leather ball that bounces back and forth between them.

  It surprises me that Burghley has agreed to see me: he is known to be uxorious and upstanding, and has never approved of me. ‘Utilitarian’, Hunsdon said; could it be that Burghley has some use for me? I turn away from the window and look around me. The panelling is carved and painted, the floors newly strewn with sweet-smelling rushes and the air is hushed, as if in mute respect for all the learning in the room. It seems to me that Burghley owns quite as many books as his monarch.

  ‘I see you are one who appreciates the beauty of learning.’ The voice is silk-smooth, like the pages of a book. I look up, and my heart lurches. Standing in the doorway is not the austere, white-bearded Burghley but Henry Wriothesley, fair hair curled, dressed in peacock blue. He is regarding me with a knowing half-smile. He is one of Burghley’s circle, but even so the sight of him is an unpleasant shock.

  ‘Mistress Lanyer, how you have blossomed! Really… there is so much more of you as a Lanyer than there was when you were a mere Bassano!’

>   ‘I am here to see Lord Burghley, your lordship,’ I say, coldly. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Nooo, sadly. No. He told me to inform you that he has been called away on urgent business. But I bethought me…’ He comes closer, smiling at his own affected speech. ‘I bethought me – why waste this lovely visitor? Given that we have already met, and the lovely visitor is so… lovely.’

  He walks around me, daintily, first this way and then that, and I smell the rich scent of his clothes. He smiles at my fattened face and sprouting breasts, seeming well pleased. He picks a book up from the table beside me. It is The Rape of Lucrece, by a Mr W.S.

  ‘Dear Will,’ he says, flipping it open. ‘I’ve commissioned him to write a new comedy. Did you know?’

  ‘No, sir, I did not. I am not… closely acquainted with Mr Shakespeare.’

  He raises his fine brows. ‘Really? You surprise me.’

  ‘I have come to speak of my own work, sir.’

  But he doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘A Comedy of Errors – a noble title, don’t you think? He is writing it at this very moment.’

  ‘If I were to have a patron, sir, I might work upon my poems and make them… more than they are now.’

  ‘Quill scratching fast across the page,’ says the earl, apparently talking to himself. He looks up and smirks. ‘Very well, you pretty pregnant thing, let’s hear this verse of yours.’

  ‘I was going to talk about my verses with Burghley. Your lordship.’

  ‘So he told me. But I am a greater patron of the arts than he! You see – how fortuitous it is that I am here, instead of him! The stars are smiling on you.’

  ‘I am not sure that I share your favourable opinion. Can you tell Lord Burghley that I would be happy to see him on another occasion?’

  He smiles, shaking his head. ‘He will not do it, my bloated chuck. It’s not like you to be obtuse. Look at you! Hunsdon has cast you off, and you’re the size of a cow-shed.’

  ‘Then I must go.’

  ‘Then you won’t have a patron, will you? You will go back into the… outer darkness, whence you came. I hear he built a pretty house for you, which would fit into this library ten times over.’