Dark Aemilia

by Sally O’Reilly

  ‘I hoped not to find you here. I hoped to see your house empty, and you and your brave little Henry gone to the country for safe keeping.’ He speaks quickly, yet almost unwillingly.

  ‘Henry is very ill,’ I say.

  ‘The King’s Men are off to the country,’ he says. His voice is rough and throat-sore. I have the feeling that he has rehearsed these words and is determined to say them to me, no matter what. ‘To Coventry, Bridgnorth and then – as we hope – to Bath. We’re touring the country till the pestilence is over.’

  ‘Henry has a fever.’

  ‘You can’t stay here. You must come too.’

  ‘What?’

  He clears his throat and gives a slight bow, as if he was speaking from the stage. ‘Aemilia – I beg you. I am afraid for you. I don’t mean to… Our association has… I know what’s gone before. But you would be safe with me. Come, quickly, out of London.’

  If I weren’t so anxious I would laugh at his confusion.

  ‘We can rent you rooms, apart from the players, in each town that we visit. You’ll be away from the infected air and filthy streets.’

  ‘Henry is too ill.’

  ‘No. We can care for him. He can come in a prop-cart. We will keep him warm.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  There is a pause.

  ‘You will both be safe with us,’ he says. ‘He will not die. You cannot remain in London.’

  ‘It’s too late, Will.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Will! You are not listening to what I say!’ I clasp my head in rage. ‘Henry has the plague. The plague! The very contagion that the bold players flee from – how can I come with you? How can he? What is the purpose in leaving London, if you carry the foul contagion with you? I wish it were not so! I pray I am mistaken! But I cannot go. We must stay here, my son and I, and see it out together.’

  He stares at me sadly. ‘I see,’ he says. He reaches into his bag, and hands me a heavy purse. ‘Madam, please. Henry will be well again, I am sure of it. If you won’t come, then take this. You might still find a carrying-coach and a man to drive it.’

  I give it back to him. ‘Don’t insult me, sir.’

  He looks down at the purse. His hands are shaking. ‘When did he fall ill?’

  I hesitate. Will frowns, and pushes past me. Before I can stop him, he is upstairs and in my bedchamber. I follow him, dizzy and confused. Henry is breathing painfully, propped half-upright on his pillows.

  Will sits beside him and touches his cheek.

  ‘He has such a look of Hamnet! I knew it. I knew it, when I saw him in the plague-cart. My God…’ He strokes Henry’s sweat-soaked hair. ‘When Hamnet died, he was just…’ He stops. He is staring at Henry with an expression of intense sadness. ‘He was eleven, so he might have been… taller than I remember. I hadn’t seen him for a year. Such a merry little soul. And bold, like this one…’

  He leans over and kisses Henry on the forehead, crosses himself and rises to his feet. His eyes are full of tears. ‘God protect and save you, child,’ he says. Then he whispers harshly, ‘I always knew he wasn’t Hunsdon’s.’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘Those sonnets were written from my heart,’ he says. ‘With love and hatred entwined within them. To one who changed my life, and then destroyed it.’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ I say. ‘We are older now, and it’s all long past.’

  He stares down at Henry. ‘For pity’s sake, Aemilia, take the money. For the child’s sake.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to help you. More… Or, that is, I should rather say…’ He wipes his eyes with his sleeve like a child. ‘Aemilia… He is our son.’

  ‘Please – go.’

  Then, another thought seems to strike him and he unhooks a bunch of keys from his belt. ‘Take these – the keys to my lodgings at Silver Street. The house is empty – my landlord has taken his family out of London. A friend of mine would be a welcome guest while we are away. You can go there.’

  ‘I live here! Is this house not solid enough for you? Goodbye, Will.’

  ‘The poor child has the plague,’ he says, flatly. ‘If the City councillors hear of it, you will be boarded in for forty days. You know this.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I will pray for him,’ says Will. He hesitates. ‘And for his mother, too.’ And then he’s gone, leaving the keys upon the bed-table.

  Henry makes a strange sound, halfway between a moan and speaking, and I crouch down beside him and my tears pour out at last.

  Scene XII

  It is the hour before dawn. Footsteps come skittering up the stairs.

  ‘The parson is here,’ says Joan, in a warning voice.

  I don’t look at her, but at Henry’s matted hair. The word ‘parson’ strikes me as odd, but not odd enough to jolt me from my misery and fear. ‘Then let him pray for my son. He is a good boy and will soon be well. He’ll be at church on Sunday.’

  ‘Then repent now of your pride,’ says a strange voice.

  I see this is a new man, a young fellow, not Father Dunstan. I realise that I had put some faith in the old priest’s Catholic magic, and was looking forward to touching the beads of Joan’s forbidden rosary and smelling incense.

  ‘Where is Father?’ I ask.

  ‘Dead,’ says the young man. He has a hard, high voice, which makes simple words sound like sermonising. ‘The plague took him off two nights ago. I have come to oversee his parish.’

  He is no more than a youth, thin-faced and vinegar-skinned. His eyes seem hollowed into his skull. There is no flesh on his bones and his robes hang on him like dying-sheets.

  ‘And who might you be?’ I ask, holding Henry tighter.

  ‘I am Parson John,’ he says. ‘A Cambridge man, of Sidney Sussex College. I abhor Papism in all its incarnations and I bring the Word of God to the common man.’

  I take against him straight away. So much so that a glimmer of life returns to me. It is not hope that renews my spirit, but anger.

  ‘The Word of God was here before you,’ say I.

  ‘The Word can be misunderstood.’

  ‘By some, Parson John, but not by me, you will find. I can read it in the Latin.’

  ‘Then be fearful of the sin of pride.’

  ‘Say a blessing for this child, if you will. But we need neither priest nor parson. Go back to your flock. Some of them might yet be grateful for your sour-faced sermonising.’

  But then Henry’s eyes flicker open. ‘Mother!’ he screeches. ‘Don’t let him take me! Death is here! Death is in the room!’ And he lets out the most terrible cry, worse than a murderer crushed under a pile of stones.

  ‘Hush, child! Hush!’ I say.

  The parson glares. ‘There speaks Satan’s voice!’ he cries. ‘You see? This pestilence is God’s punishment, and evil-doers suffer. That child will go straight to Hell if he is not blessed before he dies.’

  Henry frees himself from my grasp. In doing so, he wriggles right out of his nightshirt, and stands by the bed, naked and dribbling with sweat. Parson John raises his hands above his head. I’m not sure if this is because he is calling on his Maker, or because he fears to touch my fever-ridden son.

  ‘Pray for him, for pity’s sake!’ I cry. ‘Speak to God, and ask him to spare my child. It is not his time! Tell the Lord this boy is innocent.’

  ‘There are many mothers who could make the same plea. I see them by the score, Mistress Lanyer. You must accept the will of God. Do you forget that he sent ten plagues down on the people of Egypt? And the last of these alone killed every first-born son?’

  ‘Mistress, you must save his soul,’ says Joan. I look at Henry, and see that his limbs are covered with a rash of purple spots, dark as blackberries.

  ‘No!’ I scream. ‘No! It cannot be.’

  ‘It is God’s will,’ says the parson. ‘Say your prayers.’

  ‘By God, I swear I will not give up my child!’ I scream. �
��Get out of my house, you prating fiend!’

  The parson’s eyes widen, and he presses his hands together as if in prayer. ‘Woman! How dare you speak in this manner to the servant of the Lord? Do you defy me?’

  But I can no longer stop myself. ‘I do defy you, sir! Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then you are evil.’

  ‘I defy you, and all who deny us hope.’

  ‘Mind your words, mistress. For this, you will burn in Hell, for all eternity, with your son beside you.’

  ‘Get out of my house!’

  ‘You will exist in mortal agony, blistered and contorted in the flames, but never consumed. Your throat will cry out for water, but will crack like a desert. On Judgement Day the Lord will cast you out once more, into the eternal emptiness that lies beyond our understanding. Is that your wish?’

  ‘If you call my son a sinner, who must be punished by this dreadful death, then I stand by every word I say, Parson John of Sidney Sussex College. I defy God himself, and all his angels. My son will live.’

  ‘O-ho, mistress! You are not in your right mind. Remember who and what you are. A slip-shake pike, sliding through the twisting Thames, is only slightly less than you. A lowing heifer, chewing her cud on Chelsea Green, is your dull sister. By Heaven! I never heard an honest woman speak so!’

  ‘Then honest women are fools.’

  ‘Do you determine who will live or die? Are you the architect of your earthly fate? Fie on you for a witch and a most unnatural whore! There is something evil in you, I swear it, and in your kind, and the Lord will only forgive you if you bow down now and seek humble and profound forgiveness for this vile rebellion, this pustulating canker of the soul.’

  I bend close to Parson John, so I get an unholy whiff of boiled onion on his breath.

  ‘Leave this house,’ I say. ‘Get out, you scripture-spouting, fish-cold arse-wart. Or I’ll call down a curse which’ll curdle the guts in your belly.’

  ‘Witch!’ he hisses back at me. ‘Evil succubus! Hear the Word of our Lord – There shall not be found among you anyone that burns his son or his daughter as an offering…’

  ‘Spindle-shanked God-botherer!’ I shout. ‘I want to save my son, not burn him – ’

  ‘…anyone who practises divination, a soothsayer, or an augur…’

  ‘Would you like to know what I predict?’ I cry. ‘That you will die in mortal agony, grabbling the air in your final madness, and Almighty God won’t give a farthing…’

  ‘…or a sorcerer, or a charmer, or a medium, or a wizard, or a necromancer…’

  ‘Such a one as me? The fair and feeble sex? A wizard woman? Whoever would believe it?’ I shove him hard, towards the door. ‘I’ll broil your brain in its shallow skull! Mangle your preachifying words into Bedlam babble, and corrupt your skin into a thousand worm-infested sores! I’ll make you pray for Hades as a respite from your pain! And I’ll twist your mind to such distraction that you’ll tear off all your limbs to find relief and sanity! Do you hear me, you pox-groined, foul-nosed turd-stain?’

  The parson takes a step backwards, eyes round with horror. And then Henry, who has been staring at the parson all this time, steps between us.

  ‘Cure me, if you are a man of God,’ he says.

  The parson turns his startled gaze to the boy.

  ‘Cure me, I command you.’

  ‘Hell’s progeny!’ cries Parson John. ‘Vicious, misbegotten whelp! Thou shalt not command a priest!’

  And Henry spits a great gob of phlegm right at the holy man, and it lands on his yellow cheek and slides down slowly, leaving a shining trail behind.

  The fierce insanity which loosened my tongue departs, and all I can see is blackest pandemonium, till at last I am crouching down on the floor, in the hall downstairs, with Henry shaking and spewing all down my chemise. It is dawn. I look up, and there is the figure of Joan, towering above us, wrapped in her black cloak. She seems taller and straighter than before, and her face, shadowed by the folds of cloth, strangely ageless. Her eyes, fixed upon me, are sorrowful.

  ‘I hope I have served you well, mistress,’ she says.

  I stare up at her distant face wondering, in my feverish state, why she stands upon such high ground. It seems to me that I must be in an open grave, while she is standing on turned soil above. But I realise that I am lying on the stone flags of the hall, prickled by strewing-herbs. I am in my own house, after all.

  ‘Until today you looked after me well enough,’ I say.

  ‘The parson could have helped you, if you’d let him. For all he is a Puritan, he serves the same God.’

  ‘Serve! Serve! Why use this word so often?’ I shift Henry’s weight, and wipe his face. ‘I am finished with service. Catholic, Puritan, parson, priest – I don’t give a pigwidgeon for any of them. I will not serve.’ I pick up a stand of dried marjoram and smell it, thinking of quiet herb gardens and meadow daisies.

  ‘Beware of this ungodly pride, mistress. For I must leave you now, and, next time I see you, I hope it’s in a better place than this.’

  I toss the marjoram on to the floor. ‘Abandon me now, in this house, with my sick son and the beadle doubtless on his way to board us in? A loyal and faithful servant indeed! Shame on you.’

  She bends down and gives me something cold which jangles: Will’s bunch of keys.

  ‘You will need these,’ she says. ‘Listen to me, Aemilia Lanyer. In all my life, you are the finest woman I have ever known, and the boldest. But you are not the wisest. I have loved you dearly, as I have loved your son. From the moment I first set eyes on you, all fire and no sense, I knew that I must help you. I was a penitent, but had not served my penance. In you, I saw a kindred spirit, someone who needed help, and yet would never seek it. A brave soul adrift in a cruel world. I burned my shop myself, so there was no going back, and I became your servant. And I am your servant still.’ Her voice is softer now, yet there is nothing of the servant in it.

  Outside, I can hear the distant sound of shouting. Unusual now, in streets which are normally so silent. The beadle, of course, with his merry men, summoned by the good parson. The boarding-up of houses often lures a crowd.

  ‘Now, go,’ she says.

  ‘Go? What do you mean? Where shall I go?’

  There is a knock on the door, and she opens it. Tom Flood is standing there, blushing in his finest velvet.

  ‘Joan – Mistress Lanyer – I…’

  ‘Hurry,’ says Joan. ‘Tom has a cart, at the end of the lane. Full of costumes for the tour. John Heminge is holding the horses but he grows impatient.’

  Tom stares at her.

  ‘Take my mistress to the Mountjoy house, and be on your way,’ says Joan. ‘But be careful. The boy has the plague. There is a hand-cart by the door.’ Mysteriously, there is.

  Tom looks confused. ‘Mistress Lanyer…?’

  ‘Help me,’ I say, getting to my feet. Between us we wrap Henry in a bed-sheet and lay him gently on the cart. He is sleeping uneasily, and his eyelashes flutter as if disturbed by nightmares.

  Joan follows us out. ‘This is a brave deed, child,’ she says, touching Tom’s arm. Then she turns to me and hugs me tightly, and when we break apart she gives me Simon Forman’s grimoire. ‘You’ll need this,’ she says, ‘if you are set on saving Henry.’

  ‘But I can’t…’

  ‘But you will. God bless you, Aemilia. Now, hurry.’

  We trundle the cart slowly forward till we are halfway down the street, the shouting of the crowd growing louder and louder behind us. There are yells and chants and the noise of pipes and drums. I look back, wondering again how Joan could leave me at such a time. She is standing with her back towards us, facing the oncoming noise. Why is she waiting? What is she doing?

  ‘Hurry,’ says Tom, face set with fear. ‘We must get on.’

  ‘Why did you come for us?’ I ask, as we set to pushing the cart again. ‘You could be halfway to Coventry by now! Such kindness, Tom!’

  Tom is more flushed
than ever. ‘Henry is my dear friend,’ he says.

  ‘Pray God you are rewarded for your good heart.’

  The end of the street is in sight, and there is the carriage and John Heminge, just as Joan had said.

  ‘Thank God,’ says Heminge. ‘How does the boy?’

  I can’t speak. We lift Henry from the hand-cart and settle him in the carriage among the masks and head-pieces. The sound behind us has reached a pitch of fury and I am sick with fear for Joan. Then there is a hideous scream, long and piercing, followed by wild cheering. ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I will only be a moment.’ And, before Heminge can stop me, I run back towards the shouting mob.

  The crowd has formed a wall of backs, making a neat circle. I push my way forward, but my view is still obscured by those who have fought for a good viewing place. Even so, I can see a dark-robed figure is standing in the centre, its face obscured by a black hood. The ringleaders are cat-calling and shouting filthy names. There are sixty or seventy people in the rabble: plague-followers, apprentices, vagrants, beggars and idiots. All of them are ill-dressed and ill-favoured. Some have the dazed stare of passers-by who have been sucked into the fray. Others – with their shrivelled faces and tattered clothes – look as if they spend their life on the road. I examine their contorted, shouting faces, wondering at their rage and hatred. A thin boy with a drum is beating out a gallows tattoo. An old crone with a twisted mouth wields a pitchfork. A young girl with a fair white face and filthy, tangled hair holds a firebrand above her head.

  A clod of earth falls on the ground followed by a rain of stones and pebbles. Most fall short, but some find their mark and the figure winces and trembles at each blow. Then a heftier stone hits home, the hood falls back and the face of the victim is revealed.

  ‘Joan!’ I shout. ‘Joan!’ But no one hears me.