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Dark Aemilia

Page 30

by Sally O’Reilly


  Was the hope drunk, wherein you dressed yourself?

  Hath it slept since?

  And wakes it now, to look so green and pale

  At what it did so freely?

  I close my eyes, not needing to see the rest, as I could hear it clear. A voice that echoes between Lilith’s and my own.

  Art thou afeared to be the same in thine own act and

  valour as thou art in desire?

  I speak aloud, my eyes still shut. ‘Would’st thou have that which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem, letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would”?’

  Cruel, duplicitous Burbage! To trip off this shoddy letter, when he has seen what I had put. I sink down to the ground, and the pages flutter around me, and I bury my head in my hands and I sob. I cry because I know now they will never hear me. This is it, and this is all of it, this house of thirty oaks, this board with its crooked stools, this fireside, the ham, the pots, the dirty skillet. I am hemmed in by walls of wattle, and by hours of life. There will be no breaking out, no second chance, no late reward. I am a spent whore, and that is the top and bottom of it. The best I can hope for is to keep the roof above us by licking Inchbald’s little cock.

  I cry till my throat aches, and after that there seems little purpose to it. For I have my son to think of. So I wipe my eyes, and look around me, and think. I can’t sit sobbing here for ever more. What shall we eat? Who will do the shirts? And I pick up the pages and sort them into a tidy pile, in the order in which they were written.

  That done, I begin to sweep the kitchen. I remember, looking at the uncleared table and the dirty wooden trenchers, that Marie has been gone from the house for the whole day. Since Anne told me she was pregnant, I have realised that I was foolish not to notice. She’s fattened up like a cooped goose, week after week, so that even her little wrists are now thickened, and her swollen breasts rest upon the table when she leans forward to sop up her pottage with her bread. What’s more, her belly sticks out plainly now. And she and Tom are always whispering, and conniving, when they get the chance. Anne can do nothing with Tom, and I can get no sense from Marie.

  But here she comes! Has she grown bigger in a single day? She waddles in from the street, sweating and with her dress loosened, even though the wind is still so bitter. Looking at her, I wonder how many months she’s gone. More than seven? If so she must have been already with child at Yuletide, the little minx. Her belly is bigger than mine has ever been, and Henry was a porker of a baby, the biggest Joan had ever seen.

  ‘Whatever are you thinking?’ I say, straightening from my work. ‘Are you turning vagabond and stalking the highway? Do you shun your mistress, and run out among the common doxies?’

  ‘What is that you say?’ She wipes her forehead with her kerchief. I may as well have spoken Latin.

  ‘Street scum, that’s what they are, with no home to go to and faces brown as privy slop.’

  ‘I can’t run anywhere,’ says Marie. This is true, given she can barely walk. She lowers herself slowly on to a stool, using the table for support.

  I frown. ‘Shall your babe be born under a hedge? Or at Tothill Fields?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. Her face is white and set with tiredness. I feel a stab of pity for her, in spite of myself, this silly girl whose lustfulness has led her to child-bed so young. What fools we women are. I pour her some ale.

  ‘Thank you, mistress. You are kind.’

  ‘Kind!’ I have to laugh.

  ‘You are to me. I have been a bad servant.’

  ‘I fear you have.’

  ‘But I will pay for it.’

  ‘You will have a child. Then you will pay. But you will also have your reward.’

  Henry comes in from school, as if summoned, and throws his bag on to the floor. I draw him in and hug him, then push him from me. ‘Begone, Henry, our talk is not for you.’

  ‘Nor would I want to listen,’ says he. ‘Women’s idle chatter. Of dull babies and fine dresses and… stupid slimy kisses.’

  He makes a face, picks up his catapult and runs outside again.

  I sit down opposite Marie, and pour myself a drink. ‘You will still be my servant,’ I say. ‘The child – it won’t prevent you sweeping, I hope, or stirring the stew.’

  She looks at me, her eyes great with tears. ‘No, mistress.’

  I set down my cup. ‘Then why are you so miserable?’

  She rests her head on her arms and begins to sob.

  I stare at her. ‘Marie? What is it? Thomas is no worse than any other lad! Marie, tell me. What is wrong?’

  At first she says nothing, just cries and cries, till I think I must get on and turn the mattresses. Then she stops, quite suddenly. ‘There is something terrible,’ she says, her face hidden.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something is wrong.’

  ‘What is wrong?’

  She raises her head. ‘Something is wrong with the baby.’

  ‘Oh, for shame! You are young! It will pop out like a plum from a pie. You’ll have another dozen before you’re done.’

  She rubs her bloodshot eyes with her wet fingers. ‘I have dreams.’

  ‘Dreams.’

  ‘Dreams such as… such as I have never known.’

  I sigh and pile up some dirty trenchers. ‘And what do you dream of?’

  Her gaze fixes on me, her eyes grow wider and wider as if she saw her nightmares in my face. ‘I dream of monsters. Horrid midnight creatures. Demons, misbegot, that stalk us when the sun has gone.’

  ‘Nursery fears, which you must soon grow out of.’

  ‘I dream there is a monster growing inside me. My mother used to tell me an old French tale, about this very thing!’

  This child is too fanciful for her own good. ‘Marie, you are trying my patience. There are a thousand tales like that one.’

  ‘But why?’ she says. ‘Surely it’s because such things are common? When monsters are born, I mean really, the midwives keep it quiet.’

  I say nothing. The girl isn’t quite as foolish as she looks. Many years ago, I attended a birth with Joan. It was a hard delivery, which lasted for two days and two nights. And after all her travail the poor woman had little enough to show for it. The babe – of no gender – was born with one great eye in the middle of its forehead. A sexless Cyclops. Joan swaddled it, and sprinkled it with holy water. But when the father saw his child he swore, grabbed it by the feet and bashed it against the wall till he had beaten out all its brains. The infant’s screams were the worst I ever heard; no witch, nor gibbet-rogue, nor half-bowelled recusant, could make such a sound. Unshriven, that malformed babe went straight to Hell.

  It’s true, we kept it quiet, saying only that the child had died.

  And of course, now that Alfonso is off cavorting on a ship somewhere, my landlord soon gets wind of it, and here he is. I am cleaning out the jakes when he comes up behind me, quiet as a river rat.

  ‘Mistress Lanyer.’ He removes his hat with a flourish. It is a new one, by the look of it. Bright scarlet, with a yellow ostrich feather: colours which are all the rage at Court.

  ‘Mr Inchbald, shorter than ever. Good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Your servant let me in, I hope I am not intruding.’

  I make a lot of business of pouring a pot of piss into the maw of the privy. ‘I fear I am somewhat busy. Hard at my chores, as you can see.’

  ‘Such a lady as yourself should not be mired in… these matters.’ He is looking at his feet. A turd has dropped on to one of them. I pretend not to notice.

  ‘I am not fit for entertaining. Can’t you come another time?’

  He kicks the turd into the air with surprising skill. ‘The rent is due, sweet lady.’

  ‘Ah, the sweet rent.’

  ‘I’ll wait while you wash your hands, and perhaps we can share a glass of something from your larder.’

  ‘Very well.’ My mind is working quickly. I have one la
st item of some value, which might buy him off.

  ‘Excellent. The workmanship is most careful. Quality, Mistress Lanyer, most admirable quality.’

  The dwarf is examining a little silver pomander, shaped like a galleon. I am offering it to him in lieu of rent – and fornication. We are standing by the walnut cupboard in the kitchen in which I keep the few things of value that I have left.

  ‘It’s made in Nuremberg. See the mark?’ I say. I point with a long arm, keeping my distance. ‘The figures there are meant to be my dear husband, God bless him, and my good self.’

  ‘Though they could be anyone,’ says Inchbald.

  ‘You can keep condiments and salt cellars beneath the deck.’

  ‘Most… elegant.’ His eyes have not left my bosom once.

  I decide my attention should most usefully remain on the pomander. ‘Fill it with rose-water, and you can use it to ward off foul vapours and disease.’

  ‘Why, it’s almost a shame to take it from you.’

  ‘Almost, yes. But think on this – if you were a just a fraction shorter you could ride on it yourself.’

  ‘Your wit is well known, mistress, but it can sometimes mar your perfect beauty.’

  ‘Shame. Stop staring at my dugs, please, Mr Inchbald.’

  He puts his hands behind his back, as if this was the only way he could stop them wandering towards my breasts. ‘I’d still sooner have a suck, for all it is a handsome piece of work.’

  ‘Take it, or take your leave.’

  Disgruntled, Inchbald wraps the pomander up in a linen cloth and stores it in his leather satchel. He bows gracelessly, and I turn away and set about cleaning a candlestick, hoping he will leave. There is silence for a moment, then he says, ‘It is a shame that you are so ill-disposed towards me, madam. I was intending to invite you to the theatre, as my most honoured guest.’

  ‘Well, you do surprise me.’ This is true. None of Inchbald’s other ladies is taken out to town. It strikes me that Anne would think it most annoying if I were rewarded for my virtue with such a treat.

  ‘There is a lot of talk about the latest work the King’s players are staging at the Globe. They say they put it on at Whitehall and the Queen fainted right away.’

  I have been standing with my back to him, scraping at a gobbet of dried porridge on the kitchen table with a carving knife, but now I stop and look at him.

  ‘Queen Anne fainted?’

  ‘Indeed. Quite the horridest play that she had seen in all her life. So I have been told. She thought there was black magic in it. Just like Faustus.’

  I drop the knife. ‘What is it called?’

  He taps his forehead, tutting with irritation. ‘Oh, do you know, I quite forget. Something odd-sounding. Something of the north.’

  ‘Scottish?’

  ‘Scottish! Yes! I have it now. It’s The Tragedie of Macbeth.’

  * * *

  What’s in a name? What indeed. Macbeth is a good one. Perhaps it is just the title they have filched. It is not feasible, not likely, that these seasoned players have stole my work. And yet I cannot sleep for thinking of it. The sun sinks, the night blackens, the sun rises again, and I do not so much as blink. For three days, and three nights, this is my rest. Would they do this, and say not a word about it? I can’t face going to the theatre to see it for myself. No, I will ask Tom Flood.

  I decide to seek him out at the Anchor at Southwark. It is a good spot for actors, for when the talk runs flat they can amuse themselves by watching the pirates hang at Execution Dock, and so learn how to make their stage-deaths true to life. A gaggle of prentice-boys is standing outside, laughing together and drinking ale from their leather black-jackets. They call out when I pass, cocky as you please. I stare back stony-eyed, and all three of them look nervously away. Inside, darkness and a roar of talking. Narrow booths contain half-seen groups of drinkers and bawds: a man kissing a white-armed girl; an old doxy, sitting astride a red-headed sailor-boy; a group of law students, opining in the Latin.

  A thin man with a twisted lip comes hobbling towards me. ‘Mistress, can I be of help?’ He speaks with false gentility.

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ I look around the crowded inn.

  ‘We don’t see many married ladies here. Who do you seek?’

  ‘Tom Flood, a player.’

  ‘Ah, well. He is engaged. Occupied, or occupying, if I am to be precise.’

  ‘I see. We are speaking, if I am right, of fornication?’

  ‘She’s not the youngest, nor the comeliest, but she is the… well. She accommodates.’

  ‘A gamesome old jade, I am sure.’

  ‘Else he’d be throwing away a good sixpence.’

  ‘Indeed. Take me to him, will you?’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait? We have the finest apple cider, the old Queen’s favourite tipple.’

  ‘Drank in this doghole often, did she?’

  ‘Slept here, mistress, on each progress.’

  Of course she did, and feasted on broken hog meat. ‘Then by all means bring me some cider.’

  When he’s gone, I hasten up the stairs. I knock on the first door I come to. ‘Tom Flood?’ There are little panting shrieks from within. Yelping, rapid, rhythmic. It reminds me of the time I heard the old rogue Ralegh at his game of forest hide-and-fuck, a sport he was most fond of. I heard him having Bess Throckmorton against a tree. At first she was all coy decorum: ‘Sweet Sir Walter, will you undo me? Nay, sweet Sir Walter!’ But as her pleasure and excitement grew all she could squeal was, ‘Swisser swatter swisser swatter.’ And the branches shook as if brave Sir W. were pleasuring the trunk itself.

  This is a seamier setting by far. I bang on the door once more. ‘Tom?’ I try again. But the bullish roar which rips out next sounds more like the come-cry of the Beast himself than any sound that Tom could make. I try the next door. A Blackamoor opens it a crack, and peers out at me, suspicious. ‘Is Tom within?’ I ask.

  The Blackamoor disappears. ‘Are you called Tom?’ I hear him say. He returns. ‘No Toms here.’

  At last I come to a door at the end of the passage. I bang on it with the flat of my hand. At first there is no answer. But I can hear the gentle rattle of a snore. Pushing it open, I see Tom, sleeping softly. Next to him sits a raddled whore of at least my age, with dangling naked dugs. She is eating from a little dish, and red wine streaks her chin.

  ‘Who might you be?’ asks the whore, mouth full. ‘Not his mother, are you?’

  ‘What’s it to you if I’m his wife? Get out, you filthy drab!’

  After she has gone, I sit down on the bed and look at Tom, with his white skin and his curling, matted hair. His breath rises and falls sweetly with each snore. The stench of ale comes off him like a river fog.

  ‘Tom,’ I say. I touch his hand. ‘Wake up.’

  He makes a noise like a puppy nosing for his mother’s tit, a hungry little whimper. Then he opens his eyes. With a cry, he sits upright, clutching the covers to his groin. ‘Aemilia! Mistress Lanyer – Lord above! What is the matter?’

  I fold my arms. ‘I have a question for you.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ says Tom. ‘Has my mother put you up to this?’

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘A little, madam.’

  ‘And whoring too, it seems.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘No way for a leading lady to go on. But that’s not the worst of it.’

  ‘What?’ Now there is panic in his eyes. ‘Marie! Is she ill? Has it come? I must go to her…’ He leaps out of bed, naked as an earth-worm, and begins to dress himself.

  ‘Tom – stop. Marie is not ill. And I doubt the baby’s ready – though it’s twice the size it should be.’

  He stops, half in his shirt, and looks at me. ‘What, then? Why do you pester me?’

  ‘Pester? Pester? And your mother thinks it’s Henry who is spoiled! I’ve come here for some information. Some facts. No equivocation, please. I know you h
ave the answer.’

  He starts buttoning his shirt. ‘I don’t know what I know which is of any use to you, but ask me what you like.’

  I stand up and walk to the other side of the room, trying to set my mind straight. ‘What’s this about a Scottish play? The next one you’re doing at the Globe?’

  He frowns, as if trying to remember lines. ‘It’s a secret. They’ve told us to keep it quiet. This play will startle all the town.’

  ‘Why so secret?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So who do you play?’

  His fiddles with his shirt.

  ‘Your part, Tom, what is it?’

  ‘Lady Macbeth,’ he says, looking at me with a sudden glint of pleasure. ‘Later the Scottish Queen.’

  ‘I know who Lady Macbeth is, you buffoon.’

  He smiles, uneasy. ‘Nathan Field is only Lady Macduff, and then a serving woman with hardly any lines. He was most put out when Burbage told us.’

  ‘Is yours a little part, or long?’

  ‘Littler than I would have liked. But the greatest boy’s part, by some way.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘What kind of woman is she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What is her nature?’

  ‘In some scenes, she’s a better man than her lord.’

  ‘She leads him into wickedness?’

  ‘She eggs him on, to kill the King. Then falls into a most excellent madness, walking in her nightgown like an unquiet spirit. This part is worth a thousand Juliets.’

  ‘So.’ The tale was written down by Holinshed, but some of this is mine. I breathe deeply, imagining Will’s head, and that of Burbage, high above the Bridge, upon a spike. Par-boiled with cumin seeds, and dipped in tar. ‘Do you happen to have your pages with you, by any chance?’

  Tom takes a wad of paper from his doublet and hands it to me. ‘They are brutal lines,’ he says. ‘But bold.’

  I read them, and the blood beats in my brain when I see how they have cheated me. ‘Who wrote these?’ I ask, as if even now all might be somehow mended.

  ‘Why, Will Shakespeare, of course,’ says Tom. He is dressed now, and looks around him, then picks up his hat. ‘Who else would it be?’

 

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