Just as he has finished speaking, the door opens, and who should walk in but Will himself, neat as a character in a play? He too is buttoning his shirt-front. I wonder if it was his voice I heard, roaring his pleasure a few moments ago? The room sways as if we were all at sea, and I recall how he would look at me when it was me he rode, and loved, and rejoiced in.
He is saying, ‘Tom, we must go, for it’s…’ Then he catches sight of me and turns pale. ‘Aemilia!’
I bow my head.
‘What are you…?’
‘A woman, sir, more’s the pity.’
‘I mean – what are you doing in this place?’
‘Business.’ I look him up and down. ‘And you? Pleasure, I if I heard you right.’
Oh, God! It is a summer’s day again. I’m in his arms and he is fucking me in bright sun. When he comes he throws his head back and calls my name: ‘Aemilia! Aemilia! Aemilia!’ We are born again, one flesh, one love.
‘Business?’ He is staring back, then looks down at himself in dismay. ‘I am on business myself, though I expect you will think otherwise.’
‘It is no business of mine where you go a-whoring,’ I say. ‘I have other things to think of. I heard word about a play.’ I nod towards Tom. ‘From my young neighbour.’
‘Of course. The play.’
‘What is it called?’ I ask, keeping my voice innocent.
Will smoothes his hands over his hair. ‘It’s – well. The title is The Tragedie of Macbeth.’
‘The King’s story, rather than the Queen’s?’
‘Quite so.’
‘And therefore, different from the play I left with Burbage, which fell sadly short and which he returned to me. As you will recall.’
‘Oh – very different! Utterly different! An India to your Kent, as it were. A chasm of difference between your… musings and this finished work. Yes.’ He looks unhappier still. ‘That is the way of it. Plays are adapted, from many, many sources.’
‘And yet – here are Tom’s pages, and nearly all the words are mine.’
‘Yours? Surely not.’
‘I wrote them, and I know I’m not mistaken. And what about the witches? And the murder of Macduff’s wife and her little ones? All thrown out – or some of this included?’
‘All are there, aren’t they?’ says Tom. ‘It’s a fine, dark thing, and will set an audience trembling.’
‘These things are there,’ says Will, blinking. ‘And more besides. I mean – new things, beside these… others. Come Tom, let us go.’
I step into the doorway, so they cannot pass. ‘I hear it is highly thought of, this great, new, secret production.’
‘There is no secret – we waited till it had been approved of by the King,’ says Will. ‘And now he has seen it, and admires it, and all is well.’
I look from Will’s face to Tom’s and back again. ‘It’s a poor business,’ I say. ‘Is this greatness, or littleness, I wonder? Is this genius, or common theft? Tell me, sir, you are a man of many words.’
‘We call it poetry,’ says Will. ‘We call it Art.’
‘Oh, shame on you,’ say I. ‘You and your kind.’
‘What “kind” is that?’
‘Filthy players, sir, and twisted poets and your frilly little helpmeets in their skirts.’ Tom looks behind him when I cast a look in his direction, as if I could not possibly be referring to him.
‘Aemilia, listen to reason, will you – ?’
‘Reason? Heaven help us! Reason? Is this the best that you can do? You… men! Cock-heavy, brain-light, and brimful of your own importance? The apex of Creation? God aimed too low!’
I turn and hurry down the stairs, through the crowded tavern and out into the street. The sun is low over the roofs and chimneys, and it will soon be nightfall. My head aches; my heart beats fast. What hope do I have of getting anything, in this City? I will end up starving in the Cage with the other drabs and vagrants. But I have not gone far when someone seizes my shoulder.
Will is breathing heavily. ‘Aemilia – there is something I need to say to you.’
I shake his hand away and keep walking. ‘What is there to say? Unless you will admit that you have robbed me.’
He half-runs, half-walks to keep up with me. ‘I will not say so, because it isn’t true.’
I look along the street and cross over, heading for the Bridge. ‘You have played me false, you and your conniving tribe.’
‘Not false, Aemilia – this is how it is done. No play is made by one man alone. You don’t understand this world. You mistake your place in it. Look, mistress, slow down, please…’
‘My place? Would that I had one!’
‘Aemilia, no, you are mistaken…’
I try to outpace him but he matches me step for step. I skip over a dog turd and turn to face him. ‘Don’t you see it? If a man had written that play, and it were put on with some changes, and he were one of your company or a tavern friend, like Dekker, all would be well.’
‘So… what is the difference?’
‘Lord save us, Will! I am a woman! I will get nothing if you don’t acknowledge what I have done. Nothing. I’m not Mary Sidney, or some other clever lady of the manor, who writes her hobby-lines and is fêted by her little retinue. I am alone. I am that turd.’ I point at it. ‘I am nothing.’
He takes a purse from his belt and holds it towards me. ‘Here is gold, if it will help you,’ he said. ‘Once, you said that you could not be with me because of my lowly station. But now I am a gentleman. I have a coat-of-arms… and houses.’
‘Always trying to pay me off! I don’t want your cursed coin. I want to be a poet myself.’
‘The world is not run according to my wishes, any more than it is to yours! You are confusing me with Almighty God!’
‘Oh, go and play bare-arses with the rest of them! Every one a cozener and a cheat.’ I push past him and walk on.
‘Aemilia!’
I keep walking.
‘Aemilia!’
I quicken my pace.
‘Aemilia!’ Oh, Lord, there is that scene again: pale flesh, bright sun; his rapt face; the white light in my head.
‘My love…’ His voice breaks upon the word, and stops.
I look back. ‘Your… what?’
‘I must see you! I need to see you!’
‘Well, here I am. Solid as a dead sow.’
‘What I mean is… I must talk to you! We must… God! Where are all the words, the words, when I need them most?’
‘They cheat you, sir, as you have cheated me. Perhaps there is some justice in Creation after all. Your words came easy enough when you wanted to strumpet me, and whore me and harlot me, and falsely accuse me of fornicating with all and sundry. “The bay where all men ride”! God’s blood, what a phrase! From your so-called love to those foul insults. How great was the distance? You made the change quicker than a viper slips its skin.’
‘Jesu!’ He stares at me hopelessly. ‘What have I done?’
‘What?’
‘I thought that I could exorcise you, if my lines were cruel enough. But…’
‘But… what?’
We stare at each other across the muddy street.
‘I wanted to believe the worst of you. If you wouldn’t have me, then, in my madness, it was easiest to call you whore.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Now we have it. Now I believe you.’
‘But, even in the midst of writing those lines, I never could destroy the passion that tormented me. That is the essence of them. They are love sonnets, from my heart.’
‘Oh, Will,’ I say. ‘You are such a fool.’
He smiles, a strange, sweet smile, and says, ‘And now… now I fear it is too late.’
The sun is low in the sky. ‘I fear so. Henry will wonder where I am.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow morning?’ he asks, abruptly. ‘There is something… I must tell you something.’
‘I’m praying at the tomb of my lord Hunsdon,’ I say
, flushing.
‘You still pine for that old place-man?’
‘He was kind to me. None kinder.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
I laugh. ‘What a fitting arrangement! Perhaps his lordship will rise up from his grave and beat you round the head for leading me such a dance.’
‘I cannot bear this…’
He looks so woebegone that I almost pity him. ‘I’m going to the Church of St Peter early,’ I say. ‘Six of the clock, when it’s still quiet.’
‘I’ll be there.’
I’m startled by his burning eyes. ‘I must go,’ I say, like some awkward, untried maid. ‘My son…’
‘Say that you will meet with me tomorrow.’
I stare.
‘Say it, Aemilia, I beg you.’
‘I…’
‘Please, sweet lady.’
‘If you want.’
‘I do want. I want to see you more than anything.’
‘Then I will meet you.’
Scene IV
For the rest of the day I run hither and thither like the silliest virgin, to stop myself from thinking. I swear, the house was never half so clean, before or after. Marie and I fetch water, scrub floors, air counterpanes, scour knives and clean plates with shave-grasse – what would normally take me three days takes three hours. She complains at first, but she soon gets to it, and while I do the hardest tasks – such as sweeping out the green rushes from the floors and casting down new ones – she toils away with a good grace. Too good a grace, as it turns out.
At last, she comes into the hall, where I am folding linen and placing it neatly in the great oak chest. I look up, and notice Marie’s drawn face. ‘For Heaven’s sake, sit down, girl. You have done enough.’
She sits down on a hall stool, and rests her head against the wall, eyes closed. ‘Truly, I am dog-tired,’ she says. ‘And the babe is jumping.’
‘A good sign,’ say I. ‘It is when they’re still that there is cause for worry.’
But when I look up to see why she hasn’t replied. Her face is contorted with pain. ‘Marie – what is it?’
‘A feeling like the curse but stronger,’ she says. ‘Oh, mistress, it is like a knife! I couldn’t stand it worse than this! I am not ready! I am not strong!’
‘It is likely just a false alarm,’ I tell her. ‘Go and rest, and it will ease.’ But I have to help her up the stairs and into bed, for she is heavy with fatigue.
As I turn to go, she grabs my hand. ‘Did you see him?’ she asks.
‘See who?’
‘Tom. When you went to the Anchor.’
I hesitate.
‘Did you, mistress?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’ I think of telling her about the whore, but find I can’t. ‘He was snoring and in his cups. You are better off without him, child. Don’t put your trust in players.’
‘He loves me. He says he loves me.’
‘I am sure he does, my poor Marie.’
I wake at the dead of night. Did I hear a scream? I open my eyes and stare up into the thick dark, listening hard. Silence loads my ears; blackness presses upon my eyes. A dream, a night fear. My mind at its old tricks again, and now there’s no Joan to guard me. I am lucky to find myself safe and warm under my eiderdown, instead of out in the cold streets in nothing but my smock.
Then I hear it again, a scream that rips into the night, tearing the silence, louder, louder, then collapsing into agonised sobs. I push back the bed-clothes, light a candle and wrap myself in a woollen shawl. Then I climb up to the garret. Shivering, I open the door.
‘Marie?’
She is naked, kneeling on her bed, with her head hanging down. All I can see is her loose hair, which hides her face. It is swinging to and fro as she rocks in pain. Then I notice, in the shifting orange of the candle-flame, that the sheets are smeared with blood.
I set down the candle. ‘Dear Lord! How long have you been like this?’ But she only grunts. ‘Marie?’
‘Umbstone. Umbstone.’
I throw off the shawl and kneel beside her. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Umbstone.’ She lifts her head and points to the amulet which hangs around her neck. It is an eagle stone, a talisman to ward off miscarriage. The baby will not come till she takes this off. I unfasten it and set it down on the straw mattress where she can see it.
‘I must fetch the midwife,’ say I. ‘I won’t be long.’
But then she grips my hand. There is a look of terror in her eyes. ‘Don’t leave me, mistress. Stay!’
‘Marie… I have no skill in this!’
‘You will birth my child. You will save me.’ Her grip tightens. ‘Please.’
‘What foolishness – you need someone who knows how to aid you in your travail…’ But then I see myself, as Marie is now, as clear as if a mirror had been held up in which I could view the past. The night Henry was born and Joan saved us both. I see myself, crying out and clutching the birthing stool, and I see Joan, gentle, patient, always calm. While she was with me, I helped her with the births of several children in the parish. In truth, I can remember what she did: how she rubbed the women’s flanks with oil of roses, fed them with vinegar and sugar, and eased the pain with powdered ivory or eagle’s dung.
‘If you want me, I’ll stay, but don’t forget I am not a midwife, nor do I have anything to recommend me.’ The night watch calls outside – one of the clock. ‘Do not lie down when the throes come; walk gently about the chamber. Keep warm, but don’t take to your bed.’
I bank up the fire, so it gives out a good heat.
‘I don’t have child-bed linen or anything else for my poor baby!’ she wails through her fallen hair. ‘I thought it would be weeks from now!’
‘Hush, calm yourself, I will see what I can fetch. I have a store of linen downstairs. Don’t fret yourself. There is not a man or woman in this world who hasn’t come into the world this way. Think on that, and breathe easy.’
I run down the stairs and rush into my room. Sure enough, I have a neat pile of forehead cloths, caps and belly-bands. And some open-fronted shifts which Marie could use for breast-feeding when it is time. Then I fetch the birthing-stool from the kitchen. I also get a pound of butter, a bowl of lavender water, some juice of dittany and my sharpest knife. Returning to the garret, I help the whimpering Marie on to the low seat, so that she is leaning against the back, legs wide. Then I stop up the cracks in the chamber walls with rags and blow out the candles, so that the roaring fire is our only light.
‘Too much brightness can drive a mother mad,’ I tell her.
She says nothing.
‘Here, eat a knob of butter,’ say I, cutting her a slice.
She groans and dribbles, but most of it goes down.
‘I cannot bear it, mistress! I cannot cope! I swear there is an Oliphant inside me.’
I give her a drink of dittany juice, and then feel carefully inside for her cervix, and discover that she is beginning to open. Pressing against the widening space I can feel a round shape, covered in a waxy layer of vernix. Pray God it is the top of her baby’s head and not some other part of its anatomy, for I cannot recall what to do if it is a breech birth, or there is some other mischief.
‘I can’t do it, mistress!’ shouts Marie. ‘I can’t do it! I don’t dare to, and I’m not strong enough! It will tear me in two. I can feel it. Oh, God, help me!’
‘You’ll do very well, a fine girl like you,’ I say. I soak a cloth in the lavender water and wipe her brow. ‘Keep cheerful! Don’t waste your strength by calling on your Lord, when He has better things to do than mind a child-bed. Do you hear a mare in the field lamenting and crying as she pushes a gangling foal into the world? Save yourself for what must be done.’
‘Lord help me! Our Lady, save me!’ screams Marie, and her hands clench around the arms of the birthing-chair as another spasm takes hold of her. She is not an apt pupil. Poor creature, I am beyond my own knowledge and experience, but not so much as she. I ca
nnot see how such a flimsy thing as she can bring to birth the great protuberance that she’s been carrying inside. I rub the tight barrel of her belly with butter, speaking soothing nonsense to her all the while.
‘I will help you all I can,’ I say. ‘But you must also strive to help yourself.’
But now another seizure is upon her, and she screams and writhes in the chair, and it is all I can do to stop her thrashing in the rushes in a fit like Legion. When she has done, there is a great pool of blood all around her, so the chair is an island in a scarlet lake, but there is no sign of the baby. The limits of my scant knowledge being already reached, I mop up the blood with the bed-clothes and say my own prayers to God.
‘Mistress,’ whispers the child. Her eyes are tight shut, and her breath comes shallowly. ‘Will my baby come?’
‘In its own time.’
‘So it could not stick inside for ever?’
‘Of course not.’
The watch calls out again. Two of the clock. Time enough, time enough.
But then time contorts to nightmare, and it is as if some demon comes down and takes possession of Marie. The throes come faster and stronger – as they will – but her fear is greater with each contraction, and soon it isn’t God and Mary that she calls for, but the Devil and his minions instead. I find myself shouting back at her, afraid that this can do no good, yet shout she will. To my horror, she leaps up from the chair and runs against the walls, tearing at the bloody shreds of her nightgown, roaring and yelling all the while.
And I swear she sounds more like a damned soul than a serving girl. ‘By Satan! By the Devil in all his names! By Apollyon, Beelzebub, Diabolus, Lucifer, the King of Hell! Did I ask for this?’
I grab her by the shoulders. ‘Marie! Marie! Stop it!’
‘The walking spirits of the Earth do not feel pain as I do!’
‘Come back to yourself…’
But it is as if she is in another world. She puts her head back and howls, then spouts the vilest gibberish, which sounds like the language of lost souls.
‘Marie!’ I cry. ‘Stop this terrible noise! Do not speak of Satan at such a time! Say your prayers!’ Still she rages on, scratching her own flesh with her nails.
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