Dark Aemilia

by Sally O’Reilly

  I turn to see a woman standing there. I’m not sure what I expected in a neglected country wife, but it was certainly not this. A tall, upright woman, older than I am, but with fine, pale skin. Her eyes are grey, with long black lashes, like those of a young girl. She is dressed in a green velvet gown. She looks at me for a long moment, as if she was fearing the worst but I have exceeded it.

  ‘I am Ann Shakespeare,’ she says. ‘The wife.’

  ‘I am Aemilia Lanyer,’ say I.

  ‘The mistress.’

  I nod.

  ‘Come inside,’ she says. ‘I have been meaning to speak to you for some time.’ I follow her to the foot of a wide oak staircase. It leads up to a long gallery, hung with bright tapestries. Behind her, a door stands open. I can see a physick garden, and hear children laughing.

  We stand for a moment.

  ‘We are alike,’ she says, at last. ‘I have heard that is often the way.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress Shakespeare.’

  ‘With some differences, of course.’

  ‘I would expect as much.’

  ‘Such as scruples, with which, I imagine, I have been better endowed than you.’

  ‘I have scruples enough.’

  ‘I dare say even a murderer has his limits.’

  What has she heard? What has he told her?

  ‘I won’t stay long, Mistress Shakespeare, and I want to say how grateful I am that you have been kind enough to let me come. Ever since I heard about the fire at the Globe I have been anxious…’

  ‘It was not your place to be anxious. He has people here who are anxious enough.’

  ‘Of course. And then, I heard that he had left for good…’

  ‘Not left. Returned.’

  ‘After which, I heard that he was ill…’

  ‘He is ill.’

  ‘And then… then you invited me to Stratford.’

  ‘He has become much concerned with giving things away. His books, for the most part, though I would like to read them myself. But, never mind – he had too many of them. I believe that he has something of this sort to give to you.’

  A servant comes, and Ann speaks to her at length about drying malt, as if I were not there at all. Then the girl disappears. Ann stares at me in silence for a moment. ‘You were beautiful,’ she says, finally. ‘I suppose there is at least some dignity in that.’

  She takes me up the stairs, and leads me to a closed door. ‘Here you are,’ she says. ‘When I open it, go inside and sit in the chair by the window. Keep your eyes down till I close the door again. Don’t move from the chair till he has finished speaking to you. Do not go near him, and do not open the shutters. You will get used to the darkness when you have been sitting there a while.’

  I go obediently to the chair by the shuttered window in the light of the open door. When it closes, I can see nothing. The room smells of woodsmoke and peppermint. But after a while I realise I can hear the sound of unsteady, rattling breathing coming from the far side of the room. I think of the last time we lay together; the hot night in that other darkness.

  I keep my eyes on the shutters and their cracks of daylight.

  ‘Your wife told me that you asked to see me,’ I say.

  There is a break in the shuddering breathing and then it begins again. It pains me to hear it, and I find I am taking deeper, slower breaths, as if this might help. I want to touch Will again so badly that I grasp the arms of the chair to stop myself from flying across the room. ‘I have come to pay you my respects, sir.’

  Silence.

  ‘I am very sorry that you are unwell.’

  The breathing becomes faster, accompanied by the creaking of a chair. At length, a rasping voice says, ‘Not unwell, Aemilia. Not unwell.’

  ‘Then I am glad.’

  ‘Dead, rather.’

  ‘No! Do not say that!’

  ‘Yes, for I am stuck here, away from the world, and I am not of it any longer. That is death to me.’

  ‘The fire…’

  ‘Ah, yes. The fire.’

  I wait for him to say more, hardly daring to breathe myself, as each word seems to cost him so much.

  ‘Did you hear what caused it?’ he asks, then wheezes and coughs.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The effects! In Henry VIII. We launched a stage cannon outside, to mark the King’s majestical entrance, and the thatch caught fire.’

  ‘You over-reached yourselves.’

  ‘Yes, we over-reached ourselves. Indeed we did. I should have learned my lesson from that cursed crane.’

  There is another pause.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Henry,’ he says quietly.

  ‘He is well, sir. Clever and handsome. A fine young man now.’

  ‘And… what I want to ask is… does he know me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does he know that he’s my son?’

  I close my eyes. ‘Yes. I have told him.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘He is glad. He is proud to have such a father.’

  ‘Does he… what does he do?’

  ‘He plays in the King’s consort.’

  ‘Ah.’ He breathes heavily. ‘My wife has a doublet and rapier downstairs for him. I have told her that he was a player at the Globe. I mean… she has no idea of his connection to me. It is a good doublet – I hope it fits him. She doesn’t know the value of the rapier, nor that the grip and pommel are solid silver.’

  Silence once more. I wait, listening so hard that my ears began to ache. ‘I am sorry, Will,’ I say at last, able to bear it no longer. ‘I am sorry for all the pain and suffering I caused you. I am sorry if I was ever faithless, and I am sorry for doubting your love. But I am sorriest of all for summoning that evil demon, all because of my jealousy and spite, and my rage about the play.’

  ‘No, no,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, it was my fault! I wanted to put a stop to it. I wanted to be avenged on you, and Burbage, and all the others. All the poets and players who are men, and look me up and down, and either see a strumpet or nothing at all. And then Tom died for it – for my revenge! I can never forgive myself. I am damned for it, damned for all eternity, no matter how much I pray for redemption. And so I should be, for I deserve nothing less.’

  ‘Ah, my Aemilia,’ he says, his voice faint. ‘You are troubled with thick-coming fancies.’

  I smile sadly. ‘My words, or yours?’

  ‘Yours, I believe. Poor Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘They are thick-coming, certainly. But are they fancies?’

  ‘Aren’t they?’

  I wait.

  ‘I have read your poems,’ he says. ‘Or I should say, Susanna has read them to me. For I am… weak.’

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Yes. She doesn’t approve of your opinions. She thinks they are seditious.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I think it’s excellent work. Most… polemical. You are right about the mistreatment of poor Eve. I saw… I saw how it might be. The other side of it. To be shut out because of your sex, by men and boys. And, de facto, by all the world. Not all maids can storm the Inns of Court by aping Portia.’

  ‘No.’ I am so happy to hear his words that I can think of nothing else to say.

  ‘I once said – among many other cruel and angry things – that you would never be a poet.’

  ‘You did, sir.’

  ‘Well, you have proved me wrong. You are a poet, Aemilia Lanyer, and you are a good one, too. And you taught me much – remember that!’

  ‘About Italy, and the ancients.’

  ‘Ay, and about love.’ Will is breathing heavily again. ‘You must go soon.’

  ‘I am so thankful to you. You are so… gracious.’ These words are so feeble that I burst out: ‘No one else’s opinion is anything to me. No one else’s words exist.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You have worked hard at your Art, and deserve much more than this. But…’

  ‘But what?’

&n
bsp; ‘Let me tell you something about the fire.’

  ‘Only if you have the strength.’

  There is silence again. Then Will speaks, and the rattle in his breathing fades and it seems almost as if he is talking to himself. ‘It was a hot, bright day. Cruelly hot, so even the shadows sweated, and dogs lolled panting in open doorways. I was not at the Globe for the performance: I had business in the City. So the first I knew of the fire was black smoke, drifting over the house-tops as I hurried from St Paul’s.’ He pauses, and coughs again.

  ‘As I reached Blackfriars Stairs, a cry went up. “The Globe is burning!” And I raised my head – for I was thinking of a verse that I was writing, and staring at the ground – and then I looked across the water and saw the flames, leaping into the summer sky. I paid the boatman half a crown to row quickly, and I ran from the south bank to the theatre door. What a sight it was! Like the Pit itself! The sun had crisped the thatch and dried out the walls, and the sound was terrible – the roaring of fire, and the crashing of timber. The heat smote me as I stood there, and I saw that the trees nearby were catching too.’

  ‘Yet all were saved!’

  ‘So Burbage told me. He came running up, with his shirt all soot-stained and his face as red as the flames. “We are all safe, praise God!” he shouted, tears pouring down his cheeks. “All safe, Will, every man!” But, as I looked at him, a thought came to me. I had been working on a play.’

  ‘Was that so strange?’

  He coughs again, and I can hear him struggling to find a clear way for his breath. ‘That morning, I had brought it with me, to the tiring-room, because I wanted to get it done. Then I went off to see a printer at Paul’s Churchyard, and I had left it behind, upon my table.’

  He hesitates, and I wait. ‘I have told no one of this but you, Aemilia. This play was to be the master-work that all my other writing led to – the play to end all plays. Such a piece that would always be remembered. Five hundred years – a thousand years from now. The others might fade from memory, but this play… this one would last.’

  ‘And so you ran into the fire.’

  ‘Ah, you are the only one who understands insanity. Yes, I ran, shaking Dick off as I went. I hurtled through the entrance, into the pit. The lintel was burning red – I could see that it would fall at any moment. The pit itself was clear of fire, though the rushes were black and shrivelled and glowed beneath my feet. I ran over them, and up on to the stage. The canopy was flame; the Heavens were Hell. I felt my clothes begin to char and burn my skin. But still I went – into the tiring-room, where all the costumes burned like Catholics – and there was my table. And – lo! – the pages were still there. I praised God – then, as I ran forward, I looked up and the flaming roof timbers were falling down. I snatched the pages, and fled the room as it roared and crackled around me. Ran back across the pit, and into the open air. My clothes, my hair, my skin itself – all of this was flame. By some miracle, I got outside, and it was Dick who saved me. He wrapped a cloak around me and quenched the fire. I fell to the ground, clutching my papers, my breath coming like sword-shafts.’

  ‘Dear God! But you saved your pages?’

  The chair creaks.

  ‘What of your pages? What of your great play?’

  ‘All dust,’ he says. ‘All charred to nothing.’

  He is making a strange sound. He is laughing again, after a wheezy fashion.

  ‘Nothing left at all?’

  ‘All that was left was one charred scrap of paper, with the title wrote upon it.’

  ‘And… what was the title?’

  ‘It was Dark Aemilia. The story of a great lady, and her fall.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It was a fable, concerning love, and poetry and fame. But mostly love.’

  I wipe my eyes. ‘This was to be your great work?’

  ‘I wanted to summon the spirit of our time together. Its passion and its madness and its joy.’

  ‘Oh, my lord,’ say I. ‘My sweet, beloved Will.’

  ‘My love,’ he says, his voice weak and indistinct. ‘We shall remember, shan’t we? We have it still.’

  After a moment, he says, ‘Listen, I cannot speak for very much longer. I have three gifts for you. The first, most people might think was next to worthless, but I believe that you will see its value. As you are a poet.’

  ‘I am overcome.’

  I can hear him smile again. ‘Wait till you hear what it is: you may think it a strange present. My foul pages. With all my crossings out and alterations.’

  ‘Heminge said your pages are never blurred nor blotted.’

  ‘That is because I keep my first draft to myself. Until now, that is. Now they are yours. You will be heartened by my shortcomings, and perhaps you can learn from my mistakes.’

  ‘Will… I… how can I thank you – ?’

  ‘And also… also my bed.’

  ‘Your bed?’

  ‘Not the bed I sleep in now, which is of little value. No, the one where we last… went at it. Lord, what a night that was. It’s still there – I could not bear to bring it back to Stratford, nor did I want to pay the fee the carrier wanted.’

  I remember it well – the fug of love inside its curtains and its roof patterned with leaping porpoises.

  ‘Aemilia?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Still there – good.’

  ‘Still here? I cannot bear to leave!’

  ‘There is one final gift.’

  ‘I don’t need anything more. You have been kind enough.’

  ‘I will put your name upon the play. Upon Macbeth. For, as sure as anything, the meat of that strange piece is yours.’

  ‘Thank you. But – no. It would be wrong.’

  He sighs. A long, rattling sigh.

  ‘Aemilia, you are many things. You are a troublesome, noisy, cock-teasing, cock-tiring, wild-tongued termagant…’ He stops, as if to gather his strength. ‘But you are not evil.’

  ‘I am evil. Tom died because of me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You were there! You saw it! He fell down upon the stage. The spirit cursed him, and the crane fell.’

  ‘Yes, the crane killed him. We don’t know why it fell, but it was the crane that brought about his death. Burbage and I built it, and it was me who pushed to have it. But I haven’t spent all these years believing that I am evil! It was an accident. All life brings risk.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’

  ‘Of course. You are no more guilty of his death than I am. Nor are you the evil strumpet of those sonnets. You are Aemilia. And I loved you better than myself.’

  ‘Loved?’

  ‘Love. I still love you. Nothing has changed that.’

  ‘No. Nothing has changed it.’ The tears pour out of me.

  ‘Shall we forgive each other?’ he asks. His voice is weaker still.

  ‘Oh, Will!’ I sob. ‘If we forgive each other, then we are all done.’

  ‘My love, we are all done,’ says Will. ‘Open the shutters.’

  His face is dark from the sun. His eyes are full of sky. His lips are swollen red from reckless kissing. ‘Let’s not quarrel,’ he says. ‘Let’s make love, and I’ll teach you poetry that way.’

  I smooth the hair back from his forehead.

  ‘Am I your mistress, then? Am I all the things you wanted?’

  ‘You are indeed, and I am your obedient slave.’

  I look at him, eye to eye, to see if I can peer inside his head.

  ‘Do you want me?’ he asks, very serious.

  Oh, I do. I do.

  Afterwards, we lie together, sticky and naked in the long grass. ‘Be silent with me now, my love,’ he whispers.

  She sits me in the hall downstairs, beside a smouldering log fire, and hands me a cup of wine. Quite kindly, compared to what has gone before.

  ‘I am sorry that you had to see him so,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No one is allowed to speak
of it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘He ran back into the Globe. When it was burning. They tried to stop him, but he struggled free.’

  ‘A brave act.’

  ‘Brave indeed. He wanted to be sure that no one had been left inside.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Why else would he have entered an inferno, if not to save a human life? He is a good man.’

  I cannot say that he is more than good, and less. I sip my tear-thinned wine in silence.

  ‘Poor Will! What an ending!’ I say at last.

  ‘The doublet and the rapier are beside you,’ she says, nodding to an iron-bound box. ‘And his foul papers with them. Take care of those in particular. They are the workings of his mind.’

  ‘I’ll put them in safe-keeping.’

  ‘Safe! Where in London’s pit of malice and foul-doing do you call “safe”?’

  ‘It is safe enough, madam, I can assure you. I have a little house at Aldgate, though I am soon to move to Pudding Lane.’

  Mistress Shakespeare looks at me blankly. I realise that London names mean nothing to her. ‘I make a habit of reading the Scriptures when I can,’ she says. ‘I put my trust in God and his angels now.’ She picks up the Bible that is lying next to her on the oak settle.

  ‘So must we all.’

  Opening the book, she reads for a moment, but she is crying. ‘I wanted him to come back so much. I prayed for it,’ she says, without looking up. ‘And now these prayers have been most cruelly answered.’

  I shake my head sadly.

  ‘It won’t be long before Will is with God,’ she says ‘I try to see that. I try to bear it.’

  The past is twisting in my mind, the greedy and illiterate country wife transformed into Patient Griselda. I try to think of words to comfort her – and me. But everything is muddled.

  ‘I would like to ask one thing of you,’ she says. ‘Do not remember him as you just saw him. Remember him as he was.’ She swallows and looks at me sharply. ‘When you knew him. When he was young.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘He is a poet,’ she says. ‘And a magician. He is also my husband, but that is of less importance. I have learned to understand that, though I don’t expect others to see it as I do.’ Then, she closes her eyes. Is she about to pray? But no – she quotes these lines…