But now he had left, Molly said, before the sun rose, before the hunting party had gathered in the mist. He had gone. But where? And why hadn’t he spoken to her of his leaving? Katharine sat, still in her dressing gown, her candle lit now. The sounds rose from below of tired revelers drinking after their hunt. She was unable to move, yet filled to her brim.
Will was like a gem, sparkling and bright, but on someone else’s finger. It was not that he was married, because he rarely spoke of his wife or his children. He had, until last night, held part of himself away, aloft, and now she worried that when she saw him again, he would return to that island. He was never remote with his words, but his body told a different story, one that confused and intrigued her. She wondered if his wife felt that, too, if that was why she didn’t mind that he had spent the last years away from Stratford, in London, working in a theater, and now up here in Lancashire, at Lufanwal. Perhaps even when he was at home, part of him was in exile.
Will had written to her at the bottom edge of his last page: Gentle Kate, I am off to weather business in London. I will miss you. Will.
The “I will miss you” pushed at her heart. She read over those four words and remembered how his hands felt when he pulled her to him after the dance. For that brief moment when he’d embraced her, he’d been her glove. Their bodies had fit together perfectly. He was so quick, so sure, so deliberate, his lips grazing her neck in the middle of the crowded floor. Katharine had thought: This is the beginning. She sat back in her chair by the fire and gazed into the inner light of the flames. The image of Will’s slender fingers wrapped around a black quill came to her—the fine hairs on the back of his hand, his fingernails clipped and clean. She would miss him, too.
She had not eaten all day. The smell of braised meat from the hunt rose from the kitchens. The duke was to leave before All Souls’ Day. The house would return to its normal rhythms, though in truth the rhythms had not been normal since Sir Edward had left. Katharine supposed she should show herself for the meal below. It would be improper not to say good-bye to the lively band of Frenchmen.
She wore her old green gown down to supper. The noise in the great hall was loud and raucous, an unwelcome change to her day, which had been delicious in its solitude. She sat with the younger folk, for she had grown tired of the duke and his party. Their presence seemed one long performance, though she was unsure who was the audience and who the players.
Katharine learned from her tablemates that the hunt was a success—they had caught two stags and a boar—but they had sidestepped disaster. The dogs were running crazy as the hunting party cornered a boar. The boar, startled by the dogs’ frenzy, had charged at the duke, who lost his footing and fell. Henry had stepped in front of the duke and run his sword through the boar’s neck.
“But the duke was swift and back on his feet in no time,” said Henry, “and he dealt the beast the final blow.”
“They say Henry was like a soldier in battle,” Isabel chimed in. “They say he was so calm and brave.”
“Oh, our dear Henry, how you’ve grown,” exclaimed Katharine.
“’Twas nothing,” Henry said.
“Henry, you saved the duke’s life!” cried Isabel.
“And he thanked me for it,” added Henry.
“And thank goodness the duke was able to kill off the beast. At least he kept his honor even if he lost his footing,” Katharine said.
Isabel leaned toward Katharine. “Did you enjoy your dance last night?”
“Which dance?” Katharine said.
“The dance with the king!”
“The king?”
“The man who played the king? The player who played King Henry.” Isabel looked at Kate. “That king married a Kate, and she was his queen.”
“She was French. And this king has a wife.”
“I’ve heard things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Talk from the scullery . . .”
“Ah, there’s a deep well of gossip.”
“But you were only having fun, weren’t you, Kate?”
Katharine forced a smile.
“He is handsome,” Isabel continued. “Though, in sooth, there’s something shiny about Master Shakespeare’s eyes and his words—a glint like a shilling that on the ground attracts.”
Katharine wanted to say: You do not know him the way I know him. He is a man of substance, for how could a poet write such words without feeling them? But she kept her mouth shut.
Henry stood up from the table. He seemed to have sprouted an inch since he’d sat down to supper. His mother, Mary, came to his side, put her hands on his shoulders—she was shorter than he was now and had to reach—and said, “You have made me very proud, my son. The duke has spoken highly of your actions today, and we may rejoice with God and thank Him for your safety and for the duke’s. That which we call fortune is nothing but the hand of God, working by and for causes we know not. By God’s grace my hands are upon your sturdy shoulders.”
“It was you who made them sturdy, Mother,” said Henry.
Out of any other mouth this sentence would have sounded like idle flattery, but Henry meant what he said. He looked down at his mother with a sweet smile. She pulled him to her and he dutifully held on to her in an awkward embrace. Henry had grown into a strong young man, but he hadn’t arrived at the knowledge of what to do with women—of any age, even his mother.
“Go to your new French friends,” said Mary. “And let them bathe you in well-deserved glory.”
Amidst the flickering candles, in a field of glittery silks and plush velvets, Mary stood out in her somber navy wool gown, with a short white ruff and a white cap pinned over her graying hair. Tonight, Katharine wondered if perhaps Mary had actually converted to the Protestant cause. Something about her words echoed the tongue of a preacher, a new directness to the way she invoked God.
“I have news,” Mary said, settling herself next to Katharine and Isabel. “We are to have visitors.”
“More French?” said Isabel.
Mary shook her head. “We are to house three witches.”
“Witches?” Katharine was aghast. “Oh, what would Sir Edward say?”
“We have not asked for this charge. We have been ordered to keep these women. They are guarded and chained and en route to Lancaster Castle, where they will be tried at the winter assizes.”
“’Tis only too perfect for All Hallows’ Eve,” said Isabel.
“They arrive in a fortnight. All Hallows’ Eve will have passed,” said Mary.
Katharine and Isabel both crossed themselves at the same time.
“For how long?” asked Katharine.
“Only one night.”
“And where will they sleep?” asked Isabel.
“The caves in the cellar where the mead and the roots are kept. Quib will have the men outfit three with bars and stakes, for they cannot be housed in the same cave. They have to be separated.”
“And the children?” Katharine asked. “How will we keep them safe?”
“They will certainly be kept away. No one must look these wretches in the eyes.”
“How did this come to pass?” asked Katharine.
“Richard and Harold could not decline,” said Mary.
“And Matilda?” asked Katharine.
“The family could not decline. We are hoping this curries favor with the court.”
“Since when has the favor of the court been a goal here? Our hall now a jail for witches? What next?” Katharine said.
“My dear, Sir Edward’s sidestepping has gotten him where? In exile, in fear for his life and the lives of his family, of which by God’s will you are considered a part. Edward’s leaving was an act of leverage, my dear. The safety of everyone who eats at this table and sleeps under this roof was bought by his exit. You know that.”
&
nbsp; “Should we talk thus in front of Isabel?”
“I’m old enough,” Isabel said.
“She’s no child, Katharine.”
Katharine was glad that Mary had finally used her name. The harsh way she said “my dear” made Katharine feel she was anything but her dear. And the words “his family, of which by God’s will you are considered a part” stung. No one, in the history of Katharine’s time at Lufanwal, had ever said anything like this to her. The arrival of the witches now seemed slight compared to Mary’s evil words.
Katharine rose. “Well, the witches are welcome to my chamber, if they don’t find comfort in their beds of rock.”
Isabel smiled, but Mary frowned, saying, “Katharine, this is no matter for jests.”
Katharine could not think of a quick or nimble response. “Good night, kind Mary. Good night, sweet Isabel. I will bid farewell to the duke, and then find solace in my bed.”
Kind Mary, indeed.
—
Though Katharine had grown weary of the French while they were visiting, by the end of the week she began to miss them—or at least miss the entertainment. They had left in the midst of Hallowtide, when the soul cakes were still rising in the ovens. Before King Henry VIII abolished such practices, a continuous vigil was held from All Hallows’ Eve to All Hallows’ Night, and church bells rang all day and night to maintain a constant connection to the martyrs and the saints. On All Souls’ Day, folk lit small fires and prayed for the souls of the faithful departed still suffering in Purgatory.
The queen’s injunctions and liturgy in 1559, the same year of Katharine’s birth, tried to put an end to official ceremonies for the dead, but in Lancashire tindles were still lit; oat soul cakes were still baked, set in high heaps on household tables and given to the poor; beggars still went from door to door “souling” for money to rescue souls; and the couplet “God have your soul, bones and all” was still called out by those who took the cakes and the alms.
With the third month of Edward’s absence just begun, Will gone, Ned not yet arrived and the hours of daylight shrinking, Katharine felt all of her suns had set early. She was in her chamber before supper, the candle already lit, when Molly knocked on her door.
“Mistress,” she called.
“Come in, Molly.”
“I have . . .”
“Molly, you are out of breath.”
“I have . . .”
“Yes?”
“Tidings for you.” Molly presented Katharine with a letter.
They both knew the writing. Katharine wanted to tear open the seal. She was eager to read what he had written to her, but she was also afraid. What if he had sent his apologies? What if he had reconsidered his time here, thought his actions wrong, his heart too attached? What if he had decided to flee?
“Molly, tell me the letters here,” Katharine said, remembering how his lips felt on her neck.
“’Tis one letter.”
“No, from what I taught you last week, when I put the quill in your hands.”
“I know your name, and I know his writing.”
“How do you know ’tis my name? Tell me.”
“That’s a K, there,” Molly said, pointing. “And the rest.”
“Molly, tell me the rest.”
Molly sighed and sat down on the stool next to Katharine. “’Tis an e.”
“Yes, at the end of my name,” said Katharine.
Will had called her “gentle Kate,” said he would miss her, but what if, while away, he had decided it was time to return to his family for good?
“People sometimes mix the old English script with the new Italian script,” Katharine said. “Ned used to write his letters in the old way and only sign them in the Italian way, but now he writes mostly in the Italian manner. Master Shakespeare is mixing the two types of writing here. Read the letters of my name and point them out while you read them to me.”
Molly did as she was told.
“And I want you to tell me how those letters sound from what we did last time.”
Molly sounded out the letters.
“And now put them together without pausing.”
“Katharine.”
“’Tis me, Molly! Now be off and let me read, and soon you will be reading his poems to me while I lie supine and stare at the clouds!”
“Yes, my lady.” Molly curtsied and left.
Katharine broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Dear Kate,
I am in Stratford and within the day will make my way to London. The house is very full. My wife is endless with her invitations and the friends and relatives pour forth with alarming haste. The guests are constant. The meals are constant. The chatter is constant. I am not so constant, and this household shatters my constancy. My wife likes to entertain. She is most at peace, methinks, when her world wants for peace. I miss the quiet of my lodging at Lufanwal, and the peace of my time with you. It is good to see my children. They are bigger and brighter, and my moments with them fill my heart. I wish I had verses to send to you, but there is no air here to write, and no bright-eyed lady with whom to share my meters and my rhymes. I wish you were here, or I were there. I long to be with you. It will feel good to get on my horse and ride again. London beckons with a different sort of breath. I will exhale, finally, when I am back with you.
Adieu,
Will.
Katharine felt with this letter Will hold her aloft and then draw her down to him, the volta again. These words were his lips. She was buoyant. She was sanguine. She had worried over Isabel’s silly remark about Will, and Mary’s cruel comment about her place in the family. The report of the witches passing through the hall had only added to her aggravation. But now she pulled on Will’s gift of gloves and moved her hands through the air in a dance. The peacock shimmered in the afternoon light.
There was a knock at her door. It was Molly again.
“Mr. Quib wanted me to tell you the men are bringing the virginals from the gallery to the library as you instructed.”
“Thank you, Molly.”
Katharine pulled off the gloves one finger at a time and carefully laid them on her table. By the time she got to the library, the men had set the virginals on the table. She shut the door behind her then walked over to her old instrument, wiped off the dust with the edge of her shawl, walked around the table once and sat. She sifted through a stack of folios by the composer William Byrd. Each sheet contained four six-line staves with large diamond-shaped notes. Over the years, Byrd had frequented Lufanwal and was one of Sir Edward’s favorites. He moved in the company of Lord Paget and other known Catholics yet had managed to skirt serious danger. He had not visited the hall since Sir Edward’s exile.
A chill wind came in through the leaded glass. Katharine rose and walked to the fire. She stood with her hands open so the flames warmed her fingers. She walked back to the virginals and unlocked the lid. Then she thought of how Will said he longed to be with her. Setting Byrd’s sprightly “Will Yow Walke the Woods Soe Wylde” in front of her, she exhaled, set her fingers on the ivory keys and pressed. With one note, then another, then a stumbling, then a chord, she began to play.
12
uring the following week, there was more talk of the witches—two old women and a daughter. The witches hailed from Pendle, and the charges against them were wide-ranging: from a goose that stopped laying eggs, to cream that curdled but did not come to butter, to a child going deaf, to an old man found with his throat cut. The house was abuzz with talk of the hags’ impending stay. Sir Edward, Katharine was convinced, would never have allowed this: he would have thwarted the orders; he would have found a way to protect his family.
Lady de L’Isle, Isabel, Joan and Katharine went into town on market day. Over the centuries the town had grown from a settlement, with a few hundred people serving the land and
the lord, to a large market town with better roads and a growing port to the west. Trade thrived now with skinners, tanners, saddlers, glovers, cordwainers, weavers, tailors, collar-makers, milliners, chandlers, soap-makers, ironmongers, pewterers, drapers, carpenters, painters, butchers, bakers, brewers and grocers. On this chilly morning, butter, cheese, poultry, yam and fruit sellers set up stalls by the cross in High Street. And down a ways the butchers were hawking their flesh, hides and tallow, with saltwains stationed nearby, offering salt for the meats purchased from the butchers.
Katharine bought gold threads for the unicorn bedcover she was embroidering. When Lady de L’Isle and her maid went off to the apothecary, Katharine and the girls crossed the street to the milliner. The little shop was crowded with head dressing of all types—simple white linen coifs, hoods edged in gilt lace and pearls, spangled net cauls, velvet, taffeta and wool hats decorated with gold or silver thread, lace, glass gems, buckles and feathers.
The girls rarely bought anything, but they went through hat after hat, hood after hood, a ritual where they turned, nodded and preened while Katharine smiled and laughed and told them the hats she thought worthy of their sweet young heads. Isabel always chose the flamboyant ones, while Joan liked a simple elegance.
Usually Katharine sat while the girls tried on hats, but today she stood in front of the looking glass, first pinning a gold mesh caul to her hair, then fitting her head with a sage-green velvet hat that bore the lines of a tall riding hat but looked more for show than for trotting. Its arched brim swooped down low in front, with silver thread along the rim: a glittery stone-encrusted buckle and a colorful peacock plume confectioned the satin band.
The two young women stared at her. The old stoop-shouldered milliner stared at her.
“You must buy this, dear coz,” said Isabel.
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