Katharine and Isabel shared a chamber with several other ladies from Lancashire’s grand houses, with gentlewomen in attendance to wait on them. There was but half an hour to touch up hair and dab vermillion on lips. Molly had woven threads of gold and silver into Katharine’s hair, and when Katharine moved to a long looking glass to tuck the errant ends back into her upswept locks, she overheard one of the De Hoghton ladies talking to Isabel.
“He’s a wanton lad. My uncle did employ him for a time. He was but barely with a beard then. Mayhap he’s changed. Mayhap he’s not. He borrowed my cousin’s books and in secret read to her, and sat with her, and we all thought she had lost her heart to a glover’s son—and she had . . . for a month. He didn’t stay long, and after he went back to Warwickshire we discovered that he had been busy plowing through the serving wenches while making honey to my sweet coz. I was only six, but I remember how my sisters and cousins made up rhymes mocking his name after he left. A player is the right path for such a lewd lad. He has it in his blood—for he convinced every one of those poor maids he was in love. I heard he was at your house now. Someone told me, it escapes me who, that he’d gone and married a wench in Stratford old enough to be his mother when she was with child, and then after they had a few babes she pitched him out.”
Isabel looked into the mirror at Katharine, who had stopped fixing her hair.
“I am all right,” Katharine said, turning to Isabel, answering a question not asked.
Katharine wanted to tell this young lady from Hoghton Tower that perhaps Will used to behave like that but did not now. She wanted to say: He may have been false, in his youth, with a maid or two, but he is a man with a wife now and children, and he is a wonderful poet with important friends in London, in the theaters and bookstalls, and he has a life in front of him, a real life, not the brittle pomp of ladies primping in front of glass. Will would go far, she wanted to lecture, and there was no reason for him—at this point on his path to success—no need, verily, for him to dissemble or to deceive.
Isabel started to say something once the young lady moved away, but Katharine put her finger to Isabel’s lips to silence her.
“Ancient news,” said Katharine, shaking her head. “Let us not speak of it further.”
As Ned, Katharine and Isabel took their places in the great hall behind the Stanley family, Katharine noticed Robert Smythson was also taking a seat to watch the play. She had not seen him at dinner, but quite possibly he had been lost to her sight by the dazzle of the banquet. Katharine nodded her head to him, but he seemed oblivious to her and to the multitudes of people laughing and drinking and now gathering to watch the play. Mr. Smythson’s mind was so definitely not of this place. He was gazing up at the arches in the ceiling, indeed all of his concentration seemed focused there. Katharine realized she had never written him a note of thanks for the poetry by that interesting young Bassano woman.
The clapping began as a sign to quiet the crowd, and the musicians started a song. Soon a man dressed in the Stanleys’ livery announced the evening’s play, A Pleasant Commodie of faire Em the Millers daughter of Manchester: With the love of William the Conqueror. The author, said the man, was anonymous. He listed the characters and then with no more than an “Actus primus. Scaena prima,” he was off the stage, and six players climbed on.
Before the first word was uttered, Katharine recognized Will. So he was not in Stratford. He was not with his family. He was in Lancashire, at Lathom House, in the company of Lord Strange’s Men playing one of the lords in William the Conqueror’s entourage. Will. Why had he not mentioned this to her? A little piece, a shred, of her heart came loose. Had he not written in his letter that he would make haste to her door? Why had he not said, I will be at Lathom House?
Katharine tried to listen to the play, but the thoughts in her head were ten times louder than the words on the makeshift stage. The other two lords spoke, but Will, as Lord Manville, said nothing in this first scene. Katharine’s eyes were stuck on Will. He was in full ruff and slashed purple doublet, attire befitting a young fop at present, not 1066. William the Conqueror had taken a fancy to a portrait of the daughter of the king of the Danes. The language was stilted, the humor contrived. William the Conqueror, who in life was no doubt a tremendous warrior and leader, seemed bloated with vanity, yet strangely flat as well. Calling attention to his own epithet, he referred to himself as Conqueror at Arms.
Oh, weary, weary, weary, thought Katharine. William the Conqueror exited the stage Denmark-bound, disguised as Sir Robert, a knight who was ready to win Princess Blanch for his wife. In the next scene, the story of Em emerged, the comely daughter of a knight, now a miller, who had sunk to the life of a peasant by the “sad invasions of the Conqueror.”
A character named Trotter brought a sip of mirth to the play, because the player made every move and word a thing of jest, so the scene was sharp, rather than dull. By Scene Three, the fickle William—an odd conceit for a conqueror—decided at first sight that Blanch was not for him, but that he desired another princess, Mariana, who was the love of his friend the Marqués of Lubek. Katharine closed her eyes and listened to the dialogue between Lubek and William/Sir Robert. “That is my love. Sir Robert, you do wrong me,” said Lubek. Then the conqueror proceeded to tell his friend that he had just as much right to love Mariana as Lubek did.
Katharine opened her eyes when she heard Will’s voice in the next scene, for the character of Lord Manville emerged from behind a screen with his heart brimming for Em, though acknowledging that a lowly born miller’s daughter should not be loved by a gentleman. Katharine was not enjoying the play. There was nothing poetic about the lines, nothing poignant about the feelings and nothing jolly about the jests. Trotter was back trying hard to be the fool. The three men who played women wore gowns and ruffs at the Danish court. Em’s attire was crude, whereas the others’ were fine, but all three had faces in white and lips in red, with wigs upon their heads and bodices so tight that Katharine wondered how they could breathe.
When Manville, played by Will, ranted jealously of two other lords, Valingford and Mountney, and called poor Em, who loved Manville, “cunning and defraudful,” Katharine saw, for the first time since Will’s Saint Crispin performance, how he shone onstage. But it was Em and Manville’s next exchange that echoed in Katharine’s ears: “May not a maid look upon a man without suspicious judgment of the world?” asked Em. And Manville replied, “If sight do move offence, it is the better not to see. But thou didst more unconstant as thou art, for with them thou hadst talk and conference.” Then Em: “May not a maid talk with a man without mistrust?” Then Manville: “Not with such men suspected amorous.”
Will had said months ago that when a man sees his maid with another man, he always suspects betrayal. Katharine wondered if Will had penned this “anonymous” play himself. Well, she thought, if Will had indeed authored this play, he certainly needed her help with it—perchance he had another woman who labored over his plays by candlelight as Katharine did his poetry. Katharine weathered the rest of the performance as best she could. Manville, after having seduced poor Em with his words, forsakes her. At the end, with all the characters gathered on the stage, William the Conqueror settles for Blanch. The actor who played Trotter then trotted upon the stage, did a jig, sang a song and made a speech about Twelfth Night, where “nothing that is so is so.”
Katharine wondered if Will would come to her. Earl Henry and his son Ferdinando spoke graciously with the players while the great room streamed with servants. The actors, still in their costumes, were given tankards of ale, goblets of sack and cups of wassail. Katharine watched Will talking with the Stanleys. He was saying something and they were all laughing. Earl Henry even placed his elegant hand on Will’s shoulder. Now he was working his magic on the Stanley clan.
The Stanley father and son continued to move through the crowd and speak with guests. They stopped and chatted with Katharine, Ne
d and Isabel, and Katharine promised to dance with both the elder earl and the younger lord only if she recognized them through their disguises. Will was talking to his fellow players and to others who came up to him. When he finally caught Katharine’s eye and smiled, she forgave him for not telling her of his part in Strange’s Men and chided herself for thinking he might not come to her. She was so happy he was in this grand hall with her, so in love, so hopeful for what this evening and the future could bring.
Will was apart now from any group in the crowd and not too far from where Katharine stood with her cousins, and he was staring. But it was not Katharine who held his gaze. It was Ned. Will’s intense green eyes were locked on Ned. His stare was so full of force and need that Katharine almost dropped to her knees. She watched Will watch Ned. Katharine recalled the first time Will had stared at her that way, long and hard at the banquet for the Duc de Malois. She had sensed his gaze even before she looked up at him. She remembered what stirred in her then, when she felt his eyes on her. Now, this moment, this horrid moment, seemed a double show on Will’s part: for Ned to see Will admiring him, and for Katharine to see it, too. Will was well aware that Katharine was watching. A whole life span seemed to pass while Will fixed his eyes on Ned.
Will walked to where they were standing. Isabel grabbed Katharine’s hand and squeezed it. Will stood in front of Ned, waiting to be presented, as if they were at court and Ned was a famous duke. Katharine was silent. She felt utterly shut out of this realm. Will did not even glance at her, but he stood, waiting for the introduction—he must have known the man standing next to her was Ned.
Finally, she said, “William Shakespeare.” Her voice was unsteady. “Edmund de L’Isle, just returned from Rome.”
Will bowed and then immediately embarked on talk of Rome, as if he knew it, as if he, too, had been there: the fabled Colosseum, the Pantheon, the ancient Egyptian obelisk uncovered at the Circus Maximus and newly resurrected on the Piazza del Popolo. Now Ned and Will, both of similar stature, faced each other, only inches apart. Ned, being Ned, polite and yet also a man who loved men, loved, Katharine saw, how this handsome player was sticking to him like honey. Ned laughed. Will laughed. Ned’s eyes fluttered in a feminine, almost flirtatious way. Will had not looked at her.
She was watching a castle crumble before her very eyes.
She withdrew from the two of them with Isabel trailing her. By the time she was at the side table with a goblet of wine, Isabel had put her hand around her waist. Katharine drank the wine in one gulp and poured another. She drank that down, too.
“That man, my dear, sweet cousin Kate, that man is no friend of yours,” whispered Isabel.
“Did you see?” Katharine said, her eyes filling with tears. “Am I mistaken?”
“He knows how you feel?” asked Isabel.
“About him? Yes. And he knows what Ned means to me. I invoke Ned often, because of how magnificent Ned is and how much I love him and how I have missed him all these years. I brought Ned into conversations with Will because Ned has always been my light and I wanted to share that light. I have cherished Ned since I was a child . . .”
“And he has cherished you,” said Isabel.
“What we witnessed was not just man-to-man. There was something of the conqueror in the way Master Shakespeare wielded his eyes, as if they were . . . a weapon! There was something . . .” Katharine did not finish her sentence. There was something of lust in the way Will had swooped down upon Ned. Katharine had her back to them now. She could not bear to look. Friends and acquaintances came up to her, and she nodded her head and spoke to them and forced a smile, yet all the while she was feeling as though Will had brandished a sword, and that the sword was now lodged mortally in her heart.
She spotted Will one last time before she left the hall to ready for the dancing. He was no longer with Ned, for Ned was talking with William Stanley, the earl’s second son, but Will stood gleaming—slashed purple velvet doublet puffed out like a bird—still gazing at Ned. Katharine thought of Will’s poem, the lusty breeding jennet and the strong-necked steed. There was a touch of animal in the way Will was tracking Ned. Every once in a while Ned glanced up and saw Will staring at him—clearly, his priestly vow of chastity had not banished such attractions.
Katharine tried. She tried to continue with the evening. She put on her hat with the veil. She changed into her new Italian-stitched attire. A servant helped her with her peacock gloves. Isabel had donned breeches, a cap, and carried an archer’s bow on her back. Katharine wished for arrows with sharp and deadly points, so she could use her skill with Isabel’s bow and target Will’s darting heart.
“You have not spoken a word,” said Isabel as they entered the great hall once again.
“I am stricken beyond speech,” said Katharine.
“’Tis this night, my dear,” said Isabel. “’Tis Twelfth Night. Nothing is what it seems. Everything, dearest, is turned inside out.”
“I wish this night were the cause, but I fear what has happened could happen any night,” said Katharine. “I am undone.”
They found Ned. Ned, like Katharine, was not flashing a grand disguise. He had pulled a vizard of gold leaf and a gold and black velvet doublet from one of his Roman trunks. His two squire-priests wore masks and aprons from the scullery.
Katharine leaned into Ned. “Did you see the way he stared at you?” she said. She could not contain herself.
“Who?”
“Master Shakespeare.”
“Aye, the player. Do you know him?” Ned asked.
“He’s my poet, Ned! My poet! The new tutor at Lufanwal!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, my dear, sweet coz. I didn’t know. I thought he was just some player with Strange’s company.” Ned pulled Katharine to him, and they held on to each other for a minute. “I saw,” Ned said finally.
The music had begun and the couples were lining up.
Katharine knew Will would recognize her because she was wearing the peacock gloves, but he did not come to her. She did not search the crowd to try to discover his disguise. She played her role. She started dancing. She moved to the music but did not hear it. She recognized the earl, who carried a golden staff and wore the same glaring and bearded mask of Zeus every year, and she danced with him as promised. The floor was awash with silk, velvet, satin, damask and taffeta, and also cambric, buckram and fustian, for the range was high to low, from finery to rags, from voluminous to scanty, from tasteful to gaudy, from colorful to plain. Guests had sported elaborate masks and headdresses, beards and wigs.
Katharine spied a reveler dressed as a poet, wearing a gown and a laurel wreath and carrying a scroll, but it was not Will. Another roisterer was framed in a farmer’s long coat, another paraded past with her hair pinned under a cap, a miller’s wand in her hand and grain dropping from her smock. Katharine recognized the high sheriff who had carted Richard and then Mary away. He had a sword in one hand and a buckler in the other like a ruffian. A flock of sheepskin-covered folk ambled by her on all fours, their shepherd with his staff and a jug following them.
In years past, the wild range of lush and unusual weeds had delighted Katharine, but tonight it was all too much. Rich, grand and gilded—the air was afire with unnerving excess. Katharine danced with Ferdinando, who was easy to spot because his only change in garb was the addition of a jewel-encrusted vizard from the Orient. While Katharine was switching partners in the first almain, she took the hand of a small elegant figure dressed as a male peacock in the most extraordinary display of real peacock feathers, a headdress that dazzled and peacock gloves that were almost exactly like those Will had given to Katharine and which she had on her very hands this very minute.
“’Tis me, Alice,” said the peacock, who Katharine now saw was Lady Strange. “We have the same gloves!”
“Yes, yes,” said Katharine.
“Mine were a gift,” said Alice
gaily. “This New Year’s Day.”
And before Katharine could ask who the gift-giver was, Alice had moved on to another partner.
24
atharine did not sleep that night at Lathom House, but stared into the darkness. Jealousy was not something she had much experience with, and certainly to be jealous of her beloved Ned seemed a sin, but here she was filled with a searing, unstoppable, wild jealousy. In one of Will’s sonnets, he had called jealousy as “cruel as the grave” and compared it to “fiery coals,” and indeed those coals burned within Katharine now. He was finishing his poem, and now perhaps he thought it was time to finish her off—his words came rushing back, The day you tell me that, is the day I have no more use for you!—but that he had embroiled Ned in his game was perhaps the most malicious thing of all. He had sensed her deep connection with Ned, and then he had used it on her—not to wound her with a dagger but to put her to the sword.
The little group returned to Lufanwal the next day. Katharine tried to seem lighthearted during the ride, but her heart was in such torment she said little. Once back at the hall, she kept to her turret. She was on her bed, curled in a ball, her knees almost touching her chin, when she realized she had not seen Mr. Smythson after the play. She had not even thought of him. Perhaps he had been there with a clever costume on, and she had not recognized him—though in truth he did not seem the sort to wear a disguise.
She replayed the strange scene with Will and Ned in her head. It was a tyranny. If Isabel and Ned had not supported her vision, she would have thought her eyes wrong. This was her question: Did Will act thus toward Ned to wound her or because he could not help himself? She felt in some strange way he was jealous she was seated at the high table, that it was envy that made him retaliate, the same way jealousy of Mr. Smythson had made him retaliate that day he returned from London. He’d been asked to perform with Lord Strange’s Men and perhaps didn’t understand that the Stanley and the De L’Isle friendship went back many generations, and the De L’Isles would be invited as they always were to the earl’s Twelfth Night revels. Or perhaps he had not thought of Katharine or the De L’Isle family at all.
The Tutor: A Novel Page 26