Dark Aemilia (22 page)

As I hurry on my way, the sky is lowering and I pull my cloak closer round me. The silent streets are grey and cold. As I pass Foul Lane, I see a kite, pecking at the corpse of a turtle dove. Its beak is crimson with blood. When I approach, it rises up, squealing, and flaps its giant wings, and I shield my eyes as it flies over my head.

Simon Forman lives at Lambeth. I know the place – a handsome new house on the outskirts of the village. Fortunately, it is on the river shore almost directly opposite to Westminster. Unfortunately, both the weather and the plague are against me. At the riverbank, I stop, looking up and down at the silent boatyards. The quays are usually a riot of noise and activity, crowded with boatmen and eel-men, shoutmen and shipwrights, trinkers and mariners. But now the quays are silent, and the only noise I can hear is the wind rattling in the rigging of the empty ships. I hurry along to the stairs, where the wherrymen are usually for hire. There is a single boat moored there, and a figure humped in the bows, hood pulled down low. The rain is lashing down now. I stumble along to the stairs, and make my slippery way to the boat.

As I approach, the hooded figure looks up. It is a young woman, with a white face, perfectly beautiful except for her cheeks, which are holed and pitted with smallpox scars.

‘I am looking for a wherryman,’ I say, unsure what she is doing there.

‘Then you have found one.’

‘Is your husband…?’

‘Dead, and my children will follow him unless I earn some coins. Let me help you in.’ She stands up with the sureness of any boatman, and hands me into the craft.

We set out for Lambeth Stairs, and, as we go, I wonder about this woman, sensing that she is as desperate as I am. ‘How many children do you have?’

She is rowing strongly with her thin arms. ‘Six. The eldest cares for the younger ones. They are good children.’

‘And did your husband die of the plague?’

The current is faster now, and she pulls for a few strokes before replying. ‘No, mistress. He was murdered.’

‘Lord above! I am sorry to hear it.’

‘Not I.’

Have I misheard her?

‘Not who?’

‘Not I. It would be a false sorrow, and I am not a false woman.’

She rows in silence for a while. She is not one for the wherryman’s patter. As the southern shore grows near, my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Do you know who killed him?’

She laughs, and looks me in the face for the first time. ‘I should say so.’

At the steps, I pay her fivepence. She gives me another curious look and says, ‘False, he called me. False, and I bore his children, and baked his bread and worked my life away for him. That great sotted oaf. If I’d lain with half the men he said I had, I’d be the biggest whore in Whitehall.’

‘They see their own faults in us,’ say I.

She stares, and I see a shimmer of insanity in her face. ‘When I washed my hands, I knew it was all finished. It was just a little deed, and quickly done. It’s only when I sleep that they are all dripping scarlet again, and I wash them and wash them – and the Thames runs red. I see the carp and salmon choking in his blood.’
She smiles. ‘So I stay awake. I watch the moon go from one side of the sky to the other. Then the dawn comes, and blinds me with its light.’

The plague is driving us all mad. I turn and walk into the storm, barely able to see my way, slipping and sliding over the stones of the path. My rain-heavy cloak pulls at my shoulders, and my hands are frozen. I look around me, wishing I had a guide to show me the way. And then, I see it. A dark building looms out of the rain. It is surrounded by trees, waving and crashing in the wind. I wade through the mire and beat upon the door. The sound is unnaturally loud. A shock of lightning flames the sky.

No one answers. I look up at the black windows, hoping to see a light. I knock again, hammering louder this time. Perhaps the pestilence has reached Lambeth? Perhaps the doctor and his family are dead? No, no! I knock a third time, then stop and listen for the sound of footsteps on the other side. Silence. I go round the side of the house, half-blinded by the wet strands of my hair. There is a door in a high wall. It opens into an orchard. The high walls give some protection from the wind, but none from the rain: the neat pathways between the apple and apricock trees are flooded like Venetian canals. I squelch across the grass, mud sucking at my feet, till I reach one of the latticed windows. I pick up a heavy stone from the path and hurl it against the window. It crashes through the glass, shattering the stillness.

A moment later, there is a glow of candle-flame at the window above. The window opens and Dr Forman’s voice calls out, ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me. Aemilia Lanyer.’

But the storm drowns out my words.

‘What? Who? Be off with you!’

I shout louder. ‘It’s Aemilia! I have come to see you! I need your help – please let me in!’

Now he puts on a quavering tone.

‘If it’s Simon Forman you are after, he is gone to Cambridge. Go away, or I will call the Watch.’

‘Then call them, you poisonous toad! If they’ll come as far as Lambeth. Tell them a bastard whore is smashing up his house.’

With that, I pick up a second stone, as big as a fist, and throw it at another window. The leaded glass crashes into tiny pieces, and inside the room something falls. I pray it is the heart of a unicorn preserved in a pot, or some other precious item.

‘Stop that! Stop it!’ Now he sticks his head out, and his beard blows sideways. ‘Come to the side door – see it? Down there, in the corner. Unseemly baggage! And come
quietly
.’

‘Quietly? Satan himself can’t hear me in this storm.’

‘Shush! Shush! Lord help me! There is a price upon my head.’

Simon Forman looks thinner and yellower than he was when I saw him last, and he has exchanged his flowing necromancer’s gown for a stout doublet and plain hose. He looks angry and ill at ease. ‘Really!’ he cries. ‘House-breaking and wanton destruction! Whatever would Hunsdon have said?’

‘I believe he would have applauded me,’ I say, wiping rain from my eyes. ‘He was a soldier, after all.’

‘God’s teeth! I shall send you the bill! Whatever is the matter?’

‘Henry has the plague. I know you cured yourself of it. How did you do that?’

‘Let us say I have strong nerves, and much knowledge.’

‘Through necromancy?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Through conjuration?’

‘That is information that I will never share.’

‘I need to cure my child, and I don’t mind how I do it, or what I do to find the knowledge.’

The doctor seems to have no sense of urgency. ‘No one knows how it is spread, though I, for one, do not believe it is the vapours,’ he says, in a scholarly manner. ‘I put my money on
Rattus rattus
, the common rat.’

‘I don’t care if it’s spread by Gabriel and all the ministering angels. Please help me.’

He closes the wooden shutters over the broken windows before drawing the heavy curtains.

‘Did you come alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you followed?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You told no one your destination?’

‘Not a soul. Why?’

He pokes at the embers of seacoal till they spark into life. ‘The College of Physicians is trying to murder me. They’ve hired assassins. They nearly had me – twice. I’ve sent my family out of London. I am leaving myself in the morning.’

I must say, this strikes me as ridiculous. The august body of good doctors, paying murderers to finish off this poor old goat! Men, and their precious knowledge. All the world is upside-down.

‘I am sorry about your windows,’ I say. ‘But I had to see you.’

‘Well. You certainly know how to put yourself in harm’s way.’ He draws up two chairs, and sits down by the fire. Reluctantly, I join him. I am anxious to find out what I need to and return to Henry’s side.

‘As to the power to stop the plague, did you read the pamphlet I gave you?’ Forman asks.

‘Every word. It is an account of the degrees of witchcraft. I understand what it is saying. And I know what I want to do. I need something more tangible – a spell for conjuring.’

‘For the conjuring of what, precisely?’

‘Of a demon that can help me – what else would it be?’

He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Are you really prepared to dabble in that Art?’ he asks. ‘To conjure evil?’

‘Yes, I am,’ I cry. ‘If God won’t help me, then I will settle for the other side.’

He thinks for a moment. ‘It is true that it may be an efficacious way of dealing with the curse.’

‘What curse?’ I think of the witches, and the foul visions that they called up.

‘That is what I saw in your future when you came to see me. I believe there is some old score to settle. An unpaid debt, something owed by your father.’

‘Such as his soul – can you owe such a thing?’

‘Each of us is possessed of that mysterious entity. When you see a man die, you see him shrink and lighten as it leaves. If a soul may be owned,
ergo
it may be owed. That would be the logic of the matter.’

I say nothing, my mind confused and all my thoughts on Henry.

Forman pokes the fire and watches the spark flare up the chimney. ‘I have discovered something rather interesting. You were not the first person in your family to visit me, Aemilia. When I looked at my old case notes, I discovered this fact.’

‘No? Who else have you seen?’

‘Your mother, Margaret Johnson. A clever but unlearned woman, and not anything like as beautiful as you.’

‘She came for your predictions?’

‘She wanted my advice – she was ill and knew her death was coming soon. She told me all about your father, and his mysterious end. She said that when he came from Venice he was a good musician but not a brilliant one, and there were others in his family who had more virtuosity. He was the youngest of six brothers, and always felt that he was in their shadow. Then, he was lost in a storm one winter night, up Tyburn way. When
he came home the next day, with his clothes torn and his eyes starting from his head, he claimed to have no memory of what had happened. But, after that, he played the most extraordinary tunes, composed, sang, arranged – his talents seemed God-given. And then, after one year – exactly one year – he refused to play again.’

‘He stopped playing? Why did I never hear of this?’

‘She told no one.’

‘But… I remember him playing all the time! So well! So wonderfully!’

‘That may be because he was murdered just one full moon after he’d ceased playing. Murdered in cold blood, by assailants who vanished like ghosts, and were never seen again.’

‘Oh, Jesu!’ I say. ‘I saw it happen. Did he break his bargain with the witches?’

‘Who can say? Murderers are skilled at disappearance, such is their modesty about their craft. They may have been as corporeal as you or me.’

‘But my mother didn’t think so?’

‘She was afraid. She had him buried quietly, and told no one of his violent end. No one but myself. It’s a strange tale, certainly.’

‘What I do know is that these witches have some grudge against me, and have sought me out.’

‘Perhaps they believe the debt has yet to be settled.’

‘Can such things happen? One soul traded for another?’

‘I have heard of it. But all these things are beyond our realm. It is hard to have an illuminating discussion with the dead.’

‘And now my child has the plague.’

‘God protect him,’ says Forman.

‘Supposing God has other business?’

Forman looks uneasy. ‘Proceed with care, Aemilia,’ he says. ‘I’ve known men driven mad by demon-summoning. One student ran babbling in the streets, stark-naked, and when they went to
his room they found a demon as big as an oak tree wedged inside, with its wings pressing against the ceiling and its tail up the chimney. Amateur necromancy is dangerous.’

‘I’d die for Henry, a thousand times.’

He sighs and goes to his writing table and picks up a heavy volume. ‘Cornelius Agrippa – now, there is an interesting fellow,’ he says, opening the book. ‘You have heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘He believes the woman to be – in
some
respects – superior to the male. He cites a great list of those favoured by God, from Eve to Mary Magdalene. Strange, strange views.’

‘He sounds like a sensible man to me.’

I follow him to the table, my skirts wet and flapping about my legs, hungry to see this book. The writing is plain and clear, as if it were written yesterday.

‘I’m sure he does,’ says Forman. He turns a few pages. ‘Now, were I to share such opinions, I could pass on what I know to you. All my knowledge, all my secrets. The wisdom of Paracelsus, the learning of Dr Dee. All over Europe, great men are lost in alchemical research, and I would appraise you of it, just as I tell a new maid how to lay the fire.’

‘Does he know how to summon demons? Could he help me call down their power?’

‘He may help a man who knows enough. If he has sufficient learning.’

‘And a woman? As learned as myself?’

‘I do not speak of women. I do not share his view of them.’

‘Why? Because a woman is for haleking, and nothing more?’

‘Now you are insulting me. You know I have always respected your intelligence. However, a woman can no more become a cunning-man that she can become a priest. It is not my doing; it is the natural order of things.’

‘But supposing the natural order of things is wrong?’ I ask. ‘Supposing – with our God-given minds – we can see where nature
can be improved upon? If we were to accept what
is
, without question, why cure disease? Why seek to better anything?’

The doctor looks irritable. ‘It is a matter of degree.’

‘Good. Because I don’t want to be a necromancer. I only want to save my child – as natural a desire as anyone could wish.’

‘I do not see how I can help you.’

‘If you cannot, then who can? You are my last hope!’ I twist my hands together. ‘What am I to do? I loved a man who damned me for a whore. Where am I to go? I am not allowed to be a lady, nor a poet, nor free, nor safe from the plague. How shall I go on? I am not allowed to do anything, in this stinking City of ours. Where does that leave me? My sole treasure is my beloved son. I will go now, since my sufferings mean nothing to you.’