Dark Aemilia (7 page)

I will wait one more day, to see if my curse might start. Another night of prayer might see the unborn child bleed harmlessly away. The potion looks so horrible, and the thought of swallowing it is disgusting to me. But it is hard to wait for anything. I sit at my virginals in my parlour, and try to play a tune. It is a pretty piece called ‘Giles Farnaby’s Dream’, which can usually calm my nerves but today it only vexes me: its brightness seems too far removed from the world I know. I look at the painted wainscot, the Turkey carpet which takes pride of place over the fireplace, the half-finished skirt that lies in a ripple of azure satin across my bed. Nothing seems real. I am like a child’s toy, which is now broken and must be mended. My head aches. My eyes are sore. My velvet bodice digs into my flesh. I slam the lid down on the virginals, so that the strings let out a plaintive note. Snatching up my cloak, I rush down the stairwell and into the courtyard. I feel as if there must be a way out of all this trouble, if only I could clear my head and think. The gateway to St James’s Park is open. I slip through it, and hurry into the darkening trees.

I put my face in my hands and moan. What to do? What to do? It is Will’s child, I am sure of it – the fruit of all our hidden passion. I am not certain where the souls of unborn, unbaptised children are supposed to go, now that the Queen of England is our Pope, but in the old days they dwelt in Limbo. It does not sound like a good place for my unborn babe to be. Yet what else can I do but kill it? There is no way out. I should have kept away from Will. But I did not, I could not. Now what will become of me?

Just as I am racked with another bout of sobs, I find that I am not alone. Someone is by me. Someone’s arms are around me.

‘Aemilia – my love! What’s wrong? You’re cold – you’re trembling!’ Will’s voice is soft and tender.

‘Will!’ I cry. I am almost afraid to look him in the eye, in case he can see what I am thinking. But I can’t look anywhere else. How can he not know? How can I hide my knowledge from him? ‘What are you doing here? What is the matter?’

‘My love,’ he says. His face is shining, as if he has found some new wonder in the world. ‘I had to see you.’

‘But… You know we must be…’ I catch my breath. When were we ever ‘careful’?

‘Listen – listen…’ He stares down at me. ‘I came because there is something I must say.’

It is so sweet to see him, and look at his face, and hear him speaking so tenderly to me that I cannot help but weaken. Silently, I weep against his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ He looks down at me, eyes shadowed in the moonlight.

I struggle with myself, not knowing what to say. ‘Oh… I am so unhappy that I can’t be with you, and must live with Hunsdon, in the palace…’ This is almost the truth. And yet, of course, I want to say,
Will, I am pregnant, and I cannot say for sure if it is yours, and yet I believe it is, and I’ve got a draught to get rid of it, and I thought that I could do this, and go on as before, but now I find I’d rather die. Please help me.
Even with his arms around me, I feel alone, and as if I have betrayed him.

He kisses me, and holds me tight against him. I can smell the leather of his doublet and the tavern stench of old ale and tobacco. ‘Come, come, we can’t stay here,’ he says. (And how this sweet ‘we’ tears at me.) ‘We must find somewhere warmer… there is an inn on the other side of the park where we can go. Here – look…’ He pulls a stage mask from his sleeve, made of
black velvet stiffened with bombast. ‘You can be the mysterious lady and I will be your humble squire.’

When we are settled by the fire in an upstairs room, he takes my hands and holds them. ‘Still cold, so cold, my love.’

‘I am better now.’ I stare at him, lulled by the fire and by a mute happiness that he is here.

‘Aemilia, come and live with me.’

‘Oh, Will! But what of Hunsdon?’

‘I will care for you. You don’t need him.’

‘Don’t be such a fool.’

‘Leave him, and be
my
mistress.’

‘Living how, exactly?’

‘I’ll be your protector.’

‘And where shall we live?’ I ask.

‘I… have expectations.’

‘Expectations?’

‘My plays will make me rich. I am certain of it. How can it be otherwise?’ He kisses my hand, and then reaches across and touches my icy cheek. ‘You know that this is what should happen. You know that we can only be happy if we are joined together – think of it: to have each other in the daytime, in the open, instead of these furtive fornications and sneakings round at dead of night! To eat together, or stroll in the Exchange!’

He speaks as if he was offering me a chance to live with him in Heaven.

‘I never heard such foolishness… how can this be possible?’

But he is determined. ‘Listen, my love. There is a logic in the universe that goes beyond mere common sense – and this is the logic of our two lives, intermingling.’

‘Will, I –’

‘Our two selves, undivided. Don’t you agree?’

‘Of course, but –’

‘Come with me! Come away with me, and who knows what will happen to us? Let’s take our chance.’

‘If only it were possible!’

‘It is possible, my sweet Aemilia! It is possible. Just think of it…’

I close my eyes and see it.

He leans closer. ‘Aemilia. You cannot deny me. You cannot deny yourself.’

Could I un-lord myself, and live with Will? I suppose I could. If there were no baby, and I had money, and I was sure I wouldn’t starve. If there were no censure; if poets’ mistresses were not seen as tavern whores. Should I drink Joan’s brew, and end the baby, and live with my love –
be
that whore? At least my life will be a sort of whole; I’ll be a common doxy, but I’ll have the right man in my bed.

I pray for forgiveness, open that dread casket once again and take out the vial. The shifting, surging potion has expanded and mounted up the sides of the glass, like a semi-liquid fungus. My guts heave. I take the stopper out, and am assaulted by its appalling stench.

But what’s that? I hear a sound and whirl around to see what it could be. It is – I could have sworn – the sound of a newborn crying. Plaintive, urgent, relentless. I turn full circle, startled. Outside the sky is grey and heavy rain is falling: a ceaseless rhythm is beating at the window panes. Of course, the noise must be a seagull’s cry, echoing down the chimney. I raise the vial and tip it slowly towards my lips.

There it is again, even clearer than before. I lower the glass, trembling with nausea. I have never heard a seagull make such a sound. I replace the cork, open the window casement and the rainstorm rips into the room, drenching my dress and hair. Hardly noticing the sudden cold, I peer out into the storm,
half-expecting
to see an abandoned infant lying by the palace wall. It is not unknown for women to leave their newborn babies there,
in the mistaken belief that royal largesse will ensure that they are well looked after. On this day, though, there is no baby. There is nothing.

I feel so sad about the empty, lonely gardens, and the fact that there is no crying child that I begin to weep. I think of those poor girls who bring their babes and leave them in this place, open to the elements: tiny, weak, milk-smelling creatures, unshriven, unbegun. And this in a city which pities no one, in which wealth is everything and penury the norm. Those poor children! Those wretched, abandoned souls! I weep silent, penitent tears. I cannot do it. I cannot kill this child. I hurl the vial out of the window. I hear a soft crack as it hits the ground and – in spite of the rain – I smell something sourly burning. I lean out and let the rain mix with my tears. And I know that, if I can’t kill this unborn infant, then I can’t leave my rich protector, furious and betrayed. Because if I am going to have this child I need him. No, let me be honest: I need his money. I do not know who has fathered this child, but I know who the mother is well enough. A penniless, bastard whore, half-Jewish, long orphaned. Nobody. I think of Will, expectant and full of love. If I could unmake everything so that I could be with him… but no. My thoughts fly to the four corners of the world, and then return, defeated.

The rain pelts harder and seems to wash some sense into me, and in the end I reach the conclusion that I like least and which pains me most. But I cannot see another way.

This next morning I wake early and lie still. I open my eyes and stare at the canopy above me. I have the whole bed to stretch out in, and I do so, pushing my warm feet into its coldest corners. The new day brings no hope, but in its light I know that I have made a wise decision. I have come up with a stratagem that will save my child, and keep us from the streets. It is not a design of
any great cleverness or cunning. It is simply this: if Hunsdon thinks the child is his, he will provide for me. If he thinks I have betrayed him, he will cast me out with nothing. Therefore, my affair with Will must end, and never be discovered. As a loyal but careless mistress I might be married off to some lowly courtier – one happy to take the dowry Hunsdon settles on me as his bribe for taking on spoiled goods.

Hunsdon is due back from York at any time. Better to do nothing, and let my failure to appear convey its own message to Will. I curl myself into a ball, and pull the eiderdown around me, and wait for the time to pass. My head aches with grief, and I am filled with bitter anger that this must be my lot. If I am such a faithless whore, why am I disabled by scruples I can’t afford? A depraved and desperate woman should be ruthless in the execution of her desires. There is no place for me in the hierarchy of mankind, and, to make things worse, my own character is wrongly put together. I have the mind of a philosopher, the education of a prince and the morality of a nun. The agony of my condition forces me to puke into a bucket with more violence than usual.

Spent and white-faced, I get up and dress and read the Bible with such fierce attention that I fear my eyeballs will drop out. Then I think again of the letter that I have not written, and this reminds me of those Will has sent to me, so I pull them out from beneath the mattress and throw them on the fire. I do not cry. I do not think of all those lost times, crumpling and burning to black ash. And yet, in spite of all this, and of all my determination to do nothing, when I look at the clock I find that just forty minutes have passed. I think that Hell must not only be a place of fire and punishment, but of clocks that tick and tock in an eternal present, where nothing ever happens.

I stand up, and pace up and down the chamber saying, ‘It’s Hunsdon’s child. It’s Hunsdon’s child.’ As if I were casting a spell. I can’t be still. I can’t stop my ceaseless walking, so I
continue in this manner until at last, exhausted, I fall down senseless on the bed.

When I wake, Hunsdon himself is sitting beside me, his clothes still mud-splattered from his journey. He is looking down at me and stroking my hair, but he is not smiling.

He says, ‘I have a gift for you.’

I struggle up on to my elbows and we kiss each other softly. I try to read his expression.

‘A gift! You are so kind!’

‘Not kind, my dear. It is only just that you should have it. I have loved you very well.’

A chill comes on me. ‘Why do you say “have loved”?’ I ask. ‘I’m not dead.’

‘No, my dear,’ says he. ‘Too full of life.’ He pats my tight belly. His face is heavy.

I feel the world lurch, and look down at my body. ‘You know,’ I say. But I pray he only guesses the half of it.

‘I shall build you a house, at Long Ditch. At Westminster, quite close by.’

Hunsdon is a soldier, not a politician. When there are decisions to be made, he makes them quickly.

‘I… I’m sorry for it,’ say I. ‘So many years without falling pregnant, and then… it was my carelessness. My fault.’

He sighs and begins to pull off his boots. ‘You can’t blame yourself, my poor child,’ he says. ‘I put it there.’

I say nothing, at once relieved and quite bereft of hope.

‘What shall I do there, all alone?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice from rising to a wail. ‘Like some dowager, pensioned off?’ My mind says,
Do not question your salvation, Aemilia; take the house and keep silent.

He leans across and kisses me gently. ‘You are to marry,’ says he. ‘You won’t be alone.’

My mouth is dry. ‘Who shall I marry, my lord?’

‘Alfonso Lanyer.’

‘Lanyer! Oh, Henry! Whose thought was this?’

‘He’s always had his eye on you.’

‘But sir –’

‘Enough, Aemilia! He is one of your own.’

One of my own! This is a cruel blow indeed. Alfonso Lanyer is a prize fool, a womaniser and a gambler at the tables. Handsome enough, for sure. But as a husband! I want to cry out, to explain that this can never be, yet of course I cannot, in case my reluctance to marry one man suggests I might have a preference for another.

The wedding is all agreed. I stay in my room, reading and praying and seeking peace of mind. When Alice brings me letters, I make her put them on the fire. I know who they are from. I walk through my life like my own spectre, my heart and soul torn out of me, sustained only by the love-child that grows inside.

I do have one remaining hope. Which is that I might take with me, out into the cold world beyond the life of Court, a little of my learning. And that I might be allowed to write my poetry and to improve it, sustained by a patron willing to support me. This is a man’s business, but I am as well educated as any man, and so, if any woman could succeed in such a project, it might be me. If the Countess of Pembroke is celebrated for her verse, is it so extraordinary an ambition to hope that I might be celebrated for mine? She has made her country home a supposed ‘paradise for poets’ – could I not make my own small house a place of industry and reflection?

The day before I am to leave Whitehall, I give Hunsdon some of my poems, which I have copied in my best script.

‘They are pretty, my dear, thank you,’ says Hunsdon. He sits apart from me, on a cedar wood chair, and seems preoccupied.
‘You know me: I do like a play, and a good ballad that tells a tale, but… I’m not a man for sonnets and such fancification.’

‘I wrote them all for you.’

‘Indeed, I know it. And I am touched, very touched indeed. Now, tell me, do you like the house?’

‘I like it very much. Thank you my lord. I am grateful – beyond grateful.’

‘I think you will be very well accommodated. The solar, in particular, I have appointed to the highest specification.’

‘The specification is quite perfect.’

‘You will be married soon, as you know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Very good.’

I look down, so he can’t see the expression on my face.

‘He is a bloody fool, Alfonso, but they say the ladies like him,’ says Hunsdon.

‘They do indeed,’ I say.

‘He’s always admired you.’

‘Yes, sir. You said so.’

‘So he’ll be… good to you. You know. Shame for it all to go to waste.’ He nods to me in a general way, which hints at our gaudy nights.

‘Yes, sir.’ I take a breath. ‘Henry, I should like to have a patron.’

‘A what, my dear?’

‘A patron.’

He stares at me, speechless with astonishment.

‘I know it is unusual,’ say I.

‘Unusual…? What are you talking about?’

‘I mean… someone who has position, who might be interested in my…verse.’

‘Christ’s blood! These lines you’ve scrawled, you mean?’ He waves my poems in the air. ‘These funny little ditties?’

‘They are poems, my lord. I know they need more work.’

‘Good God,’ he says. ‘I fear that your condition has affected your faculties, poor child. You’re barking mad.’

‘No, indeed, my lord.’

‘Whoever would have thought it? You always seemed so sharp.’

‘I don’t believe I am going mad at all, sir. I have always wanted to make more of my poetry, to learn how to improve it, and how to… apprentice myself to it.’

He shakes his head. ‘I will tell you this, Aemilia, you’re a strange one. The night-walking is just the half of it.’

This makes me want to weep. I think of the night-walking that had first made Hunsdon notice me, soon after my mother died. But there is no time to mourn the passing of his gentle but insistent courtship.

‘Would it be possible to find someone, now that I’m no longer your mistress?’ I say. ‘I mean, there would be no disgrace attached to you, would there?’

He stares at me with his calm grey eyes, that only see what is solid and tangible. ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

I let my words spout out, madly, in case I hesitate and never get them out at all. ‘I don’t want to vanish quite away. I’ll cause no trouble, keep from the Court, not bother you or speak out of turn, or do anything that might displease you… but if I had some support, some patronage… as a man would…’ I look at him beseechingly. ‘Might anyone consider it?’

He seems dumbfounded, then begins to chuckle. ‘My dear girl, how will I do without you? You are quite as entertaining out of bed as in it. Why not? Why not, indeed?’ He laughs so merrily that I have to fight to hide my irritation.

‘What would you suggest, sir? For someone in my situation? I have some verses – I could send them, if you are happy for me to do this.’

‘To whom?’

‘Whomever you suggest.’

‘Lord above! I’ve no idea. Did you like the inlaid stools I gave you? Did you like the Aldersgate tiles, and the silver tankards? I have thought of everything, have I not?’

‘Everything is there. It is perfect.’

He smiles, very pleased with himself. ‘Of course, I did ask Lady Anne for her advice. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

I smile so hard my cheeks ache. It was logical for him to ask his wife’s opinion, though hardly kind to either of us. ‘Her ladyship has exquisite taste.’

He gets up and warms his back before the fire for a moment. ‘I shall not see you again, after this conversation. I am sorry for it, and I shall miss you sorely. But a break has to be made, and I am afraid the time has come.’

I nod silently. My hands are very still. My heart beats slowly, slowly. I can control myself, no matter how the world might heave and lurch around me.