Dark Aemilia (2 page)

Hunsdon is out of sorts, complaining of cramps in his calves and pains in his belly. As I lie tossing and turning and trying to find a cool place on the bolster, I roll over to see him lying still, looking up into the darkness.

‘I am growing old, Aemilia,’ he says. ‘I shan’t live much longer.’

I curl myself around him, suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness and fear. ‘Henry! What are you saying?’

‘It is only the truth. You will outlive me. You will be out in the world, walking in the streets, lusted for by all who see you, and I will be dead and buried, and who knows what will happen? I was selfish to take you for my mistress.’

‘No! How can it be selfish to protect and cherish me, for all these years? You are the kindest man at Court, I swear.’

‘But I have ruined you.’

I swallow hard. ‘My dear Henry! No one could have loved me better.’

‘Another man could have married you,’ says Hunsdon. ‘I was greedy.’ He pulls the counterpane around him and twists his old body away from me, and after a moment he begins to snore, and it is my turn to lie there, staring at the dark.

I think of the first days of our courtship, after my mother died. In the depths of my slumber, I left my chamber, close to the servants’ quarters, and, dressed in nothing but my white gown, walked unknowing into the middle of a feast given in Hunsdon’s honour. He led me by the hand to his own bed, returned to the
celebrations, and then spent the night in his dressing room, leaving me undisturbed. Most honourable. And yet also canny, for from that day on, quite alone and sorely frightened by the constant lechery of the courtiers who wanted to have me for a night or so, I felt that here was one man I could trust.

After that, he wooed me with kind words, small gifts and imported books from the Low Countries, and the next time I found myself in his fine bed he lay with me. He was surprised to find me still a virgin and yet eager in my pleasure, and we did not sleep a wink that night. That was the first night – there have been many since. I have been his sole mistress for six years. No other man dares trespass on his territory.

Next morning, I wake late. Hunsdon has gone, but I see that he has bought me yet more gifts: a pair of new sleeves embroidered with gold angel wings, silk gloves as pale as hoar-frost, and a dainty silver knife in a leather sheath. I draw this out and look at it. Surely it is bad luck to give such a weapon to your love? I turn it this way and that, looking at the sunlight glinting on the silver blade. I touch its sharp tip with the end of my finger, and it draws a tiny drop of blood, no bigger than a ladybird. I lick the blood, wondering why God made it taste so sweet.

I go over to the window-seat and look down into the park through the small panes that make neat squares of my view. It is a clear, bright day, and the leafless branches of the oak trees are stark against the sky. When I push the window open the air is sharp, and I can smell woodsmoke and hear the hoarse cry of a stag somewhere in the forest. Yet I must not be distracted. I take up a sheet of foolscap that lies beside me and the quill that I have newly sharpened. I dip in my silver inkpot and pause, the shining nib suspended over the white sheet. I am writing a poem for Hunsdon, in the courtly style. Perhaps some fine lines might pin my passion to my lord. Besides which, words have the effect
of calming me, like a long drink of ale. I love to read poetry, and yearn to write it, but what is in my head and what comes out upon the paper are never even near the same.

I have two lines so far:

Could a lord be like a rose? In truth, Hunsdon is more like a handsome thistle. But ‘rose’ is easier to rhyme. For ‘thistle’ I have only ‘gristle’, which will not do. I try to think of some more martial flower. A plant with dignity and strength – and a straight back. No name comes to me. My mind is restless and distracted. Each poet, they say, must suffer for love before he finds his Muse. And I am suffering now.

A harvest mouse is climbing in the ivy growing outside. It is twisting its long tail around the stalks, and looks so dainty and moves so quick that it seems fairy-like, and as though a breath of wind might send it flying through the air. I think of my conversation with the playwright. The memory itches in my head. A secret shrew, am I? Or like this creature, a little mouse? I wonder what it would be like, to be its size and scurry into the wainscot, hidden from public sight. But if I went from here, what is there? The City streets are full of fire and noise and pestilence, and beyond them lie the brutal fields. So where is
my
place? I would rather be a female Colossus, naked to the waist, bestriding all of London with a foot on each side of the Thames. I would look down upon the sprawl of Whitehall and its chequer-board of courts and gardens, then wade across the sea to France and stroll to floating Venice and its brighter sun.

Oh, Lord. It is no use. This is not a day to stay dutifully indoors. What will become of me? I want to know. Why did Hunsdon tell me so suddenly that I was ruined? Could it be true? I have never seen myself in such a way, being given to bold
thoughts about my future. Am I not admired and respected at the Court? Have I not shifted well for myself, though a bastard and an orphan, so that I am now ensconced in splendour at the heart of England? Great men push and shove and spend their whole fortunes to be part of the Queen’s circle, and here I am: at its centre. Even she has told me that I am mightily well read, and sometimes speaks to me in Greek. Yet have I thrown away all hope of making my own stamp upon the world? Could this be possible?

There are ways, of course, to throw light upon such questions. If that learned Dr Dee were still at the palace I might have asked him to give me a reading, since his charts are by far the best in London, and he has always been kind to me. But he is back at Mortlake now, and not so often at the Court. The Queen believes, I think, that she has magical qualities of her own, since she was chosen by Almighty God himself. Thus her royal touch can cure diseases, and her powers of perception exceed those of any lowborn man.

What to do? What to
do
? I cannot be still. All the while, I seem to see that playwright looking at me as if he were examining all my thoughts and secrets. What a vile, impertinent and damnable fellow! It is all too much. I call my servant Alice, and make her lend me her oldest cloak and most unbecoming coif, an ugly linen hood with strange ear-pieces. Tying it under my chin, I pay her a silver sixpence to keep silent, and take up a nosegay of sweet herbs. Then I creep down the back staircase of my apartments, which lead to the stable-yard, and head for the river and Whitehall Stairs.

Dr Dee is not the only famous necromancer in London. There are plenty of charlatans – like the notorious Edward Kelley – but also some whose fame recommends them. And there is one particular man I know of, a most extraordinary character. He lives at Stone
House, in the revestry of St Botolph’s church on Thames Street, and his name is Simon Forman.

I make my way in haste along the narrow streets with my vizard down, picking my way around the spewed filth and avoiding the stinking kennel that gushes along beside my feet. The bright sky seems further from me now, high and pure and unreachable. I look up, and see the clouds banked into linen piles, a pattern of swallows turning first this way, then that. Between us is a veil of hidden spirits, waiting, watching, depending on mortal frailty.

Dr Forman’s door is opened by an odd-looking little man, shorter than I am, with red hair, freckled skin and a yellow beard. He reminds me of a scrawny tabby-cat. Yet he is dressed to some effect, in a long purple robe with fur-trimmed sleeves, and has a confident and sprightly manner. There is no doubt that I have come to the right place.

‘You are late,’ he says.

‘No, sir, there must be some confusion. I am not expected.’

He beckons me inside. ‘I am not sure yet of your name, but you are entirely the person whose arrival I anticipated.’

‘I do not see how you can “expect” a person who is unknown to you,’ I say.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says Dr Forman. ‘I saw that yellow dress. Though I don’t believe the cap is yours, nor yet your dag-tailed cloak.’

I sit down on the chair he offers, too anxious and confused to argue further, and look around me. It is a lofty, ecclesiastic room, with a chill coming off the walls in spite of the log fire in the hearth. There are strange charts and pictures on the walls, and I notice a globe set upon a cedarwood stand, a quadrant, used to measure the altitude of the stars and a watch clock, with seconds marked around its rim.

‘Now, let me see…’ Dr Forman sits down beside me and looks at me intently. ‘You say you know who I am?’

‘You are Simon Forman. A necromancer. And you cured yourself of the plague.’

‘Correct, insofar as that is of course my name; correct in that I have a physick for the pestilence, incorrect in this: “necromancer” is not my occupation. I am a physician.’

‘There are as many degrees of
that
profession as there are lice upon a doxy’s head.’

He smiles at me. I notice that his eyes seem paler at the centre, around his pupil. Then he rummages around in a wickerwork basket, humming to himself. Taking out a leather-bound volume and some papers, he clears his throat, picks up his quill, dips it in his ink-pot and says, ‘Name?’

‘I thought you knew me.’

‘No, my dear, I merely said I was expecting you. Your name?’

‘Aemilia Bassano.’

He looks at me over his spectacles, his ginger eyebrows raised. ‘Indeed! Most interesting.’ He scribbles, smiling. ‘This is fortunate, a most auspicious turn…’

After a moment, he puts his quill down and clears his throat again. ‘Now, what do you know about magic?’

‘That it exists. That there are wise men who have spent years learning it, and wise women, who know what they are about through instinct and old tales.’

‘Aha! Yes. I knew that you were clever.’

I flush in spite of myself. ‘By looking at me?’

‘From your reputation. And your
extra-ordinary
manner. Has the Lord created a separate degree for you? I cannot for the life of me see where you fit.’

‘I don’t need to “fit”, sir. I will find my own place.’

‘You are a scholar, so I have heard?’

‘I believe I know as much as any lord, and more than all ladies, excepting only our great Queen.’

‘A bold claim! There are great ladies whose knowledge of the ancients is far in excess of mine.’

‘I speak of knowledge, sir, which is not the bed-equal of learning. A fool may learn, but what will he know? Teach a jackanapes his Latin and he can cant out Cicero. I speak of what comes from learning. I speak of understanding.’

‘I see. And where has this “understanding” taken you?’

‘To the brink of what can be borne. To a certainty that what contains me will always be too small. To a fear that I shall not be happy. To the quest for a twin soul.’

He sits back in his chair, settles himself more comfortably in his robes, and says, ‘I can tell you a little of your future if you will tell me a little of your past. I see rich widows and Court ladies and all manner of womenfolk in their various degrees, but I have never seen one quite like you.’

So I tell him. I tell him that I do not think of myself as clever, or unusual, or in any manner different from any other girl whose father had been murdered before her eyes, or for whom music and poetry are a daily joy.

He strokes his beard. ‘Who killed your father?’

‘I don’t know. Some years before his death, there was a first attempt, and the conspirators were tortured and banished. But we don’t know who murdered him. No one knows.’

He nods. ‘What did your mother say about this?’

‘It was never spoken of.’

‘Not even after he was murdered?’

‘Not even then. We talked about his life, not his death. How his father made instruments for the Doge of Venice, and how Baptiste – my father – sailed all the way to London with his five brothers, and was the greatest player in the King’s consort –’

‘And after he died?’

‘Mother kept his recorder hidden in a secret place, but I knew where it was. And sometimes, when I was alone, I would get it out and play some notes upon it, and it seemed to me…’ I hesitate, not sure if I want to say more.

‘What?’

It had seemed that the recorder held its own music, and there were notes waiting for me, and the sound flowed upwards; so beautiful. This was the reason that I began to play the virginals, and would practise and practise. I was seeking those sweet notes.

‘You are gifted,’ says Forman, decisively. ‘You are your father’s daughter. And yet you didn’t ask your mother why he was killed? Or who did this terrible thing?’

I shrug. ‘Murder is common enough.’ I do not say that I know it was bound up with the extraordinary beauty of his music, and with his being a Jew. I know that great gifts come at a price, and that not all talent inspires admiration. His was too much; it set him apart.

I know that I was happy, those first seven years. So much of what I remember is like a giant’s eye view of people far below, and this is because my father was in the habit of walking with me on his shoulders. I remember tangling my fingers in his black, curling hair, and seeing the panorama of the streets and fields stretching out around me, and the sudden knowledge that this was a busy and various world, and that behind one thing lay another, and then another, and this roof-muddle and
chimney-forest
and mêlée of men and carts and horses was all around, on every side. The Jesuits say a child is theirs for life if they have him for seven years. I have often wondered if being carried on his shoulders in this manner made me see the world through his eyes. And perhaps it was his tenderness that gave me my reverence for love.

My memories have distracted me. Forman is writing in his book.

‘And this great learning of yours,’ he says, scratching away. ‘How did you come to acquire it?’