Dark Aemilia (21 page)

‘How long has… Henry been gone?’ asks Will.

‘Hours past. Hours and hours,’ say I. ‘I thought he was in the house – he might have been running amok since midday.’

‘He might have been among the plague-pits these last ten hours,’ says Dekker. ‘Boys do love these places.’

My voice cracks. ‘Dear God!’

‘Show some sympathy for this poor lady, will you?’ says Will. ‘For pity’s sake, she’s at her wits’ end. Her son is gone!’

‘Not gone,’ I say, quickly. ‘He is mislaid.’

Dekker smiles. ‘There is no one in London who doesn’t run the risk of catching this disease,’ he says. ‘And most of us will live to tell the tale. I certainly hope I shall, for there is money in it. I plan to call my pamphlet
A Wonderful Year
. Satire,’ he says quickly, catching Will’s eye and clearly wanting to avoid another reproof.

‘Look, Tom, go up ahead and see where that cart is heading,’ says Will.

Whistling cheerily, Dekker obliges. We watch his torch move forward in a jaunty fashion through the darkness.

Then Will says, ‘Aemilia, the boy – ’

‘He will be near, and we will find him,’ I say. ‘Have no fear of that.’

‘He has such a look of Hamnet.’

‘It makes no odds to us now, does it? We are estranged.’

‘I know he is my son.’

We walk in silence for a moment.

‘You have eyes to see: so be it,’ I say. ‘But he calls Alfonso “Father”.’

He turns to look down at me, and holds the torch higher so that he can see my face. ‘Do you wish to punish me?’

‘Who has punished whom?’ I ask. ‘What am I – a foul-breathed Lilith? A demon succubus, come to corrupt you? I still have those poems you wrote – some strange respect for Art prevents me from burning them to ash. If there is a distinction in inspiring a poetry of hate, then I can claim it.’

‘Aemilia – those poems – the words I used against you…’

But then Dekker returns, breathless. ‘I have found the pit,’ he says, all levity gone. ‘There’s no mistaking it. God save us all.’

We have reached the end of the lanes of Westminster, and come to open fields. Ahead of us, on the brow of a hill, a bonfire burns, lighting up the shapes of a crowd of people. There are smaller figures – children – among then. The cart has stopped at
the bonfire, and the driver is climbing down. Will pulls my arm and we step back into the shadow of a hay-barn.

‘What a terrible place,’ says Dekker. ‘Jesu. I have seen nothing like it.’

‘Aemilia – let Tom and I go up ahead and see if he is there,’ says Will. ‘You will be safe here.’

‘It’s not fit for a woman,’ says Dekker. ‘Truly, madam.’

‘I would not think of staying behind,’ I say. ‘I would go into Hell to save my son. A plague-pit is nothing to me.’

The two men walk ahead of me and I follow, silently. I still carry my torch, and am at once grateful for the glare it casts on the rough and tussocky ground, and fearful that we will catch the attention of the watchers ahead. But no one notices us. And, when I reach the pit, I see why. The carter has backed his cart close to the open gash in the earth, so that it is hard up against the drop. Now, he stands beside it, like a showman at a Fair. All around the edge, illuminated by the flames of the crackling bonfire, stands a motley group of citizens such as I never wish to see again. They are like the walking dead themselves, battered and bedraggled beyond humanity.

‘Show us your wares!’ shouts one, an old man with bullfrog eyeballs bulging from his skull.

‘Yes, do your worst. Let’s see what ingredients we can put into our pot!’ shouts a young bawd, pale and hollow-cheeked, with a baby at her breast and a small child clutching at her skirts with its skinny arms. The bawd is swaying, and shaking, and I suspect it will not be long before she tumbles down herself. I look into the grave, and at first can see nothing, for the pit is twenty or thirty feet deep, and the fire casts little light into its depth. But when I look closer I see that what at first seemed like gravel and stones in the shadows is a muddle of hands and feet and faces, piled and confused and tangled. The bawd is right: the grave is a cauldron, and this is human stew.

‘Now then, now then, ladies and gentlemen, babes and children, all,’ says the carter, clapping his filthy hands to win the
attention of the crowd. ‘This is a good night, and good business. Sixpence I get for each of these deadmen, which you are about to see before you. The more of them, the better my breakfast. The Lord God is truly shining his light upon me.’

‘Praise God in his wisdom,’ shouts some ague-addled fool.

The carter goes to his plague-carriage and fetches the first corpse. It is the body of a big, wide-set man, of maybe twenty years or so. It is hard to tell, as its face is grey and twisted, and corrupted with sores.

‘Here’s a fine fellow,’ says the carter. ‘Wave at your attendants, good sir!’ He flops the hand of the deadman at the watchers. ‘We all know that worms need no apparel, saving only winding-sheets. So – let us take off what needs to be taken off.’ He drops the corpse down, removes the doublet, and feels inside the pocket. ‘Oh, indeed, my Maker blesses me once more!’ He waves a leather bag before us, and drops the contents into his palm. ‘Seven pieces of silver! I am near as rich as Judas! Thank you, sir!’ And, with that, he kicks the poor fellow into the grave.

Next, he produces a naked baby. ‘Nothing to speak of this small fry,’ he says, holding it up by one leg. ‘And I can see it has no pockets.’ He tosses it into the pit, grinning as he does so.

I glance at Will. His face is clenched, as if he is willing himself to stay silent. I think this wise. The dead are dead, and God himself will deal with this man when he meets his end.

But here is something different, and which seems to interest the fellow more than either of the first two bodies. He lifts a young girl from the cart, aged sixteen or seventeen years. She is a veritable Juliet, with long, pale hair, as dainty and beautiful a young virgin as you could wish for. And she is still dressed in a fine gown, the ruff standing half-off, like a torn petal.

‘O-ho,’ says the carter. ‘O-ho, again the Lord has showed me favour! What form of patient goddess have we here? Death is greedy. He takes this plump peach for his own and ravishes it like any hungry lover.’ And with this he turns the girl round, so her
head and shoulders flop down and she is bent double before him, then he lifts her skirts and pretends to hump her from behind. There are calls and cheers from the crowd.

But he has not finished yet. ‘Let’s have a look at her fine titties,’ says the carter, dropping the body down. ‘Would she had been so pliant in life. Would that I could have tiptoed into her bedchamber, and fucked her while she breathed. Never mind, I’ll have her now.’ With this he begins to unlace her bodice, but, finding it stiff, he tears at the fabric, muttering to himself. After a moment, he hauls her to her feet, facing us, with her small breasts revealed. ‘Who wants a lick of these fine dugs?’ he calls. ‘Come on, I’ll make my price on this excellent bitch. Sixpence for one lick, a shilling for two. Or – ’

Out of the night, out of nowhere, a figure comes rushing towards him.

‘Aargh – you shall die, you stinking Devil!’ screams a voice. I know that voice! I know it! There is a mighty roar from the carter, and the dead virgin drops into the pit.

‘He bit me! He bit me, the demon!’ shouts the carter, falling to his knees.

‘Henry!’ I shriek. ‘Henry, in the name of God!’ I rush round the edge of the pit, wielding my torch like a pikestaff and pushing the watching ghouls out of my way. But Will runs faster, waving his sword, and pulls the sobbing Henry away.

‘Henry! Stop this at once!’

‘Henry!’ I scream, and catch him in my arms.

‘Now fly – go!’ shouts Will, and he and Dekker face the carter, swords and torches in hand. But the rabble, deprived of its sport, is shouting and coming closer. The carter lunges at Will, who thrusts the burning torch at his beard. It catches fire and flames leap up around the carter’s blackening face. The crowd begins to run at us, and we all turn and flee towards the cart. I am clutching Henry’s hand as we run. Dekker gets there first, and then we throw ourselves upon it and he whips up the old mare and she
lurches forward. Before the crowd can reach us she has lumbered to a canter over the uneven grass.

Dekker laughs wildly and cries, ‘My God, we’ve escaped Hell, my friends! We’ve seen Death, plain as a pikestaff, and cheated him!’

But Will says nothing. His eyes are fixed on Henry.

When I dare to look behind me, the bonfire is growing smaller in the distance, and the cries of the crowd are fading, and I hold my son so tightly in my arms that they begin to ache.

Henry sleeps till noon the next day, eats some bread and drinks some ale, then sleeps again till evening. When I go up to see him, he is lying in my bed, eyes open, looking thoughtfully at the embroidered hangings.

‘I shall be good from now on,’ he says. ‘Biting the carter is the worst thing I will ever do.’

‘Indeed, I hope so.’ My throat is dry – why is he such a madcap child?
Please Lord
, I pray.
There was goodness in his heart. He was avenging that poor girl.

‘I shall fit myself for Heaven.’

I shiver and close the window. ‘You have plenty of time for that,’ I say. ‘Year upon year. You will be an old man, all bent, with a white beard hanging down to your knees.’

Further along the street they are closing up another plague-house. The carpenters are smoking tobacco pipes and leaning planks of wood against the house front. A topless cross of St Anthony is painted in red on the wall to the right of the front door. The carpenters work calmly and slowly, as if taking pride in their craft.

‘I shall fit myself in any case.’ Henry smiles at me, so sweetly. ‘I would have killed the plague-man if I could, so it’s good I wasn’t able to, else I would be a murderer.’

‘It was very good we stopped you. Now, would you like a gingerbread man? Joan has been baking.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

A spasm of fear in my guts. Henry is always hungry.

‘Just a little?’ I say. ‘Just a tiny bit? I could break you off an arm or a leg?

‘No, I will sleep again now.’

‘Good.’ There are tears behind my eyes. ‘Good boy.’ I smooth his brow, and he closes his eyes.

When I go back, half an hour later, with a cup of small beer, I touch his forehead, the little scar above his eyebrow where he had fallen from the window while trying to skewer a raven on his sword. He is slightly warm. Perhaps he will be well by morning, running into the kitchen demanding bakemeats and a farthing.

I stroke his face, and kiss his closed eyelids. Not a single lash shall be harmed; not a grubby toenail. I will stand between him and all that could threaten his safety. I will turn the plague from my door. I will face down the spectre of the Reaper, and cast it out, and it will limp away down the road, dark robe flapping, till it vanishes. My head aches, and when I shut my eyes I can see the Reaper’s crow-form, black on red. I get into bed beside Henry and begin to pray, mouthing the words silently so that only God will hear them. But something is wrong: my mind is blanked with dead walls, and the ache of my head beats against them. The prayer I want will not come, only the litany:

‘O God the Father of Heaven: have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’
And then the response from the congregation. A thousand whisperers in my head, beneath the bed, behind the wainscot like black rats: ‘
O God the Father of Heaven: have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’

I try again, seeking the prayer against the pestilence. But only say, ‘
O God the Son, Redeemer of the world: have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’
And there are the voices again, but this time I can only hear the rats: ‘
O God the Son, Redeemer of the world: have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’

The tears run down my cheeks. Where is God? How can He hear me, down among the carrion and filth?
‘O God the Holy Ghost, proceeding from the Father and the Son: have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’
The rats are ready for me: ‘
Have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’

I raise my head, and listen. Silence, all around me, save for the rasp of Henry’s breath. There is another verse – what is the verse? I close my eyes tight, tight, so there is no space for the Reaper, and bunch my hands together so the nails dig into the backs of my hands. ‘
Remember not, Lord, our offences, nor the offences of our forefathers; neither take thou vengeance of our sins: spare us, good Lord, spare thy people, whom thou has redeemed with thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us for ever.’

And then come the rats: ‘
Spare us, good Lord.’

Then I sleep, and in my dreams I feel the flames of Hellfire, rising up from the plague-pit and licking the feet of the watchers. They flock like patterned starlings against the roaring sky. When I wake, with a start, the flames still burn me, and I shrink away from the heat. My hand touches Henry’s arm – flung out on the top of the covers – and I gasp, for his skin is burning hot. I bend to look at him. His eyes are half-open, and his breathing shallow. I push back his hair, and it is soaking wet.

‘Mother,’ he says. His voice is clear but small.

‘What, my little one?’ I touch his cheek with trembling fingers.

‘Take my head away.’

‘How can I, silly boy, when it’s stuck fast to your neck?’ There are tears on my face, and a raging pain behind my eyes. Is it his pain, or mine?

‘It aches me. It’s grown too big. You could tear it off and take it to the Bridge, and spike it up high, and the wind and air would cool me.’

‘Don’t speak of such – ’

‘I could see all the orchards of Kent, and the village ponds, and the hop fields and the apple trees going on and on till they reach the sea.’

‘Henry! My love, my little love…’

‘And then I could see the wild waves, and mermaids, and then France, and Venice after that, and then Constantinople and Ethiopia, where the dragons are ten fathoms long. My head is no good here.’ He looks at me, and starts. ‘But you’re not my mother.’

‘Yes, I
am
, dearest chuck. For good or ill, you have no other.’ I gather him to me, and hold his quivering form against my chest.

‘But you are old,’ he whispers. ‘My mother is young, and beautiful.’

‘My sweet boy, I am still your mother!’ I wonder where my light tone comes from, when I am brimful of fear. I talk as if the fairyland he describes is real, and the open grave of London just a dream.

‘No.’ His eyes close. I rock him, as I did when he was a baby. For this child I have lost everything: Will’s love, Hunsdon’s protection and my place at Court. I have sacrificed wealth and position and the only life I knew. And I have never wished it otherwise, not for one second, no matter what befell me. He is my son, my only child. There is no transaction to be made with such a love. I wish I could pass all the goodness and strength in my own body through to him. Save him, Lord! Save him! I search again for the right prayer, and this time come upon the words, ‘
Deus, Deus meus
,’ then the Latin fades to English and I cry out, ‘
My God, my God, look upon me; why has thou forsaken me: and art so far from my health, and the words of my complaint? O my God, I cry in the daytime, and in the night season also, I take no rest…’

There is a blank, then I try again.

‘
All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out their lips, and shake their heads, saying, She trusted in God, that would deliver her, let Him deliver her, if he will have her…
O
go not from me, for trouble is hard at hand, and there is none to help me!’

But my voice rises to a monstrous wail, a she-wolf howling at the moon. This is not the prayer I need. Where is the prayer I am looking for, the spell that will summon the Lord? I stare up at the carved roof of the four-poster bed, and the brightly coloured waves and fishes heave and shift.

Then I see that Henry’s eyes are fixed on me again. ‘I’ve learned my lessons, Mother, don’t beat me!’

‘My son, what are you saying?
Who
beats you?’

His eyes are blank and staring. ‘I’ve learned it well, the lesson. That all things have their situation, and must remain in that place. All things in Creation, fixed, like stars.’

‘Rest, sweet baby; it doesn’t mean a jot.’

‘Of fish: carp, cod, dace, dog-fish, shark, eel, gudgeon, herring. And then the porpoise.’

‘Henry – ’

‘Of creeping things – worm, serpent, adder, blindworm, slug and snail. And then the lizard and the gilded newt.’

I open my mouth to speak, but can make no sound.

‘Of flies… house fly, blue-bottle, flesh-fly, louse and sheep tick. And then the… merry flea.’

He closes his eyes and I kiss his fluttering lids. ‘That is enough now. The schoolmaster will be pleased with you. All God’s Creation. In its place.’

He sits upright. ‘But Mother, I have not done the dogs! The dogs must take their places! Let me do the dogs!’

‘Do the dogs, my child. Yes, please do the dogs.’

He lies down again, and speaks precisely, checking the words off on his damp fingers. ‘First the three ranks: game dog, house-dog, toy dog.’

‘Well said.’

‘Of game dogs: spaniels and hounds. Of hounds, eight kinds: harriers, temurs, bloodhounds, gazehounds, greyhounds,
lymnes, tumblers and thieves. Of spaniels, the water spaniel and the land spaniel, for falconry.’

Joan is standing at the doorway.

‘You should have called me,’ she says.

I scramble out of the bed and run to her, tripping and staggering. I put my hand on her thin shoulder to steady myself. ‘He has a fever. That’s all. A touch of fever. We must give him something from your physick store. A draught – to take away the heat.’

But Henry is not yet done. ‘Dogs of the homelier kind. Are either shepherd’s curs, or mastiffs, which can be…’ He seems to drift, then comes back, his voice louder. ‘Barn-dogs. Tie-dogs. And watchdogs.’

Joan stares at him, her eyes wide with sorrow.

‘And then… the toy dogs. Of the sort which lick a lady’s lips…’

His voice fades, till I hear the faintest sound of growling. ‘The mastiff is a proud dog. Three can match a bear, and four can eat a lion.’

Joan looks at my torn gown and tangled hair. ‘Lord save us,’ she whispers. ‘God help the little fellow.’

Her tone is kind, but I hate her hopeless words.

‘
We
must help him,’ I say. ‘We must soothe the fever. Come now, you are the one with all the knowledge.’

‘Mistress, I will help you all I can. But we must be brave. We must be ready. Half the people in this street have buried babes and children.’

I close my eyes, to will her voice away.

She grasps my hands. ‘The Flemish family – four doors down – had fourteen girls and buried nine. You know this as well as I do. The plague is not even the worst of it. Sweating sickness, drowning, hunting-dogs, the pox. Five infants died in the baker’s fire just one week past. You can’t guard Henry against every danger, for all your care. But – God willing – he
may yet live for threescore years and ten. Put your trust in the Lord.’

I pull away. ‘Bring me what you have to cure him!’

‘Willow tea might soothe him a little. But for the pestilence itself there is no physick.’

‘God’s blood, Joan, I thought you were a wise woman! What wisdom is this? What about the plague-juice, the recipe you made?’

‘Mistress, your worry is numbing your mind. It’s for
prevention
,’ she says. ‘Not for cure. Only God in his mercy knows how to cure the pestilence.’ And – so suddenly that I first think she has fallen – she sinks down upon the rushes. She puts her hands together, ready to pray.

I run barefoot from the chamber and down into the kitchen. The still-room is next to the cupboard on which I keep what is left of my pewter. It is lined with shelves, and barely big enough for a single person to stand up in. There Joan stores not only her potions and libations, but clear cakes of gooseberry, rose-hip conserves, syrups of green quince and melon, pickled nasturtium-buds, ashen keys, radish-pods and broom-buds – all stored in pots and capped with leather. Every manner of thing, in short, which Henry loves. I search the shelves, my breath coming in queer sobs. Each pot has been labelled in his best italic hand: he and Joan work together, she calling out the name, and Henry writing it down. I grab at the pots and bottles, and fling them on to the trestle table. A jar of moss-powder rolls over the edge of the table, and smashes to pieces on the stone-flagged floor.

‘Calm yourself, you’ll do him no good that way,’ says Joan.

I turn to face her, my head full of aches and murmurs. ‘I thought you had given him up for dead.’

She takes down a jar of hemlock. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘What did you mean, then?’

‘There is always the hope of a miracle.’

But God does not love Henry as I love him! Other children are dying, so why should He save mine? I need some other power, some other lore. There is one man who might help me in this enterprise, and, if the price of his power is a so-called ‘halek’, then I will fuck him for his knowledge just as Anne Flood fucks Inchbald to keep a roof over her head.

‘I’m going out,’ I say, putting on my cloak.

Joan looks up, startled. ‘What, and leave Henry at such a time? And where to, in Heaven’s name?’

‘I will find a cure for him. You will nurse him well, I know.’ I fasten my shoes.

‘You’re going alone?’

‘Of course. Mind Henry, and, if he asks for me, say I will be back before he knows it.’

She looks out of the window. ‘I pray to God you are true to your word. Be careful, mistress, and be quick.’