Dark Aemilia (33 page)

It is dawn. Will is still sleeping, and I look down at his face. Just as I used to many years ago, when I was someone else. He is quite beautiful, so pale. I don’t kiss him. I dare not. The room assaults me with its stark reality, all boxed and tight and quotidian. I get up, and pull my dress on. There are some papers on the desk, and I pick up a quill and dip it in the lamp-black. For a moment, my hand hovers over the page, but I don’t know what to put. In the end, all I can write is:
I have loved you
. Nothing else makes any sense.

When I get home, I go up to my room and fetch down Forman’s grimoire. I page through it, breathless, looking for guidance. Is there a spell, a form of words, which can undo a summoning? I have a nagging, sickened feeling. I am not sure what anything means. I hardly know myself. I poke the fire, seeing Lilith in the circle. Did I really summon her? Did it matter that I tumbled into the circle? Nothing seems right; nothing seems to be in my control.

With the cooking-pot simmering on the fire, and the cat sitting hump-backed by the scuttle, reality seems too solid for such wild fancies. I have not been in my right mind. I have walked at night, and my febrile nature has always been at odds with my strong will. This sudden night with Will is thrumming in my head, each touch, each cry. Perhaps my passion for him has broken some dark spell? I tip sea-coal from the scuttle and my spirits lift. I will have him. I will have my lover, every inch of him, night after night. Why should I not? Henry will not
suffer from my lying with his natural father. I can forgive Will for the sonnet book; I can forgive him for the play. What was I thinking of? Is God my master, or Lucifer and all the crones of Hell? I must go. I must go to the Globe, and see that play for myself, and hope to God that all is well.

Henry comes rushing in, bouncing a ball.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask, hiding the book in my skirts. ‘Just because I am out on business, and Marie is resting, it does not mean you are free to run amok.’

‘I have been playing football all around the town. You never saw such sport!’ says Henry, sawing off a hunk of bread. ‘We made the length of Long Ditch our pitch, and took on a score of prentice-boys and beat them soundly, though they bragged they’d trash us! What weakly, flap-eared knaves!’ He stuffs the bread into his mouth all in one go.

‘Those prentice-boys will stab you as soon as look as you, some of them. They’re vile, rough creatures, who can’t even spell their names,’ said I, taking the ball up and keeping it. ‘You should be safe at home, with Ovid and your hornbook.’

‘Ovid!’ says Henry, or something like it, through the bread. He pulls a goblin face. ‘What does Ovid know? I saw a Serpent with a woman’s face – where’s
that
in your Ovid?’

‘
What
?’

‘She is not real, Mother, don’t stare so! A fellow had a stall and charged us two farthings to have a look at his Lilith, Queen of Death. She is part woman, part Serpent. I touched her wings,’ he says, modestly.

‘Dear God! What “fellow” was this?’

‘I don’t know. His stall had “Lucifer” painted on the side, but I doubt that’s the name he was born with. What is the matter, Mother? You are looking queer.’

I stand up, my head reeling. ‘I am much put out and barely know which way to turn.’

He swallows the bread and pours out a glass of small beer.

‘Because of Marie and her joined-up twins? Shall they always be such monsters? They are loathsome as all Hell!’ He glugs back his drink with relish.

‘No – because of… other matters. Things which do not concern you.’ In truth, of course they do concern him.
I have just come from your father’s bed, in which we fucked like werewolves
. How would that seem? Or,
I summoned the demon you saw today
.
Do not go out at night.

Henry takes the ball deftly from me and begins to bounce it once again. ‘Anyway, you need have no fear for me this afternoon. I am off to see a play.’

‘What play?’

‘Why,
Macbeth
, of course. If I miss it now, it won’t be on for another month, and everyone else at school has seen it, and it’s steeped in blood. And Tom says he will tell the doorkeeper to let me in for nothing.’

‘
No
!’ I say, startling even myself, such is the violence of my tone. ‘No. You shall not go. I forbid it.’ I must see this dark drama alone and Henry must remain here, safe from harm.

‘But why? It is a most amazing play – everybody says so. And it’s got fighting in it, and even some history, too.’

‘I don’t care. You must stay here and help Marie and her poor children.’

I pounce on him, catch his ear between my right thumb and finger, and twist it till he cries out. In this manner, I drag him into Marie’s chamber, where she is sleeping, cradling her nuzzling twins. The spring sun is warm and heavy in the shuttered room, and a bee is buzzing drunkenly around her ale-jug.

‘Mistress!’ She jerks awake. Her face is drawn and tired. The babies begin to cry. ‘What is it?’

‘Henry will help you,’ I say. ‘Do you have need of anything?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Then will you lock the door when I am gone, and sit upon the key? And make sure he stays with you till five?’

‘Till five?’

‘Until the play is done,’ says Henry, sulking. ‘Mother, why do you persecute me so? I am not a child.’

‘Is Tom playing today?’ asks Marie. She picks up the twins and settles them into the cradle. ‘Did he tell you, we are to marry next week?’

‘That is good news,’ I say, though my mind scarce takes this in.

‘Don’t tell Mistress Flood, lest she run mad in the street.’

It’s hard to believe that I live in the same world as weddings and celebrations. How I wish that Will and I could begin again, stow away on some great ship and cross the ocean to a new world, far away. I would take Henry with me, but no other mortal, and we could be happy, somewhere, in a forest of tobacco trees. There would be no playhouses or print-shops, and no demons or deceived wives.

‘Here is the key.’ I give it to Marie, and wait outside till I hear it turn in the lock.

Why does my belly twist at the mere mention of the name ‘Macbeth’? I’m not sure. But I suspect that Lilith might do us all most dreadful harm. I can see her yellow eyes so vividly, and, though I pray to God to let her sleep once more, I have no other power to rid myself of her foul presence. Yet I fear that God has matters to attend to other than righting misbegotten spells.

As I step out of the door, who should appear but Anne herself? All done up as usual, like the Queen of the May. She has a new ruff, all silvery like a fairy wing, and her eyebrows are plucked to nothing. Tom’s misalliance has not distracted her from Fashion.

‘My dear Aemilia,’ says she. ‘You are coming too? Well, then, we must hurry if we are to catch a boatman! All of London will be there.’

‘Will be where?’ I ask in confusion, with a sinking feeling.

‘At the Globe, to see
Macbeth
! I would not miss this for all the world.’

‘I thought you were angry with me.’

‘I can’t blame you for Tom’s cock-brained foolishness! I am sure he will forget that girl in time. Now, come, quickly! It’s a shame you look so poorly, but you will have to do.’

And so I consent to be dragged towards the river on her arm. The summer sunshine is bright and warm when we set out. But the weather changes suddenly. The sun disappears and rain is falling by the time we have climbed aboard a wherry, aided by an aged boatman. I throw my cloak over the two of us, for fear that Anne’s finery will be washed away. When we reach the Globe, the storm is gathering strength. The wind crashes in the trees and rain is falling as if from a tipped bath. We sit in the second gallery, but it provides little shelter. Water streams between our feet, falling on to the heads of the groundlings below, who are slipping and falling in the mire. The covered stage, too, is awash with rain, blown inwards by the furious wind. I look up at the black sky and hear the first roar of thunder. No need for stage musicians for this performance – Nature is providing her own malevolent effects.

‘They must call it off!’ I shout to Anne.

‘No, no,’ she insists. ‘If it is on the playbill, you can be sure that they will put it on. They have the public to consider.’

A dagger of lightning splits the sky. Three figures come on to the stage, and the trumpets blast out, calling for our attention. The trio gathers around the trapdoor in the stage, and up comes a black cauldron. I look hard at these three players – where have I seen them before? They are gifted boys indeed. One looks like an ancient crone, another like a middle-aged matron, and the third appears to be a beautiful young girl with a plait of yellow hair wrapped around her head. I narrow my eyes. It is hard to see anything clearly in this rain.

The voices of the witches change, so that what first sounded like the newly broken tones of boy actors is first a keening banshee cry, and then a heavy-throated growl.

‘Who
are
the witches?’ I ask Anne. But she only grips my hand.

A heavy fog has rolled in from the river, and torches have been lit and set upon the stage, where they hiss and splutter. The crowd, subdued by the downpour, is silent. In place of heckles and cat-calls there is watchful quiet. In contrast, the voices of the three witches carry with a clear echo like words shouted into a courtyard well. There is a peculiar cold.

Lord Macbeth appears upon the back of a black destrier. The storm has upset the beast, and it is clattering round in circles, tail lashing, showing the whites of its eyes. Its hooves slip waywardly on the wet boards. Macbeth (who is Dick Burbage) is about to speak, but there is another flash of lightning, a livid fork above us, and the stallion screams. It rears up, pawing the air, and Burbage comes crashing down on to the ground. Dropping its head, the beast gallops from the stage, sending the players scattering. But none of this daunts Burbage. Not for one moment does his performance falter, and he gets back to his feet in an imperious manner, and regards the crowd calmly, hand on his sword.

And here is Lady Macbeth! You would never guess that she is only Tom, declaiming such evil words in her robe of gold and scarlet, crow-black hair hanging round her narrow face. Tom speaks his words with passion, and their meaning chills me more now than when they first spilled from my pen.

‘I don’t like this,’ whispers Anne. ‘It is unnatural.’

‘That is the point of it,’ I hiss back. ‘Macbeth should know his place.’ But, as I speak, there is a tightness in my head, as if the dead-cold of the theatre has clenched my skull. Whether through Will’s alterations or because of this storm which is making night from day, my play now has a surfeit of evil in it. But I know that I
have
to watch it, for there is some rhythm in the story that draws me further and further in.

The scenes are rapid and the drama bloody – Duncan the King is killed, Macbeth takes his place, then murders Banquo and (as he hopes) his young son Fleance. Now the stage is set out for a banquet, with a trestle table, joint-stools and long benches. King Macbeth (as he has become) begins to speak of ‘Noble Banquo’ and to express the dissembling regret that his friend cannot be present at the feast. (Though he knows full well he is dead, having paid two murderers to slay him.) I know what’s coming next, of course. The ghost of Banquo will appear, and Macbeth’s posturing as King will be sorely tested.

It would have been simple enough to have the ghost walk out from behind one of the pillars. But of course they must use their latest effect: the crane. From above the Heavens, in the uppermost corner of the space above the stage, I hear the groan of the new contraption. Now is the moment for the flying chair to prove its worth. It cranks out into the audience’s view, a suspended cradle with a seated figure strapped in place.

‘Will Shakespeare himself is playing the Ghost,’ says Anne, still gripping my hand. ‘He will do it fearsomely, you can be sure.’

The creaking arm swivels slowly round. The figure is wearing a black cloak, and its face is hidden. There is something odd about its stance, something less than human.

‘He always does the ghosts,’ says Anne. ‘There is almost nothing to it. He never had enough voice for a major part.’ Her voice is tight with terror. Slowly, slowly, dangling in its seat, the chair creaks down towards the smoky stage. Macbeth’s courtiers
carouse among the flaring lights as the cloaked form descends. Then there is a cracking sound, like stone breaking, and screams from the stage.

‘What?’ I say, trying to see more plainly. ‘
What
?’ I stand up, in spite of the hisses and the cries of annoyance from behind me, and begin to push my way along the row. I can’t see anything but the heads and shoulders of the audience; I can’t see anything.

I reach the stairway and now the stage is spread before me – yet all is chaos there. Burbage is standing with his mouth wide open. Where is Tom? Where is his Queen? I stumble, amid a rage of protestation. The crowd roars. Everyone is standing. Something has happened. There is another terrible scream – I push this way and that way – I am blocked wherever I turn. What is wrong? What is it? At last I break through, hurry down into the pit and run squelching through the mire, shoving my way through the mass of people. A child cries, an old woman falls. But I keep on pushing till I reach the front, then force my way to the steps up to the stage. Panting, I reach the wet boards where the lights flare and the fog drifts. I’m half-expecting Heminge or another player to bar my way. But everyone is frozen, spell-bound. A dozen courtiers, faces mask-like in their paint, stand motionless. The crane has fallen: the great arm must have broken off and is lying across the stage. Burbage is bending over a figure in a scarlet dress, lying stretched out on the ground in a pool which is also scarlet. Tom. His wig has fallen off and his hair is splayed out all around him on the boards. His eyes are wide open, staring upwards. The arm of the crane has smashed into his chest, and pinned him to the ground.