Elizabeth I (39 page)

There was a soft knocking at the door. I let it repeat itself to make sure no doorkeeper was still on duty. All was in readiness. The candles were burning brightly in the hall and in all the rooms, and potpourri of sweet roses and marjoram was scattered about in silver bowls. I had set out several kinds of wines, including a selection of the ones Robert had the tax concession on—muscadines, malmseys, and vernages. The best cheeses from Staffordshire and dried fruit were arranged on platters on a polished table in the library.

I had chosen a red velvet gown with a low neckline. Those who think people with red hair should avoid red are dullards. The hair has an orange glow that is different from crimson. The Queen knows that well enough—there is a famous portrait of her as a child wearing a red gown. Well, we are cousins and share the same coloring, and the same sense of style. Around my neck I had fastened a ruby necklace—more red. I was ready. I took a deep breath, ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them, parted them, and opened the door.

A stranger stood there.

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. I was both disappointed and nervous. What if Southampton arrived now, and this stranger spotted him?

“Yes?” I finally said.

He looked puzzled that I had opened the door myself. He could see something was amiss. His dark eyes seemed supremely intelligent, the sort that would miss nothing. Damn!

“Lady Leicester?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It could have been no other,” he said. “Your beauty, for all that it is legendary, is singular and recognizable.”

Well. He knew how to give a compliment. But what did he want? I must get rid of him.

“I have a manuscript for the Earl of Southampton, my patron,” he said. “But the Earl of Essex wanted to read it first, so I promised to bring it here.”

Patron. Southampton. “You must be that Shakespeare fellow. The one who wrote”—let my memory not fail me—“the long poem
Venus and Adonis
?”

“The same.” He kept standing there, and did not hand over the package tucked under his arm.

“Won't you come in?” I was forced to ask.

Quickly he stepped in, shaking a light dusting of snow off his shoulders. Now he presented the leather case. “It is only a first draft,” he said. “But he insisted on reading it.”

I led him in to the first chamber and put the manuscript down on the nearest table. What was the least amount of time I could politely spend before sending him on his way? Oh, Southampton, be slow in arriving!

“I came directly from court. I was to tell you that neither Southampton nor Essex can leave just yet. They have appointments that cannot be broken. But your son will be here day after tomorrow, and Southampton the day after that.”

I felt as if I had just been kicked in the stomach. I actually almost lost my breath. So it was not to be. If Southampton had to follow Robert, we would have no opportunity to be alone again.

“I see.” Suddenly the red gown made me feel like a dressed monkey, the kind fools use in their antics. Well, I might as well entertain this fellow. Now that I thought of it ... I had read snatches of his poem and it concerned the goddess Venus throwing herself at a young shepherd who would have none of it.

Was that what I had done with Southampton? Was this his way of telling me that I was unwanted, like Adonis told Venus? And how symbolic, to dispatch this poet who wrote about it. How like Southampton, to do it in this literary fashion.

“—well received at court,” Shakespeare was saying. “I plan to make changes in it before presenting it again.”

“I beg your pardon?” I must force myself to pay attention. And no point in sending him away. No one else was coming. Why waste the wine, the cheese, and the candles?

“I was saying,” he said slowly, “that my play
A Midsummer Night's Dream
was well received at court.” He was studying me, well aware that I was distracted. He was trying to ascertain why.

“Robert mentioned it,” I assured him. “He was proud of the way it was played. Congratulations to you. If it made a good impression at court, you are well on your way.”

He looked amused at what I said, as if he wanted to correct me but was too polite. “I go back and forth between pure poetry and plays,” he said. “And lately I have written sonnets for Southampton, urging him to marry and pass on his beauty to another generation. I rather like those. They allow me to ruminate on time and eternity and such like.” He grinned. “Poets enjoy that.”

“It is a theme that never itself grows old.” Grows old. Was I imagining it, or was he looking at me knowledgeably? Had Southampton told him? Was I a curiosity to him, an aged Messalina? “Would you care to see our library? You can inspect our selection of poets, and perhaps tell us what we lack.” I led him up the stairs, down the polished and silent hallway, and into the magnificent paneled library.

If he was surprised to see a table laden with wine and food, he did not show it. It was obvious I had been expecting someone; now it was equally obvious I expected that person no longer. “Would you care for malmsey? Or perhaps vernage?” I asked.

“I always favored vernage,” he said.

I poured out two goblets of it and handed his to him slowly. I touched the rim of mine to his. “Drink well,” I said, taking a sip.

His stillness unnerved me. He seemed to be in complete command of himself, not needing to chatter. He turned away and began to inspect the books lining the shelves, nodding now and then. He seemed utterly absorbed in examining the collection. The bust of Augustus looked on from his pedestal.

“What is this?” he suddenly said, picking up a marble fragment from a shelf. He ran his fingers over it.

“It is what remains of a face,” I said. “A friend brought it to us from Rome, where such pieces of antiquity are lying about for the finding. The best ones, of course, are taken by the pope for his collection. But I rather like this, for all its flaws.”

He turned it so the candlelight showed its contours, more strongly than if direct light had shone on it. “All the features are still here, in vestigial form, softly suggesting, letting us supply what is missing from our own imagination. In that way we become part of it ourselves.”

“Vestigial! I would not have expected that word, but yes, you are right.” He was making me increasingly nervous. He saw too much. I felt as naked as Eve in the Garden when God went looking for her. “More wine?” I hurried over to the table to get the flask.

“Outworn buried age,” he said fondly, still cradling the carving. “Yes, more wine.”

I refilled his glass, and mine as well. A pleasant lightness was stealing into my head.

He was not exactly handsome, but he was pleasing. His dark hair was thick and had a natural curl; through it winked a gold earring. He had unusually red lips. I tried to avoid looking into his eyes because they made me nervous. Instead I looked at his collar, his cheeks, the lips, the hair. “So you are pleased with your patron?” I asked. Even as I said it, I knew it sounded silly.

“Oh, very,” he said. “He is most generous, and appreciative. What more could a poet want?”

“To be free of a patron,” I blurted out. “Even the best is a yoke!”

“No poet can be free of a patron, not even one as successful as I after
Venus and Adonis,
” he said matter-of-factly. “But a playwright can be, and that is my intention.”

“I've no doubt you shall be successful.”

“Perhaps there is a chance of success in your ... friendship as well, Lady Leicester?” He looked boldly at me.

I stared back at him. He was tantalizing, that was the only word for it. He teased just by his presence and the eyes that saw through me. “Perhaps,” I heard myself saying. “I am always open to new friendships.”

“Indeed?” He put his glass down carefully, and laid the marble carving beside it. “Do you have many close friends, Lady Leicester?”

“I believe you know several of my friends,” I said. “And you may call me Lettice if you like.”

“I prefer ‘Laetitia,' ” he said. “That must be your real name? So much more elegant and classical.”

“Like the marble carving?” I could not help laughing. What an odd conversation this was!

“Just like the marble carving.”

It had never happened like this to me, a seduction with a stranger who did not bother to seduce, just drifted into it with classical references. I found it more exciting than compliments, verses, music, and innuendos, for it was so unusual.

The couches scattered around the library served us well; we migrated from one to another, as if each experiment had to be conducted on a different couch. Once I looked up to see Augustus, illustrious emperor and busy adulterer, sternly eyeing us, and I laughed. Perhaps that old reprobate was learning something. This one was.

Afterward—it was nearly growing light—he mentioned that I should take a look at the manuscript he had brought.

“You might recognize something in it,” he said. “It concerns a man who comes to another's wife, and the welcome he receives.”

Disappointment flooded me. How cold-blooded of him to tell me that.

“Not such a one as we have given each other, Laetitia,” he quickly assured me. “Ours is different.” He fastened his cloak and put on his hat. “It grows light. I must leave.”

Just then a thud announced the arrival of a servant. “Hurry!” I said.

He dashed down the steps and was out the door before old Timothy dragged his broom to the hall to begin sweeping.

T
his summer had been cold and rainy, like last year's, and I could see the stunted crops in the featureless fields as Essex and I rode west across the country to Shrewsbury. We were on a pilgrimage of sorts, a visit to an oracle.

Robert had told me one spring night of a man living near Shrewsbury who was the oldest man in England.

“His name is Thomas Parr, and he was born in 1483,” he said. “That makes him one hundred and twelve years old.”

“When will you cease to be a liar, Robert?” I had giggled. We had been up late playing cards, and I was light-headed.

His face had gone rigid, insulted. “I am not lying! I have heard of him since I was a child. My sisters visited him once. You don't believe me? I'll take you there!”

“I had planned a Progress in the opposite direction.”

“Change your plans. Better yet, forget the Progress and come alone with me.” He put down his cards and leaned toward me. “Aren't you bored with Progresses? They are always the same. How can you stand another speech, another bad drama, another off-key choir?”

I could stand it because I had to, and because it was expected of me. And seeing their eagerness to perform, their desire to please, was important to me.

“Stop tempting me to neglect my duty,” I chided him, picking up his hand and stroking it. Such a fine hand.

“I
am
temptation,” he whispered. “I'll act as your guide, I'll show you my ancestral lands, on the border of Wales. Yours, too—your grandfather was Welsh, and we are cousins,” he reminded me. “Your child-uncle Arthur lies buried at Ludlow, and my father is buried at Carmarthen, near Merlin's cave. It is in our blood. You must see it!”

I let his hand go. No. I should go on a Progress to assure my people. It was my duty. But—

“Very well,” I said, raising my eyes quickly, hoping to catch his honest expression.

He looked delighted. Nothing else, no flitting triumph or consternation in his face.

“Oh, thanks be to the gods! I had not dared to hope my poor appeal would be heard. But I truly meant it. We will journey to an enchanted land. Together.”