"Aye," he said. "That and refusing to bear me children."
She turned to him again, for the first time since their struggle. "Yes, a woman's revenge is that. I shall give you no pleasure of my body save that which you can get from seeing others enjoy it, and no child either."
He rose from the bed, his groin aching still with the pain of her kick, and came to where she stood by the mirror. "We are more alike than you think," he said almost tenderly. "Perhaps that is why our hatred, for one another is so enduring. We depend upon each other too much. Without me you would be nothing, for although you are fair you are poor and would be lucky to find another husband suited to your tastes."
"And why is it that you need me, other than for your toys?"
"I need you because we are not merely playmates but fellow conspirators. We are such that batten upon mutual distrust, perhaps because we dislike so much something within ourselves. Our hatred for one another gives a preferable vent to it."
"You are ever philosophical after a quarrel."
"You inspire many moods in me," he said with ill-concealed sarcasm.
Recognizing his change in tone, she turned and looked at him again. He stood there, his suit fitting him loosely as it did men large of frame, his black hair tousled, his thick lips formed into a kind of smile. She recognized the expression and, after the three years they had lived together, the significance of his carriage as he began walking toward her.
"We have quarreled and hurt one another," he said softly.
"It is but nine of the morning," she said, feeling his hands firmly on her shoulders.
"I have caused you pain," he said gently.
"You have caused me grievous pain in body and mind."
"I cannot undo now the pain I have caused in mind, yet I can ease the body."
"By yourself?" she asked, looking into his eyes curiously.
"May I not try?"
She suffered him to remove her gown. His hands were white and cold, and she shivered. Then he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed, and began undressing himself. She turned her face to the wall and waited until she felt the bed groan under his weight. He shut her eyes with his lips when he pulled her to him; she felt him kiss her neck. Then she resigned herself dutifully. She hardly felt him enter her; she was attentive only to his dead weight and heavy breathing, his effort to complete the act, and his ultimate failure. She thought, Is it because I do not love him, cannot love him? Then she began to giggle, softly at first, until her laughter became the howl of a wounded animal.
It was dark inside. In the corner Varnell saw Simon the hostler lying beneath blankets shivering. As he drew close, he could see that the man was caught in the grip of fever. He shook uncontrollably and his wrinkled face was flushed as though he had been bending over a fire.
Varnell knelt by the hostler, pushing aside the gray hairs that had fallen down over his face. The hostler breathed heavily. "You are sick, man?" Varnell asked.
"Do I look well?" Simon croaked, his voice seeming to come not from his throat but from some subterranean region of his chest.
"I came down with the fever not two hours since, when I finished slopping the hogs. Twas the work the girl used to do before she drowned in the pond. Maybe 'tis a sign I will be the next to go, though they'll not be getting me to the water. I'll die in the straw, and let the rats pick my bones like they done the players' boy." Between wheezes, the man began to blubber.
My God, the secretary thought, the man's delirious. Suddenly he realized that should Simon die he would have confessed to a crime without a witness to testify to his limited part in it.
"Are you thirsty?" he asked urgently.
The hostler raised a hand, pointing to a pail in the corner of the stall. Varnell took the dipper, filled it full of the rank, cloudy liquid, and raised it to the hostler's lips. Simon's eyes remained glassy, as though caught up in some private vision.
"Does the innkeeper know that you are ill?"
Simon shook his head. Varnell gathered some straw to pillow the old man's head and hurried from the stable to the inn, where he found Master Rowley at his accounts.
The innkeeper looked up sullenly from his work, obviously unhappy at the interruption.
"Did you know that your man Simon lies of the fever in the stable?"
The innkeeper scowled, gnawing at his lower lip. "What's that to me," he snarled. "Simon does little enough of his work when he is fit."
"But he may die," Varnell protested.
"If he does, I may find five boys in Chelmsford who will oblige me with their service at half his pay and earn their keep as he does not.''
The secretary's heart sank. The man was obviously in a black mood and would not easily be moved to charity or pity, not on such a day as this.
"But he is your servant, shiftless or not, and you are bound by law to see to him," Varnell began, trying another tack.
The man placed his quill on the table beside him and rose to his fall height. He spoke harshly. "And has the enforcing of laws been added to your duties, Master Sec-.retary, that you come to trouble an honest man with your scurvy face?"
Varnell had, he well knew, no talent for physical adventures of the sort the innkeeper's wrath promised. He backed toward the door, his heart beating like a soldier's drum.
"Then I will see to the man myself," he said weakly as he pushed open the door and once again felt the drizzle of rain splash upon his bare head. The damp air and excitement of his encounter with the innkeeper had inspired him with a powerful need to move his bowels, but he made his way directly again to the stable to see to the hostler.
The man was clearly worse. His withered face now seemed bloated and purple. It crossed VarneH's mind that this illness might be no simple fever but the plague, and he shuddered fearfully. Yet he could not leave the man's side, for his witness to murder was not more essential than ever if he was to regain credit with his mistress.
Finally he could hold himself no longer, despite his anxiety about the hostler. He decided against making his way in the mud to the jakes and went instead into a darker corner of the stable and relieved himself. The release gave him pleasure, a little consolation in the midst of his discontent. When he returned, he found Simon even more incoherent, mumbling all manner of nonsense about demons and witches. Varnell removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the man's brow. Simon's uncontrollable quivering and shaking now increased, and then suddenly he lay quiet. The hostler shut his eyes and began to breathe more softly.
Exhausted from the excitement, Varnell rested his head on his knees and soon after fell into a fitful sleep himself. He dreamed of his mistress again, as he had many nights of late. But in his restless slumber she appeared to him only in the vaguest of outlines, the familiar features of her face confused with those of his London whore. She drew toward him, her slender arms outstretched as though to embrace him lovingly. Then a look of horror fell upon her countenance as though she had just caught sight of some loathsome unnatural thing. The image vanished, then reappeared, but this time the face was that of the players' boy, his mouth agape in an agonizing voiceless scream. Varnell tried to scream too, but he could make no sound. In his sleep he could feel the sweat running from his hair onto his nose and down the sides of his mouth. It ran into the thin hairs of his mustache.
He awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his legs painfully cramped. At once he looked to the hostler. The man's face was contorted. The eyes were open, staring at him vacantly, as though his last thought were some question, now quite irrelevant. Then Varnell saw the great rat sitting on the hostler's belly, his small black nose twitching nervously. He kicked out at the rat, awkwardly and ineffectually, emitting at the same time a cry of anger and disgust. The creature gave him a scornful look,,then scampered into the recesses of the stable.
She daubed more powder on her neck, but just enough to hide the bruise his fingers had made. In the mirror she could see him waiting patiently for her to complete her dressing.
She knew that he enjoyed watching all the little details of her toilet, the brushing of her hair, the application of powder and rouge and the perfumes, the adjusting of her braces and stays. She lingered at the task—not to please him, but to prolong her amusement at his fascination.
"You expect to get the girl back, then?" she asked casually.
"If I know my constable, he will be as good as his word. Varnell says he has arrested the twain for breaking of the peace. His next step is to bring both to me for judgment. I expect them all this hour."
Since she could not resist vexing him, she said, "My dear husband, you always have such confidence in your minions. Do you never think to be surprised one day when someone in your hire decides to follow his own inclination and not your own?"
"The day may come," he said curtly, obviously irritated at her effort to begin another quarrel. "But I wait it very much as I expect the final judgment, with considerable disinterest."
"Now I am ready," she said.
She took his arm, and he led her into his own chamber. From the window he could see that although the rain had stopped the sun had yet to dispell the pervasive gloom. The truth was that he himself was concerned that the constable was late in bringing the Welsh girl and the player to him, and his vexation was growing, though he was bound not to disclose it to his wife.
She, for her part, sat in his own favorite chair. "You have plans should the constable not bring the girl?"
"How so?" he said.
"Well, she has seen more than her share of what transpires in this house. It would hardly do to have her running about the country with stories. Those of her birth readily turn the plain truth to an elaborate scandal to the discredit of their betters, but she has a simple plain tale that would burn the ears of every butter-and-egg burgher of the town where it to get out. And she seems to have become fond of this player whom Richard Mull knew well."
"If Master Stock has not shown his dull countenance at the door by noon, I shall proceed to his shop and root the wench from whichever closet he has concealed her in."
"Ah," she said, her eyes agleam with mockery, "to say such of him in whom you had put such confidence."
Her husband said nothing. She rose and walked to the window, lost in her thoughts. The secretary had been right, of course, although by instinct her dissembled disbelief fit the circumstances. Her husband had had the boy killed. The exact motive was not important to her. She had been fond of Richard, had found in his ardor the beginnings of real desire, and yet she could not regret his death, however she tried. And whatever horror she might have one time felt for the blood upon her husband's hands was now lost in her general contempt for him. Satisfying his curious whims was her method of control, the only method for a woman in her position, without friends or relatives and, worse, without financial resources of her own to sustain her.
She had not seen Master Varnell that day, although he had been eager enough to do her bidding on the previous evening when he promised to bring the hostler to her. She detested the man with his social pretensions and clammy hands. And yet she knew that he could do her service, that he waited in line as had others for some sign of encouragement, for some promise of more intimate reward than money. Well, she would give signs and promise subtly and give her body too if the occasion required, but she would give them no satisfaction that used her, that was sure.
The rain had stopped. He was hungry, tired, and drenched to the bone. Worst of all, he felt completely ruined. He had risked all in hope of favor, and now all that he could contemplate was at best dismissal from his master's service, at worst the gibbet. He rode on slowly, trying to avoid the great accumulation of water. He could not rid his mind of the bloated face of the hostler, the blank, questioning eyes, still moist with life.
He stabled the horses and walked slowly and deliberately to the Hall, entering his chamber through the kitchen, careful to avoid the cooks who were already preparing dinner. In his room he took off his cloak and hat, his drenched doublet, and shivered awhile half-naked while he searched through his chest for something to dry himself with. Then he dressed in a fresh suit, used the chamber pot, and powdered his face. Confronting his mistress was unavoidable. He wondered whether she would believe this new turn of events, or whether she would think his news of the hostler's death a stratagem to avoid bringing the man to her. He took a deep breath, deciding to make the best of his ill-luck.
While on his way, he was informed by another household servant that Cecilia Saltmarsh was in her husband's chamber, information he took as a sign of fortune, since it permitted him to postpone their interview. Then feeling hungry, he descended to the buttery in hope of finding some leftovers from last night's supper.
In the larder he found a piece of beef, a small cheese, and two leeks, from which he made a simple but satisfying meal. Full of stomach, he somehow felt more secure; perhaps, after all, he might find his mistress in a credulous disposition, in which case his story might stand even in the absence of the hostler's corroboration. From the small pantry window, he saw that the sun had finally emerged from the clouds, and this too began to brighten his mood. Of the horrible events in the stable he tried not to think.
He decided to walk in the desolate garden, since he had no more copying to do and his mind was too preoccupied with the business at hand in any case. He had taken but two turns when he saw Lady Saltmarsh emerge from the house and walk toward him. His heart leaped with anticipation.
"You are enjoying the sun, Master Secretary?" she said graciously.
"I do, lady," he replied, encouraged by her greeting.
She whispered, although they had the garden to themselves, "You have brought me the hostler?"
He paused and then replied, "Alas, lady, he is dead, of the fever. I found him so early this morning when I went to the inn to fetch him hither."
He withdrew the five coins she had given him from his pocket and handed them to her. "Since I could not therefore accomplish my task, I return my share to you as well."
She looked at him in what he interpreted as a friendly manner and he felt relieved of spirit.
"Well," she said, "perhaps God's justice has been done on the instrument of my husband's vengeance. You see I believe you. A dream I had yesternight confirmed it. Do you believe that dreams reveal waking truths, Master Secretary?" she continued, taking his arm.
They strolled near where an ornamental well was festooned with plaster nymphs and satyrs. He followed at her side obediently, choked with happiness.
"I owe you an apology, I am afraid. Your story at first caused me great grief, for my husband as well as young Richard Mull. Perhaps I should then have told you the truth but knew not if I could repose complete confidence in you."
He began to protest, but she stayed him with her hand and proceeded: "The truth is that Richard Mull, although a charming boy and proficient actor, misunderstood my interest in him and took advantage of it. Not that he meant me any disrespect, I am sure, or that he behaved unseemly toward me, but my husband is a very jealous man. He must be forgiven if in his rage he gave such orders that in a more reasonable temper he would have scorned to contemplate."
"Well, yes," Peter Varnell began, trying to apply this new interpretation to what he recalled of the interview in which his employer had paid him ten crowns to hire the hostler to do the murder.
But she stayed his response again, taking him by the arm again and leading him to where a miniature grove of trees marked the end of the garden and the beginning of the fields. When they were in the grove and concealed from the view of the house, she said, "Now I am afraid you must do something else for me, if it be in your power."
"Oh, I would do anything, lady."
"I shall not ask you to do anything," she continued playfully, "but rather something in particular, which if you satisfy me in this will make it a profit to you in more ways than one. The constable delays in bringing my serving girl to my husband. Every moment we delay in this she has more opportunity to blacken
my husband's reputation in the town. I fear now that she hath told her tale to the constable and his wife and to the player and God knows who else. Deny her tales should they be credited. Give the girl's character. You might mention, although this was privy between me and her, that I had found her in my private cabinet, had charged her with theft, which she to me readily confessed, and for such I dismissed her the day she left—and that this, then, is the ground of her talebearing. It will seem all the more probable, her running away, and with a player. Moreover, you may say that I had it from more than one manservant that she freely admitted them to her chamber, where they did their will with her."
"If this be so, lady, 'twere best to have the men themselves swear to it.''
She paused, as though reflecting on his advice. "Such witnesses are indeed always best, and yet methinks that one of your learning will make a better testimony if such should be the need."
"I understand perfectly, lady. You may depend on me."
"I know I may," she responded, extending her hand to his so that a thrill of delight ran from his wrist to his groin and warmed him.
"As for now," she continued, "you must mind my husband's business, but be prepared as need to be defend our honors with your words to them in the town who are always ready to lend an ear to such scandals.
" 'Tis only too true," Varnell agreed sympathetically as mistress and servant made their way from the grove to the gravel walk and back to the Hall.
The Player's Boy is Dead Page 13
