by Ann Swinfen
He died before the dawn.
The same servant escorted me back to Southwark by wherry. The autumn sunrise was just tinting the river reddish copper as I reached my lodgings and stumbled upstairs. I flung myself on my bed, holding Rikki close, and wept.
In the weeks after Dr Nuñez’s death, I felt as though the whole world had turned dark. I think perhaps I had never quite realised how much he had meant to me. I had never told him, and now I never could. I attended his funeral, which was modest but respectable, a more worthy funeral than Sir Francis’s hasty interment by night at St Paul’s. It was held in the local parish church, St Katherine Coleman, according to Anglican rites, but for all I knew, the family may have conducted a Jewish service at home beforehand. In my childhood, when we had first come to England, my father and I had attended the clandestine services held at the Nuñez house, but since his death I had become slack in my attendance. Neither Dr Nuñez nor his wife had ever mentioned this to me. It was difficult for those of us in the younger generation to know where our loyalties and faith lay. We were more English than Portuguese, more Christian than Jewish, but above all without clear direction. Perhaps in time we would each make our choice, find our individual path into a future which, at the moment, was unclear.
The Nuñez family arranged for the books and medical equipment to be delivered to my lodgings, but Dame Beatriz was so prostrate with grief that I did not trouble her with visits after the funeral. I knew that the two of them had known each other since childhood and had travelled to England soon after they were married – long before my father and I had come – having seen the rising danger from Spain and the Inquisition. She must be feeling that her entire world had fallen apart. I know I felt as though the firm ground under my own feet had begun to quake like quicksand.
Simon was sympathetic and kind, but he had not known Dr Nuñez well, and he had all his fellow players about him as a surrogate family. I knew I was always welcome amongst them, but their world was not quite my world. Dr Nuñez had shared my native land, my mother tongue, my debatable heritage, and my profession. To lose him was like the severance of a limb.
It was nearly a month later that Guy greeted me as I walked into the Cross Keys to sup with the players. Now that there was no copying work to be done, I felt somewhat ill at ease to be enjoying my free meals, but Master Burbage had assured me more than once that he was happy with his end of our bargain. It had turned very cold, more like the end of November than early October. Shivering as I crossed the Bridge, I wondered at such a change after the almost unbearable heat of the summer. The playhouses would be forced to close soon and my dinners would end as well.
‘Good e’en to you, Kit,’ Guy said. ‘Come in beside the fire. We are all toasting our frozen limbs and you looked perished with cold.’
‘Had you an audience today?’ I asked. The citizens of London are hardy folk, but standing in the pit of the Theatre for three hours demands a strong devotion to the playhouse.
He shook his head. ‘Barely half full. We have perhaps two weeks more, three at most. Then we must close.’ He handed me a mug of steaming spiced wine, that Will was tending in a pot at the side of the hearth.
‘However,’ Guy went on, ‘we have some good news.’
‘You will be doing a winter season here again?’ I said.
‘Nay, nothing is decided as to that, but we have some private performances bespoken.’ He grinned broadly. ‘We are bid to Hampton Court for the Christmas Revels, more than one performance. Will is busy scribbling away at a new play. You would not care to join me in a lute duet again, I suppose?’
I laughed. ‘I think not. When I did so before it was to serve a greater purpose.’
‘What could be greater than giving pleasure to Her Majesty?’
‘What indeed? Except, perhaps, preserving her life. That will set you up well for the winter.’
‘The Master of the Revels is mindful of our part in exposing and destroying the plot to incite rebellion by means of those rogue players, so it is partly by way of a reward.’
‘How thoughtful of him.’
I confess to a small stab of jealousy at this. It seemed that the Master of the Revels had forgotten that, while the players had wished merely to recover their plays, it was I who had first suspected the subversive intentions of the company at the Blue Boar. Still, Thomas Phelippes had warned me that my part in the affair had endangered me with Essex, so perhaps it was to my advantage that it should be forgotten.
‘Moreover,’ Guy said, ‘we have other engagements.’
It seemed he had not noticed the lack of warmth in my last remark. I smiled and tried to make up for my lack of enthusiasm.
‘More private performances?’
‘Aye, and you will never guess where.’
‘I am sure I shall not.’
‘At Somerset Place. Lord Hunsdon has commanded us for a week of performances in early December, a different play every night.’
‘Lord Hunsdon?’ This did surprise me. ‘I should have thought he would have wished to have no more to do with Lord Strange’s Men, after Master Wandesford’s poisoning and that unpleasant inquest.’
‘It seems not. Perhaps he realises that we suffered for it, and has some sympathy with us. Though to tell you the truth, Kit, I believe our notoriety has helped to boost the numbers in our audiences since the affair. Also, I believe Lord Hunsdon is still of a mind to persuade Master Burbage to come under his patronage.’
‘Master Burbage will not do so, will he?’
‘Nay, it would be a scurvy trick. Lord Strange has treated us well and made few demands, unlike some noble patrons. Our season at Hampton Court will be of benefit to Lord Strange as well as to us, improve his standing with Her Majesty.’
‘I shall never understand the manoeuvrings of courtiers,’ I said. ‘Essex thought to gain by putting down a rebellion he himself had stirred up. Yet all he has done is to escape punishment.’
‘We are not supposed to know about that, or at any rate to speak of it. It seems that Her Majesty has laughed it off as a young man’s jape.’
‘How old is the Earl?’
‘About six and twenty, I believe,’ Guy said.
‘Old enough to know better.’
‘Very true. In any case, what I was about to tell you is that Lord Hunsdon has invited us to another dinner, this time at Somerset Place, where his own cooks can ensure that no belladonna is used to spice the food.’
I raised my eyebrows at this. ‘I am even more surprised that he should ever want to dine in your company again.’
‘Not only ours but yours. He has specifically invited you as well, since it was you who detected the murder of Oliver Wandesford.’
‘He has forgiven me, then, for his summons to the inquest?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Then I graciously accept. When is it to be?’ I said.
‘The day after tomorrow. Six o’ the clock at Somerset Place.’
‘I shall wear my best finery.’
Guy laughed. He knew I was already wearing it.
Simon, Will, and I shared a wherry to Somerset Place, disembarking at the watergate where Master Burbage and I had struggled across the exposed mud of the foreshore all those weeks before. This time the wherry was able to land us at the very gate, which saved our clothes from the Thames. For the moment, Will was still in lodgings in Southwark, but talked of moving north of the river again. It would be nearer the Theatre, he said. I felt that, like Simon, he was beginning to find that Southwark was too rough. Now that he was earning substantial fees for his writing, he could afford something better.
We were greeted at the watergate by a liveried servant, as before, and escorted through the garden to the house. The garden looked very different now, in the autumn dusk. Apart from a few faded blooms clinging to their stems, the roses were over. No flowers adorned the lavender that edged the path, and the bees had already gone into their winter hibernation. The copper-coloured leaves on the pleached limes rustl
ed in the sharp little wind that strewed their fellows about our feet. Clearly the gardeners had been hard at work earlier in the day, sweeping away the fallen leaves, for leaves lay in great heaps under the brick garden wall, but at this time of year it is an endless task, like Penelope at her weaving. Overhead a thick layer of black cloud threatened rain before night.
The house, however, was bright with an abundance of candles in candelabra which hung from every ceiling and stood in wrought iron formation along every wall. So abundant were they that the room grew hot with the flames and the air was filled with the scent of perfumed beeswax. I thought I could also smell frankincense, but could not believe such extravagance. I must be mistaken.
Many of the players, I noticed, had raided the costume baskets for this visit to the great man’s house. Master Burbage was ever lavish with his costumes and the players had a childlike delight in dressing up. In law, mere players were forbidden to wear the luxurious fabrics except on stage, but it was a law more often broken than observed.
‘Meanness in dress is more damaging than meanness in speech,’ Master Burbage had declared in my hearing more than once. ‘The groundlings will look up to us if we dress like nobles. Nobles will look down on us if we do not dress as well as they do.’
Many of the costumes had indeed come from noble houses. When a garment is no more than six months out of fashion, your noble lord or lady will pass it down to a servant. Now, a servant cannot go about in this finery, but such clothes are worth much in chinks, and players’ companies are eager to buy. Master Burbage’s company had an excellent seamstress in Goodwife Blakely, who could alter and refurbish such garments, so that they looked fashionable and new once more. I do not know whether any noble lady or gentleman noticed their last year’s clothes adorning this year’s players, but it would not surprise me.
Simon and Will had helped themselves to elegant outfits, and had even offered to find something for me, but I declined.
‘I should feel like a conjuror’s monkey,’ I said. ‘I thank you, but must refuse.’
They may have been a little hurt, but it did not last for long.
Now, in the lavish apartments of Somerset Place, with the sheen of satins and velvets glimmering in the candlelight, the sparkle of buttons set with semi-precious gems, the subtle glint of a gold earring here and there, Burbage’s Men were transformed from mere jobbing players into some company of courtiers from an ancient tale. The hall where we were received was hung with a vast Flanders tapestry depicting not the usual scenes of Biblical tales but a hunt through a green forest. Nobles on fine-limbed horses galloped between the trees, their dress that of two hundred years before. Following on foot, their servants held back eager pursuivant hounds on delicate chains. Nobles, servants, and dogs all strained eagerly toward the end of the tapestry. I walked down the room, following after them, curious to know what they were pursuing.
There, at the far edge of the tapestry, poised with one foot raised, was a pure white stag, his head turned as he regarded the hunt with a certain glorious confidence. He knew, however hard they chased after, he would always outrun them.
‘You are admiring my lord’s newest tapestry?’
The voice came from behind my shoulder and caused me to start, for I was so absorbed in the scene before me that I had almost forgotten where I was.
I turned. It was Aemilia Bassano. If the company of players had become a court of nobles, she was transformed into Queen Mab. She wore immaculate white satin, sewn all over with pearls, white on white. Her hair was elaborately looped and braided with more pearls, which gleamed against her dark tresses. She wore no ruff, but one of the fashionable wide collars, which rose stiffly behind her head, and lay softly spread out on her shoulders, allowing the low-cut bodice to display the curve of her breasts. I had a sudden sharp vision of her as the white deer, hotly pursued, but I feared she would not be fleet enough of foot to escape the hunt.
‘My lady,’ I said, with an appropriate bow.
Her eyes lit up with laughter, and she swept me a mocking curtsey. ‘Hardly,’ she said.
For a moment we both regarded the tapestry, the deer for ever pursued, the hunt for ever pursuing. As we turned away, she tapped my arm.
‘I remember you, doctor, from that other unfortunate dinner. You do not disapprove of education for women. Even agree, as I recall, that women may be as intelligent and learned as men.’
‘I do believe that,’ I said, with a secret smile of my own.
‘Such wisdom in a beardless youth!’ she said, running her finger down my cheek.
Indeed, I was beardless. Although many young men in England only grew beards in the middle or late years of their twenties, I realised that the time could not be long in coming when some might regard my smooth cheeks with a speculation that could spell trouble for me. As it was, Aemilia looked very thoughtful as she touched my cheek. I was at a loss how to respond, but at that moment Lord Hunsdon approached us and I was able to bow deeply, thus hiding my confusion.
‘Dr Alvarez,’ he said, in a friendly tone which gave no hint of any lingering annoyance at the unpleasantness he had endured at the inquest, all owing to me. ‘I am glad to welcome you to my home in happier times.’
We began to speak of trivial matters and moved away from the tapestry, but I did not lose the dreamlike feeling that had come over me as I followed the hunt through the forest. The candle-lit hall, the glittering company, the distant music which now crept in, perhaps from the chamber where we would dine, seemed more illusion than reality. I felt as though I was watching the party as it was enacted on a playhouse stage, myself moving invisible amongst the players.
This strange sense of dream and illusion wrapped me round for the whole evening, and although I felt somehow apart from the rest of the company, I also found my vision and hearing sharper than usual. I caught snatches of Master Burbage’s conversation with Lord Hunsdon from the far end of the table, Lord Hunsdon not pressing his case to become patron, but praising the plays and performances of Burbage’s Men. As before I was sitting near Will and Aemilia. I saw him take her hand and heard him whisper in her ear. She blushed, but did not draw her hand away. I wanted to warn Will against such dangerous dalliance, but as happens in a dream, I seemed unable to speak. And how could I speak, in company?
The food, too, was dreamlike. Larks’ tongues and little singing birds on spits. Swan, which only the greatest nobles may serve. Whole turbot and salmon, laid on a bed of pickled samphire. Haunches of venison. Sides of beef. Sucking pig. Pies of layered meats tricked out in fantastical shapes, as castles, mountains, busts of the Caesars. Exotic fruits, pineapples and pomegranates. I saw Aemilia pricking pomegranate seeds on the tip of her knife and feeding them to Will. I glanced along the table to Lord Hunsdon, but he was deep in conversation with Master Burbage and another guest I did not recognise.
Rich red wine of Burgundy. Canary sack. Rhenish wines from Germany.
It was growing hotter and hotter. The faces of all my fellow guests were flushed and I could feel my own cheeks burning, though I had drunk very little. Simon too had stopped after his third glass was poured and it remained undrunk, in his goblet of fine Venetian ware. I noticed Will was abstemious in both food and drink, his attention too much focussed on Aemilia. She was indeed lovely, with a quick, well-informed mind which would entrance him, but she belonged to another. I tried to direct a warning look at him, but I seemed to be invisible. Perhaps, after all, this was a dream.
The overabundance of food, after my weeks on narrow rations, was beginning to make me nauseous. Now there were speeches by both Lord Hunsdon and Master Burbage, but I paid them no heed, concentrating on maintaining control over my heaving stomach and spinning head.
‘And now,’ Lord Hunsdon said, ‘the sugar banquet. My love, will you lead to way?’ He glanced sharply at Aemilia, and I wondered whether he had noticed the byplay between her and Will.
We all rose, and I realised that Lord Hunsdon was one of those nobles who
had erected a separate banqueting house where his guests might conclude the feast. For feast it was, no simple dinner. It was as if this lavish spread was intended to wipe out any memory of that other occasion when we had dined together, although this time there were other guests, in addition to the players. I had been too absorbed in my thoughts to notice them fully before. Other courtiers, by their looks, and a number of women amongst them, one of whom swooped down upon Simon and began talking animatedly. Perhaps these were all patrons of the playhouse, enjoying a little wicked thrill at dining with such vagabonds and rogues as played upon the stage.
I was glad I had not agreed to wear stage finery.
We were conducted out of the house and over to the far side of the garden, where I had not been before. Here there was an artificial mound with a banqueting house erected atop it, which might perhaps serve as a pleasant summer house on quieter days. We climbed the steps to the upper floor, where a table was laid out with all kinds of sugar confections. Cups made of sugar. Playing cards painted with kings and queens, the kings looking remarkably like the Queen’s late father. Tiny sugar birds in sugar cages. Sugar hares crouching on sugar forms. Sugar fans, delicate as lace. Even the plates were sugar. In the centre of the table, a fairytale sugar castle, a Camelot three feet high.
As other guests exclaimed over the banquet I turned away, feeling sickened again, and walked to a wide window facing the river. The casement had been thrown open and I welcomed the cold breeze on my hot face. Out on the water, wherries rowed up river and down, their lanterns dancing over their own reflections like will-o’-the-wisps. Someone out there was playing a lute and singing, too far away to be heard clearly, but snatches drifted in with the wind off the water.
‘Beautiful, do you not think, Kit?’
It was Will, no longer close by Aemilia’s side. Glancing over his shoulder I saw that she was standing with Lord Hunsdon, talking to some of their noble guests.
‘Be careful, Will,’ I murmured. ‘She belongs to Lord Hunsdon.’
