His Dark Lady

by Victoria Lamb

  Later, watching his wife undress with her back to him and the shutters drawn against the sunlight and the noise of the street below, he commanded her to turn and face him. Anne obeyed, but with an uncertain look on her face, as though she was no longer sure who he was. Methodically, she unpinned and combed out her long fair hair while he waited. She laid her gown and cap neatly on the clothes chest for when they had finished and she would have to get dressed again. Then she climbed into bed beside him, wearing only her thin shift and stockings, and the old bedstead creaked comfortably about them as they looked at each other through the shadows.

  ‘Your parents can hear us,’ she muttered. ‘The walls are thin.’

  ‘Then they will have to close their ears,’ Will told her, a little more sharply than he had intended.

  Trying not to hurry, though his need was now urgent, he stroked her hair, which fell almost to her breasts. ‘It has grown,’ he remarked, and ran his fingers through the smooth fair tresses, which seemed brighter and more shining than he remembered. Her hair was like sunshine, he thought, and at once could not help comparing it with Lucy Morgan’s tight black curls, so strange and yet so fascinating at the same time. He suddenly felt angry. He did not want to be in bed with his wife and thinking of another woman.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he told Anne abruptly, and was relieved when she obeyed that order too, despite her surprise, placing her lips against his very lightly.

  Will pressed her back into the fresh sheets, ignoring the creaks and moans of the bed supports beneath the mattress. She whispered his name, and he kissed her throat and breasts. He turned her face away from his after that, covering her eyes with her hair, twining its thick length about her throat. Anne gave a tiny cry which she tried to stifle, and he knew she was frightened of him for the first time in their marriage, of his sudden, unexpected return, and the urgent desire he was making no attempt to conceal.

  He pushed between her pale thighs a moment later, entering her with a groan of relief that reminded him of the first time he had lain with her, that incredible surge of triumphant lust.

  When he pulled out, not wanting to spill his seed inside her, Anne hissed under her breath, then covered her face with a sob.

  Will rolled away from her in the darkness, his skin suddenly prickling with annoyance. What on earth did Anne expect of him? Did she wish for another baby, knowing he would be away most of the year in London? Wouldn’t that be like giving birth to a stranger’s child?

  No wife could want that, surely?

  The baby’s cries through the wall stopped abruptly. Will stretched out his legs to the low-burning fire and closed his eyes. Susanna must have been put to the breast, he reasoned, greedy little thing that she was.

  Yet even with the baby’s insistent cries, the silence of this place was a godsend after London’s restless stir and hubbub. It was good to be back home for a space, away from the noise and filth of the capital. His lodgings in London with the narrow cot and soiled rushes seemed to belong to another man, a chaos somehow unimaginable in the quiet order of his mother’s household.

  It was quiet upstairs, even his younger brother Edmund asleep, a stout, restless child of four years who loved to run about, shouting in a high piping voice. Will had carried the boy up earlier, then watched him prayed over and put to bed by their mother. Next to Edmund in the bed lay Dick, ten years old now and an intelligent enough lad, for all he rarely spoke.

  Outside, Henley Street had fallen silent too, only the town Watch still going about their business, sometimes calling out the hour as they passed. Will’s younger sister Joan peered in at him on her way to bed, shaking her head: ‘Don’t set fire to your boots.’ Yes, life was peaceful here with its steady routines, its lack of surprises.

  His father came in from the workshop, hung up his cap and sat down beside him on the tall-backed wooden settle. ‘Well, William,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Father.’ Will nodded.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home.’ His father sat for a while in silence, staring into the fire. Then he shifted his buttocks uncomfortably on the settle, and also stretched out his feet to the warmth. ‘It’s not been easy without you this past year. Anne helps your mother about the house, but she is busy with the child, too. Your wife struggles, having another mouth to feed.’

  ‘I’ve started making a little money now from what I write. I’ll send more this winter, I promise.’

  ‘It’s not just about the money. Your brother Gilbert is a steady lad, but he’s not often here these days, and I miss having another man about the house. All that trouble we had last year.’ John Shakespeare frowned, shaking his head. ‘John Somerville marching on London to assassinate the Queen! That was a bad time for us. Twice, men came to search the house that month. They even took away our family Bible, and we’ve not had it back. We were afraid to set foot outside the house at one time, in case we were arrested.’

  Will thought of his father’s books and documents, the ones he always kept locked away for fear of discovery. ‘They searched the house?’

  His father smiled grimly. ‘Aye, but found nothing. We had word they might be coming and hid what was necessary under the eaves. The carved statue of St Ignatius was too large to hide, so I had to burn that, and the little wooden crucifix that your sister made for your mother.’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘I needed you here that day, for sure.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  His father shrugged. ‘You are a man now, William. You must do as you think best for your wife and child. Just as I have always done. Though your mother suffered terribly when we heard the full tale of the Ardens’ disgrace. You know how proud she was to be one of their blood. She cried for hours when she heard Edward Arden had been executed.’ He sighed. ‘A man of his rank and distinction, brought low by an idiot.’

  ‘I know, I heard it all.’

  ‘Did you go out to Smithfield to witness his death?’ His father spoke in a lower voice so that the women, moving quietly above as they prepared for bed, would not hear through the cracks in the floorboards. ‘They say his head was stuck on a pike on London Bridge afterwards for all to see.’

  ‘I did not watch Edward Arden executed, no. There was much strong feeling against the Ardens at the time, and I did not want to run the risk of being recognized in the crowd at Smithfield. But I did glimpse Master Arden’s head once or twice on the bridge.’ Will hesitated, recalling the grisly sight of his kinsman’s severed head stuck high on a pike above London Bridge, blackened lips curled back in a perpetual grin, his eyes long since plucked out by birds. ‘They leave traitors’ heads to rot there for months. Hard to miss when you live in the city.’

  His father nodded. Folding his arms across his burly chest, he looked not at Will but at the floor. ‘While we are talking of troubles, I believe you had a visitor come to see you in London last year.’

  Will frowned. ‘You mean Richard Arden?’

  ‘I do.’ His father glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, just a quick flash, then stared again at the dark knots in the floorboards as though he had never seen them before. ‘Richard came to see me on his return. He said you had agreed to write if there was any news we should know back here in Warwickshire.’

  ‘I did, yes. But happily there was never any news to send home.’

  ‘Did you make a hard push to find out the talk on the streets, or is that the truth?’ his father asked quietly.

  Will felt uneasy and sat up straight. ‘I am not a spy,’ he replied with some irritation, though speaking carefully in a whisper. He was uncomfortably aware that his mother overhead might be able to hear what they were discussing. Through the cracks in the ceiling, he could see light from her candle as she moved about. ‘I told Richard I would listen to what was being said in the inns and theatres, and if there was any news which concerned the Ardens, I would write to tell him of it. Yes, people talked. But it meant nothing. It was just idle chatter. There was never any threat, not once Arden’s head wa
s on a pike on London Bridge and his son-in-law’s alongside.’

  ‘That poor boy was a fool,’ his father muttered. ‘He should never have been allowed to do what he did.’

  ‘It was never about Somerville,’ Will pointed out, ‘though his mad rantings against the Queen started the affair. Arden made too many enemies, that was why he had to die. And those who wanted him publicly shamed and executed got their desire. Once the head of the family was dead, and the Arden name disgraced, the rest of us were unimportant. I did not write because I am not a spy and there was nothing to tell. Not because I wished anyone in Warwickshire harm. I was relieved to hear that they released his wife and daughter though.’

  John Shakespeare got up and prodded the fire with an iron. ‘Well, I shall not go on about the matter. I just wanted to be sure. But all’s well that ends well. We survived that month, and things seem to have died down for now. Your Arden cousins still live undisturbed, albeit less wealthily than before, and your mother need not fear for our lives as she once did.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Will loosened his belt, not used to eating so well as he had done that evening at his father’s table. Another reason to be glad he was home, he thought wryly, was the quantity of simple, fresh food served up at dinner. ‘But what of you, father? My cousin Richard told me there had been some trouble in the town.’

  ‘Did he, now?’

  ‘Some matter of an unpaid debt.’

  His father grunted. ‘I have more unpaid debts than I have gloves for sale in my workshop. Yet at least these are honest debts. The fines are worse. For not attending church when I should. For selling wool when I should not. Next I shall be fined for breathing in the street and for making merry when I am sent to court again.’

  Will laughed reluctantly.

  His father continued, ‘But yes, it was a bad year, and this one has been little better. Your cousin did not lie. I should wish you home again, but you have your own life now. Do they treat you well, these theatricals?’

  ‘As well as they treat anyone.’

  ‘Did you know that Anne talks of travelling down to London to live with you there?’

  Will stiffened at the suggestion. He shook his head. ‘London is no place for a decent woman to live. Nor a young child.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that, Will,’ his father said heavily. ‘I know how it goes when a young man takes himself off to a city. But your wife will not listen to reason.’

  ‘You think I visit whores and spend my nights drinking?’

  ‘Do you not?’

  ‘I may be young, but I am no fool. Listen, Father, London is dangerous. Plague is rife in the summer, and even the beggars will not venture within the walls while it is raging. I cannot allow Anne and Susanna to come to me there. It would be like signing their death warrants.’

  His father nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew you would not. Besides, none of us want that. Your mother would miss Anne terribly if she left Stratford. And the babe, too. When you first made the match, well, we thought Anne too old for you, and too high above herself. But she is a good mother, I will give her that. Though she pines for another child.’

  Another child? Will sat a moment in silence, unsure whether to tell his father to mind his own damned business or explain why such a thing was impossible. Then he shook himself and stood up, stretching his back out. ‘Time for bed. Will you damp down the fire or should I?’

  ‘Leave it to me, you must be tired.’ His father stood, too. He laid a quick hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘Forgive me if I seem to interfere. But Anne is a good wife, and you are away so much. Another child would at least give her some comfort. And your mother, too.’

  Will managed a smile and said goodnight. He let himself through next door and up the narrow, creaking stairs to the chamber he shared with Anne and the baby. He had not brought a candle and had to feel his way in darkness. He stood before the chamber door a moment, brooding on what his father had said, then opened the latch and slipped inside.

  Fourteen

  ONE EVENING, GOODLUCK opened his eyes and was astonished to find he was still not dead. Nor did the room spin around him as it had done for days. The stale air in the cabin seemed fresher, as though the trapdoor had been left open on to the river, and the hanging lamp glowed rather than glared, swinging softly with the motion of the barge. He was even able to turn his head to look at its steady flame without burning out his eye sockets. Goodluck had been left to lie propped up on his side for more days than he could remember, but now at last could feel his back beginning to mend. He was stiff and still in pain, but he was no longer aware of the agonizing edge of mortality, where the slightest movement had left him close to sickness and fainting.

  It was surely a miracle that he was still alive. If the man’s thrust had not done for him, the river would have finished the job. Yet here he was, still breathing.

  He struggled to recall exactly what had happened that day on the riverfront. But all he remembered was the agony of steel entering his body, then a long fall into water, the icy shock of it slamming into his body like stone.

  When the heavily cloaked boatman came shuffling down into the cabin an hour or so later, Goodluck made an effort to raise his head from the pillow. Outside, he could hear an insistent pattering of rain on the wooden deck, then the softer fall on to water beyond.

  ‘Who are you?’ he questioned him. The boatman, as usual, made no answer. He really was a taciturn fellow, Goodluck thought irritably. He tried again, though in little expectation of a reply. ‘Where are we? Still on the Thames? Come, man, how long have I been here?’

  The boatman came over to examine his back. From what Goodluck had guessed by glancing gingerly over his shoulder whenever this was done, his injury had been swathed in cloths that stank of some grisly ointment. The boatman grunted over the wound for a long while, each poke drawing a hiss of exquisite agony from Goodluck’s lips. Then he peeled away a few of the stiff, bloodstained cloths and tossed them aside.

  ‘Your back’s healing well,’ the boatman muttered in a gruff voice as he worked. ‘I thought you were sure to die at first, but it missed your heart. Go about things carefully, and you could be on your feet in a few days.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, and I thank you for saving my life. But wait, answer me this,’ Goodluck insisted, grabbing at the man’s arm as he turned away, ‘are we still in London? And how long have I been in bed? What day is this?’

  ‘We’re moored on the Thames three miles downstream from Richmond, and the month is June.’ The boatman shook him off with an unexpected vehemence, his voice rising oddly. ‘Now lie still before you burst your wound again and die of a fever!’

  The man’s hood had fallen away in his anger, revealing swathes of filthy, matted hair. Goodluck caught a glimpse of a swarthy face beneath the hair, but no beard, nor any sign of one, and no moustache either.

  The boatman saw him staring and hurriedly went to cover his face, but it was too late.

  She shrugged then, and bent to poke the stinking cloths into the brazier with a long iron. ‘Aye, so I’m no man. What of it? You don’t touch me and I won’t tip you overboard. And don’t think I can’t do it, however big a man you may be,’ she added fiercely, and turned to brandish her hot iron at him. ‘There’s more ways than one to leave a boat, my fine master.’

  Goodluck watched his strange companion in silence, disliking the disturbing revelation that he had been under the care of a woman these past few weeks. He could not doubt her skill as a healer, for the stab wound in his back – which he had thought surely mortal when he had received it – seemed to be mending well enough. Yet this woman must have stripped him naked while he lay in his delirious fever. How else could she have cleaned and dressed his injury?

  ‘What is your name, mistress?’

  ‘I do not go by that title, nor any other. I need no title. I am plain Jensen.’ She sat down opposite him, still wrapped in her thick hooded cloak, and fixed him with the bright eyes he remembered from hi
s first night aboard her barge. ‘Jensen was my father’s name, and his father’s name before him, and it is mine, too, by right of descent.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ Goodluck agreed solemnly.

  ‘As is this barge, which you shall not take from me.’

  He nodded, hearing the fear behind the stubborn will that must have kept this huddled man-woman still working the river long after her father and grandfather had departed this earth.

  ‘Understood. The barge belongs to you. I have no designs on it.’

  ‘Spit on it!’ Jensen insisted, nodding at his hand.

  Goodluck raised an unsteady hand and worked a small amount of spittle from between dry lips. This he placed on to his palm, then held his hand out to Jensen. She rose, spat heartily into her own palm, and seized his in a firm grip, pumping it up and down as though her life depended on the handshake. Which, he supposed, it did.

  ‘I’m glad I fished you out and you didn’t die, master. You’ve a good look about you.’ Jensen scratched her nose, sitting down heavily on the bench opposite. ‘Who was it wanted you done for, anywise?’

  He had to decipher this question slowly, having lost most of his strength in the handshake, and feeling drowsy again. ‘I have many enemies,’ he managed in the end, not feeling up to a lengthier explanation.

  ‘So have I,’ she commented sagely, and lay down to sleep on the bunk in her wet boots. ‘They won’t be finding us on this stretch of the river, though. Not for a good while yet.’

  Fifteen

  ‘MY STRIKE!’ ELIZABETH declared merrily, watching her hawk land with its white dove. She threw her gauntlet to Lucy Morgan amidst applause from her ladies and courtiers. ‘Give that to the falconer.’