The Lady and the Poet

by Maeve Haran

  ‘I hope what you say is not true of any man,’ I answered with a firmness I did not feel. Master Manners’s accusation brought back the conversation between Master Donne and his mother which I sorely wished I had not heard. Had his mother, when she accused him of betrayal of his religion, meant also a betrayal of his brother for his own ends?

  ‘Come, Master Manners, you should not repeat such imputations when they may be naught but idle gossip.’ My aunt softened her words with a smile. ‘Now, tell us, how is your good father at home in Leicestershire? You left in such haste at his bidding when last we met.’

  Master Manners laughed a gay laugh which, in the midst of our mournfulness, struck a strange note. He was a handsome man indeed when his looks were happy. ‘My father!’ He turned once again to me. ‘He is as changeable as a weathercock. You are fortunate indeed to have a father who knows his own mind.’

  I thought of my father, who knew his mind all too well and would listen to the opinions of none other.

  ‘I will not talk of marriage at such a time as this,’ continued Master Manners with a tact I could only feel grateful for. ‘Suffice it to say that it was my father, never myself, who scattered thorns upon the path of my ambitions towards you, Mistress More.’

  I smiled at his extravagant words.

  ‘See, Mistress More,’ there was an ill-concealed delight in his tone, ‘I have made you smile. I am grateful at least for that small mercy.’

  ‘Now, Master Manners,’ my aunt shooed him away with her fan, ‘it is time that Ann and I fulfilled our household obligations.’

  Master Manners bowed low and I saw him watch me until my aunt and I had left the Great Hall entirely.

  ‘I have to own,’ my aunt whispered as we made our way down to the kitchens, ‘I have a weakness for a handsome face, but I felt his boldness in talking thus of his intentions was too great in your present state of sadness.’ She stopped and took my hand, holding me at her arm’s length. ‘The flowers will be blooming in the gardens before too long. And so will you. You are welcome to spend as long here with us as ever you like, it is nothing but pleasure to the Lord Keeper and myself. Yet you should think about your future, sweet Ann, and the joys that lie ahead of you in marriage.’

  ‘And in childbed?’ My grief engulfed me again at the thought of that pale ghost, so recently laid into the ground. ‘Is that a joy to be devoutly wished?’

  ‘Ann, Ann, sorrow as long as you wish. But one day, and not too long hence, you will yearn for the pleasures of hearth and home.’ She looked at me slyly. ‘And of the bedchamber also.’

  At that I flushed as red as the rose that would soon flourish in my uncle’s gardens. ‘Aunt,’ I took her arm and led her along the passageway, ‘I see I must keep you from the sight of too many handsome faces.’

  ‘Now, Ann! You were ever a naughty child! Come, now, and we will instruct the clerk of the kitchen. Later on you can come with me on a visit to my lady Warwick, who also waits upon the Queen.’

  After we had done with the clerk and my aunt had no need of me for a while, I tried, in my chamber, to read the story of Abelard and Heloise which I had brought with me from my grandfather’s library. Yet this tale of doomed desire, where Heloise falls in love with her tutor, Peter Abelard, and gives herself to him, only to find that her brothers are so angry they forcibly remove his manhood, was hardly a distraction from my misery. ‘What you need, my Ann,’ I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head, as she had told me so many times when I was a maid, ‘is to find work for those idle hands and food for that nimble brain of yours.’

  I put Abelard away in my coffer. Perhaps I should go back to Loseley. For here I was too young and too unimportant to be of use to anyone.

  I knew what the visit to my lady Warwick would be. Two hours in a draughty gallery listening to more gossip of Court life, yet I went and sat and listened to not one word.

  I MOURNED MY sister through the cold and fog of early springtime, the weather echoing my own loss and deadness of spirit. The sharp winds of March blew away some of my dark imaginings, yet it was not until the sun shone through with sudden brightness that I roused myself and sought diversion. It was too early to wish for courtly entertainment so I vowed at least to make myself useful and went to hunt for my aunt’s gentlewoman, Joan, to see if she had tasks that needed assistance.

  Joan, round as a barrel, with apple cheeks to match, the picture of a countrywoman, yet she had never taken a step outside the smoke of London, accepted my offer with a smile. ‘Bored of your prayers, are you?’ And then she thought better, sensing I might take it amiss when my sister was so recently taken. ‘Sorry, mistress, I did not mean to lighten your loss. We were all saddened to hear of your sister. A lovely girl from what I hear.’

  ‘Trouble yourself not, Joan. You are right about the prayers. I find it hard to thank God when I feel so angry with Him.’

  ‘Mistress!’

  ‘Sssh! I should not say such things, I know. What can I aid you with?’

  ‘My mistress says she has a taste for Kentish apples, and I have heard, despite the season, there are some to be had in Borough Market, though why the mistress hath not them stored over winter at Pyrford, I know not.’

  She looked at my rich dress. ‘Tis Southwark, mistress, and we will be down amongst the crowds of ordinary folk. Best wear a cloak to cover up your finery.’

  This time we crossed by water, hailing a wherry from the York House steps with a cry of ‘Eastward Ho!’ And before long we found ourselves alighting in Southwark at Paris Garden Stairs. This bank of the Thames seemed busier, if that were possible, than the other. We walked along a great row of houses, past ponds and playhouses, water-mills and smoky workshops. Outside the bear pit we heard shouting from within, yet I hated the thought of the poor beast being hounded by dogs. A cruel pastime. I peeped into a pleasure garden before Joan pulled me onwards towards the market, beyond the Great Beer house and another set of steps down to the river, whose name made me smile: Pickle Herring Stairs. A painted young woman leaned out of a window above us, calling, ‘Morning, young mistresses, what brings you to this saucy part of town?’

  ‘Tsk, Mistress Ann, look not back at her. Tis a stewhouse and well known for it. The Castle upon Hope Inn, they call it, though castle it be not, and those within are certainly not ladies, I can warrant you. Not far now to the market.’

  I was in no hurry. For the first time in weeks I had forgotten my cares, wrapped up in so many diverse sights and sounds. Yet one thing penetrated my gaiety: the gangs of children I had seen before, some so young it seemed as if they had not long learned to walk, others carried in the arms of their brothers or sisters not much older themselves, all looking tired and pinched and hungry, their great hollow eyes following me as if they could see through my disguise and knew I came from a lord’s house where there was so much plenty that the master’s dogs ate better than they.

  ‘Aye,’ Joan commented, ‘there’s one crop that is always in season, more’s the pity, unlike your aunt’s apples. The poorer the mother the more children she brings into the world, it seems to me. I suppose the poor have few other comforts. Since the failure of the harvests they flock to London from the country villages. Oft times they abandon their children if they can’t feed them, hoping for the goodwill of the parish.’

  ‘And does the parish help them?’

  ‘Not if it can help it. It would rather send them away like stray dogs. And this new law now, which taxes us all to build a Poor House, no one knows if that will help or hinder.’

  She pulled her shawl round herself more tightly, ignoring the gaggle of ragged children that followed her, their hands outstretched.

  ‘Shoo!’ She stamped her feet and the children scattered, never speaking, like a crowd of tiny phantoms.

  ‘Hang on to your purse, mistress. Innocence isn’t always what it seems in this part of town.’

  Just before Borough Market we saw a milkmaid standing in the shade of the trees, her pails hung ove
r her shoulders, talking to a customer. I stopped a while, recognizing her face from a previous sortie with Joan. It was the young girl we had seen before, whom I gave money to, forgetting I was dressed as a servant.

  She looked at me a long time, taking in the fine clothes under my cloak, wondering if her eyes deceived her, and then there burst on to the scene a great commotion.

  A young boy, tall and gangling, like the heron that feeds at the pond at Loseley, yet dirty, thin and ragged, aged about twelve or thirteen years, ran around the corner and, seeing the milkmaid, clung to her as if the hangman pursued him and only she could grant him pardon.

  ‘Sarah! Please! He’s after me! He’ll kill me if he catches me. I’ll not stay with him, I won’t!’

  Out of an alley appeared a rough-looking man and I saw both Sarah and the youth cringe back. The man was ill-dressed and reeked of the alehouse. He growled like a hungry bear and made as if to knock the lad down. ‘Release that boy!’

  The milkmaid threw me a look so desperate and beseeching that I took a step forward and stood between the boy and the man who sought him.

  ‘Stop!’ I stood my ground fearlessly. ‘Who are you and why is this boy so frightened that he clings thus to that young woman?’

  ‘I am John Maunsley, tanner. And who might you be that places herself between me and my lawful apprentice?’

  I stood on my dignity in the way I had seen my sister Mary do with troublesome servants.

  ‘I am Mistress Ann More,’ I replied in a voice as cold as the east wind that shrivels the new buds of spring. ‘Daughter to Sir George More, knight and Deputy Sheriff in the Counties of Surrey and Sussex.’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted, looking at me warily at this mention of officialdom, keeping his distance as if I might suddenly produce a warrant from my mantle. ‘And what does Mistress Ann More have to do with my apprentice, Wat, who cannot even be trusted to stir the hides without weeping for his mother?’

  ‘I did not weep for my mother!’ the boy Wat squared up, braver now that he perceived he had a protectress. ‘I have no mother, naught but my sister Sarah.’ He turned to her despairingly. ‘He makes me do the cruellest jobs, the ones no other will do, dipping my hands in stuff that bites and flays my skin. Look!’ He held out hands that were blistered and flaking, running with open sores. ‘And then I must stir the skins in vats of dog dirt to make them supple!’

  I recoiled at this hellish vision and knew that I must do what I could to help.

  ‘He’ll soon grow accustomed,’ growled the tanner. ‘Skin soon hardens; look at mine.’ He held out his own hands for inspection. ‘Twenty years of tanning and hands soft as a babe’s.’

  ‘You never go near the vats, that’s why!’ insisted the boy, recovering his spirit. ‘With this new law you have boys to do it for you, of nine or ten, sent by the parish, and no questions asked!’

  ‘They get board and lodging.’

  ‘Sleeping in your cellar with the rats to tell us stories, and mouldy bread to eat or rotting kitchen stuff you buy cheap from city kitchen maids!’

  I stifled a smile at the boy’s way with words. The tanner had not yet managed to crush his imagination.

  ‘You learn a trade! That is what the law requires of me. I know my duty.’ His attempt at piety disgusted me more than his cruelty, especially if he believed it himself.

  ‘Come! If you come not, I will fetch the Watch.’

  ‘Please, mistress…’ interceded the boy’s sister. ‘I knew you were kind when you gave me that coin before.’ She thrust the boy towards me so I could feel his bones through his torn clothing and study the sooty mark of a bruise across his nose. I looked hard at him, taking in his thick black hair, skin so pale the veins showed blue beneath, and yet despite all there was a spark of surprising wit in his eyes.

  ‘I would take him with me as I deliver my milk but the parish would send him back to the tanner. He is quick, mistress, and can even read the signs in the shops and market. And he has such a good heart! Take him with you, mistress, for the sake of our sainted mother, who died in childbed. Please!’

  Perhaps some angel sent those words to her.

  I thought at once of my sister Bett, not yet cold in her shroud, and the guilt that I carried around with me like a sack, wondering if I had served to hasten her end. Helping this boy might lighten that load.

  ‘I will take him,’ I said without stopping to think if my kindly aunt and uncle would want another servant.

  ‘But he is my bounden apprentice, sent to me under the law!’ The tanner tried to grab him back.

  ‘How much would you have spent on this boy’s board and keep for the term of his apprenticeship?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ his sharp eyes widened, ‘the term of the apprenticeship is not fixed, but it would last some years. Tis till he has learned his trade, like.’

  ‘Say five years. And I will be saving you the cost of board and lodging for him.’

  Wat laughed bitterly at this.

  ‘And I will be losing the labour he would have provided me.’

  ‘Three angels. I will give you three gold angels, to be sent to your address tomorrow.’

  ‘And you will make no more of it with your father, the Deputy So-and-so of Surrey?’ He glanced unwillingly at Wat’s injured hands.

  ‘I will make no more of it. Come, Wat.’ I held his arm and pulled him with me through the crowd that had gathered to watch our transaction.

  ‘May I tell Sarah where I will be found?’

  I looked back at the tanner, not wishing him to know of Wat’s new whereabouts. ‘Joan, tell Sarah quietly where her brother will be living.’

  Unwillingly Joan lumbered through the crowd and whispered in Sarah’s ear. The milkmaid’s eyes opened in alarm at so great a change in status for her brother.

  ‘What about my lady’s apples?’ grumbled Joan as we headed swiftly back towards the river. ‘And what is my mistress going to say about the arrival of this lad?’

  ‘Apples, did you say, mistress?’ Wat piped up, a merry look displacing the fearfulness from his blue eyes. ‘I can show you where to get good apples. The tanner’s wife is with child, poor lady, can you imagine how she…?’ He thought better of the question. ‘No. She had a craving for Orange Pippins. We were not allowed them, of course, but I was sent to find bushels of them. I can show you where to find the very best.’

  He led the way down a narrow alley, which had us looking fearfully behind in case the tanner or any other malcontents lurked there to do us ill, and after several twists and turns, once narrowly avoiding the slops from an upstairs window, we found ourselves slap in the centre of Borough Market, next to a stall piled high with vegetables and fruit.

  Yet there was no sign of apples.

  ‘He keeps them under the trestle, wrapped in straw against the winter frosts,’ Wat informed us.

  Joan filled her basket with Orange Pippins, so well stored they held still the misty tang of autumn. As we walked back to the wherry I handed one to Wat as his reward. He looked at it with wide eyes, as if it were one of the golden apples of Hera.

  ‘Thank you, mistress, for your great kindness.’

  We were silent on the wherry crossing. Joan occasionally raised her eyebrows at me then shrugged and moved away from Wat, as if he were not an injured and oppressed child, but a plague carrier.

  When we got to the steps at York House she clambered out as fast as she could, no doubt eager to reach the steward’s table to gossip to the other servants about Mistress Ann’s madness.

  ‘What is this place, mistress?’ Wat asked, overawed, as we walked towards the vast mansion ahead, with its towers and turrets and its three great windows looking from the Great Hall into the gardens.

  ‘It is called York House, my uncle’s home. I am sure he and my aunt will have some place for you in their household if you have no objection to hard work.’

  As we walked through the gate, Wat at my back glancing behind him all the while, as if expecting a hue and cry to
follow us, I found that the gardens were not empty. Two men, laughing and talking, stood at the river end, half hidden by an apple tree.

  It was Master John Donne. He turned at my helter-skelter arrival. ‘Good morrow, Mistress More.’ He raised an eyebrow at my rough companion but said nothing, assuming, I supposed, that I would offer an explanation. ‘This is my very good friend Henry Wotton.’

  Master Wotton bowed deeply. He was a thickset gentleman, with lively eyes and a nimble gait that belied his frame, and a fine thick red-brown beard, which seemed to have grown in greater abundance as it left his head. ‘Mistress More, a pleasure. I have long admired your uncle as a fair and honest servant of the Queen. Not so common in these days, I assure you.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Wotton. He is a good man.’

  ‘Master Wotton and I are old friends, and he currently is secretary to the Earl of Essex.’

  I smiled without knowing I did so.

  ‘Why smile you, Mistress More?’ asked Master Wotton, intrigued.

  ‘I heard so much at Court about the Earl and numerous ladies, I imagine his secretary would be kept very busy with love letters.’

  Master Wotton laughed loudly. ‘The Earl is a man of action. He believes in deeds rather than words.’

  ‘Yes. It was the deeds the ladies talked of.’ I remembered Wat, who had backed away into the garden and was hiding by the wall. I was beginning, as we approached York House, to wonder at my aunt’s reception of him. And then, seeing Master Donne, a happy inspiration occurred to me.

  ‘Master Donne, do you have a servant?’

  For reasons I understood not, Master Donne and his friend both laughed out loud.

  ‘Not at present. I would rather shake out my own doublet than pay another to do it ill. Servants, I have found, are not always worth the trouble of employing them.’

  ‘That is because you have not met the right one. For this boy, by name of Wat—do you have another name, Wat?’