Rotten at the Heart

by Bartholomew Daniels

  “This last gown, sir, may be of particular interest, as another of the exact same save in colour and detail will be made for the Queen herself, her household having commissioned their making for some pageant soon upcoming. I would show you hers, sir, but such ornaments that on this are made through embroidery or bauble are on hers made with actual jewels, and so I keep it well secure.”

  And then the curtain parted and Mary came forth, and while it was the dress the storekeeper would have me notice, her beauty seemed steal all light from the room, as if each beam was jealous to alight on her person instead of his product. On her fair face, which though almost alabaster pale seemed somehow also dusted as though with some spice that made that fine skin more rare, or on her eyes, which were a rich hazel flecked with emerald and some little exotic in their shape, or on the pursed bow of her lips, her small mouth making the impression of a waif but her lips being sufficient full as to make any man wish they made congress with his own. She was past average tall for a woman, her shoulders being just broad enough to make perfect the proportion of her frame, but still of that lean and willowy grace that blesses the young. Her breasts, pushed into prominent display by the nature of the garment, woke in me both hunger and shame as I remembered that girl now dead who in form Mary did much resemble, and made it too easy for me to picture what wonders the gown concealed.

  “Sir,” I said, “I would have this dress exact as seen on this form, except I fear I am so moved by the model that I will find the dress some faded when seen on any other.”

  I noted a slight blush colour Mary’s features, and even the rich hillocks of her breasts, as the mercer smiled and made a slight laugh.

  “Mary is only recent in my employ and, while some skilled, is still learning her art as seamstress. But I can sell off her back any clothing of my design to any woman who sees it, each imagining that it is the gown and not the girl by which they are so moved and all too embarrassed to later say so. And so the child is dearer to me than gold, though I would thank you not to say so to the man who recommended her.”

  “You mean some man had such in his clutches and instead looked to place her elsewhere?”

  “A minister at some parish nearer the river. She had lost her position in some household and was orphan, and so he made from shop to shop asking if any had need. As our commerce is growing and, frankly, to be rid of him, for he was most persistent, I agreed to meet her. And having met her, well…” And he turned up his hands as though to conclude his argument, its logic being plain.

  He turned to the girl. “Mary, do come around the counter so this good sir may admire the gown more close.”

  At which I saw a little shame flicker in her features. For while she was not in this made whore, she was clear used as an instrument to inflame in men lust and in women jealousy, and in either case to gain their commerce. But she moved dutiful to the end of the counter, although somewhat awkwardly, likely being unused to such involved costume. She caught a shoe on the edge of the carpet and stumbled, so that I reached out and took her hand to steady her progress, surprised to feel a small square of paper pressed into my palm as she righted her balance.

  “I thank you, sir,” she said, looking into my eyes direct and communicating more.

  And I made good show of examining both gown and girl, this clear being the mercer’s intent, and left his shop only after placing an order as would deplete the company’s purse by many pounds.

  Back on the street, I opened the small paper the girl had passed to me. It bade me meet her one hour hence near the market two streets north.

  CHAPTER 28

  Even from a street’s distance and with her dressed now in the plainer garb that fit her station, I could mark Mary easy as I waited at the edge of the market.

  She walked to me direct. “Pray, sir, walk with me as I buy my master’s supper, as it is my daily duty and I have little time.” And so we made into the crush of stalls, and she performed her office.

  “You are Shakespeare,” she said.

  “I am, and would like to think my fame such that you know this, but suspect other.”

  She shook her head. “I did see you brief at Somerset just short after the Lord Chamberlain’s passing, as you were admitted to meet with the new Baron. Immediate after, we were all by him informed that we should talk plain with you concerning his late father, as you would draft some work to his honour.”

  “That is my charge,” I said.

  “I must mark you most diligent in its execution.”

  “Diligent how?”

  “To take such pains so as to talk with a woman only short in the late Lord’s service, for I cannot count your appearing in a shop where I am only one week employed as an accident.”

  She seemed suddenly some hostile. I thought to make her mood other with flattery.

  “Your being blessed with such beauty, I should think you well used to men taking pains to make your acquaintance, be it their charge or no.”

  She reddened again, her skin being so fair that it did colour easy, but by her face I took this blush to be in anger.

  “Blessed, sir? So that I feel the crawl of every man’s eyes across my body like a corruption of spiders? So that I can think no man’s intention true, but only such false designs by which he might gain access to my favours? So that every woman sees me first as threat? Is this how you mean blessed?”

  I remembered my Anne’s harsh speaking in which she had coloured my lordship over words that I had always thought my blessing instead as my curse, and felt now some ashamed at having tried to ply this girl with flattery.

  “Every gift we have comes at some cost. I do know this true.”

  She calmed, the red gone from her face. “But how can I know you true? When you are today yourself, or some version of it, but were just yesterday a beggar who gained my pity as I watched you suffer hard at the hands of some brutes just below my master’s windows?” She looked to my face. “For I know how you gained your injuries, sir.” And then a weak smile, “And how dear you made suffer those who caused them.”

  “In truth, I do think they suffer for them in their souls,” I said.

  “Their souls being God’s province, such suffering is not of your agency.”

  “But I am told he oft works in mysterious ways. So, could we not, any of us, be each day his instrument?”

  She smiled light again, but this time with some little mischief. “I fear conversation with you, sir, as I think I might find myself led into some maze from which I would have to rely on your mercies to be out. And, in truth, I doubt your mercies. And so I will be plain so that I can remain clear on the bounds of our discussion.”

  I nodded in invitation for her to continue.

  “I believe you have some mission from Baron Carey, but that a play is not the thing. And I will ask you plain to tell me that mission and my place in it, for I am a young woman alone and by that station already at some peril. If I face some other, it is best that I know it.”

  I thought careful on my words next, for while I was not at liberty to reveal Carey’s mission, I was charged to learn what truths I could and by what means I may. And I had learned at the cost of not little recent suffering that my duty had to be to truth first if I hoped to faithful serve myself or any master second.

  “I do make inquiries on the Baron’s behalf,” I said, “and will ready admit that my fortunes and those of my company do much depend on his favour, so I am diligent in that office. Whether the end of that office be such work as you were told commissioned or some other hardly seems matter. I swear that this be true and will have you know that I have recent resolved to serve truth better, but, now trying to be better true, must also admit that I have served it poorly in the past and am only little acquainted with its practice.”

  “That may be as true as I have been spoken to by any man. And in hopes our congress can remain true, I will ask how, given the family Carey’s august circles and circumstances, I came to be such a spur to your curiosities.�
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  “My lady, I have found much curious in these few weeks past, so do not imagine yourself alone in that circumstance. But the manner and timing of your leaving from Somerset, coming at just such moment as to put you past my questioning, this did give me pause.”

  “As though no lady has before left a household’s employ upon her master’s death?”

  “Or was made leave.”

  She coloured again. “Made leave, sir? By whose word? For my leaving was of my choice and for my reasons alone.”

  “The Baron’s brother told me he had you transferred to his service on his father’s passing – as he found you lovely and, to be plain, planned to use his station to have use of you. But that you bore some pox that made him fear for his health, and so he discharged you.”

  Her colour deepened, and she took some moments to answer. “I must guard my tongue, sir, for such as the Baron’s brother can say of me as they will and at no consequence while such as me must either speak false or not at all. And while you may have only late made truth’s acquaintance, I do hold my virtue most dear. Men have much to claim in this world and can pick their treasures, but for a woman, virtue is all she is granted.”

  “I have no affection for the younger Carey, I assure you, and even his own brother holds him in low regard. While you might imagine me of some station, sure you realise that I am no more at liberty to impugn a Carey than are you. And even so I will call him as vile a man as I have known.”

  Which seemed to calm her some. “I will call your words again true, and will have you know this plain. The younger Carey did on my very first day in his charge trap me in his rooms and attempt to press himself on me, at which I drew his dagger. Not in threat, but instead I did hand it to him and tell him that, would he have my honour, he would need take it immediate and from my corpse, for I would fight him to my last and, if I lived, immediate leave those rooms and that household’s employ. As it seems his taste for rape runs only to such as can be accomplished by threat and not to such that would require his actual effort, I was left to leave and so I did.”

  “But what of this pox? For the chambermaid did mention it, too.”

  “You mean of my hand?”

  “The same.”

  “I am at least by that relieved, for I thought from your telling that Carey had claimed to see such portions of my person that no man has, and such seeing would imply my assent to his advances, or at least my insufficient resistance.”

  “Then I am sorry for your alarm, as even Carey claimed the hand only.”

  She turned both arms up to me. “I am very fair of skin, and it is tender and easily offended. I am frequent with some rash, and was so often at Somerset, such lyes and other agents as they use in their laundries and cleaning being much hard on me. So, yes, my hand was that day some reddened, but hardly poxed.”

  She seemed now vexed. “Sir, I am past my time and must be back to the mercers. I have answered you plain and do pray this can conclude your interest.”

  Time being now short, I had to make best use of it.

  “You are Catholic,” I said.

  At which, instead of colouring, she looked more pale.

  “Sir?”

  “You attended this Sunday morning past a mass held secret in the cellar of that building where your late father lived. It was from there that I marked your progress.”

  She regained herself quick. “And so your costume as beggar, as it better fits that district where I live than this one where I work.”

  “Which does not answer my question.”

  “Which question you have not asked, but only for yourself answered.”

  “Then I will ask it plain. Are you Catholic?”

  “And now having been asked direct, I will answer plain. I am. I do not brag my faith for my peril, but I will not deny it for my virtue.”

  “Having been so raised by your father?”

  “He did teach me to be true in all, but in my faith most.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died at my birth, so I have only the example of her sacrifice and not her teaching.”

  “And is the mercer, also, in secret, Catholic?”

  She made a small laugh. “The mercer, sir? He has no God but his purse. Why would you think thus?”

  “Him saying you were hired through the intercession of a cleric. You being Catholic, I thought perhaps the cleric was, too, and the mercer part of his congregation.”

  She shook her head. “Services to the poor are run by the Queen’s church through its parishes, and I considered it no insult to God to ask help there to find a position, it being my duty to God and Queen both to find work for my hands.”

  I could think of no question further.

  Her face was now set hard stern. “So, we come final to the truth of your mission. It seems, sir, you hold my life in your hands, and that of my congregation. Did you suppose you would have something for it? Use of my person? For I will grant nothing. I do not pursue martyrdom, but neither will I dodge it. If my virtue cannot be my shield, then it will instead be my reward.”

  I shook my head at her. “I ask nothing, for my office is only as I have claimed: to make such inquiry as I see fit and to report to Carey that which pertains to his cause. I see no cause in your faith, nor, in truth, harm in it either. And I see in your character such better person as I might be and in your beauty a reminder of some past sins that do haunt me deep. So, go. As you have been true to me, I will be true to you. I will trouble you no further.”

  She turned as though to leave, stopped, and then turned back to face me, drawing close near. “Do you know God, sir? For I sense in you such man who does seek good but has no map by which to find it.”

  “I’m afraid he does elude my understanding.”

  “There is peace in his company, sir, and if you would have it, I pray you seek me again. Know that what I do now, I do not in lust, but in his name and in blessing.”

  She leaned forward and kissed me gentle on my cheek, and then stepped back, gracing me with her full smile. And then she turned and was gone.

  I set off toward Somerset, having sent word to Carey that I would be near to there on his business and so would meet his coach at that junction where we did confer upon my return from Stratford. I was making my way there slow, having still some time, when I saw ahead two men in rough congress with a cripple who begged alms, and I recognised those same Puritans who had so sore abused me the Sunday just past.

  Drawing near, I could hear the same threats of bailiff, these courageous fellows also slapping this fellow as they had me, though he had to accept their blows on his knees, as it was there his legs ended.

  “What trouble here, good sirs?” I asked, now immediate behind them. And they turned brief, seeing only my dress and manner and taking no note of my face, turning immediate back to their rough work.

  “Trouble, sir? None. We are just making plain God’s lesson to this sinner so clear out of his favour. For God would have all earn their keep and not beg it.”

  “The earning being some complicated when one’s legs end at one’s knees,” I said. “Though I can imagine, being so blessed he does better pray than do you, as he is all day on his knees, and may thus know God’s lesson already in full.”

  At that, the men turned to face me.

  “That being the case,” I continued, “he requires no schooling from you. Perhaps you will instead offer it to me.”

  The men looked at me puzzled, saying nothing.

  “As I am today in my true garb and armed, you seem less keen to threaten your steel,” I said. “Perhaps your honour is only a Sunday thing.”

  Only then did their eyes grow wide in recognition.

  “As you are a gentleman and thus in God’s love, I will forgive your short temper, sir,” said that man who had first struck me on our last meeting. “And will not even ask on what business you were late in these quarters and in disguise, as I will assume your honour and pray that you will assume mine.”
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  “Oh, I will glad tell you what business. The Crown’s business, sir. Topcliffe’s business.”

  It seemed, in some company, my recent commitment to the truth did ready fail me. At the name Topcliffe, they both blanched, knowing well he did have some agents who worked disguised and in secret.

  “Topcliffe’s business,” I repeated, “but not yours. Except on Sunday you chose to make it so. I could not then oblige your offer to make whole that honour that you did swear I had offended, so I do so now.” I put my hand to the hilt of my sword and pulled it the first inches clear, my eyes hard and unblinking on the man’s own.

  At which both men backed away a step, their hands clear of their swords. “For such offence as we did unwitting offer, we do sincere apologise,” said the second man.

  “To me only?”

  “Sir?”

  I nodded to the beggar they had current accosted. “What of my fellow agent whose report I am here to take and to whom you have now drawn such unwanted attentions? Does he, too, not deserve your apology?”

  They looked to the cripple and then back to me. “Him, sir?”

  “Do you question my word? For, like you, I would have such insult answered immediate.”

  “Question, no, sir. We are but surprised.”

  “Then gather yourself and offer your apologies. For you see, this fellow does in fact earn his keep and not beg it. He earns it in vital service. A service that you have now twice interrupted.”

  At which they turned to the beggar, both now fulsome in their apology.

  “As our congress here has drawn such attention to our presence that we do not welcome,” I said, “your making gift of alms might some explain your interruption and reinforce his disguise. Consider it a donation to the Queen’s service.”

  At which both men dropped a crown into the beggar’s cap and beat a hasty retreat. Them gone, I added tuppence to the man’s hat, and he looked up at me with a toothless smile.