Emilia

1592

is 23

Overnight, it seemed, the Puritans had multiplied. Led by Philip Stubbs, always wearing stark black, they were an unkindness of ravens on a crusade to make the Church of England even more authentically Protestant. One of their missions was to shut down the dens of iniquity known as theaters. Their campaign was taking its toll on Lord Hunsdon. He had to not only assuage the fears of the theater companies about these existential threats but also give small concessions to Stubbs and his devotees to mitigate their incessant attacks.

The Puritans claimed that if you attended the theater, you would not be able to tell the difference between what was fiction and what was real. A man might look at a boy actor dressed in the clothes of a woman and think him an actual woman. A person who witnessed a murder onstage might leave the theater with bloodlust and repeat the act, this time in a tavern with a real knife. A morally upright woman might leave a performance depicting infidelity and become a strumpet. Theater also stole time away that people could be using to worship God.

understood the true motivation: a play might make its viewers think. And when people thought, instead of blindly following the Gospel, they escaped from your control.

She did her best to make the Lord Chamberlain forget the Puritans, but it was difficult when they congregated outside performances, shouting their vitriol and passing out pamphlets. It was hard, too, to argue against a group that claimed to have God's will on their side. She found herself putting on the best performances in all of London, in her bedchamber for an audience of one. Like Scheherazade, she would weave escapist stories for Hunsdon as she stroked his hair and massaged his temples. Sometimes she removed her clothing piece by piece. Other times she simply played dice with him, using grapes as currency for bets. But no matter what she did to divert Hunsdon's attention, it was not enough, and he carried his frustration with Stubbs into court, into his interactions with servants, and into their bed.

It was one night after she lit her hidden Sabbath candles that came up with a strategy to help the Lord Chamberlain. She found him in his study, plays scattered across his writing table. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he did not look up when she entered. Silently she slipped around to the back of his chair and dug her fingers into the tight muscles of his shoulders.

Hunsdon sighed and closed his eyes, covering her hand with one of his own. "You are too good to me, my dear."

"I do not like seeing you this way. You are near dropping from exhaustion."

"Ah, well." He removed his spectacles. "There are so many hours in a day and Her Majesty believes all of mine belong to her. And yet the Puritans claim I am too decadent to do any meaningful work."

"That is precisely the reason for my errand," said. "I wish to invite Philip Stubbs to dinner."

"To poison him, dare I hope?"

She smiled, slipping onto his lap. "No, to win him over." When Hunsdon opened his mouth to respond, she placed her fingers over his lips. "He cannot hate that which he knows, my lord. What better way to convince him that you are not a heathen than to invite him to your own home, quote the Word of God, and ask him to preach the Gospel at your own chapel on the Christian Sabbath? Then, over a meal that is plain and humble, you can convince him that the messages you allow onstage are meant solely to inspire and reinforce godliness in the theatergoer." She reached into her bodice and pulled out the cross she wore around her neck—to , essentially costume jewelry. "Naturally, I shall be at your side as your dutiful helpmeet."

"That is a spirited idea, my sweet," Hunsdon said. "Perhaps some good could come of it, yet…"

waited. "Yet…"

He sighed. "I do not think a Puritan will consent to crossing the threshold of a man who shares his bed with a woman who is not his wife."

felt her cheeks blaze. Ten years with Hunsdon had made her complacent about the origins of their relationship. "Of course," she managed.

"—" Hunsdon grasped her hand.

"It was but a foolish thought." She pulled away, unable to meet his eye. "Beg pardon, my lord," said, and she fled the room.

—

As had been working on the play Arden of Faversham, she told Marlowe that there was only one thing she would not compromise on as they collaborated: that Alice, the murderous wife, must have more lines than any other figure in the play. She told Kit it was because Alice had the most to explain to an audience…but it was more than that. It was as if the character she brought to life on a page must be able to speak freely in a way that herself couldn't.

The plot was based on the real-life murder of Arden. After several abortive attempts to kill him, Alice and her lover, Mosby, hired two former soldiers—Black Will and Shakebag—to do the deed, but they bungled the job, too.

That afternoon sat at the Falcon Inn beside Kit, begging him to read aloud a scene she had been struggling with. Empty tankards, mostly Kit's, sat between them. Buying one round after another helped him (he said) get into character. He was reading the role of Alice's lover, Mosby, as read Alice. Act III began with a soliloquy in which Mosby talked of their scheme to do away with Arden. But then his discontent turned to Alice, supposedly the object of his affections. "? 'Tis fearful sleeping in a serpent's bed, " Kit read. " And I will cleanly rid my hands of her. " He reared back, turning to . "Now he wants to murder his ladylove, too?"

"Yes," confirmed. "Just go on."

He continued reading Mosby's part until the character of Alice entered, holding a prayer book ("Dramatic irony," Kit praised), repenting her affair and her violent thoughts.

" It is not love that loves to anger love, " Kit read.

" It is not love that loves to murder love, " replied.

He feigned shock, as Mosby would, thinking Alice had read his mind. " How mean you that? "

" Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me. "

" And then? " Kit said.

" And then…conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad, Lest that my words be carried with the wind, And published in the world to both our shames. "

Kit pushed down the paper. "Are you still acting as Alice, or was that 's voice?" He chucked her under the chin. "Second thoughts about our project, Mouse?"

She did not know what to say. Was it foolish to think that she might get away with writing a play that might one day be performed in public? Or was she tempting fate, like the character of Alice, trying to change an implacable set of rules and expectations?

knew that Kit thrived on skating at the edge of impropriety. He would probably welcome a scandal. But he was a man, and he would weather it, and go on to write a new play.

On the other hand, would be shunned. It would not matter if she created a masterpiece. It would only matter that she had dared to create it in the first place.

She did not understand why a woman's accomplishment had to come at the price of a man's worth—as if there were a finite amount of success in the universe, as if letting another into that sacred space meant someone already there would be evicted.

For once, she could not find the words to respond to Kit—so instead, she skipped down the paper and borrowed Alice's. " A fount once troubled is not thickened still. Be clear again, I'll ne'er more trouble thee. "

Kit wrapped an arm around her. "You should not worry so." He flattened his hands on the table. "Now, why do you waste your time? I cannot stand the thought of this scene remaining unwritten. How shall I sleep not knowing if Mosby and Alice will keep arguing or if they will strengthen their resolve to commit murder?"

laughed. "Mayhap both?"

He yanked at the back of her chair so she was forced to stand. "Mouse," Kit commanded. "Go home and write."

—

For months and Marlowe had worked out a system of communication, by which notes telling her when and where to meet were concealed within other notes and dispatched from seamstresses, milliners, and other merchants who might have business with the lady of Somerset House. She received what she thought was another missive from him one morning—until she cracked the wax seal and saw a familiar, elegant hand that made her heart start to pound.

If thou cry war, there is no peace for me; I will do penance for offending thee. Paris Garden, dusk.

spilled the cup of ale she had been drinking.

"My dear?" Hunsdon said, looking up from a sheaf of documents.

"Just a mercer," lied, "telling me that the bolt of fabric I ordered has arrived."

"It must be quite the color if that is your reaction," he mused. "I look forward to seeing you garbed in it."

It had been almost three years since had last seen Southampton, or rather, three years since his last sight of her servicing Hunsdon.

"Shall we?" Hunsdon asked, standing and holding out his arm for .

It was Sunday, so they made their way to the small chapel at Somerset House. knew how to go through the motions; it was just another part to play. The Anglicans believed that man was wicked by nature, and that no matter what good you did in the world, you were always going to be a sinner. The only way to salvation was to ask for God's grace.

It seemed strange to her to think of existence as a pit you could never crawl out of.

Then again, maybe these Christians had it right. Because as she sat, listening to a priest read from the Book of Common Prayer, she was thinking about the Earl of Southampton.

In that moment, she understood fully what made Alice Arden kill her husband. Love was a religion all its own, one that could damn you or save you or turn you into a zealot.

glanced down at the hymnal on her lap and thought of Alice entering with a prayer book in the scene she had read with Marlowe. She thought of Southampton's note, and her mind started composing.

If thou cry war, there is no peace for me;

I will do penance for offending thee.

And burn this prayer-book, where I here use

The holy word that had converted me.

See, Wriothesley, I will tear away the leaves,

And all the leaves, and in this golden cover

Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell;

And thereon will I chiefly meditate

And hold no other sect but such devotion.

If Southampton wanted to see her, it did not mean he loved her still.

Then again, it didn't not mean that.

—

Although had been worried about how to slip away from Lord Hunsdon that Sunday evening, he was summoned to court by the Queen, so it turned out to be easier to leave Somerset House than she'd expected. She took a servant along and paid coin to have the maid meet her back at the Paris Garden landing on the Thames three hours after sunset. Then she hid herself deeper in the voluminous folds of her cloak and crossed to the bridge where she'd met Southampton years before.

She almost walked right past him.

He caught her arm, and the motion caused her hood to fall back from her face. "Mistress," he said.

Southampton was no longer a green boy of sixteen. He was nearly twenty, wide-shouldered, a full head taller than . But oh, his hair still tumbled over his brow in auburn waves; his eyes glittered like the sun on the sea.

"I did not know if you would come," he said quietly.

"I did not think that you would ask," she replied.

The memory of their last encounter flooded her with shame. Nothing had changed since then. She was still a courtesan. Southampton was still a peer who would take a noble wife.

They stood inches away from each other, and miles apart.

The Earl released her and clasped his hands behind his back. "Will you walk with me?"

"Of course, my lord." fell into step beside him. "How go your studies?"

They crossed the bridge, stepping into the marshy fields of the garden. "Well. I am to accompany Her Majesty to Oxford," Southampton said.

"What an honor," replied, but her blood beat out a different response: He is leaving, when we have only just been reunited. She could feel his gaze. "The days have been temperate, have they not?" she said, staring forward.

"." Southampton stopped moving. " . " He waited until she faced him. "Is this what we are to be to each other?"

Her throat was dry. "What would you have us be?"

He touched her cheek. "Not acquaintances who talk about the weather. I know how you taste. I know the sounds you make when you—"

She pulled away from him. "Nothing has changed."

"There you are wrong," Southampton said. " I've changed." He smiled ruefully. "Suffice it to say I am a bit older, and perhaps a bit wiser." He looked down at the ground between them, and then met her gaze again. "You cannot promise me a future and I will not ask for that which you cannot give. But we are both here, and I have missed you, , so bloody much."

They crashed together. Southampton's hands were in her hair, pulling the pins free. Her palm flattened against his chest, holding his heartbeat. Their kiss was a collision. He tasted of mead and despair.

"Not here," Southampton groaned, wrapping an arm around 's waist and pulling her deeper into the garden. The dark settled around them with a sigh, and he guided her down onto a thick carpet of moss.

For long moments, they lay on their sides, her skirts ballooned over Southampton's legs, his hand stroking the curve from her ear to her collarbone. drank him in, marking all the changes three years had wrought. When she felt herself drowning in regret, she pulled him closer and stole his breath into her lungs.

Finally, when they spoke, their voices tangled and they both laughed. "I am sorry," said. "For how we ended."

He brought her fingers to his lips. "I am sorry, too…for forcing your hand." Southampton's eyes caught hers.

She nodded.

"I also cannot claim that I have been chaste," he said.

As much as that felt like a blow, had hardly expected otherwise. "I cannot claim that I have been chaste, either," she said, with a smile.

He grinned, and his dimples deepened. flung herself onto her back, arms wide. "Is something amiss?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I am just…happy."

He rolled on top of her. "I could make you happier," he said.

wrapped her arms around his neck. "Challenge accepted."

She turned and sat astride him. She had forgotten how, in their lovemaking, she had often taken the lead—not just because she was the one with more experience, but because Southampton was secure enough to allow and enjoy it.

tried to memorize the angle of his jaw, the temperature of his skin, the silk of his hair in her hands. Being in his arms felt both familiar and fresh, like she was reliving a memory and making a new one at the same time.

After, with her heart still racing, she lay on her back looking up at the night sky, her fingers tangled with Southampton's. The moon made a marble statue of him, a knight in immortal repose on a tomb. In another place and another time, maybe, they would have been able to live together. To marry and have children. He would have been holding her hand when she took her last breath and exhaled the truest statement of her life: I have loved you most.

Without opening his eyes, he said, "I can hear your mind churning."

"I shall try to think more quietly, my lord," murmured, smiling faintly.

Southampton rolled to his elbow and touched a finger between her brows. "What do you think on that makes you frown so?"

"Death."

"Mine?" He buried his face in the curve of her neck. "Then let me try to please you better…."

"Mine," corrected.

"Then mine as well, for there is no life without you."

They both knew it was not true, but she played along. "When I die, then, we shall cut you out in stars, and you will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night."

He kissed her. "I do not need the adoration of the world," Southampton said. "Just yours."

—

believed that somewhere deep within her, there must be a fatal flaw. How else to account for the fact that, even though she resided in the luxury of Somerset House and had the favor of one of the most important men in the country, it was not enough?

Lord Hunsdon pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "These playwrights," he mused, "never seem to write in a good hand. I shall go blind reading this."

frowned at the paper on her lap desk. "I fear I am no cleaner with my pen."

"What do you write tonight, ?" Hunsdon asked. "Another poem?"

She was working on her play, but she nodded.

His eyes twinkled. "Might this old man be the subject?"

She glanced down at the lines she had just penned: Frown not on me when we meet in heaven; in heaven I'll love thee, though on earth I did not.

It was Alice's line, after her lover finally murdered her husband. Or maybe it was just 's conscience.

She looked up at Hunsdon. "Yes, my lord. You are my muse."

He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Let us retire then, that I might inspire you." Hunsdon pulled her into his arms and kissed her. For a moment, went still. It had been so long. As he grew older, he'd been less interested in sexual intimacy.

He drew back. "Is aught amiss?"

She cupped his cheek. Love was not always passion—it was fondness, too. "Not at all," said, and she followed him to her chamber.

Hunsdon undressed her slowly in front of the window. Then he turned , thrusting into her from behind. She stared at a pane of glass in the window, thinking of how it held only the last fingerprint that had been pressed against it, erasing whoever had touched it before.

—

One day, a note from Southampton arrived that asked to meet not at their secret spot in Paris Garden but at a new address, in Cheapside. She arrived on Gutter Lane, where a door swung open to reveal a man with wild curly hair, garbed only in a loose white shirt and trousers. "Mistress Bassano," he said. "Come in, come in."

She drew back. "I am not in the habit of entering the homes of strangers, sir," murmured. Just then, Southampton's bright hair appeared over the man's shoulder.

"This is no stranger," he said, smiling.

The man executed a small bow. "Nicholas Hilliard at your service, mistress."

"The painter?" asked. Hilliard had captured the likeness of the Queen many times, but Her Majesty had never recognized him as the royal portrait painter. Court gossip suggested that without the Queen's favor he'd never attained a certain stature, and was always in need of funds. He had a rare talent, but anyone who could afford to pay three pounds could commission one of his miniatures.

looked at him appraisingly. Disheveled attire or no, she felt a strange kinship with this man, who was doing what he had to to survive.

"You bring me a gift," Hilliard said, bowing over 's hand. "My art can only approximate beauty such as this."

"I don't understand," said.

"I wish him to paint a miniature of you," Southampton explained, and then he lowered his voice so only she would hear it. "I already carry you close to my heart," he said. "I hoped to carry your likeness there, too."

She had never sat for a portrait. Artwork had decorated nearly every surface of the Countess's home, as well as Hunsdon's and the Queen's palaces. But the people who were commemorated in paintings were titled, wealthy, important. Not poor wards, courtesans, or illicit lovers.

It was one thing to meet Southampton secretly and to leave Paris Garden without any record of their coupling except a patch of crushed grass and a memory. It was another thing to create a tangible token of their love; it left them exposed to anyone who might find her portrait tucked into Southampton's doublet.

She would not risk humiliating Hunsdon that way.

"Henry," she said softly. "I cannot."

Southampton met her gaze. "If I cannot have you," he murmured, "will you deny me this substitute?"

God help her, she was selfish. There was a part of her that wanted to lay claim to Southampton even when they were apart. She bit her lip and nodded. "All right," she conceded. "But you leave me at a disadvantage, then, with no likeness of you. "

To her surprise, he blushed. "I have taken a liberty," Southampton admitted, "hoping that you might wish for that very thing." He drew her deeper into Hilliard's home, to a room with light streaming through the open shutters. Another painter was mixing colors on a palette as they entered. "We shall sit together, and Master Hilliard and his apprentice shall each paint a miniature."

The second man inclined his head. "Isaac Oliver at your service, madam," he said.

"Let us start," Hilliard said, "before we lose the light."

As if, thought, that was all they stood to lose.

—

A month later, when finished her draft of Arden of Faversham, she sent Marlowe the foul copy in its entirety, hidden inside a pamphlet from the Puritans that Hunsdon had discarded. She spent a week pacing the halls of Somerset House, waiting for Kit's feedback.

She wandered the prayer labyrinth on the house's grounds, her thoughts running in circles.

She visited the falconer and fed mice to the hawks.

She attended a play at the Rose with Hunsdon.

She visited the milliners at the Royal Exchange and purchased a headpiece she did not need.

She sat in the solar, embroidering distractedly, and more often untangling knots of thread.

During that time there were messages from Lord Burghley and Sir Robert Cecil, and one from 's old friend Isabella. She was no longer the mistress of the Baron but lived in relative comfort from the settlement he gave her upon their parting.

Finally, one morning, a message came from Kit, instructing to meet him at the Falcon Inn at half past six.

left word that she was visiting her cousin, then dressed in her borrowed boy's clothes, tugged a cap low on her brow, and exited through the servants' door. She picked her way through the tangled streets of London, past vendors hawking damsons and garlic, fine bone lace and silk garters, starch to clear one's complexion. By the time she reached the Falcon Inn, Kit was well into his cups. He was flirting shamelessly with a young apprentice. "Emile," he drawled. "I feared you had forgotten me." He plucked a goblet from the table and poured from a bottle of wine. He handed it to her, then pulled from his coat the sheaf of pages she had sent him. "Drink up, darling. You're going to need it."

's heart sank, and she swallowed the entire cup. "Is it terrible, then?"

"On the contrary," Kit said. "It's excellent. "

She swatted him. "Why did you make me drink, then?"

"Because now you have to actually do something with it."

"I thought you were going to do something with it. That was the point of collaborating."

Kit drained his own goblet. "The point of collaborating was to give you confidence in the talent you naturally have. If I bring the play to Henslowe at the Rose, he will assume I wrote it."

"So?"

"So I can already get a play published. This is about you getting a play published." He slid his glance toward her. "If only, say, you had the ability to slip an anonymous foul copy onto the desk of the Lord Chamberlain."

paled. She could just imagine what would happen if Stubbs, the Puritan, learned that the mistress of Lord Hunsdon was also a playwright—it would confirm his every theory about the moral corruptness of theater.

"I cannot do that, Kit," she whispered.

If Hunsdon ever discovered that this was 's writing, the scandal would have repercussions that would reach all the way to the court. At the least, she'd be turned out without a penny. At the worst, she'd be imprisoned by the Queen for writing about a wife's murder of a husband.

She took the manuscript back and began to rewrap it in the folds of the Puritans' pamphlet. REPENT, its title screamed. "This was a terrible idea," she said.

Kit took the pamphlet from her hand. "What is this?"

"You are drunk," accused.

"And you are brilliant." He smacked her with the pamphlet. " What is this? "

"Rubbish from the Puritans."

"Only if you're looking at the outside." Kit raised his brows. "Mouse," he said. "All you need is a cover."

—

When Southampton could, he sent for . The more frequently they met, the more varied their rendezvous spots. Sometimes they sat on their mantle of moss in Paris Garden; sometimes they met at the bearbaiting pits packed with throngs of spectators; once he brought a bottle of wine and bread and cheese and they picnicked in Pike Gardens, watching the freshwater fish swim in lazy circles in the ponds. They walked; they dreamed; they laughed; they coupled. Whenever boarded the ferry to cross the Thames after one of their illicit trysts, she told herself it was likely the last time. She pretended that this would prepare her for disappointment.

She knew that he was never without the miniature Hilliard's student had painted of her. It was pinned inside his doublet, and she felt its sharp filigreed edges when she pressed her body close to his. The artist's apprentice had painted against an indigo field, her dark hair piled high above an elaborate collar of lace, a strand of Italian Murano glass beads wrapped around her throat.

Southampton had asked Hilliard not to paint him on his signature field of blue but instead on a background of black. His hand was inside his open shirt, covering his heart, as if he could keep it safe for her. On the back of the painting, flush against its ivory casing, was a tiny image of the six of hearts—the soulmate card, the symbol in cartomancy of a love you were destined to have…and to lose.

Southampton had not just given his likeness—he'd given her the entire story of their bittersweet relationship. She could not risk hiding the miniature of Southampton in her own bodies but instead had cut a slit in her mattress and kept it hidden inside—where it was the first thing she looked at when she woke, the last thing she touched before she went to sleep.

One night as Southampton was helping her restore her clothing in Paris Garden after they'd made love, he paused in the act of tying up her laces. "What if we spent the night together?"

"We spend many nights together."

"I have often said good night to you," Southampton said. "But never good morning."

They made a plan. She merely mentioned to Hunsdon that Isabella had fallen ill and did not have anyone to look after her, then dressed in a simple kirtle and walking boots. As directed by Southampton, she went to Gray's Inn, one of the Inns of Court where lawyers trained, and found a horse that was tied to a post, stamping impatiently beside a hostler. It was not until the man turned that she saw it was the Earl, outfitted in rough homespun instead of silk and velvet, his face hidden by a brimmed cap. "I almost did not recognize you," she said.

"That, darling, is the point." He grinned, taking her small satchel and securing it before giving her a leg up. He swung into the saddle behind her, and the horse set off into a trot.

When they reached the Great North Road, the gelding lengthened into a gallop. The buildings gave way to fields, some grazing sheep and others untamed, thick with gorse and wildflowers. Mud flew up from the hooves of the horse, spattering their legs. had learned to sit a horse when she was a child at Grimsthorpe, but she had been only competent at best. Now, she let herself rock in the cradle of Southampton's body as they rode for several hours.

He sang to her in a lovely baritone—was there anything about this man that was not beautiful? He told her stories about how an acrobat visiting court had taught him to ride while standing on the saddle when he was a teen. He told her how, as a child, he'd fallen from a tree and broken his arm and now always knew when it would rain by the ache in his elbow. He would not tell her their destination. When they finally stopped at a coaching inn called The Bull, couldn't feel her bottom and she slipped off the horse into Southampton's arms. Through the open doorway she could hear other travelers in the tavern, having a meal or a respite. "Have we come here for the ale, my lord?" teased.

"Not your lord," he said quietly. "Just your husband."

At his words, her belly clenched. He pulled her through the doorway, where he approached the innkeeper. "Have you a spare room for the night for my wife and me?"

"Aye, sir," the man replied. He pocketed the coins Southampton offered and led them up a narrow set of stairs. He opened a door, revealing a small bed, a small table and chairs, and a banked fire.

"Very good," Southampton said. "Might we have a tray brought up for supper?"

wondered how the innkeeper could not tell that Southampton was a peer. It was in the timbre of his voice, his bearing, his confidence. When the innkeeper left, promising to send his daughter up with some food and ale, Southampton unfastened her cloak and set it aside on a chair.

"Is this our destination, then?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Like everyone else here, we are in the middle of a journey."

"To where?"

He kissed her. "Not where, but when. A moment in which I am just Henry, and you are just ."

They broke apart at a knock on the door, and Southampton answered it to take the tray. He set it on the table and came back to her, looping his arms around her waist. "Shall we not eat?" asked.

"I am hungrier for my wife."

She smiled. "Ah, but your wife is so tired from keeping your house, mending your clothing, and cooking your meals. She deserves to dine like a fine lady, does she not?"

He tumbled them onto the bed in a flurry of laughter and limbs. valued this more than anything else—his playfulness—since she had never had the luxury of a childhood. "How foolish of me," he agreed. "You are near run ragged by our brood."

Something inside softened. "We have babes?"

"Aye," Southampton said. "A little girl who looks just like her mother."

She framed his face with her hands. "And a boy with eyes like the sea."

As he peeled off her clothing and she unraveled his, realized that they had never been truly bare in each other's company. When they met for their trysts, they were still in public places, coming together furtively and fast. Yet this disrobing went beyond their bodies. Stripped of their titles and their roles, they could start fresh. They could belong only to each other.

It was not until afterward, when Southampton's thumb wiped away her tears, that she realized she had been crying. "What is it, sweet?"

forced herself to smile. "It is just that I am happy. So much so that it has nowhere else to go."

It was only a half-truth. This was not happiness she felt. But emotions did have a way of spilling out when they could not be contained in your heart. You could love someone even when you were apart. You could grieve before you lost him.

—

Marlowe met at the Bear Garden, where their conversation would go completely unnoticed by the hordes of spectators who had come to see the bearbaiting. After Kit had placed his bet, they sat on a granite bench, watching a beast famous for its longevity and strength—the bear named Sackerson—led into the pit and chained to a stake by its leg.

"Oxford has been writing plays for a while now," Kit told her.

"The Earl of Oxford?" said, shocked.

"See? You are not the only scandalous author, Mouse. Anyway, he manages a small group of writers who all wish to remain anonymous for various reasons."

"Like whom?"

"If I told you that, I wouldn't be very good at keeping secrets, would I?" Kit said. "It's almost like a scriptorium from ancient times—they all collaborate, but they cannot sell the work under their own names, so they have someone else front the plays for them."

"Who?"

"A businessman-cum-actor who works with Lord Strange's Men, who is always looking to make a quick profit. Apparently, he has delusions of being a writer but isn't particularly gifted. Still, Oxford pays him to sell the plays to various theater owners. Since he's a real person, working in that industry, it seems less fishy." He turned his attention to the ring as a huddle of bulldogs appeared, ready to be unleashed to torment the bear. "His name is Shakespeare."

" Shakespeare, " repeated. "We met him. At the guildhall."

Kit considered this, frowning. "So we did. Well, clearly he was unremarkable. Which means he's probably perfect for Oxford's aims." He glanced at her. "Perhaps you could become part of Oxford's stable of writers. I could set up a meeting."

blanched. She did not need an introduction to the Earl of Oxford; he knew exactly who she was. The Baron was distantly related to him, and she had sat across from him at Somerset House when he'd dined there.

And it was Oxford's daughter that Southampton had refused to marry.

"It could get back to Hunsdon," said. "It's too risky."

From the bear pit came an unholy roar and the frantic barks of the bulldogs as they tore at the chained animal. "Well then," Kit replied, "I suggest we go straight to the source."

"Shakespeare?"

"He's agreed to broker other people's plays. Why not yours?"

"Other men, " she qualified.

"From what I have heard about this fellow, coin shall speak more loudly than all else."

One of the bulldogs drew blood, and the bear swiped at him. The crowd surged.

"If you wish to hide your femininity," Kit said, "Shakespeare seems the perfect choice. The name already sounds like a pseudonym, does it not? Shake spear. " He beat his chest. "How very phallic."

By now, the bear had killed two of the bulldogs and the rest were whimpering at the far end of the pit. Sackerson would live to fight another day. Kit cheered, standing up to collect his winnings. He turned back for a moment, to where still was weighing his suggestion. "Come now, Mouse. What have you got to lose?"

watched the bear—wounded, bleeding—being led out of the pit, still in chains. She looked up at Kit. "Yes," she said. "Let us meet."

—

's palms were sweating. She was dressed as befitted a lady, which she had never done when meeting Marlowe. This was not their usual haunt, but the White Hart. She stood under the eaves of the building, protected from the pouring rain, in a cobbled courtyard where plays were sometimes performed. Kit was somewhere inside with William Shakespeare, and when he was ready, he would come out and get her.

She wiped her hands on the silk of her skirts. She had not worn any jewelry because, Kit said, rich people have no leg to stand on in a negotiation. But she wished she had her glass beads, if only to fidget with.

The door opened and Kit appeared, rolling his eyes. "This one's a beef-wit. If I have to listen to any more of his pribble, I shall impale myself on my own dagger."

smiled, feeling a swell of gratitude for her best friend, who—she knew—was trying to make her less nervous. "Remind me why we trust him, then?"

"Because you have something he wants," Kit said. "Talent." He pulled her into the inn, away from the stares of those drinking in the main hall and toward a smaller, private room he had secured in the back. "Remember. You will give him a cut for the use of his name, but since you're providing the product, you are the one with the upper hand."

nodded, swallowing. She walked through the door as if she were being presented at court—head held high, shoulders back. At a table, drinking from a goblet of wine, was Shakespeare.

She hadn't paid much attention to him the last time they met, but now she let herself mark his dark, deep-set eyes, his too-thin brows, his ever-receding hairline. He had a shrub of a mustache and a few wispy strands aspiring to be a goatee. He wore a lace collar at the top of his doublet, but it was stained with what looked like gravy. He did not rise to his feet when she entered, which meant one of two things: he was not a gentleman, or he did not consider her a lady.

"Will," Kit said, "this is Mistress Bassano. The playwright."

"Well met," said.

"Mistress," Shakespeare replied, inclining his head. "I hear you have a business proposition."

He was direct; she would give him that. And he might have been a buffoon in his writerly pride, but that didn't mean he wasn't a shrewd negotiator.

Kit clapped his hands together. "Splendid! I leave you to it." Behind Shakespeare's back, he gave an encouraging smile, and then he left, closing the door to the private room behind him.

Her pulse raced. Was it utter foolishness to put her trust in a man she did not know?

"Marlowe speaks highly of you," Shakespeare said, and she caught the flash of jealousy in his eyes.

nodded. "He is a good friend and a better teacher."

"You are fortunate, then, to stand in his shadow."

"I prefer the shadows, sir," she confessed.

He smiled. "You speak as one who has never taken a bow in front of a fulsome audience."

"I was raised in a family of performers. Fame is fleeting, in the moment. True art is creating something that lingers in the minds of the audience."

"Indeed, it is why I aim to be a playwright and a player."

met his gaze evenly. "I have read some of your work, Master Shakespeare."

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

"You wish to write," she continued. "But you cannot."

His eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your plays, sir," she said softly. "They have…not found favor."

Shakespeare started to rise from his chair. "I did not come here for insult—"

"I, too, wish to write," interrupted, "but I cannot."

She did not have to explain why; it was obvious. "I believe we can help each other," said. "You wish for everyone to know your name; I wish for no one to know mine."

Being a playwright was not a prestigious career, but regardless, fame was not the point. It was the work that mattered. Male playwrights who wrote women—Kit included!—didn't give them the nuance that could. She believed words written by a woman about women might allow audiences to see them more fully, to realize that they had thoughts and dreams and worth.

The fact that she had to borrow a man's name to do that was a small price to pay.

"If you front my work, you can claim authorship," offered. "In return I receive half the profit."

"A play may sell for forty shillings," Shakespeare answered. "I would give you ten."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen," he said. "It is, after all, my name on the cover, should it not be a success."

A shilling could buy one a loaf of bread—or a maid's silence, when you were sneaking to Paris Garden to meet an earl.

"It is a deal," she agreed.

"Not quite yet," Shakespeare hedged. "I should like to test the merchandise before I hawk it."

"I do not understand, sir."

"You give me a play…I shall try to sell it anonymously. If it proves popular, then the next shall bear my name."

It seemed fair. "We are agreed, then," said.

From the satchel she carried, she removed the foul copy of Arden of Faversham. Handing it to Shakespeare felt unnatural, like she was cutting away a piece of her own flesh.

She thought of her mother, on the day had been handed over as a ward to the Countess. Her mother had pushed her toward the noblewoman and had walked away without a glance. had felt pain at this lack of emotion—but perhaps her mother had only been forcing herself to be stoic, as was now.

She recalled Mary Sidney's advice—that to be successful as a woman, one would have to be invisible.

thrust the manuscript toward Shakespeare before she could stop herself. "What is the subject?" he asked, scanning the first few pages.

"A woman who kills her husband so she can be with her lover," said.

"Does she get punished?" Shakespeare asked.

"Yes. With death."

"Hmm," he said. "People will like that." He stood, folded the papers inside his doublet for safekeeping, and walked out of the small room.

Only then did let herself exhale. Her hands, which had been clenched tight in her lap, shook like aspen leaves.

The door flung open and Kit strode toward her. "Well?" he demanded.

opened her mouth…and vomited at his feet.

—

The first death in London from plague that year came in August, but it was not the first time the disease had ravaged the city. As in 1563, the Queen and her court left London in September for Hampton Palace. The rich escaped to country homes. The poor died.

Thirty years earlier the position of Saturn in the night sky—passing through parts of the constellations of Cancer and Leo—had been credited as the cause of the disease. Now, the same pattern was in the heavens, and no one believed that London would escape unscathed.

The theaters had been shut down since June because of a riot, but they were to remain closed because of fear of infection. As a result, the players and the playwrights toured through the countryside, hoping to avoid getting sick and to find audiences. Hunsdon was busy late into the night dealing with the chaos as theater companies broke apart and re-formed, doing whatever it took to stay financially sound. He planned to take to Hampton before the end of the week.

She'd found him in his study, ink blotting his hands and the sleeve of his shirt, as he signed paper after paper granting charters to these new, amorphous theatrical groups. "Henry," said softly. "Rest a while."

"In a bit," he muttered.

"You will grow weak, and fall ill," she chided.

He lifted his quill and stared bleakly at the mess before him. "What if they are in the right?"

"Who?"

"Stubbs, and the Puritans," Hunsdon said. "They claim the plague is the rot from theater infesting the city."

The pious saw the rampant illness as a punishment from God. But it was hard to follow that logic when priests—who were often among the only ones who would attend someone sick or dying—found themselves infected as well.

There was a scratch at the door, and looked over her shoulder to find Kit standing beside a servant. "Begging yer pardon, milord, but the gentleman insisted on seeing you."

"Marlowe," Hunsdon said. "I'd have thought you gone by now."

"I leave tomorrow, my lord," Kit replied, sliding a glance toward . "Mistress."

nodded, pretending, too, that they were strangers. But she felt sick with the thought that Kit was leaving. She had sent missives to Southampton without hearing anything in return and feared for his health. She couldn't stand the thought of losing everyone she loved.

"It is only due to my imminent departure that I took the liberty to come to you in private," Kit said. "It is my hope that my newest work might pass the censor's eye in time for it to be staged as soon as the theaters reopen."

"A new work?" Hunsdon asked, leaning back in his chair.

"I call it Doctor Faustus. "

had read multiple drafts of the play as Kit was writing it. It was about a man who made a pact with the Devil. Her editorial suggestions made him focus not only on Faustus's ambition but on the cost of sin—which would catch up to you no matter how you tried to evade it.

She should know.

"I shall leave you to your work, my lord," said, dipping a slight curtsy to Hunsdon and exiting. But instead of heading to her chamber, she slipped out the front door of Somerset House and waited in the shade beneath a line of trees, knowing that Kit wouldn't leave without seeing her.

The Strand was eerily quiet; searchers had already begun to comb through the homes of London to find the sick. They were older matrons, dispensable, who earned about five pence for each plague victim they identified. Then the house's door would be marked with a red cross and sealed with the sick and still healthy inside until the plague had passed, or everyone was dead. Some of the very ill were taken to the pesthouse or hospitals, but if you were admitted there, you were likely to exit as a corpse. Streets that had been full were now deserted, for fear of contagion.

In less than a quarter of an hour, Kit appeared. "Your business is finished?" asked.

Kit snorted. "I might have sent him the foul copy by messenger, Mouse. My business was with you. "

Her expression softened. "Must you really leave?"

"Not all of us get to escape in the company of the Queen," Kit joked.

"But it could be ages until I see you again."

"I know. Which is why I came." Kit slid his hand into the fastenings of his doublet and pulled out a printed pamphlet. He passed it to her.

The Lamentable and True Tragedy of M. Arden of Kent.

She gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. "Kit," she breathed.

Her eyes read the rest of the title page. Who was most wickedly murdered, by the means of his disloyal and wanton wife, who for the love she bear to one Mosbie, hired two desperate ruffians, Black Will and Shakebag, to kill him.

Wherein is shown the great malice and dissimulation of a wicked woman, the unsatiable desire of filthy lust, and the shameful end of all murderers.

She looked up. "They gave away the ending."

Kit laughed. " That's all you have to say?"

"This is…this is real?"

He smiled down at her. "Edward White printed it. Which reminds me." He fished in a pocket for a small leather pouch and dropped it into 's hand, the coins jangling inside. "Here's your pay."

took the money but could not take her eyes off her play. Her play.

"Strange's Men are headed out to the countryside, too," Kit said. "Shakespeare will not be able to meet again for a while."

She looked at Kit, sobering. "Promise me you will not take ill while you are traveling."

"I am far too churlish for Death to take." He kissed her knuckles. "Until we meet again, Mouse," Kit said, and then he frowned. "I fear I cannot call you that any longer, as you have found your voice."

grinned. "Then what shall you call me?"

" Playwright has a nice sound to it, does it not?" Kit winked, then walked off whistling a bawdy tavern song, leaving behind.

—

"Mistress," a maid said. "Will you be wishing to take the Turkey carpets?"

looked at the small woven coverings on the oak table. "Yes, please," she said, and the woman bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.

The house was a hive of activity, servants packing trunks that would accompany Hunsdon and to Hampton. She was being dressed for court by her lady's maid, which was an hours-long process. She was already overheated and she had not yet been corseted into her outer layer. Perspiration ran down her back between her shoulder blades and Bess's chatter was making her head throb.

"Mistress!" another servant asked. "The gentleman of the horse wishes to know if His Lordship wishes to ride in the carriage or astride?"

"You shall have to ask him," said, wincing as a second maid pulled at her hair, braiding it into loops.

"Mistress, beggin' yer pardon, but the steward wishes a word with His Lordship before—"

"Mistress, should we put the holland sheets over the furniture in the dining parlor?"

"Mistress, is it the silver salver you wished as a gift for Her Majesty, or the tureen?"

Mistress.

Mistress.

Mistress.

"!" Hunsdon's voice cut through the buzzing of the others. She whirled around to face him so quickly that one of the pins Bess was using pricked her breast.

"My lord?" she answered, and then everything went black.

—

It was not just that she had fainted. For several days, she'd had an upset stomach, and had been overtired. She kept falling asleep in her chair while reading the foul copies of Hunsdon's plays.

Hunsdon had sent word that they would be delayed going to Hampton. They could not risk Her Majesty falling ill. The Queen was fastidious about sickness; during the last bout of plague she had erected a gallows and instructed her staff to hang visitors who had not expressly been invited.

From her bed, where she had been sequestered, heard the maids whispering. No one said the word plague, but the syllable rang in her ears. She did not have the telltale bumps on her neck or under her armpits, but she was feverish and logy and unable to keep food down. She had been given tisanes with treacle and gunpowder in the hope of sweating out the disease. She had been made to eat a plate of butter, because it rid the body of poisons. She had promptly cast up the contents of her stomach after that. Tobacco, which had been brought to England by Sir Walter Raleigh only recently, was burned in her chamber with the windows shut tight, because the smoke could choke out the foul smells that carried illness. Everything smelled like fire and char, and each time drew in a breath, she coughed uncontrollably. With the intention of sweating out the sickness, she was denied food and water, and she vacillated between utter exhaustion and delirium.

On the third night of her confinement, she woke to find Hunsdon sitting beside her bed, holding her hand and praying.

How useless it would be, and how fitting given the arc of her life, for to die before her play might be performed for the public. Every time she had allowed herself to hope, she had found herself cast into the gutter of reality again.

On the fourth night, she dreamed of her father. He sat at the end of her bed playing his recorder. When she opened her eyes, he handed her the instrument. "The music, piccolina, " he said. "You must play." She obediently fitted the wood to her mouth, but it was closed at the bottom end, and there were no finger holes. No matter how hard she tried, she could not produce a single note.

On the fifth night, she woke to a monster holding her down on the bed. She gasped and struggled, only to hear Hunsdon's voice. "Ssh, , calm yourself." The monster pressed into the soft tissue of her neck, her breasts, as Hunsdon watched.

She realized she had been mistaken: not a monster, but a man in a leather mask with a long pointed beak.

The bird-man spoke. "Perhaps you might give us some privacy, my lord," he said.

After Hunsdon left, the man drew up her night rail and held her legs apart. "This will take but a moment," he said behind his mask, as his fingers probed inside her.

No, she screamed, but she had become the recorder, and she did not make a sound.

—

When opened her eyes, she knew she was dead.

She could hear birdsong, and there was fresh air pouring into the chamber. The sky was the blue of forget-me-nots, smudged with clouds.

"Where…where am I?" she whispered, and when the legs of a chair scraped across the floorboards, she turned to find Hunsdon sitting beside the bed. His eyes were bloodshot, and deep grooves bracketed his mouth.

"You are here. You are well." He reached for her hand and then, at the last moment, flattened his on the counterpane a few inches from hers. "You did not have the plague."

She thought of her nightmares, of the bird-man, and realized that he had been a plague doctor, called to examine her. But…she was alive. She was not ill. Surely that was a relief?

Yet Hunsdon did not smile at her. In fact, he looked as if he had received the worst of news.

swallowed, her throat as dry as muslin. "My lord," she managed. "Are you well?"

At that, Hunsdon closed his eyes and gave a small shake of his head.

She threw back the counterpane, intent on getting out of bed.

He shook his head. "," he said softly, stilling her motions. "You will not be going to court."

His words were ragged, the voice of someone grieving a loss.

She stilled. Perhaps she did not have the plague, but that didn't mean she wasn't riddled with some other fatal disease—smallpox, the wasting disease, the flux. She remembered, shamefully, the man's hand reaching between her legs, and thought of other illnesses Isabella had taught her about. What had the doctor discovered? "Henry?" she whispered.

You will not be going to court. Not we.

The Lord Chamberlain pushed back his chair, putting inches between them. In his eyes, she saw an ending. "You do not have the plague," Hunsdon said. "You are with child."