The Tutor: A Novel Page 11

  “Gramercy, my lord.” Will smiled and bowed. The music started. “Pardon, I must remove this rusty mail. It must weigh fifty stone.”

  “We trust you will join in the dancing,” said Alice.

  “They must teach dancing at those London theaters,” said Ferdinando.

  “I’ve learned a few steps,” Will replied, smiling. “I’ll change out of Henry and come back William.” He bowed once more and took his leave.

  “They say he’s up from Warwickshire,” said Ferdinando when Will was gone.

  “His family is from Stratford,” said Katharine. “And he’s been in London.”

  “What the devil is he doing out here?” said Ferdinando.

  “He was hired to help with the schooling of the boys.”

  “Not sure I would trade London for Lancashire if I were a lad in the theater.”

  “He is writing poetry,” Katharine said.

  “Is he a poet or a playwright?” asked Alice.

  “He’s one of those that does both, my dear,” said Ferdinando.

  “Have you heard of him?” she asked her husband.

  Lord Strange shook his head. “No, but there are so many of these types in London now. And half of them have never been to university. How things change. Katharine, how are you, my dear?”

  “I am well, thank you, my lord.”

  “You look more than well. You put the sun and the moon to shame,” he said.

  Alice nodded in agreement, adding, “I always wanted dimples, they enhance a smile so. And you are rich with them.”

  “You make me blush. ’Tis my legacy. My father had the same, as did his father, and his before him.”

  “I used to sit hours with my fingers pressing on my chin, hoping I could sculpt my flesh into a cleft, but as you see, to no avail.”

  Ferdinando held his wife’s chin in his hand and then leaned down and kissed it. “You have a beautiful chin, my dear.” Then he looked up at Katharine. “Can we not find you a husband, Katharine?”

  “Ferdinando . . .” said Alice.

  “Lady Alice, this question neither angers me nor wearies me,” said Katharine.

  “You are the virgin queen of Lancaster,” said Ferdinando.

  “I have been married, my lord, and I am no queen.”

  “Our queen has been married many a time, methinks, though no wedding band rings her finger. We must find a man suitable for you.”

  “Many have tried, my lord, to find me such a thing.”

  “Are we ‘things,’ then, we husbands?”

  Katharine laughed. “I suppose not, for ‘to husband’ is an action . . . men husband the land . . .”

  “You talk, you walk, you fight in wars, but there are worlds you can never enter,” said Alice.

  “I enter yours every once in a while.”

  “Ferdinando!” Alice smiled at him.

  “I wonder why ‘to wife’ is not in use,” said Katharine.

  “Because ‘to wife’ would mean to take, to steal, not to cultivate or to carry out,” said Lord Strange.

  “Oh, dear, Adam and Eve again,” said Katharine.

  “I agree with Katharine,” added Alice. “You things mention that rib at every opportunity. How we tire of it.”

  “I’ll lose it, then,” said Ferdinando.

  “You lost it thousands of years past,” said Alice.

  Ferdinando smiled at his wife. Their eyes met, and Katharine marveled at their playful understanding.

  “Are you reading, Katharine?” Ferdinando asked.

  “I always read,” she answered.

  “Well, before the night is through you must oblige me a list of new books, those by Master Shakespeare’s peers. Perhaps we’ll read something of his someday. Ah, they have started to dance. Alice, the Duc de Malois has already asked to partner with you for the first pavane. Katharine, will you join me?”

  “It would be a pleasure, my lord.”

  The musicians assembled with recorder, cittern, lute and tabor in the balcony at the end of the great hall. The stately sound of a pavane—a dance named after the strut of a peacock—encouraged couples to form a procession; the ladies’ right hand lightly resting on the gentlemen’s left, their eyes looking straight ahead, they circled the center of the hall—step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause—in time to the music. The couples split from the group, spun round, then formed a circle again.

  Katharine and Lord Ferdinando tilted their heads toward each other but kept their gazes forward as they spoke of Spenser and Sidney, and Katharine promised to send the lord her copy of Sidney’s sonnets. They moved in a large circle, and as they were coming back to where they had started, Katharine noticed Will. He stood off to the side, watching, an amused glint in his eye. He was clad in a tight doublet of black with orange-gold silk showing through so many small slashes that the fabric shone like the scales of a carp. He wore no ruff, but, like Lord Ferdinando, sported a large collar, with an undercollar of the same orange-gold silk.

  When Katharine passed Will, she saw he was watching her. She shot her eyes directly forward and continued on.

  Katharine didn’t realize she had flinched until Lord Ferdinando asked, “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. She had stepped out of the beat. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Our player is well plumed tonight.” Lord Ferdinando nodded toward Will as they passed. “Methinks he gets ahead of himself, as king and now as prince.” He chuckled.

  The pavane came to an end, and the young French nobleman with whom Katharine sat at the banquet asked her for the next dance. She nodded and smiled, and he bowed, took her hand and led her to the center of the great hall, just as the first lively notes of a galliard played. He was a good dancer, and when they were apart and it was his turn to step, he leapt in the air with a delightful verve. Katharine laughed. He had the same mirth with his movements that he had when he spoke to her in his scraggly English. His humor made her smile, and her own steps became spirited, as they hopped, skipped and twirled to the music.

  “You dance intelligent,” he said when they were together.

  “Gramercy,” she replied as she danced around him.

  “You dance with much clever,” he said.

  She laughed. “You are very kind. And you dance with much wit.”

  “Merci. You dance with beauty,” he said, then stepped back and spun around and kicked his left foot high in the air and then his right; his friends hooted and called to him and soon the whole room was watching them. Katharine was having fun, so she did not care. She had always loved to dance. She could lose herself. The next dance was Ursula’s much-anticipated courante. The duke had taken Ursula’s hand, so she had her wish. Lord and Lady Strange were together. Katharine’s Frenchman bowed to her, and was reaching for her hand, when Will stepped in front of him and took it. Will turned and smiled at the Frenchman, who bowed again and withdrew.

  Courante meant “running” in French, but the dance, by the time it arrived at the English court, was slow and subdued. Katharine’s heart was beating fast from the energetic galliard. Will held her hand and they moved forward. He had not even asked her to dance—perhaps he was afraid she would say no. She supposed she was the only woman in the room, besides Sophie the duke’s mistress, who would partner with a glover’s son.

  “How did I do?” he asked. “My little speech?” he said as they stepped back.

  “’Twas well said. All those who watched were . . .” She paused.

  “Were?”

  “Convinced,” she said as they dropped their hands and faced each other.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “‘I noot were she be woman or goddess, / But Venus is it smoothly, as I gesse.’”

  “Chaucer,” she said.r />
  “’Tis the anniversary of his death today,” he said.

  “You succeeded with your audience tonight. No need for you to try to succeed with me.”

  “Thou art rose-cheeked,” he persisted.

  “Like Adonis?” Katharine said, turning. “I found marks upon the margins of Sir Edward’s Faerie Queene. ’Twas not your book to ruin!” she said.

  “A thousand pardons for my careless tracks. Thou art rose-cheeked just the same.”

  “I have been dancing,” she said.

  “So I have seen.”

  They glided forward and then backward.

  “How was it that you performed without the company of players?” she asked.

  “Never made it to the hall, waylaid a half day’s ride from here, something with a horse or a cart.”

  “More likely you paid them to stay away so you could shine.”

  He chuckled. “I saw what you thought of my ‘Venus and Adonis.’ I could scarce read my words for all your circles, X’s and lines.”

  “I marked when I saw fit.”

  “God-a-mercy. I have heeded all your marks and will send you what I’ve done,” he said.

  “You look a different man than when you were Henry,” she said. “More borrowed flaunts?”

  “No. A friend in London sent me to his tailor, a bonus for work I did.”

  “A good friend, to assume such a generous reckoning.”

  “Yes, yes, he is.”

  Lord and Lady Strange passed by. Will nodded and smiled at them but then brought his gaze back to Katharine.

  “Will you dance the next dance with me?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she said.

  There was scarce a pause before the quick pulse of the volta started: the notes themselves seemed to run and to leap in the air. This dance demanded that partners lock eyes, no matter if they were stepping or twirling or jumping. Katharine fixed her gaze on the pattern of black silk stitching along the edges of Will’s orange silk collar, but Will reached over and lifted her chin with his finger so their eyes met.

  They began with a few steps of a galliard, but then with the cadenza Will stood so close to Katharine that their hips were touching. He put his right hand on her waist and pulled her even closer. The sweet smell of herbs rose from his skin. He placed a hand firmly below her bosom on the stiff busk of her bodice, as was the custom. There were some parts of England where, in spite of the fact that Queen Elizabeth herself had danced it with Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, the volta was forbidden. The Puritans did not approve of the close embrace.

  Will slid his knee under her so that she was almost sitting on his thigh; then, with one swift movement, while she held his shoulder with one hand and her skirts with the other, he launched her into the air. He was stronger than she had imagined, and at the same time his limbs were surprisingly graceful. Where had the glover’s son picked up the cadence that on him appeared so natural but with others took years of instruction by a dancing master and even then often looked awkward?

  Instead of bringing Katharine down quickly, he lost pace with the music and held her close to him for a beat longer than seemed proper. The rules of the dance were that after the leap in the air, the woman was let down with a bounce, and the couple sprang apart, but Will slid Katharine down on his chest slowly so that at one point, before her feet hit the floor, their lips were touching. Then he set her gently on the floor and smiled.

  Katharine did not smile. She was stunned—as much by his presumption as by how thrilled it made her feel. As they stepped and hopped and turned, she continued to look at him without smiling and he continued to smile. Was this a game for him? Shuttlecock or Barley Break? The next time he positioned his body to propel her into the air, his fingers grazed her skin above her busk before he placed his hand there.

  “Thou art my sonnet tonight,” he said as he brought her down after the leap. He lingered again, but this time pulled his head back, so their lips did not touch.

  11

  hen Katharine awoke the next morning, she recalled strange and vivid dreams. In one, several of her teeth were loose. In another, she was riding a wild horse. Then she was being chased: by whom or what, she did not know. Molly had rekindled the fire by the time Katharine rose from her bed. She was still in her emerald velvet dressing gown when Molly brought her a package.

  “From?” Katharine asked.

  “Him, mistress.”

  “Him?”

  “Will Shakespeare.”

  “Ah, gramercy, Molly.” When Katharine took the package she realized it was wrapped in pages of the sonnets they had worked on, with his writing and then hers.

  Molly pulled back the sand-colored curtains and the sun came streaming in. “Miss Ursula was in her new gown, and they say she did dance with the duke,” Molly said. “And she looked beautiful, her waist tiny and her yellow hair all glittery. I helped put the stones in her hair.”

  “Ursula looked splendid,” Katharine agreed.

  “And Master Shakespeare,” continued Molly as she poured water from the ewer into the bowl. She dipped a cloth in the water and handed it to Katharine for her face. “No one expected he’d play King Henry. They say he played him so good that they didna see Master Shakespeare there at all, but saw a king. He had writ what he spoke. They say the words were so fine, miss, and his stature so proud, and the telling to his soldiers that to catch a wound in battle would be an honor, and to die in the field an honor, too, and that men who werena there would be in shame.” Molly eyed the package on Katharine’s lap. “They’re off to a hunt today.”

  “I heard the horns in my sleep,” said Katharine. Perhaps it was a wild boar that had chased her in her dream—his large sharp curved tusks going for her heart.

  “Word’s already come back they’ve killed a stag,” Molly said, “and the duke slit the belly himself.”

  “I’m sure he did, Molly.” Katharine wondered anew what business brought the duke to the hall, for a man of that magnitude would never come purely for pleasure.

  “Can’t hear the dogs na’more, so they must be far. They say the duke won’t rest till he’s got a boar.”

  “Did any ladies of the house go?”

  “No, my lady, since it’s boar they’re after, the men thought it too wide with danger. He’s gone, my lady.”

  “Who?”

  “Master Shakespeare.”

  “On the hunt?”

  “No. He took off on a horse before the hunt went out, before the light tipped the treetops.”

  “Oh.” Katharine felt her heart shrink.

  “He sits a horse passing fine. I heard he’s a passing fine dancer, too.”

  “He is a good dancer,” Katharine said. “Thank you, Molly. You can go.”

  While Molly hung Katharine’s petticoat next to the fire, she asked, “Some broth from the kitchens, my lady?”

  “No, gramercy. I have a question to ask you before you go. Would you like to learn how to read and to write, so you can read Master Shakespeare’s verse before you deliver it to me?”

  “I’d love to read a lot o’ things, and that, too.”

  “Well then, I will teach you. We’ll start tomorrow. And best not let your tongue wag till you’ve mastered the words. Then when you have, you can surprise everyone and say you taught yourself.”

  “Aye, my lady. I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  “A whole new world, Molly. Many worlds. It will change you.”

  “I’m ready to be changed.”

  “I know you are. You go along your way and do your chores quickly tomorrow, for after dinner, we start.”

  Molly curtsied. “Gramercy.”

  Katharine smiled and nodded. After Molly left, Katharine picked up the package and felt it: soft at one end, stiff at the other. She untied the string and found within the
creases of Will’s pages the most beautiful gloves she had ever seen. They were made of white doeskin, the fingers long and slim and pointed at the tips. Folded inside each glove were new pages. Katharine slid the gloves on her hands. The soft leather flared at the wrists. The wide gauntlet was embroidered with silk and metal thread, and edged with silver-gilt lace, shiny flecks of metal and tiny pearls that trembled when she moved. The glove-maker had rendered the gauntlet a piece of art; a male peacock was emblazoned in the foreground of each glove, with a sweeping tail of purple, blue, green and gray thread.

  Katharine carefully took off the gloves and unfolded Will’s new pages. He had revised the beginning of his poem. He had followed Katharine’s advice and steered the sentiment further, moved away from Ovid and Spenser, made discord where there had only been tension. Now Adonis loved to hunt but scorned love, while lovesick Venus was set on wooing him. Katharine took the black quill Will had given to her, dipped it into the inkhorn, crossed out two lines and wrote: Let Venus be the huntress, but not for stag or doe or boar. Let kisses be her prey. You say here that Adonis is “more lovely than a man,” describe how that is so. If he is “rose-cheek’d,” is he then like a flower?

  She read on. The poem was better, certainly, and now began with a boldness that drew the eyes from one stanza to the next. The day passed with Katharine in her dressing gown at her table marking Will’s pages. She put down her quill as the sun dropped behind the trees, and the clamor of horses and hounds returning from the hunt clattered upon the stones.

  The dance called the volta was named after the Italian term for “the turn” or “turning.” The turn at the end of a sonnet, which signified the jump or shift in the direction of the emotions or thought, was also called the volta, and that was just what had happened to Katharine when Will set her down after her last leap in the air. Something had shifted. The volta had vanquished boundaries, and as surprising as Will’s lips on her hand at the banquet, he had opened his body to her at the dance and brought her to him, his lips on her lips. She’d let him take her hand after the last chord and lead her. As they walked from the center of the room Katharine had turned toward him, and without saying a word he had drawn her to him again, right there in the crowd, and held on to her, his lips light on her neck. Perchance no one saw it. When she had left him at the door, left the room with all the music, the torches and the people, her body had felt an instrument, with strings so taut that each step was a pluck, a vibration, a sound.