The Tutor: A Novel Read online

  He bowed. She nodded. They stared at each other.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  “I am skilled at that.”

  “The company of players I was with in Shoreditch disbanded. I slipped out of London. My peers think me in Stratford.”

  She wondered if his family in Stratford thought him in London.

  “I don’t confide in many,” he continued, “but I feel I can confide in you. I trust you. I am so searingly envious of all the young poets who are producing pages that are in print or performed—I cannot stand myself anymore. Until these last nights, I had never even written to the end of a sonnet. You have cast a spell.”

  “I am no witch. It is you who dipped the quill into the inkhorn.”

  “‘Then do it,’ you said. I heard your words in my head long after I left you. These may not be perfect, but I have finished seven sonnets because of you.”

  Even though the sun was hidden and the sky overcast, Shakespeare’s eyes glinted. The leaves started to swirl. A drop of water fell from the sky, and then another and another.

  He moved his shoulders close to her, brought his hand to her face, and in one swift movement wiped a raindrop off her lower lip. She was so startled it took all of her control not to jump.

  “Your kindness today encourages me,” he said. “I thank you most humbly. I do not know you yet, but I will know you.” He bowed. “Will you read my verse again?”

  “Yes,” she said. The rain was coming down faster. “How many months we have waited for this!”

  “Blissful dew from heaven,” Shakespeare said.

  He gathered up his pages and stuck them in his doublet. She rolled up the linen, and they walked toward the house.

  “No one need know our business,” he said, “for I am a novice. Others knowing would only bring me shame. ’Tis our secret, one of our secrets.”

  “No one will know,” she said. One of their secrets?

  “You may call me Will,” he said.

  “And you may call me Katharine. Will, you are dressed very . . .” she began.

  “Taffety?” he said.

  “Yes, a taffety gentleman. Why the boisterous apparel?”

  “Do you think scarlet suits me?” he asked. “I was sitting for a portrait.”

  It was pouring now. The smell and the feel of the rain seemed foreign after so many months—it was a cleansing, a baptism of sorts. The ground was drinking the water in, and the perfume from the plants and the soil started to rise from the earth. Will held the leather umbrella over her head.

  “Who is painting you?” she asked.

  “Ursula,” he said.

  “Ah, she’s a portraitist now. Your finery is getting wet.”

  “Play clothes from my trunk. When on tour . . . I borrowed them.”

  “And what character were you in these borrowed flaunts?”

  “A duke from Italy.”

  “Well, Duke, your doublet is bleeding.”

  The downpour was making the red dye run down Will’s dove-gray legs. The rain had attacked his ruff, too—the starch was dissolving and the ruff looked like a limp rag around his neck.

  “You’ve descended from a duke to a clown, I’m afraid. Poor Ursula. I do hope she was finished,” Katharine said. “You may keep my umbrella for now. It’ll need stretching after this rain, and who knows, it, too, may be ruined.”

  At the door, she ducked in front of him. “Continue on,” she said.

  Will bowed slightly, then turned and left her standing at the door. His lodgings were on the way to the stables. She watched him walk. With head held high, even with the rain-stained pigskin above him and the dripping clothes, he carried himself well—more duke, truthfully, than clown. She went into the house. She’d meant “continue on” with the sonnets but was worried he might think she was dismissing him. She brushed the wet off her sleeves and skirt and went to find Molly.

  9

  he first thing Katharine noticed when she rushed to the table was Ursula’s dainty white hand on the Duc de Malois’s plush thigh—her fingers strummed his puce velvet hose as though she were playing a lute. The duke was Ursula’s cousin on her mother’s side. Though Sophie, the duke’s flame-haired mistress, was sitting farther down the table, the duke was gazing at Ursula—not into her light blue eyes, but lower. She had rubbed something between her breasts, rose oil perhaps, and her skin glistened in the candlelight.

  “How honored we are you have decided to join us, Katharine,” Ursula announced, forcing an edge into her voice.

  Katharine reached for a goblet. As she brought the cold metal to her lips, she noticed the person sitting next to Sophie. Will. Katharine had learned that along with Will’s duties as the schoolmaster, he had agreed to take part in theatricals at the hall. Wasn’t he supposed to entertain guests, then, not laugh and dine with them? With whom had he curried favor for a seat at this fine table? Matilda? Richard? Harold? Most likely Ursula.

  Will had sent more sonnets, and they’d met. Katharine lent him books, even The Faerie Queene. Then thrice he sent word for her to meet him, and thrice he sent word he could not come. Finally, he had come to her in the orchard with the beginnings of longer poems. She marveled at Will’s skill. He had not gone to university, yet his mind was strong and quick, perhaps the strongest and quickest she had ever encountered. From where did his hunger for words issue?

  The sound of Ursula rang out through the great hall. Recently, Katharine noticed her laugh had become loud and high, and tonight she sounded like the parrot she kept in a large gilded cage at the foot of her bed. She claimed the parrot came from one of Drake’s or Raleigh’s voyages. Now when Katharine passed the doors to her chamber it was not clear who was laughing—the poor parrot trained by Ursula or Ursula herself.

  Ever since Sir Edward’s departure, a dimming had begun, even during the day when sunlight streamed in the windows or at night when candles lit the tables and torches ringed the walls. Katharine could feel the shift, as if throughout the great house brightness of spirit and honesty of heart were systematically being snuffed out. Matilda sat next to Edward’s empty chair at the head of the table. How could Matilda bear Ursula’s brazen attempts at becoming mistress of the manor? Every time Ursula laughed, Matilda—with her broad shoulders and towering height—seemed to shrink.

  Edward’s empty chair presided over the feast—a show of constancy, a sign to all he would return. Katharine remembered Edward holding forth at banquets: the sovereign of his castle. Matilda refused to allow the chair’s removal and yet forbade either of Edward’s sons, Richard or Harold, to sit there. The chair, more a throne, was made of walnut; a dragon was carved at the center of the back with a crown hovering over its head. Urns and face masks flanked the dragon, and a carving of acanthus leaves ran down the arms and legs. The seat and back were covered in orange-red silk that glowed in the candlelight like a harvest moon.

  The Duc de Malois’s entourage numbered more than two score, but no one would go thirsty at this banquet. Flagons of cider and ale and bottles of wine crowded the side tables. When the servants finished bringing ewers, basins and cloths to each of the guests, the parade of fine meats from the kitchen began: a quarter of a stag, a whole boar, choice cuts of a doe, a loin of veal dripping with pomegranate sauce, stuffed capons laced with sugarplums, and herbed and roasted hare. Next came a procession of steaming pies with pigeon, gosling, minced lamb and rabbit enclosed in crusts.

  The chief usher, whose chins spilled out of his white ruff like bread dough, swept past Ursula and Richard. With theatrical flair, he motioned for the platters and dishes to be set in front of Matilda. Ursula, who had not yet learned the art of concealing, gasped, for apparently she thought the food would be set in front of her. Richard’s scowl deepened. Matilda, a gracious smile on her lips, bowed her head and proceeded with a lengthy prayer thanking God for their meal. Ka
tharine wondered what largesse Matilda had bestowed upon the usher to secure his fawning performance. Matilda was no fool, but her privilege within the house had always been easy, and now, with her husband far away and her stepsons too close, the waters were suddenly rough.

  A tall man, hat in his hands and dust covering his jerkin, came running to the table, bowed and then whispered into the Duc de Malois’s ear. A smile spread across the duke’s mustached face. “Grâce à Dieu,” he said, making the sign of the cross on his chest. He stood, glass goblet in hand.

  “I have just received word of the birth of my son,” he bellowed in thick-accented English, then drank the wine in one gulp and called for more from the servant standing by his side.

  The group erupted with cheers and whistles and the pounding of pewter tankards on the long wood table.

  “To the duchess,” the duke continued. “My beautiful Emilie, who has brought our fourth child and our second boy, Henri Emanuel, into this world. Mother and child, grâce à Dieu, are robust.”

  Richard rose, also with goblet in hand. “What a great honor, sir. What a blessing to have the esteemed duke at our table, at this great and blessed moment. We thank our lord God . . . à votre santé . . . to the health of son and mother.”

  Richard walked over to the beaming duke and stiffly embraced him, while Ursula squealed and waved to a servant to refill her goblet. In the flickering light, the new dress Ursula had bragged of was indeed impressive—elaborate both in fabric and in style. She wore no partlet, no ruff or collar, but a cross with emeralds rested just above her breasts. Her low, square white bodice was trimmed with lace and embroidered with tiny colorful butterflies that matched the silk that peeked through the split in her gown. Her silk sleeves were woven with gold and silver thread, the shoulders and cuffs lined with pearls.

  De Malois swallowed more wine and then amidst greetings and congratulations made his way down the table. Katharine watched him with interest, wholly unprepared for where his stroll would end—at Sophie. He promptly pulled his woman up by her tiny waist and kissed her on the mouth. Sophie was stunning. With red hair, green eyes, green gown and pinkish skin, she looked like some exotic bird.

  The past spring the Duc de Malois’s army had suffered a horrible defeat at Ivry when he had joined forces with the Duc de Mayenne’s Catholic League. The losses were in the thousands. After the Protestant King Henri’s successful slaughter at that battle, his Huguenots had moved on to Paris and starved half the doomed city to death. It was amazing that De Malois was still alive, much less heralding the birth of a son while his lips grazed the skin of his mistress. Katharine wondered how one could ever fully excise the stench of blood and burned flesh on the battlefield from one’s memory. And the human bleating? The chorus of the dying? Was that so easily blocked out?

  The world outside Lufanwal seemed almost impossible for Katharine to fathom. Tapestries and paintings depicted battle scenes, but she relied more on the pictures conjured by what she read. What was De Malois doing here? Was he en route to Spain? How had the queen even allowed him passage? Surely there were spies attending to him. If Sir Edward were in residence, it would have been risky but not unusual for such a prominent Catholic and powerful leader to be dining at their table. But Edward was in exile in a house gated by vineyards in De Malois’s own country. Katharine hoped the duke had brought word of Sir Edward and that he had carried letters from him.

  With more wine poured and the meats begun, the duke was still kissing his mistress. When Katharine turned to speak to the young French nobleman next to her, she felt Will watching her. She lifted her eyes. Indeed Will’s eyes were fixed on her. She felt her heart quicken, and when she nodded her head in his direction, she caught sight of his attire. His doublet boasted a sheen so bright it seemed to reflect the candlelight on the tables and the torches on the walls. Will’s fine weave was the color of herbs, while the hue of a spring garden—damask rose—peeked through the slashes on his arms. He was overdressed for someone of his station, as though he were at court in London rather than dinner in the country. His velvet hose were the color of goldenrod, a weed that in the sunlight ignited fallow fields. She would not have placed those colors together, but they were beautiful, and there was genius in their pairing. Was this outfit from a masque or play? What had his role been—a prince? The duke had gone back to his seat next to Ursula, and Will was now talking to Sophie. His arm was on the back of her chair. In this great house, Master Shakespeare with his striking plumage had assimilated well.

  The eel, pike, brill and turbot arrived from the kitchens, followed by pigeons, larks and quail. Then came the marrow on toast. Will was no longer gazing at Katharine. He was eating. He had no doubt grown up shoveling food with stale bread from a wooden trencher, but he used a spoon well, as though he had been using one his whole life. He was a player, after all, trained to mimic. He said something to the duke, who now sat next to him with Sophie on his lap, and the duke threw his head back and laughed. Was it Will’s wit or his impudence that tickled the duke so?

  As the guests ate their way through Ursula’s carefully planned menu, the carcasses from the meal were tossed on the rush-strewn floor for the hounds. Katharine leaned toward the young man from the duke’s party and asked him in French how he had passed his time in England.

  “I try,” he said, placing a hand on her blue and black brocade sleeve. “I try to English speak.”

  He had no beard. His face was smooth and he had a cleft chin. Katharine had the urge to put her finger in the indent—or her tongue. He was maybe twenty.

  She laughed. “You try to speak English.”

  He nodded happily. “Yes, yes. You teach me?”

  “Oh, I’m not a good teacher, but Joan is.” She pointed across the table to Ursula’s daughter.

  “But I like your noses,” he said.

  “My noses?”

  He gently touched the side of her eye.

  “My eyes.” She smiled and pointed to her eyes. “Eyes.”

  “Eyes . . . de couleur . . .” He touched the blue of the brocade on her bodice.

  “Blue.” She laughed again and removed his hand. “Coventry blue.”

  “And that I like.”

  “What?”

  “The ha-ha.”

  “My laugh?”

  “Yes, laugh. You is a tutor good.”

  “You are a good tutor.”

  “You are a good tutor.” He smiled.

  “But Joan is better.” Katharine called across the table, “Joan, this young man needs assistance,” she said in a French accent, “with his English words. Help him. You go to her,” she said to the young Frenchman, and then pointed at Joan. “Your tutor.”

  The wine had made the blush on Joan’s cheeks deepen. Her dark curly hair was pulled up with several silver satin ribbons that fell to her shoulders. The young Frenchman rose, walked around the long table and sat next to Joan.

  As the natural light slipped from the windows, wafers and currant, plum and apple jellies were brought out. Then came quince, cheeses and more wine, followed by cheesecakes and custards. With the delivery of each new delicacy, Katharine’s eyes kept wandering back to Will, who was laughing and talking with those next to him.

  Ursula stood and, once upright, made a show of pulling the pearls from her hair and throwing them at the guests, who oh-la-la’ed and dove for them. Ursula’s blond locks fell to her shoulders. But she did not stop. She dragged her hands through her hair several times so that the strands, once smooth and obedient, became chaotic and unruly. Then she started to clap her hands. “We are so honored,” she shouted, trying to tame the noisy crowd. “We are so honored,” she repeated shrilly. Then she walked unsteadily over to Edward’s chair and climbed up on it.

  “Friends,” she shouted. “Friends!”

  The room quieted.

  Katharine glanced at Matilda to see what her react
ion was to the doeskin soles of Ursula’s velvet pantofles stepping and stumbling upon Edward’s newly upholstered chair. But Matilda’s profile was pointing away from Ursula.

  “Our poor Edward gone.” Ursula sighed. “Not dead yet, but gone.”

  Richard rose. “Ursula.”

  “He never liked me,” she continued. “Never, ever . . .”

  “Ursula, my dear . . .” Richard gazed up at her. He was shorter than Ursula. His neck disappeared into his shoulders—a mushroom without a stem. The ruff he wore seemed to cut into his skin.

  “I never liked him,” said Ursula, who, standing unsteadily on the chair, almost fell off while trying to sit on it. She landed sideways, with her skirts over the chair arm, as though she were sitting on someone’s lap. “Oh, Edward, how you glare at me.” She poked the air with her finger. “Never one pleasant word from de pleasant man. How he loathe me.” With the drink, Ursula’s Dutch accent had returned.

  Few hid their sniggering. Master Shakespeare may have had the night free, but there was theater for the guests nonetheless.

  “Ursula, my dear, come outside. The breeze might heal your mood.” Richard was standing by the chair now. “Ursula, come.”

  “No,” she said simply.

  “Ursula, come with me,” Richard pleaded.

  “No, no, no, no.” She held her head high, pointing at her husband. “Thou art a ghost like your father—flesh but no blood. Who flees conflict? Who banishes himself? I thought banishing was the business of a queen. Men whose spirits are like feathers, I ssssssuppose—not those made of sssssssteel and ssssssstone. Men whose bones have no marrow. We have learned tonight, with the birth of his son, that our brave duke is of different mettle than this family. His sword is strong and valiant.”

  There was hooting and hollering. Men held their goblets and tankards in the air, as if to toast; several made obscene gestures. Ursula swung her legs to the front of the chair and with difficulty landed her two feet on the floor. Then she grabbed a goblet off the table.