lies.’
‘Yes, yes. Well I suppose we must excuse filial piety. What have you there?’
‘I was still holding the little packet. It was something that came for my father. Our old neighbour gave it to me.’
‘Let us see what is in it. We are in need of some diversion. Bring it here.’
And when I had given it to her: ‘I cannot read the marks on the seal.’ Her soft white fingers broke the red wax on the covering. ‘It must be undone fully to reveal its secret.’ Again her hands moved to press back the wrapping. ‘I believe it is a book.’ She took it out and opened the front cover. A letter was tucked inside it. ‘What is this? A book of love poems? De Magnete. The work of William Gilbert, physician to the queen’s majesty. The letter is addressed to your father. What does it say Amyntas?’
She handed it to me. I unfolded it and began to read. ‘He does not know that my father is no longer living. It says madam, that he would value my father’s opinion on the book, whether his idea be right or no. He hopes that my father is well and continuing with his experiments. That they are both old men with little time before them and must do what they can while they may.’ I felt the tears begin to start in my eyes again.
‘You weep for your father child, as I weep still for my brother,’ the countess said putting out a hand to take mine. ‘That is becoming in you.’ The tears still flowed but at her touch I felt again the rush of heat in my secrets and my heart rise up in my chest as if to burst. ‘Ah Amyntas, you are too soft-hearted. The world is a harsh place,’ and she drew me to her, pressing me to her bosom where with the scent of her and its touch I felt myself near to swooning.
‘Go and shift yourself child,’ she said pushing me from her.‘You stink of horseflesh. Come back to me when you smell more sweet.’
‘That will be never then madam,’ Mistress Griffiths said for she had stood by all this time in the hope to hear my lady chide me or even to see me put out of her service.
I hurried then to shift myself as the countess bid lest Mistress Griffiths should do me an injury in my absence. Taking a sconce I made my way along the dark passages to the armoire by my pallet where I was used to hang my clothes, and rinsed my hands and face in a basin of rosewater for sweetness. But when I returned to my lady’s chamber I found her mood altogether changed. Signor Ferrabosco had been sent for to sing to her a song of her brother Sir Philip.
What have I thus betrayed my liberty?
Can those black beams such burning marks engrave
In my free side? Or am I born a slave
Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny?
Virtue awake, beauty but beauty is.
I may, I must, I can, I will do
Leave following that, which it is gain to miss.
Let her go: soft, but here she comes go to,
Unkind, I love you not: O me, that eye
Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie.
The last sighings of the lute strings died away. ‘Are my dear brother’s verses not beyond compare? When will there be some such another again? Bring me my purse Mr Samford.’ And she took from it a gold piece and gave it to the musician. ‘You have earned this not just by the composing of the music but by the singing and playing of it. Even Tom Morley could not have set it better. But it has made me melancholy. What sport have we?’
‘Madam,’ the duenna said, ‘the mummers await you in the great hall with their play of Christemas as is your custom to see and hear at this season, if it please you now. Or they may come again another time.’
‘No let us go in to them. Their antics will lift this blackness from me.’
So we took our places with the whole household gathered together and the mummers began on their play of St George and the Turkish Knight that was such a piece of flummery, with its quack physician, Dame Betty, and mock fights between the two knights, that my lady was soon laughing. Then they fell to a morris with pipe and
‘Yes, yes. Well I suppose we must excuse filial piety. What have you there?’
‘I was still holding the little packet. It was something that came for my father. Our old neighbour gave it to me.’
‘Let us see what is in it. We are in need of some diversion. Bring it here.’
And when I had given it to her: ‘I cannot read the marks on the seal.’ Her soft white fingers broke the red wax on the covering. ‘It must be undone fully to reveal its secret.’ Again her hands moved to press back the wrapping. ‘I believe it is a book.’ She took it out and opened the front cover. A letter was tucked inside it. ‘What is this? A book of love poems? De Magnete. The work of William Gilbert, physician to the queen’s majesty. The letter is addressed to your father. What does it say Amyntas?’
She handed it to me. I unfolded it and began to read. ‘He does not know that my father is no longer living. It says madam, that he would value my father’s opinion on the book, whether his idea be right or no. He hopes that my father is well and continuing with his experiments. That they are both old men with little time before them and must do what they can while they may.’ I felt the tears begin to start in my eyes again.
‘You weep for your father child, as I weep still for my brother,’ the countess said putting out a hand to take mine. ‘That is becoming in you.’ The tears still flowed but at her touch I felt again the rush of heat in my secrets and my heart rise up in my chest as if to burst. ‘Ah Amyntas, you are too soft-hearted. The world is a harsh place,’ and she drew me to her, pressing me to her bosom where with the scent of her and its touch I felt myself near to swooning.
‘Go and shift yourself child,’ she said pushing me from her.‘You stink of horseflesh. Come back to me when you smell more sweet.’
‘That will be never then madam,’ Mistress Griffiths said for she had stood by all this time in the hope to hear my lady chide me or even to see me put out of her service.
I hurried then to shift myself as the countess bid lest Mistress Griffiths should do me an injury in my absence. Taking a sconce I made my way along the dark passages to the armoire by my pallet where I was used to hang my clothes, and rinsed my hands and face in a basin of rosewater for sweetness. But when I returned to my lady’s chamber I found her mood altogether changed. Signor Ferrabosco had been sent for to sing to her a song of her brother Sir Philip.
What have I thus betrayed my liberty?
Can those black beams such burning marks engrave
In my free side? Or am I born a slave
Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny?
Virtue awake, beauty but beauty is.
I may, I must, I can, I will do
Leave following that, which it is gain to miss.
Let her go: soft, but here she comes go to,
Unkind, I love you not: O me, that eye
Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie.
The last sighings of the lute strings died away. ‘Are my dear brother’s verses not beyond compare? When will there be some such another again? Bring me my purse Mr Samford.’ And she took from it a gold piece and gave it to the musician. ‘You have earned this not just by the composing of the music but by the singing and playing of it. Even Tom Morley could not have set it better. But it has made me melancholy. What sport have we?’
‘Madam,’ the duenna said, ‘the mummers await you in the great hall with their play of Christemas as is your custom to see and hear at this season, if it please you now. Or they may come again another time.’
‘No let us go in to them. Their antics will lift this blackness from me.’
So we took our places with the whole household gathered together and the mummers began on their play of St George and the Turkish Knight that was such a piece of flummery, with its quack physician, Dame Betty, and mock fights between the two knights, that my lady was soon laughing. Then they fell to a morris with pipe and
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