She stayed silent for a short time, staring with fixed attention into the fire as it increased its vibrant energy. She then looked back at me, and spoke.
“I am
Angela Zabotto
, daughter of
Paolo Zabotto
; perhaps you have heard of him?”
I slowly shook my head in answer.
“My father is a goldsmith of Rome, a very good goldsmith.” Angela paused, and swallowed, wiping away the tears flowing again from her eyes. “Though I am dead to my family—and deservedly so.”
Angela shrugged, speaking bitterly: “And all because,
Signor
, I trusted the man I loved.”
I began to suspect strongly what her story would be. I have heard it many times in my life at court, but I decided it was best to encourage her to speak and listen as if it was the first time I had listened to a woman’s tale of betrayal. Verily, this is what she said:
“The man I love is a noble lord. He would often give to my father much work. Indeed, good
Signor
, that is how we first met, when I came into father’s shop with his morning meal. My lord is such a handsome man, and I? I was young and foolish,
Signor
. I knew he would never marry me, but I told myself that I was content just to be his mistress and have his love. Now he has tired of me. And, oh, good Master, I am told I am nothing, and must do what is commanded of me to do.”
Angela again stared sadly into the burning embers, but this time dry-eyed, as if speaking of her grief and sorrow had helped her, even if only a little, to be resigned to how her world had suddenly turned, becoming dark and ugly.
I took a new piece of wood, and began to stir the fire. I glanced back at Angela, who still silently stared into the fire.
“So he now wishes for you to turn whore?” I asked her softly.
“
Si
.” She glanced over to me, and shrugged again. “It must be so,
Signor
, though only yesterday morning I would have said otherwise. The Holy Father wished for girls who could speak English, and when my lord heard he told the Holy Father he knew of such a girl. I!” She laughed, and cried, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “Yes, I! I who spent my childhood in London, in the street of goldsmiths near Saint Paolo’s Cathedral.”
She glanced nervously at the floor, back at the fire, and then over to me. ’Twas as if she felt there was simply nowhere to escape. “My father took his family to England when I was but a bambini. He was able to gain much work with his Italian craftsmanship, that by the time I was twelve we were able to return to Rome with our coffers full of golden angels. My father has worked hard to give his children a good life.”
She lifted up her head, gazed at the ceiling, and laughed. Quickly, her hand covered her mouth before dropping back to her lap. Angela looked bright-eyed at me.
“And look how I have repaid him! But my punishment begins now! I expect, when I return to My Lord, he will have given me to one of his friends to enjoy.
Signor
, I swear to you that, if it was not such a great sin, I think I would simply throw myself into the river Tiber, and make an end to this nightmare I have woken up to.”
I enclosed her tense hand in mine.
“Why not go home, Angela? Wouldn’t your family forgive you rather than see you dragged out of the river as a bloated corpse?”
“
Signor
, you do not know a proud, Italian father. I have brought much dishonour to his name, the daughter who he loved so much that no man was good enough for her husband. My father thought so highly of me he dowered me with gold works made with his own, so wonderfully gifted hands. No. I cannot go home. I must continue in the life that I have chosen for myself, and admit that it is the judgement of God.
Si
,
Signor
, this is the punishment for my stupidity. I cannot hide my face from the truth—all the blame for my misfortunes lies with me!”
I thought about the heartless, thoughtless man who had seduced her, and knew immediately where I would lay the blame.
I felt such a great sense of helplessness, but other than suggest that she return to her family, I did not know how to help her. Even suggesting a convent was out the question, as I did not have enough gold in my money pouch to dower her.
Suddenly I became aware that all had become silent in the next room, though not for long because too soon Sir John’s snores began to escape from his room and echo into the room where I sat with Angela.
I wondered what to do. There remained a long night ahead of us, and I had been completely honest when I told her that I had no plans to seduce her. Yea, when I first saw her she struck me, in appearance, somewhat like Anne. But I have been that way before, when I lost myself to Lucrezia for a time. I then, painfully, had to come to terms with the way I deluded myself into thinking affection for another woman could ever bring me lasting solace from my grief of loving Anna, and having that love not returned. Thus, I picked up my lute again and began to strum softly a few more of my songs.
“
Signor
is a very good lute player!” Angela said with a small, tight smile.
I looked at her, and smiled.
“My lute is like a part of me. It speaks my feelings better than I can for myself. Why not take yourself to the bed over in the corner, Angela, and let my music lull you into sleep.”
A shuttered look came across her face, and I could easily guess what she thought. I reached out to take up her hand again.
“Angela, I have spoken the truth to you! Be unafraid that I will force myself upon you… That is truly not my way.”
Relief flooded over her features, and she reached to touch me.
“You are so good,
Signor
. Such a good man! I am sorry I made you feel that I did not trust you.”
Angela released my hand, and gracefully arose from the stool where she sat, walking over to the bed I had made upon the floor the previous night. Fully clothed, she lay upon the pallet and pulled some blankets across her body.
I began to wonder where I was going to sleep, and then decided that it was not important. I felt in the mood to write some new song; meeting Angela made me sad, and sadness always opened the gateway within me to the creation of another poem or song. I took my writing gear from the bag I had placed close to the fire, taking on my lap a board on which to write. For a few moments, I just sat there thinking, before I was able to let my mind and fingers explore the vivid valleys and peaks of creativity. And my creativity, at this time, had much to do with my thoughts of Anne, seemingly so far away from me—body, heart, and soul.
Alas, poor man, what hap have I
That must forbear that I love best?
Never to live in quiet rest.
No wonder is though I complain,
Not without cause ye may be sure.
I seek for that I cannot attain,
Which is my mortal displeasure.
Alas, poor heart, as in this case
With pensive plaints thou art oppressed,
Unwise thou were to desire place
Whereas another is possessed.
Do what I can to ease thy smart
Thou wilt not let to love her still.
Hers and not mine I see thou art.
Let her do by thee as she will.
A careful carcass full of pain
Now hast thou left to mourn for thee:
The heart once gone, the body is slain.
That ever I saw her, woe is me.
Mine eye, alas, was cause of this,
Which her to see had never his fill.
To me that sight full bitter is
In recompense of my goodwill.
She that I serve all other above
Hath paid my hire as ye may see.
I was unhappy, and that I prove,
To love above my poor degree.
When I lose myself in poetry I tend to lose myself for hours, thus night soon was gone and morning had come again. Angela began to stir and I decided that I done as much on my new song as I could do, being now so very tired, body and soul. I arose, rather unsteadily, from off the floor where I had sat throughout the night, and leaned my lute carefully on the wall near the table. With a final, exhausted glance at all that I had written—during the hours I had forbade myself to sleep—I determined, for a time, I could do no more. Thus, I put my new “scribblings” amongst my writing gear, and packed it away for another, fresher time.
I glanced over to Angela to see that she was now awake, and watching me with speculative eyes.
“I bid you good morning, Angela. Did you sleep well?” I asked her.
“
Si
, I slept very well,
Signor
.”
“Are you hungry, Angela? There is still some bread and cheese left from yesterday morn. You are very welcome to break your fast with me.”
Angela made no reply to this but looked with confusion around the chamber, and then returned her gaze to me.
“
Signor
did not sleep last night?”
She sounded very bewildered. Angela now pulled herself up, until she sat upright amongst the blankets.
I walked over to her, squatted down beside her and said: “I did not feel the need for sleep. My mind was too restless, and so I chose to exercise it with the making of a new song.”
We both then looked up as we were suddenly disturbed by the opening of the curtain to Sir John’s chamber. Beatrice now came into the room, looking bemused and completely unlike the image of perfection she had presented yesterday. Her pale face appeared very drawn, with dark circles etched deeply under her eyes, and her deep red hair shaken out of the elaborate style she wore when we first had met.
She glanced at Angela, still sitting on the bed pallet with her back leaning on a wall, and then at me beside her. Beatrice smiled.
“So, Angela, it was not as hard as you thought to go from one lover to the next?”
Angela deeply blushed, scowling at the other girl. I felt it time to say something before a serious catfight began.
“
Signora
Beatrice! Angela may be in my bed, but, I assure you, she and the bed have not had my company.”
Beatrice stared at me, and then pealed out a laugh.
“The English
Signor
does not like women?” she asked with a giggle.
“
Signor
likes women very much,” I replied good-naturedly. “But
Signor
likes to chose his own women, and not have them chosen for him.”
Beatrice then frowned at Angela, and spoke again to her.
“Your master will not be pleased to hear you made no effort to please the Englishman!”
“
Signora
Beatrice, please stop trying to upset Angela.” I spoke with annoyance, thinking the woman appeared determined to cause friction. “Angela pleased me very much. I would have been more insulted if she had chosen to play the wanton, when I wanted it not.”
Again Beatrice stared at me.
“
Signor
is a strange man!”
“No!” Angela broke in. “
Signor
Thomas is a good man, with a very good heart.”