Authors: Siobhan Burke
I had been a sociable child by nature, but my father’s little
house, with its shop on the ground floor, had become increasingly crowded with
women as the years passed and my sisters were born. They meant no ill, I knew,
but there were so infernally many of them and only one of me. I’d long since
given up any hope that the next birth would bring a boy, and even if it did, by
this time the child would be rather more a burden than a boon. I had to escape
sometimes and the great cathedral had been my haven. I had spent my time
therewith the choirboys, noting with smug tolerance the relationships between some
of the other boys and their “gentlemen”. Though I had had offers, I had kept
myself aloof, feeling that I was destined for greater things than these tawdry
and winked at affairs. My friendships dwindled when I began to attend the
King’s school as a paying student, easily outdistancing other boys who had been
there longer, to their great resentment.
My special sanctuary I had discovered by a combination of
accident and boredom during one interminable service at the cathedral. A space
behind a pillar, lost in shadow, had proved not the shallow nook it seemed, but
deep enough to hide some builder’s creaky and forgotten ladder, leading up into
a small scaffold space above. There, in a quiet loft tucked under the roof and
in among the vaulting, floored with a few planks and all but invisible from
below, I would beguile the hours dreaming of futures that held no shadows of
cobbler’s shops or unruly hordes of shrill females—futures that became less and
less likely as time passed and I was not offered the scholarship that would
lead to Oxford or Cambridge. I desperately wanted the university degrees that
would allow me the title and rank of Gentleman, instead of the hated and lowly
Yeoman, which even at the age of fourteen I felt to be beneath both my dignity
and my worth. My feckless father and ambitious mother had stretched their
resources to the limits just to send me to the King’s school; the university
was out of the question without a scholarship.
One hot afternoon I had stretched out in my sanctuary to dream, fondly
believing myself unwatched and unseen. I laid upon a rough sack that I had
purloined to pad my hideaway, stuffed with straw smuggled up bit by bit in my
jerkin. The heat under the leads was pleasant and I stripped down to shirt and
hose, wadding my jerkin and venetians into a pillow for my head, dozing in the
incense scented stillness. I awoke with a startled realization that I was not
alone, that the pleasurable sensations in my loins were produced by the large
hand busied there, that attached to the hand was a man, kneeling over me, his
breath coming in harsh gasps.
“Pretty, pretty boy,” the hoarse voice droned, while I panicked
and tried to struggle free from the huge hands that held me down. Soft hands,
but strong and conquering hands that swept all resistance before them. Later,
still facedown in my violated sanctuary, I had wept for my loss of innocence, a
loss the more poignant because I knew the man would come for me again, that I
would be awaiting him, and not entirely unwilling.
That same evening, with the last ounce of will and virtue left
in me, I had gone to see an under-choirmaster, one of the few priests that I
trusted, one that had not boys of his own, and told him about what had happened
to me. I was not prepared for the rage that shook the florid face of the
middle-aged divine, nor yet the form that the reaction would take.
Father Justin commanded me to lower my breeches and hose and
whipped me with a birch rod until I bled, for lying, he said, about a respected
citizen, an alderman, and a deacon of the church. As I fastened up my clothing
I had noted the damp stain soiling the front of Father Justin’s own gown. I
left the chamber with much to ponder.
Only a fortnight or so later, back under the leads of the
cathedral roof, I had waited for the alderman. I only came here now to meet him
and I missed my retreat, but if things went not awry. . . . Soon enough he was
there, settling on the sacking and offering me a gilded trinket. I spurned it
sullenly.
“I care nothing for such trumpery, master,” I told him. His
eyebrows raised: most of the pretty boys doted on such gifts and favors. “I
wish the scholarship at the King’s School, sir, to go on to the University. But
I must gain it soon, before I am too old,” I had continued in a rush, staking all
on this throw of the dice. “You have influence, you could help me,” letting my
tone convey the merest hint of a threat.
The man tugged at his beard thoughtfully before replying. I knew
what he was thinking, that this course would take me away from Canterbury
eventually and at about the time that I would become less attractive to him,
too old. “I shall see what I may do,” he replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps my
friend Manwood will help.”
And so I had got my scholarship, and in due time had gone to
University, and there learned firstly to resent the way that blood counted more
than brains, and only secondly the classics.
I told of the whipping that I had received my first year there
at Cambridge. I had been caught bathing in the river with an older boy and making
a sort of casual love. Bathing was forbidden, and that was the charge, no
mention made of the other. My companion was the son of a lord and he was warned
and let go, while I had been hauled before the assembled members of the college
hall. My gown had been stripped from me and I was made to stand against a
pillar therein my shabby hose while I was “severely whipped”, in accordance
with the rule. The beating was not as rigorous as prescribed, the officer
pitying my thin and shivering youth, but still it left me bloodied and weeping
with humiliation. I was allowed no food that night and the next day the scene
was repeated before my own college. I was then allowed to return to my room,
where I lay feverish and sick, with my face to the wall. Cobbler’s son, they
had jeered at me. Well that might be, but I would show them, I vowed by every
welt, by every drop of blood.
Later I came to believe that the bathing in the river had only
been an excuse. Others bathed and were not whipped: I had been punished for showing
up the masters. I began to use my quick wits as a weapon after that, honing my
tongue on the others’ most cherished convictions and beliefs. It was this
combination of bitter wit and callousness that eventually had brought me to Sir
Francis Walsingham’s attention, and that of his nephew, Thomas, but of that I
could not yet speak.
The thought of Walsingham, dressed always in his puritan black
brought my rant back to the church.
“And the Puritans! The puritans are even worse! If there is a
more asinine concept than joy being sinful I’ve yet to hear it,” I snorted.
“It’s not enough that they must shun delight, but they must be sure that no one
else is enjoying the pleasures that they deny themselves! Indeed, it seems the
only pleasure of which they do partake is that of making the rest of the world
miserable. At least Rome offers a little pageantry and pomp in return for
pillaging a man of his means!” I gulped the last of my wine, and went on
recklessly.” And the so-called miracles themselves should convince any thinking
man that Christ was no more than a conjurer! Why, I know a man, Hariot, that
can do as much and more, yet no one names him the Son of God!” Nicolas drew his
brows together and gazed at me in consternation.
“My boy, I would that you not noise these opinions about too
freely, or depend overmuch upon friends in high places to protect you. These
opinions would be called blasphemy in most circles and could well bring you to
the stake.”
I shook my head. “It is a pretty toy, to be a poet and a playwright.
I am prudent enough to put these ideas into the mouths of my characters and
hypocrite enough to send these characters all to bad ends. If I avoid the
church, at least I pay my pence for penance,” I said, laughing, and was
surprised to see that it was nearly dawn again. I stretched, vainly tried to
suppress a yawn and shook my head. “I must go. I have to be at the theater all
too soon and tomorrow I am expected at Scadbury.”
It was two weeks before I again returned to my lodgings
and I viewed the shabby room with regret. Tom and I had lived under one roof
and not spoken, except casually, in all that time. I had been but one of many
guests and while Tom seemed to want the breach between us to be kept from
public awareness, heal so seemed disinclined to heal it privately. Finally I
had cited engagements in the city and fled back to London, hurt and bitter.
Little puffs of dust rose from the untidy piles of paper on my
writing table as I shuffled through them. Tom had not recently made me any
gifts of money and my purse was becoming slack indeed, but I could not seem to
work. I dropped the pages and prowled around the room for a time, scowling at
the greasy kitchen knave who brought my wine and lit my fire, then I sat down
again.
I absentmindedly sharpened two quills into a heap of slivers
then gave up entirely. I stripped off my clothing and threw myself onto the bed
to sip the cheap Bastard wine, all I could currently afford. Thrift was not a
natural virtue for me. I bitterly resented my forced economies, but with the
pauper’s death of my fellow playwright, and bitter rival, Robert Greene as
example, I fled any course that might land me in prison for debt. I had learned
enough of prison in the time I had already spent in Newgate for dueling. My one
tentative foray into supplying my wants by coining had led to an abrupt and
embarrassing conclusion at the hands of Sir Robert Sidney, across the Channel
in Flanders.
Though I had expected to toss for hours, sleep claimed me almost
immediately that night, and I dreamed. I seldom had erotic dreams, but this
night I dreamed of Rózsa. In reality I was an indifferent rider at best, but I
dreamt that we were riding effortlessly through a wild and desolate
countryside, her flowing hair unbound, red-raven-dark and burnished by the sun.
She rode ahead, turning back to laugh and beckon, but try as I might, I could
not catch up with her.
Things changed, as things will in dreams, and we were together
by a waterfall that roared and shook the ground, where she once again undressed
and took me, as though I were the woman and she the man. I woke with a start to
realize that the room was candlelit and I was not alone. Rózsa was indeed here,
just as I had dreamed. Her head was thrown back and I noticed her pointed
canine teeth as she smiled, seeing that I woke. She leaned over, nuzzling my
neck, never breaking her rhythm, and I felt the pain of her nipping teeth, fast
followed as before by overwhelming bliss. As I drifted back to awareness I
heard her dressing.” Please, stay,” I pleaded. “I—I’d fain not be alone this
night.” Swiftly she crossed the room and took my hands in hers, leaning over to
gently kiss my forehead and eyelids.
“I know, I know, my Kit. That’s why I am here: your pain called
to me. I will return shortly—I am going for food and drink, for you have been
neglecting yourself.” She donned her hat, swirled her cloak over her shoulders
and with a backward wink to me was out the door. I lay back in my bed, the old,
heavily-carved bed that had been an early gift from Tom, and waited. When she
returned about half an hour later the watch was calling midnight and I was
contemplating the stars over the rooftops. Orion had pulled on a ragged cloak
of cloud as he sank into his western bed, trailed by Sirius, his dog, and
Saturn, old Father Time. I leapt to my feet as Rózsa pushed the door open then
sank back as the blood rushed from my head and the darkness grew on the edges
of my sight. Instantly she was beside me, her arms around me.
“Steady, steady, my love. Did I not say that you had been
neglecting yourself? When is the last time that you did eat? Yesterday you
think? I think mayhap the day before. Come now and lie back and I will feed
you.” She placed her long hand against my chest and pushed me resolutely back
into my pillows. She had brought a dozen oysters that she expertly opened,
tipping the shells against my lips. She alternated the shellfish with sips of
dark red claret and bites of sharp crumbly cheese, occasionally leaning over to
lick my lips and kiss me. It was pleasant to be waited on, to feel cared for
and safe. She had shed the doublet and slops, and I could feel the hardness of
her nipple against my arm through the silk shirt she wore, as I jestingly
caught her hand after the sixth oyster.
“Succubus! I do know the reputation of these things; just what
might you intend?” She laughed, opening another.
“I intend, my love, that you will not fail in rising to my will!
What else?” I laughed, for I was indeed rising, drawn to her vitality, her
assurance, as helpless as a moth before a candle. She drew the mismatched bed
curtains with quick graceful tugs and enfolded me in her arms. When I woke the
next morning she had gone.
The weeks passed into months. I wrote, I took my turns prompting
rehearsals at the playhouse, even sometimes treading the boards myself, and
casually bedded a few young men among the players, but more from habit than
desire. I visited Scadbury frequently, but never had opportunity to speak to
Tom away from Frizer’s triumphant presence. More than once I found myself
regretting the prohibition upon his murder that Rózsa had pronounced that
January morning.
I was an even more frequent visitor to Crosby Place, a guest of
the guests of the Lord Mayor, spending many wonderful evening hours with my
hosts in scholarly pursuits and hours even more wondrous alone with Rózsa in
pursuits of a more earthy nature. Von Poppelau knew and seemed to approve of
our coupling and I did not wish to disturb things with questions and risk losing
all. Often we went out together, Rózsa dressed always as a young man, but only
at night, never before twilight.