The Tutor (12 page)

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 reaction 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.

Katharine couldn’t help but be impressed by Ursula’s warbling
oratory; at least she seemed honest. Perhaps she was not the anointed family fool after all.

“To the De Malois offffffsssssspring, may they ffffflourish and proudly carry their mighty father’s mantle upon their shoulders.” Ursula downed her drink, then vomited all over the table.

Richard winced. His passion was falconry; they often trained the hawks by sealing their eyes with a needle and thread, a temporary blinding. As the servants rushed to Ursula’s side, Katharine wondered if at this moment Richard would have preferred to have his eyes sewn shut.

Laughter turned to whooping. Several Frenchmen stood, bowed, cheered and clapped, as though Ursula had just recited a beautiful piece of poetry. For a moment she looked startled, but she waved a servant away, calling instead for more wine.

The feast was finishing, and it was Matilda who gave the sign to the musicians in the balcony to start the song. Katharine caught Matilda’s eye. With Edward gone, there seemed to be a warmth growing between them.

While the women withdrew to the gallery adjacent to the balcony to listen to the music through the grillwork, Katharine planned her escape from their chatter. Ursula would not be joining the women. Her heavings had been cleared, and now her head was on the table, her eyes shut, her cheek resting upon a piece of yellow cheese.

When Katharine had last looked at Will, he was in conversation with a Frenchman. She was almost out the door when she heard his voice.

“And how fares my lady?” he said.

She turned. “You are looking very . . . full of color,” she said.

Will bowed.

“A peacock would pale next to you,” she added.

“Pray, madam, do not mock me.” He stared at her. “Your eyes are the color of your gown, two blue windows.”

“Yes, my eyes, my gown, seem a subject of fools’ flattery tonight.”

“We are but subjects to them,” he said, bowing again.

“Subjects to fools or to my eyes? It is the eyes of fools that weave false flattery. Must I be subjected to such foolishness? ‘Two blue windows’? Come, now. You can do better than that.” Katharine smiled.

There was something brazen about how he looked into her eyes, something prying and challenging and delightful. They had never been together at supper and certainly not at a banquet as glittering as this one. The music had begun, and the air was filled with the pleasant sounds of a violin, flute, lute and viol.

“What thought you of my last sonnet?”

“It spoke of torment. I could feel the wound in the heart. A lover crossed by his lover and his friend,” Katharine said.

“If a man sees his mistress with another man, even his best friend, he assumes his mistress has forsaken him.”

“All men assume this?”

“All men.”

“You are an education,” she said.

“I have started the new poem we spoke of in the orchard. Might you read it?” He leaned his broad frame close to Katharine, his voice low. “It is untried. The ink not yet dried,” he said. “I pray you like it.” He took her hand and kissed it.

It was the first time she’d felt his lips on her skin. His lips were warm.

Katharine took the pages he held out to her. She wished she weren’t leaving the great hall when he came to her, for if she turned now and went back in, it would seem she was doing so to be with him.

“I thank you in advance,” he said, bowing.

She nodded, not knowing exactly what to do. “Adieu,” she said finally.

Will bowed again and left her at the door, returning to the hall, where music and laughter filled the air. The guests were drunk and loud, and the gentle notes could not do serious battle with the harsh sounds of revelry.

She climbed the steps to the old turret, then put Will’s folded paper on the table next to her bed and stood at the window, staring into the last glow of light. There was something deliciously expectant about this time of night, in the gloaming, before darkness finally descended—a waiting. She sighed, unfastening the gold chain girdle at her waist that held a tiny Bible and then unpinning the lace coif that covered her hair. Molly came in and helped her out of her blue satin stomacher and blue and black brocade gown.

“You’ve come up early, my lady,” said Molly as she unlaced Katharine’s bodice. Molly had a face full of freckles, and orange ringlets that refused to stay captive beneath her cap.

“I am tired, Molly, bone-tired.”

“And a bit sad that Sir Edward is not here to enjoy the revels?” asked Molly.

“I suppose that’s why I left.”

“Feels off the center of things without him presiding at the table.”

“’Tis very true, Molly. The other day I heard horses and was convinced he’d returned. When I rushed to the window, it was Richard and some of his men. That was all.”

By the time Katharine’s black petticoat had fallen to the floor and the farthingale was undone, she had decided against reading Will’s words. She would snuff her candle and go to sleep. When Molly let down her hair, Katharine told her she could go.

As Katharine ran the brush through her hair, she watched herself in the oval looking glass perched on the table. Many women her age dyed their hair blond like Saxon girls. Though she had strands of gray, she preferred her own chestnut color. If she could change her appearance, she would wish away the lines on her forehead and around her eyes and even the laugh lines from the dimples on her cheeks. She would wish for smooth where there were now furrows. When she was young, she’d wanted to erase the burn marks on her back and her neck. Even in the
summer heat she used to wear high-necked, long-sleeved stomachers, but now she accepted those scars as who she was, as much a part of her as her eyes, her hair and her heart.

In her white cambric smock, she pulled up the linens and blankets in her bed and listened to the revelers below. They would all gather in a few hours for a light meal, if they were not too drunk. Katharine wouldn’t go back down. The candle flame was unsteady. She would read Will’s work in the morning, when the natural light would lift the quill marks off the page. She heard laughter and song. Then she leaned toward the candle with the snuffer but stopped. Snatching the paper off the table, she unfolded the pages and squinted into the candlelight.