The Tutor (15 page)

Lord and Lady Strange glided into their surroundings and remained close to each other throughout their stay. Katharine studied Alice on the rare occasions they were in the same room: she was petite with bone-white skin and large eyes that combined vulnerability with intelligence. Alice, just past the age of thirty, had naturally blond hair, gently arched eyebrows and delicate features that were gracefully aligned. Katharine marveled at the pair’s easy elegance—there was nothing forced about their carriage or their countenance; they simply had the good fortune to be of highborn blood.

So it was with interest that Katharine watched how Will spoke to Lord Ferdinando, but kept his back to Lady Alice, in a stance that bespoke uncouth manners. Lord Ferdinando and Lady Alice had changed from their afternoon attire into garments of richer cloth and tighter fit
for the evening’s entertainment. Alice’s lace ruff fanned out like flower petals, framing her lovely face, neck and chest. She wore rubies and gold around her neck, a longer chain of pearls knotted above her bodice. Ferdinando’s full head of hair stopped above his forehead with a curl. He wore no ruff tonight, but a lace collar intricately stitched with pearls.

There was something of a taunt in the way Will ignored Alice. She glittered in a way that was impossible to miss, but Will’s broad shoulders squarely blocked any contact. If Katharine were Alice, she would be perplexed and annoyed and intrigued all at the same time. Katharine had heretofore been impressed by Alice’s splendor, but now she found herself a bit jealous of Alice’s tiny white wrists and pale blue eyes.

Katharine approached Alice, and though they had seen each other that afternoon, they exchanged greetings again. Will’s back was to Katharine now, too, and he was still conversing with the lord, though Alice clearly hoped to make his acquaintance. Finally Katharine tapped Will on the shoulder. He pivoted on his heel, his eyes sweeping past Katharine and landing directly on Alice’s sweet face, as though he had known she was there all along but had been waiting for the right moment to make his entrance.

“Lady Alice Strange,” Katharine said, “this is William Shakespeare.”

Will gazed at Alice for a beat longer, then took her hand and kissed it.

“We so enjoyed your Henry and thought it a wonderful and courageous tribute to Saint Crispin,” Alice said.

“Gramercy, my lady,” he said, now glancing at Katharine and smiling.

There was method to Will’s attention, ambition to it.

“This Henry is by whose pen?” asked Lady Alice.

“My own, my lady, something I wrote a year ago and unearthed for this occasion.”

“Your Henry felt alive, a person, not a deity, and that is good. You are a poet?”

“Yes, and I’ve been in London working as a player.”

“And you pen plays?” she continued.

“I have pieces but nothing whole yet,” he said.

Will had never spoken to Katharine of his plays, only of his poetry.

“What are you writing now?” asked Lady Alice.

“Sonnets and a longer poem. And there are my scraps for the theater that I will soon, God willing, stitch together into scenes, and then stitch those scenes into acts, and then stitch those acts into . . . plays.”

“You have much needlework in your future,” Alice said.

Lord Strange, who had been talking to Harold, now returned to them. “We have a talent here,” he said.

“Gramercy, my lord.” Will smiled and bowed. The music started. “Pardon, I must remove this rusty mail. It must weigh fifty stone.”

“We trust you will join in the dancing,” said Alice.

“They must teach dancing at those London theaters,” said Ferdinando.

“I’ve learned a few steps,” Will replied, smiling. “I’ll change out of Henry and come back William.” He bowed once more and took his leave.

“They say he’s up from Warwickshire,” said Ferdinando when Will was gone.

“His family is from Stratford,” said Katharine. “And he’s been in London.”

“What the devil is he doing out here?” said Ferdinando.

“He was hired to help with the schooling of the boys.”

“Not sure I would trade London for Lancashire if I were a lad in the theater.”

“He is writing poetry,” Katharine said.

“Is he a poet or a playwright?” asked Alice.

“He’s one of those that does both, my dear,” said Ferdinando.

“Have you heard of him?” she asked her husband.

Lord Strange shook his head. “No, but there are so many of these
types in London now. And half of them have never been to university. How things change. Katharine, how are you, my dear?”

“I am well, thank you, my lord.”

“You look more than well. You put the sun and the moon to shame,” he said.

Alice nodded in agreement, adding, “I always wanted dimples, they enhance a smile so. And you are rich with them.”

“You make me blush. ’Tis my legacy. My father had the same, as did his father, and his before him.”

“I used to sit hours with my fingers pressing on my chin, hoping I could sculpt my flesh into a cleft, but as you see, to no avail.”

Ferdinando held his wife’s chin in his hand and then leaned down and kissed it. “You have a beautiful chin, my dear.” Then he looked up at Katharine. “Can we not find you a husband, Katharine?”

“Ferdinando . . .” said Alice.

“Lady Alice, this question neither angers me nor wearies me,” said Katharine.

“You are the virgin queen of Lancaster,” said Ferdinando.

“I have been married, my lord, and I am no queen.”

“Our queen has been married many a time, methinks, though no wedding band rings her finger. We must find a man suitable for you.”

“Many have tried, my lord, to find me such a thing.”

“Are we ‘things,’ then, we husbands?”

Katharine laughed. “I suppose not, for ‘to husband’ is an action . . . men husband the land . . .”

“You talk, you walk, you fight in wars, but there are worlds you can never enter,” said Alice.

“I enter yours every once in a while.”

“Ferdinando!” Alice smiled at him.

“I wonder why ‘to wife’ is not in use,” said Katharine.

“Because ‘to wife’ would mean to take, to steal, not to cultivate or to carry out,” said Lord Strange.

“Oh, dear, Adam and Eve again,” said Katharine.

“I agree with Katharine,” added Alice. “You things mention that rib at every opportunity. How we tire of it.”

“I’ll lose it, then,” said Ferdinando.

“You lost it thousands of years past,” said Alice.

Ferdinando smiled at his wife. Their eyes met, and Katharine marveled at their playful understanding.

“Are you reading, Katharine?” Ferdinando asked.

“I always read,” she answered.

“Well, before the night is through you must oblige me a list of new books, those by Master Shakespeare’s peers. Perhaps we’ll read something of his someday. Ah, they have started to dance. Alice, the Duc de Malois has already asked to partner with you for the first pavane. Katharine, will you join me?”

“It would be a pleasure, my lord.”

The musicians assembled with recorder, cittern, lute and tabor in the balcony at the end of the great hall. The stately sound of a pavane—a dance named after the strut of a peacock—encouraged couples to form a procession; the ladies’ right hand lightly resting on the gentlemen’s left, their eyes looking straight ahead, they circled the center of the hall—step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause—in time to the music. The couples split from the group, spun round, then formed a circle again.

Katharine and Lord Ferdinando tilted their heads toward each other but kept their gazes forward as they spoke of Spenser and Sidney, and Katharine promised to send the lord her copy of Sidney’s sonnets. They moved in a large circle, and as they were coming back to where they had started, Katharine noticed Will. He stood off to the side, watching, an amused glint in his eye. He was clad in a tight doublet of black with
orange-gold silk showing through so many small slashes that the fabric shone like the scales of a carp. He wore no ruff, but, like Lord Ferdinando, sported a large collar, with an undercollar of the same orange-gold silk.

When Katharine passed Will, she saw he was watching her. She shot her eyes directly forward and continued on.

Katharine didn’t realize she had flinched until Lord Ferdinando asked, “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. She had stepped out of the beat. “I beg your pardon.”

“Our player is well plumed tonight.” Lord Ferdinando nodded toward Will as they passed. “Methinks he gets ahead of himself, as king and now as prince.” He chuckled.

The pavane came to an end, and the young French nobleman with whom Katharine sat at the banquet asked her for the next dance. She nodded and smiled, and he bowed, took her hand and led her to the center of the great hall, just as the first lively notes of a galliard played. He was a good dancer, and when they were apart and it was his turn to step, he leapt in the air with a delightful verve. Katharine laughed. He had the same mirth with his movements that he had when he spoke to her in his scraggly English. His humor made her smile, and her own steps became spirited, as they hopped, skipped and twirled to the music.

“You dance intelligent,” he said when they were together.

“Gramercy,” she replied as she danced around him.

“You dance with much clever,” he said.

She laughed. “You are very kind. And you dance with much wit.”

“
Merci
. You dance with beauty,” he said, then stepped back and spun around and kicked his left foot high in the air and then his right; his friends hooted and called to him and soon the whole room was watching them. Katharine was having fun, so she did not care. She had always loved to dance. She could lose herself. The next dance was Ursula’s much-anticipated courante. The duke had taken Ursula’s hand, so she
had her wish. Lord and Lady Strange were together. Katharine’s Frenchman bowed to her, and was reaching for her hand, when Will stepped in front of him and took it. Will turned and smiled at the Frenchman, who bowed again and withdrew.

Courante
meant “running” in French, but the dance, by the time it arrived at the English court, was slow and subdued. Katharine’s heart was beating fast from the energetic galliard. Will held her hand and they moved forward. He had not even asked her to dance—perhaps he was afraid she would say no. She supposed she was the only woman in the room, besides Sophie the duke’s mistress, who would partner with a glover’s son.

“How did I do?” he asked. “My little speech?” he said as they stepped back.

“’Twas well said. All those who watched were . . .” She paused.

“Were?”

“Convinced,” she said as they dropped their hands and faced each other.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She said nothing.

“‘I noot were she be woman or goddess, / But Venus is it smoothly, as I gesse.’”

“Chaucer,” she said.

“’Tis the anniversary of his death today,” he said.

“You succeeded with your audience tonight. No need for you to try to succeed with me.”

“Thou art rose-cheeked,” he persisted.

“Like Adonis?” Katharine said, turning. “I found marks upon the margins of Sir Edward’s
Faerie Queene
. ’Twas not your book to ruin!” she said.

“A thousand pardons for my careless tracks. Thou art rose-cheeked just the same.”

“I have been dancing,” she said.

“So I have seen.”

They glided forward and then backward.

“How was it that you performed without the company of players?” she asked.

“Never made it to the hall, waylaid a half day’s ride from here, something with a horse or a cart.”

“More likely you paid them to stay away so you could shine.”

He chuckled. “I saw what you thought of my ‘Venus and Adonis.’ I could scarce read my words for all your circles, X’s and lines.”

“I marked when I saw fit.”

“God-a-mercy. I have heeded all your marks and will send you what I’ve done,” he said.

“You look a different man than when you were Henry,” she said. “More borrowed flaunts?”

“No. A friend in London sent me to his tailor, a bonus for work I did.”

“A good friend, to assume such a generous reckoning.”

“Yes, yes, he is.”

Lord and Lady Strange passed by. Will nodded and smiled at them but then brought his gaze back to Katharine.

“Will you dance the next dance with me?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said.

There was scarce a pause before the quick pulse of the volta started: the notes themselves seemed to run and to leap in the air. This dance demanded that partners lock eyes, no matter if they were stepping or twirling or jumping. Katharine fixed her gaze on the pattern of black silk stitching along the edges of Will’s orange silk collar, but Will reached over and lifted her chin with his finger so their eyes met.

They began with a few steps of a galliard, but then with the cadenza Will stood so close to Katharine that their hips were touching. He put his right hand on her waist and pulled her even closer. The sweet smell of
herbs rose from his skin. He placed a hand firmly below her bosom on the stiff busk of her bodice, as was the custom. There were some parts of England where, in spite of the fact that Queen Elizabeth herself had danced it with Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, the volta was forbidden. The Puritans did not approve of the close embrace.

Will slid his knee under her so that she was almost sitting on his thigh; then, with one swift movement, while she held his shoulder with one hand and her skirts with the other, he launched her into the air. He was stronger than she had imagined, and at the same time his limbs were surprisingly graceful. Where had the glover’s son picked up the cadence that on him appeared so natural but with others took years of instruction by a dancing master and even then often looked awkward?

Instead of bringing Katharine down quickly, he lost pace with the music and held her close to him for a beat longer than seemed proper. The rules of the dance were that after the leap in the air, the woman was let down with a bounce, and the couple sprang apart, but Will slid Katharine down on his chest slowly so that at one point, before her feet hit the floor, their lips were touching. Then he set her gently on the floor and smiled.