Read Online The Daylight Gate by Jeanette Winterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeanette Winterson
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house.
‘Hoghton’s son Richard has no heart for religion but a good nose for politics. Consequently he has kept the house and good King Scottish Jimmy gave him a knighthood last year.’
‘Are you not fond of our King James?’ said Alice.
‘He is a meddler, and when the King is a meddler, the rest of us must be meddlers too. Do you think I enjoy sending old women and their crazed offspring to the gallows?’
‘Then do not ask me to help you.’
‘Then do not ask
me
to help
you
, Mistress.’
He dropped his horse back a little, leaving her to ride ahead. He could not help noticing her figure, her posture, her hair, the quality of her beauty. He had never been interested in her before. He checked himself. This was not the time.
Alice Nutter was dressing in her room. She was careful to look her best. Her maid fastened her magenta dress and hung her neck and her ears with emeralds. When the maid had gone, Alice took a small phial from her bag and wiped her face with a few drops. There was not much left in the stoppered bottle. John Dee had made it and given it to Alice. It was not the Elixir of Life but it was the Elixir of Youth.
She came downstairs to find Potts talking to a small, balding genial man. ‘As a London gentleman I find these country entertainments very tedious,’ said Potts.
‘Then why attend them?’ asked the owlish man.
‘I am a guest of Magistrate Nowell. I am in Lancashire on matters of the Crown. Yes, the Crown,’ said Potts, fluffing himself up. ‘I may say nothing, but you would hardly believe the witchery popery popery witchery I have uncovered.’
‘You must be exhausted,’ said Alice, joining the two men. ‘You look exhausted.’
The genial gentleman smiled at her. Potts glared. A bell rang. A servant announced the start of the play.
‘Shakespeare,’ said Potts. ‘An upstart crow. Melodramatic and mediocre.
Macbeth
– that was a ridiculous play. And to my mind very suspicious too.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘The foul hags, witches, beldames, prophesying to Macbeth – do they not have “the pilot’s thumb” to throw in their infernal pot?’
‘They do …’
‘Aha! And that is the thumb of Edmund Campion, Jesuit burned for treason, harboured here in this house, oh yes, while Shakespeare himself was a tutor here.’
‘And that means …?’ said the genial gentleman, trying to follow.
‘Witchery popery popery witchery – all the same thing.’
The genial gentleman shrugged and offered Alice his arm. ‘May I escort you in to the play?’
Alice nodded, just as Roger Nowell came forward looking for her. He barely glanced at Potts. He bowed to Alice’s companion.
‘William Shakespeare.’
Potts was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
As they took their seats for the play, Alice and Shakespeare were talking. He had met her many years ago, he said, when he was new to London, just come from Stratford, and she had her house on Bankside by the Swan Theatre. She had welcomed him like a northern woman. He liked northern women for their forthrightness and their kindness – he had met many of them when he was a young man here at Hoghton Tower.
‘We were all Catholics then,’ he said, ‘even when we were not.’
‘Ah, we were young then,’ said Alice.
Shakespeare looked at her curiously. ‘Even when we were not.’
She blushed. He was like an owl, bright-eyed, his head perched on his ruff. His eyes looked deeper than his gaze and Alice felt that he knew everything and that there was nothing she need say.
He was a wealthy man now, living in Stratford, no longer writing plays. He had travelled up to see
The Tempest
at Hoghton Tower because he was fond of the place and fond of the play. His company was still the King’s Men, and
The Tempest
had been chosen for the wedding of King James’s daughter, to take place the following year.
‘I have ridden out all the storms,’ said Shakespeare, ‘even the ones I wrote myself. Here, look, it begins …’
A
‘Hoghton’s son Richard has no heart for religion but a good nose for politics. Consequently he has kept the house and good King Scottish Jimmy gave him a knighthood last year.’
‘Are you not fond of our King James?’ said Alice.
‘He is a meddler, and when the King is a meddler, the rest of us must be meddlers too. Do you think I enjoy sending old women and their crazed offspring to the gallows?’
‘Then do not ask me to help you.’
‘Then do not ask
me
to help
you
, Mistress.’
He dropped his horse back a little, leaving her to ride ahead. He could not help noticing her figure, her posture, her hair, the quality of her beauty. He had never been interested in her before. He checked himself. This was not the time.
Alice Nutter was dressing in her room. She was careful to look her best. Her maid fastened her magenta dress and hung her neck and her ears with emeralds. When the maid had gone, Alice took a small phial from her bag and wiped her face with a few drops. There was not much left in the stoppered bottle. John Dee had made it and given it to Alice. It was not the Elixir of Life but it was the Elixir of Youth.
She came downstairs to find Potts talking to a small, balding genial man. ‘As a London gentleman I find these country entertainments very tedious,’ said Potts.
‘Then why attend them?’ asked the owlish man.
‘I am a guest of Magistrate Nowell. I am in Lancashire on matters of the Crown. Yes, the Crown,’ said Potts, fluffing himself up. ‘I may say nothing, but you would hardly believe the witchery popery popery witchery I have uncovered.’
‘You must be exhausted,’ said Alice, joining the two men. ‘You look exhausted.’
The genial gentleman smiled at her. Potts glared. A bell rang. A servant announced the start of the play.
‘Shakespeare,’ said Potts. ‘An upstart crow. Melodramatic and mediocre.
Macbeth
– that was a ridiculous play. And to my mind very suspicious too.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘The foul hags, witches, beldames, prophesying to Macbeth – do they not have “the pilot’s thumb” to throw in their infernal pot?’
‘They do …’
‘Aha! And that is the thumb of Edmund Campion, Jesuit burned for treason, harboured here in this house, oh yes, while Shakespeare himself was a tutor here.’
‘And that means …?’ said the genial gentleman, trying to follow.
‘Witchery popery popery witchery – all the same thing.’
The genial gentleman shrugged and offered Alice his arm. ‘May I escort you in to the play?’
Alice nodded, just as Roger Nowell came forward looking for her. He barely glanced at Potts. He bowed to Alice’s companion.
‘William Shakespeare.’
Potts was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
As they took their seats for the play, Alice and Shakespeare were talking. He had met her many years ago, he said, when he was new to London, just come from Stratford, and she had her house on Bankside by the Swan Theatre. She had welcomed him like a northern woman. He liked northern women for their forthrightness and their kindness – he had met many of them when he was a young man here at Hoghton Tower.
‘We were all Catholics then,’ he said, ‘even when we were not.’
‘Ah, we were young then,’ said Alice.
Shakespeare looked at her curiously. ‘Even when we were not.’
She blushed. He was like an owl, bright-eyed, his head perched on his ruff. His eyes looked deeper than his gaze and Alice felt that he knew everything and that there was nothing she need say.
He was a wealthy man now, living in Stratford, no longer writing plays. He had travelled up to see
The Tempest
at Hoghton Tower because he was fond of the place and fond of the play. His company was still the King’s Men, and
The Tempest
had been chosen for the wedding of King James’s daughter, to take place the following year.
‘I have ridden out all the storms,’ said Shakespeare, ‘even the ones I wrote myself. Here, look, it begins …’
A
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