Read Online The Secret of the Rose by Sarah L. Thomson - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah L. Thomson
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leather tankard of ale.
“I do not suppose he’ll have thought to feed thee,” she said gruffly, waving away my thanks. “Off to the alehouse again, is he?”
“I know not,” I said, though my heart sank. Was that where he had gone? Was he a drunkard as well as a playmaker and a man who claimed to know in what shape the devil walked among us? “Have you known Master Marlowe long, mistress?”
“I know him not,” she said sternly. “He pays his rent each week, and I ask no more.” She looked at me, I thought, in disapproval. “What possessed him to take thee into service, I cannot imagine. But do not count on his good humor too far. He’s changeable as March wind.” Shaking her head, she made her way down the stairs.
Her words might be discouraging, but her pottage wasexcellent, the oatmeal soft and thick, the chunks of mutton tender. And I was ravenous. Now I came to think of it, I had not eaten since Robin’s stolen loaf of bread that morning, back in the time I was still Rosalind Archer.
Rosalind Archer would have eaten her dinner at a table, with a cook to prepare it and a maid to serve. There would have been, perhaps, a joint of mutton, a cut of beef, or a capon stewed and savory. And her father and brother would have been there with her. She would not have crouched on the edge of a straw pallet, leery of sitting on the only stool in case Master Marlowe would think it a presumption, scouring the pottage bowl clean with chunks of bread and stuffing them into her mouth. Embarrassed, I sat up straight, wiped my face, and finished what was left of my food in a more seemly fashion. Because I was not what I had been, it did not follow that I must be an animal. I would eat as if I’d been taught manners. My father would not be ashamed of me, if he could see me.
Or would he? I set the empty bowl and tankard down on the floor and rubbed one hand at the back of my neck. What will our father say when he sees thee? Had Robin been right? Would my father be shocked beyond measure at the sight of me, shameless and immodest in my breeches and doublet? Would he think I had disgracedmyself to become the servant of a playmaker, a man who lied for profit? Would he condemn me for it? Would God?
I reached into my shirt and pulled a thin leather cord over my head. Attached to the cord, in a small linen bag, was my rosary.
I held the wooden beads, warm from the heat of my body, between my fingers and began to pray. “ Ave Maria, gratia plena….”
The words wrapped themselves around me, soft and comforting, like summer sunlight, like a fur-lined cloak in winter. “ Dominus tecum, benedicta tua….” I had much need of grace today. I had lied, I had abandoned the name I’d been christened with, I had entered the service of a playmaker and a blasphemer. And since I did not know where to find a priest in London, I could not even confess and have my sins lifted off my heart. But as I prayed my way around the beads, I could only trust that God would understand. And so would my father. They would know that what I’d done, I’d done so that I could survive.
I was a Catholic at heart, even if that must stay secret, just as I was a woman under my breeches and doublet. My lies were only on the surface. They did not change the deepest truths. When I had prayed all fifty-five prayers, I tucked the rosary back underneath my shirt and waitedfor my new master to return and tell me what he wished me to do.
Light faded from the window, and the sky outside turned gold, then rose, then purple, then black. And Master Marlowe still did not appear. At length I took off my shoes and doublet and unwrapped the bands around my breasts, gently rubbing the sore spots where the linen had chafed the tender skin. I hid the strips of cloth, along with the rosary, under the pallet and fell asleep listening for the sound of Master Marlowe’s footsteps on the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
AUGUST 1592
I never heard Master Marlowe come in that night. But
“I do not suppose he’ll have thought to feed thee,” she said gruffly, waving away my thanks. “Off to the alehouse again, is he?”
“I know not,” I said, though my heart sank. Was that where he had gone? Was he a drunkard as well as a playmaker and a man who claimed to know in what shape the devil walked among us? “Have you known Master Marlowe long, mistress?”
“I know him not,” she said sternly. “He pays his rent each week, and I ask no more.” She looked at me, I thought, in disapproval. “What possessed him to take thee into service, I cannot imagine. But do not count on his good humor too far. He’s changeable as March wind.” Shaking her head, she made her way down the stairs.
Her words might be discouraging, but her pottage wasexcellent, the oatmeal soft and thick, the chunks of mutton tender. And I was ravenous. Now I came to think of it, I had not eaten since Robin’s stolen loaf of bread that morning, back in the time I was still Rosalind Archer.
Rosalind Archer would have eaten her dinner at a table, with a cook to prepare it and a maid to serve. There would have been, perhaps, a joint of mutton, a cut of beef, or a capon stewed and savory. And her father and brother would have been there with her. She would not have crouched on the edge of a straw pallet, leery of sitting on the only stool in case Master Marlowe would think it a presumption, scouring the pottage bowl clean with chunks of bread and stuffing them into her mouth. Embarrassed, I sat up straight, wiped my face, and finished what was left of my food in a more seemly fashion. Because I was not what I had been, it did not follow that I must be an animal. I would eat as if I’d been taught manners. My father would not be ashamed of me, if he could see me.
Or would he? I set the empty bowl and tankard down on the floor and rubbed one hand at the back of my neck. What will our father say when he sees thee? Had Robin been right? Would my father be shocked beyond measure at the sight of me, shameless and immodest in my breeches and doublet? Would he think I had disgracedmyself to become the servant of a playmaker, a man who lied for profit? Would he condemn me for it? Would God?
I reached into my shirt and pulled a thin leather cord over my head. Attached to the cord, in a small linen bag, was my rosary.
I held the wooden beads, warm from the heat of my body, between my fingers and began to pray. “ Ave Maria, gratia plena….”
The words wrapped themselves around me, soft and comforting, like summer sunlight, like a fur-lined cloak in winter. “ Dominus tecum, benedicta tua….” I had much need of grace today. I had lied, I had abandoned the name I’d been christened with, I had entered the service of a playmaker and a blasphemer. And since I did not know where to find a priest in London, I could not even confess and have my sins lifted off my heart. But as I prayed my way around the beads, I could only trust that God would understand. And so would my father. They would know that what I’d done, I’d done so that I could survive.
I was a Catholic at heart, even if that must stay secret, just as I was a woman under my breeches and doublet. My lies were only on the surface. They did not change the deepest truths. When I had prayed all fifty-five prayers, I tucked the rosary back underneath my shirt and waitedfor my new master to return and tell me what he wished me to do.
Light faded from the window, and the sky outside turned gold, then rose, then purple, then black. And Master Marlowe still did not appear. At length I took off my shoes and doublet and unwrapped the bands around my breasts, gently rubbing the sore spots where the linen had chafed the tender skin. I hid the strips of cloth, along with the rosary, under the pallet and fell asleep listening for the sound of Master Marlowe’s footsteps on the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
AUGUST 1592
I never heard Master Marlowe come in that night. But
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