Love Song.

Look at those courtly Ladies, primped and preened to within an inch of their moneyed lives. See how they lounge against the gilt fabrics, supercilious smiles playing mercilessly on their faces. These are the Society Ladies, the Queen’s own coven. It is rumoured that the Queen despises these brittle females, but for the sake of her reputation she pretends to take pleasure in their company. Powerful as she is, it would not do for the Queen to be too much of a ‘man’s woman’.1

Watch how the sonneteer stands tall, upright, ready to recite his latest work. Those eager courtiers lean forward, straining against their height-of-fashion, oh-so-uncomfortable stays and girdles, preparing to cling to his every word, desperate to decode his secrets, because each woman in that room fancies herself a Great Beauty and each woman wishes to discover that the sonnet is about her underneath the layers of respectability required in the Queen's Court. 2

The poet begins; I confess that I too am guilty of pushing myself further towards his voice. Although as a servant I must do it from behind the great oak door, and I must take care that no one sees me. This poet is becoming particularly famous for his wonderfully crafted verse. His sonnets are regular, and follow the literary fashion of fourteen lines and an end couplet to finish the poem with a finality that the original Petrarchan sonnets have never used. 3

I love all poetry and even though I have often felt the keen injustice that most would never write a sonnet for a lowly servant, I take pleasure from hearing the delicate lines woven into a great fabric. In the past I have pretended a sonnet was written for me, although in my heart I have known the truth.4

It is Court politics, you see; if a sonneteer wishes to gain favour, he must glorify his literary beloved, make it subtly clear that she is the object of his devotion - and then he might reap the rewards of her favour. A new gold ring might suddenly appear in his pocket. A new suit might arrive from a mysterious source. A servant could never hope to catch the monetary affections of a poet, even if his true, romantic affections were ensnared.5

This particular sonneteer is fast becoming a favourite of the Beastly Beauties, and he has almost a new wardrobe, I notice. As long as the poet and his beloved are never really caught canoodling then no harm can come if it.6

None of these 'great' Ladies are chaste, or good, even though these are the very virtues which dominate the lines of most sonnets. All are married with men of favourable standing, all have riches I could never aspire to - and yet still they sigh over simple poets, still they cast their eyes downwards in shameless shows of virtue. Still they hope the next sonnet will be for them, so that they can hint, flirt, tease and raise their standing within this brittle society of flagrant whores.7

See that one? There - to the left of the throne, smirking to herself in the polished glass? Yes - the one in forest green brocade and gold embroidery. Let's call her Narcissa, for I do not wish to be caught out using real names.8

Narcissa has been at Court for two years now. Many sonneteers have fallen roughly for her coy charms in that time, and many sonnets have been indirectly aimed at her. Perhaps it is because she is privy to the contents of Her Majesty's wardrobe, and therefore knows which fabrics to order her dresses in. Perhaps it is because she leadens her face and bosom to the palest white, or because those geometrically rosy cheeks bring out the angel in her eyes. More likely, it is because she has the richest husband and can therefore afford to bestow most gifts on a lucky poet.9

Narcissa believes that this sonnet too is for her. No doubt some of the other ladies believe it too, for their faces grow disappointed, their eyes glaze over in disinterest as it becomes patently clear that this nymph in the literary woods is not a reference to their chastity or obedience. It seems that once again, Narcissa has taken gladly to her pedestal. 10

One woman alone knows that this poem is written to compliment her, and yet she knows she is not the poet‘s beloved. She alone remains chaste. She alone is worthy of the pedestal thrust under the feet of the sonnet's object. Yes, Gloriana sits regal on her throne, watching the poet with a benign pleasure in her eyes. She sees through the hollow adjectives - all good sonnets are universal, yet all good sonnets pertain to the Queen.11

Yet - the Queen isn't desperate as her ladies are. She knows that these implications are merely a veneer of respectability. The sonneteer professes a love for a woman like the Queen, but it is just a layer behind which he can hide his true feelings. She doesn't mind, it is how these things go. But she allows herself to feel flattered. She allows herself this small artifice of womanhood.12

Let us return to Narcissa. She is growing more determined that she is his 'gentle doe'. She thrills in the feelings which flood through her - victorious, glorious, semi-divine. As she considers which gift might be appropriate for her little admirer, she purposely ignores the subtleties which sign post a love for someone else. She pretends it is possible for her pale, pallid flesh to be 'a rich, golden hide'. She imagines her watery irises could be 'limpid pools of liquid autumn'. She is flattered that the poet imagines her voice to be that of a lark. She convinces herself (and by her confidence, convinces others) that she is once again the most desirable woman in Court.13

Ah, if only she knew. The secret remains a mystery as the final couplet swings the sonnet to a gentle stop: “As long as I shall hunting be/ My love will shy away from me.” 14

Narcissa pats her wig modestly, and blushes becomingly in the direction of the poet. He isn’t looking at her - he isn’t looking at anyone in particular - but she doesn’t let that faze her. She plots to find him later, she know where his rooms are, and she will pay him then for the compliments she has received from his pen. The sonneteer promises to make copies of his newest work for anyone willing to pay a penny and he is kindly dismissed for the evening, pleasantly unaware of the certainty he has sparked in Narcissa. 15

Smartly, I step away from the doors; I haven’t yet been summoned and as such I should not be so close to Her Majesty’s hall. I smooth down my outfit and raise my head in time to see the doors open. I pass the sonneteer in the connecting chamber. Our eyes meet briefly; he nods in greeting and goes on his way. 16

As I hear the tinkling bell of my summons, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. I do not believe I am ugly - I am as lovely to look upon as any of the tainted Ladies I am to sing for. My skin might not be as fashionably pale, but then, the rural life I recently left behind wouldn’t allow that. I don’t see anything wrong with the burnished colour of my skin. And my eyes shine brighter than any of theirs - I fancy that sometimes a flash of light can be seen in my hazel eyes that would never be visible in any of those ladies’.17

So I enter the Queen’s chamber, brimming with the confident superiority that the upper classes are immune to. All they can see is a dark skinned entertainer, a lowly working-class child with an uncanny birdsong voice.18

I open my mouth and sing of love, pure and sweet; a love that can never be. I sing of a lover with wit and intelligence, a lover to live in my dreams. As did the poet before me, I push my lover high on Olympus; I sanctify and canonise him. My lover is a God, but like a God I may never touch him, never hear him, never speak openly to him. As I finish my song, some of the Great Whores weep from the emotion.19

But they will never weep quite as I do. These women are the powerful Godesses, able to shape a life by lifting a finger. It is of that caste that my lover hails, and I may never so much as speak his name without risking my job and my life. 20

Yet I am richer than all of these fakes. I am far richer than Narcissa, with her imagined superiority and beauty. I am richer because I know who that sonneteer’s secret beloved is. I know which gentle doe evades his hunt by the river. I am that beloved, raised into Eternity by a man to whom I will remain perennially untouchable.21

As much as I love him, it is more than my life is worth to give in to sweet temptation, and there lies the pain in my song. If my darling were ever to reveal his deep passion for me, we should both be thrown out of Court or worse, killed by stealthy murderers. Instead, we vent our frustration and anger into our respective arts. Ironically, the very women who pay our wages are the very witches who would tear us apart if they knew the truth.22

Are the upper-classes so cruel to their servants? I hear you ask. They are, but that is not why I can never be with my love. The reason for that is simple: for a man to love another man, particularly of my social standing, is illegal in England.23