Mischief Acts, page 11
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir’d my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
William Blake
6
THE ERL-KING’S DAUGHTER
1760
Charm: Sprinkle a child’s head with water as you sing this song, and never will she fall though battle may come.
‘Now Phoebus sinketh in the west,
Welcome song and welcome jest,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.’
As she sings, Ann Catley treads with bouncing step through the Great North Wood. She has not come far from the high road, and the Horns – just far enough to let the wood close in, so she might sing unheard, unseen by the Horns’s dear denizens. With each phrase of her song she turns from tree to tree, imparting winks and winsome smiles. Her giggle, and her sideways elfin gaze, she saves for the alder tree where the woodland path divides. This is where she hopes to meet her friend.
‘Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine—’
She breaks into full-throated laughter. Two wood pigeons are blundering in the mass of green above her curly head. ‘Oh yes, it’s all for you, and aren’t you handsome!’ she coos. She pictures the trees’ canopy as a soaring, gilded gallery, eager faces peering down and grinning with delight. A breeze comes rushing through the leaves and applause breaks out. A magpie caws his praise. But there’s no sign of Erlekin, and it’s for him she wishes to sing.
Ann Catley bows, long enough to pink her cheeks, and turns about the alder tree.
‘Rigour now is gone to bed,
And advice, with scrup’lous head,
Strict age, and sour severity
With their grave saws in slumber lie.’
She waits, peering through the leafy shade, poised to start should Erlekin come ambling up, pretending he’s not heard her. This has always been his way, to play at accidental rendezvous when, really, both know well he seeks her out. He even sneaks into the Horns and plays the part of coachman, mingling with the drivers there to snatch a word, a glance from her, and wink beneath his tricorne hat. But it’s here beneath the alder tree that he has taught her strange old songs, older even than he is. He’s been her natural tutor, long before her formal singing lessons; a sort of second father, though a wayward one. She wants to sing these bold new tunes and witness his surprise.
But no one comes. Ann Catley sighs, remembering that Erlekin had grimaced when she shared the news of her apprenticeship to William Bates, music master. He’d glared when she had told him of her plans to tread the stage, and sing for lords and ladies. She will not be deterred from this, and so, Ann Catley cocks her head, sways her hips, and gives the wood a smile that shows off her darling dimples. ‘Oh, good fellows!’ she cries, and leaps as if she had been goosed. ‘And I but a girl of fifteen years!’ Off she runs, towards the Horns, her father’s inn and famous stopping place for coachmen weary of the woodland lanes.
The front door stands wide open and there her father, Berman Catley, leans, polishing a tankard. He beckons her and turns inside.
‘Along she comes, Mr Bates,’ Ann hears him call. Her tutor must be waiting. With a last deep breath of forest air and a coy shake of her curls, Ann steps into the dark.
A man sits close by William Bates. Before a soul in the room can speak he stands and bows, his head low before Ann. She puts out a hand, ladylike. With ceremony he takes it, and gazing up at her, he lavishes her fingertips with kisses. His lips are full, and deep, and wet. Ann endures the feel of it, and glances once at William with careful pride.
‘Sir Francis Blake Delaval,’ William smiles.
She has heard the name. An actor and, she thinks, a gentleman. He does not let go her hand but draws her near. His eyes have a compelling bulge to them. His cheeks and chin are round and pale, soft-looking. His lips stay wet, and when he speaks, tiny pearls of spittle fleck her gown.
‘It is the greatest honour, Miss Catley, to know you,’ he begins. ‘Long have I yearned to hear this angel’s voice that so enchants Mr Bates – and all who hear it.’ He stops to raise his cup. ‘To your future fame, and our enjoyment!’ He might just as well be toasting his performance. Ann’s father, proud behind the bar, claps approval.
‘Good man, get the girl a drink,’ Sir Francis snaps, and while Berman turns away, he pulls Ann down into his lap. William laughs. So, Ann laughs too. She suffers to be mauled about the waist and hips, for it’s nothing but a game, and this man a friend. William’s merry laughter tells her that. Still, she is released in time to take the cup her father brings, and all four drink, gleefully.
‘Would you have me sing now, William? I’ve practised till I’ve got it good as Isabella had it.’
‘No doubt of that,’ her father says.
‘Far sweeter, I’d wager,’ Sir Francis booms close by her ear. ‘For a lute! And I would serenade you, darling girl!’
‘Go on, then,’ her father interrupts. ‘Perhaps stand over there, by the hearth, for the best effect.’ He shifts his stool to let her pass. Sir Francis mimes a swoon, a broken heart, as she moves away, and William grins. Taking up the jug he fills their cups.
From where Ann stands, the open door shows green beyond, the wood a private, endless audience. Erlekin may lurk there yet. She clears her throat, and curtsies. ‘Now Phoebus sinketh in the West,’ she sings. She sways and twinkles through the tune, as William has taught her. A dimple here, a deep glance there, a raised eyebrow, a flounce of skirt. It’s not the style that Erlekin prefers, whose songs are rough or mournful. Her teacher nods encouragement, but Ann cannot ignore Sir Francis’s look, rapt, adoring. His eyes are full of joy, a thing both dark and bright. His eyes are full of her.
‘Brava! Brava!’ Sir Francis roars, as she holds the final note. He slaps his thighs like thunderclaps. ‘But Willy,’ he says, turning to his friend and speaking loud, ‘what of the mise en scène? She sings the part of Euphrosyne, and here, at our backs, the forest! Her very habitat. We might take a walk, together, and hear songs sweeter than the birds’.’
He beckons Ann. Her father has set his stool so she might not squeeze past and settle by Sir Francis. ‘What say you, Euphrosyne? I know each lane, and ev’ry alley green, Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood.’
‘But you know the play!’ Ann gasps in mock-surprise, observing his delight.
‘My dear, if I did not, I would be dashing home to learn it, that I might play alongside you one day. Come, to the forest.’ He drains his cup.
‘Be back by dusk, and stay close by my daughter,’ Berman warns. ‘The gypsies will be out. And worse.’
His look tells Ann he means her friend, for Erlekin to many is a bogeyman; at worst a murderous forest fiend, at best a sneaking thief. She leads the two men from the dingy pub.
All along the path Sir Francis chants, his baritone disturbing birds, which flit to left and right. ‘Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee, Jest and youthful jollity. Miss Catley, you are the lady of the wood, a nymph true-born.’
She does not say that it is all too true. Ann Catley was a foundling child, left beneath this very alder tree for Berman to discover and take home. A babe of the wood indeed, and she’s ashamed of it. Instead she smiles, the dimple smile, and sighs at all his pompous quotes. William starts to lag behind. They stray from the ride and its strip of sky to amble through the trees, in deep green light. No stage could hold this wood, Ann thinks. It has a scent so fresh, this time of year, it overwhelms. The blackbirds when they sing are downright bawdy.
Sir Francis seems to hear them too, despite his recitations, and turns to catch her hand. He draws himself up, his presence turning trees to theatre scenery, the mossy earth a soft-lit stage. He whispers now, his breath hot on her cheek:
‘O nightingale that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart doth fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.’
Her hand, in his, is on his heart. She feels the throb of it, too intimate, too quick. Ann blushes.
William snorts. ‘No nightingales to be heard in here.’
‘But you’re wrong,’ Sir Francis says. ‘I have one, captured. And now she will sing for me.’
‘I shan’t sing until you set me free,’ says Ann.
‘Never.’
Her hand is growing hot. It’s all for sport, this show of love; an actor’s game. But something tells her not to disobey. The blackbirds are silent. She cannot find in her own heart the brazen nymph, the bold coquette that William Bates has taught her to portray. Her voice falters.
‘Let her go, man,’ William says, his laughter nervous.
Just then, the branches near them shake. Ann winces, knowing Erlekin, if it be him, will mock her company. Two heads appear. She knows those antic faces, gypsy boys from the encampment up the hill. Sir Francis jumps and looks askance. Her spirit rises.
‘Good evening, little fellows,’ she calls. She knows her grin is impudent. Her lover is wrong-footed. ‘Fancy a song? I’ve one just for you. Come and sit.’
The gypsy boys are not afraid of gentlemen, especially ones that flinch at their approach. They greet only her, ‘Miss Catley,’ and loll against a sunlit beech, as lazy and at ease as fox cubs.
Ann’s song, in this comfortable company, is as bold and blithe and libertine as ever. She swings her hips and flashes looks from boy to boy, and all the while Sir Francis prowls, a pale wolf in the shade.
*
Night, on the first full moon in May. The tree trunks are coal black, the leaves a shower of silver. White show the hawthorn boughs, ghosts massed along the rides where white mist gathers and snakes about the hooves of Olof’s mount.
Sir Olof is riding towards his bride, a girl already wan and drawn with fear. She sits far off in a grey stone house, with Olof’s grey mother at her side, one bony hand gripped at the girl’s thin wrist. Golden shines their single candle light, so far off, too far to catch Sir Olof’s eye.
Past the silent hawthorn ghosts he rides. The chill mist hangs. The forest is a fossil of itself. The air is skin-cool, still as a broken heart.
Midnight trunks give way to silver birches, wan and thin, and in the clearing, the moonlight glints on gold. Olof blinks and halts his steed. They are dancing, a ring of glimmering girls. Sweet notes of their music and their laughter chime in harmony. It is a sight he might talk of, all his life. A moonlit meeting in the wood, as he rode to meet his bride. A vision, perhaps, that foretells a happy wedding feast, a golden union.
*
At the private rooms that William keeps for teaching, Sir Francis lingers. He lies in wait as Ann rehearses scales and arpeggios, standing in the street below the window. William does not mention it, but his piano-playing feels louder and more urgent. The floorboards send the chords right through her feet. She glances out, from time to time, when William lets her rest, and sees that bluish coat Sir Francis wears, his tapping foot whether music plays or not. She sings her best regardless, and basks in William’s praise. He promises the time is soon: the Drury Lane auditions for the roles in Comus. Ann will take a part, he’s sure. Of all the roles, it is Euphrosyne she wants.
A morning’s practice over, they wander out and feign surprise to find Sir Francis. He leads them to a public house, or to a club, and plays the merry host. Always, he toasts Ann’s voice, her beguiling face, her way with gesture. She does not say that he has only watched her once, that day they ambled in the wood. No, Ann smiles flirtatiously and giggles at his endless flattery. For William always whispers, when she starts to stifle yawns, ‘This man has influence. We both must court it.’
With this in mind, poor William complies as much as Ann does with Sir Francis’s desires. Mostly, this means passing long and tipsy afternoons at games of cards. Ann does not play. Instead she takes the part of Moll, conspiring with each man in turn to throw the other. Sir Francis favours piquet, but will try his hand at any game on one condition: bets are placed.
Today the merry threesome take the window bench at Mr Long’s establishment on Kemble Street. They’ve washed down partridge pie with ale and wine, and Ann is drowsy. She longs for the winding journey home, to breathe the wood’s cool air once more, to seek out Erlekin in the alder’s shade. Now every afternoon is spent in courting favour, she’s no time for sweet idling. Sun pours through the bullseye glass, and while the men select their game and set their wager, she leans her head back in the warmth and dozes. The flick of cards against the wood, the chatter of the room behind, are soothing. Ann dreams of dancing in a grove of birches. She must have slept some time, for she is woken by Sir Francis’s boozy breath as he enfolds her cheek in sticky palms.
‘Ann Catley, dreaming nymph,’ he booms. ‘Lend me your luck.’
The sun has slipped behind the roofs of Kemble Street, and all is shadow.
‘I should surely go home. My father waits,’ she says. But it is Erlekin she thinks of, certain that he loiters now, where the two paths meet.
‘But we come to the chase, Willy and I. My darling, use your wiles and put him off the scent.’
William is frowning. He does not look at Ann but stares intently at his cards. And so, she slides across and sits close by his challenger.
Ann nods as Sir Francis shares with her his hand, pointing to the Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Spades. ‘Most wise. You’ll surely win!’ she says, though she’s no idea what game they play.
‘Cast your spell, my faerie queen,’ he says, and the men begin their quiet duel. They play fast. Sir Francis, warmed by wine, pretends great horror, joy or puzzlement at each of William’s hands. Several times he claims that all is lost, his reputation ruined, then grins and passes cards to Ann to lay upon the table.
William is ruffled. He wipes his sweaty chin and mops his brow.
‘I don’t doubt you’ll take me for all I have,’ Sir Francis moans. ‘My sole comfort is knowing Ann will not forsake me. Will you, darling girl?’
‘Never, poor Sir Francis,’ she laughs.
William grunts. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘it matters not, for you win.’ He throws down his remaining cards, then pushes back his chair and stands. ‘I’ll fetch another jug.’
‘Make it brandy,’ Sir Francis calls. ‘A splendid Armagnac, to toast my fortune!’ He kisses Ann’s cheek. Before she has time to gasp, he kisses her again, upon the lips.
The man has influence. She hears the words in William’s voice even though he is not there.
‘Euphrosyne?’ Sir Francis is imploring. ‘Forgive me my forwardness. But you of all must know how irresistible that cheek, those lips. I am bewitched. Truly.’ He leans back in his chair and looks at her, takes her in from top to toe. ‘And, Miss Catley, so will you be.’ He grasps her wrists, and brings her palms to rest upon his heart. ‘I will take you home, and you will be enchanted.’
Just then, there is the thunk of William’s wine jug on the table, a second clap as Armagnac arrives. ‘Fair and square,’ he says, but there is something forced about his smile, something slightly bullish in the way he slaps Sir Francis on the back.
‘How much did you lose?’ asks Ann, playfully. ‘I hope not much.’
‘Oh, there was no losing.’ Sir Francis eyes his friend. ‘We all three won.’
William gives a tiny nod and pours out brandy. ‘Winners all,’ he says, and gives the largest glass to Ann.
*
Sir Olof, having drunk in this golden vision in the wood, prepares to take a circling path around the maidens, and ride on through the night. But then, one turns and beckons. She is fast beside him, reaching up a hand towards his own. Olof recoils.
‘Come dance with me,’ she says, her smile as full of secret promise as he hopes his wife’s will be. Her fingers are beringed in gold. Her words ring like golden bells. All the glade, the maidens, music, leaves and moonlit ground, glitter bright.
‘I must ride on,’ Sir Olof says.
Now her hand offers him a pair of handsome boots. ‘Fine buckskin, with gold spurs,’ she says. ‘Yours if you will dance with me.’
The boots are fine indeed, better than any pair he’s worn. Better than any wedding gift he will receive.
‘Forgive me, but I cannot dance. I must go on. I’ve many miles of forest ahead, and dark roads beyond.’
The boots vanish.
The music that charms the grove speeds up. The stately maids are whirling.
‘Don’t you know who I am?’ the maiden asks, now at his other side. And in that moment, he does know.
‘You are the Erl-king’s daughter.’
She claps her hands and, like a fast-falling mist, a white shirt flutters from them. ‘I’ll give you this shirt, of silk blanched by moonbeams, if you will dance with me.’
Her smile suggests a dance of ecstasy, this night before he makes his marriage vows. The shirt would make the finest wedding suit, far finer than his own coarse linen.
Sir Olof looks away into the dazzled dark. ‘I must depart. She waits for me,’ he says.
The shirt vanishes.
*
The carriage jolts, its wheels splashing through potholes while the rain beats impatient fingers on the roof. William’s talk is wild and fast. An invitation such as this is rare, he says, the Delavals have such a reputation, and the visit seals their favour with Sir Francis. She’ll be a shoo-in for the part at Drury Lane, and as Euphrosyne her star will rise so fast and bright, a veritable comet. Still, he doesn’t catch her eye but glares out at the whipping water. The countryside is smudged to brown and green, hills and fields that Ann has never seen before. She wears her finest gown, and feels self-conscious, a Cinderella going to the ball.
‘You’ve been before?’ she asks. William shakes his head. She wishes she could feel excited, but her teacher’s agitation makes her nervous. They must both act the sophisticate at Seaton Hall, and neither has the breeding. Ann hums the tunes from Comus, and prods at William to find his voice and join her.
