Free Alchemy by Maureen Duffy Page A

countess was pleased to say that we should do very well with practice and that we should quickly get our lines by heart.
    ‘We shall need rustic music to bring you in,’ she said, ‘and after it is over there shall be country dances. Then there must be shepherds’ weeds for the actors, and for my ladies they shall be dressed as shepherdesses and dance a hey. That should make us some sport.’
    That night as I lay on my pallet outside my lady’s door I thought that the actor’s life was strange personating others, for I felt a confusion in my own mind that Amyntas-Amaryllis must now be Piers. Yet when I thought on the words that I must say which the countess had written, it was not Astrea I praised not even the great queen she personified but my own queen.
    Naught like to her the earth enfolds.
    And as I lay there I saw in the half-light from a lantern far off, a shape glide into the passage and towards her door. It stayed beside me and I could hear its breathing in the gloom and smell the pomander that hung on its belt. I judged it to be a man for there was no rustle as from lady’s skirts. I let my hand creep towards the little dagger I had bound about my leg under my nightshirt, for I distrusted the great house since we had come there and the many unknown persons about me. Feigning sleep I was yet ready to leap up and defend myself. The shape stood a minute or two beside me as if deliberating and truly a quick thrust of a rapier and I would have been dead. Whether that was in his mind I have never known but at last while I breathed heavily as deep in slumber he turned silently away, leaving me sick with fear either for my life or for my sex.
    For I had begun at last to see those changes in my body that might unmask me and show me up as an imposture. When I had held my lady’s nightshift against my face and smelled her perfume, as when I put my hand between her sheets, I was aware of my heart keep intemperate time and a sweet tingling in my secrets, then a little gush between my thighs. After when I examined myself I was still moist as with a thick milky dew that I was afraid might appear as a stain on my slops if I shouldbe seated so I took care to remain standing. I determined to wear some rag of linen always about my loins.
    Also I felt a little ache and swelling in my breasts though not such as would appear beneath my doublet and shirt but only if I should be surprised naked without my nightshirt which I made sure never to be. Nevertheless I determined to bind my breasts for greater safety. I did not yet wish to lose my life as Amyntas for Amaryllis, to be confined by skirts and forced to consider marriage but would serve my lady as long as I could.
    And while I lay there on my pallet I felt for the first time a fear of what would become of me, how I should make my living. Cast out by my countess I could only practise as a wise woman or a midwife and I had no mind to marry, to become subject to a husband and bear children. Perhaps I could continue in disguise in some place where no man knew me but that was to lose sight of my lady and daily intercourse with her. Suddenly my life which seemed so sweet and easy had been darkened by that shadow standing over me and all seemed at risk that before had been secure.
    ‘Secrets’: what a sweet word for it. Or them. Like bees thrusting into the trumpet bodies of newly opened flowers. And not like cunt that rhymes with grunt, hunt, runt, stunt and National Front. All hard rude masculine monosyllables. The female organ as devourer, a mouth with teeth that would chop a prick down to size. Not petalled softness. Just an excuse for violence and rape. A word to be shouted back in defiance or orgasm, that can be used for men as well as women. ‘You fucking cunt!’ I suppose the American equivalent is motherfucker. The ultimate insult. Coney, cunni was gentler. And pussy. Each with a slightly different feel to it.
My delight is a coney in the night
    When she turns up her furry