The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  ‘Go on,’ she breathed.

  ‘I felt an affinity with that bird, dressed in its fine feathers spouting sentiments it didn’t understand.’ I looked at her fingers woven through mine. ‘I sometimes feel I am not my own person.’

  Regret spilled into me: my confession made me seem horribly weak and I was desperate to think of a way to retract it when she said, ‘You see,’ so quietly I had to lean tight in, close enough to know she smelt clean, like a new book, ‘we are the same, you and I, just beautiful puppets.’

  We stood in silence for a time. I was rejoicing – fireworks exploding in my head. She still cradled my hands in hers. The moon had moved slightly so the dark outline of a tree’s branches disrupted its perfect edge. I listened to the rhythm of her breath, matched my inhalation to her exhalation so I could imagine drawing invisible fragments of her into my body.

  ‘I had a parrot once,’ she said. ‘I have never loved anything as I loved Troilus.’

  ‘Troilus?’ I believed it an omen, good fortune.

  ‘He was dandelion yellow, with a crimson-hooped neck, and was small enough to sit on my hand. He was always with me, even perched on my bedhead while I slept. He used to incense Father by pecking at the plaster mouldings but I wouldn’t have him caged. I taught him to say, “I love you, Frances.”’

  ‘Where is he now?’ I asked, afraid the story wasn’t a happy one.

  ‘When I was seven, he died.’ Her breath shuddered. ‘I killed him. It was –’

  I held her tight to me, like a shipwrecked man clutching a piece of driftwood.

  After a few moments she pulled out of my embrace and began to speak, her eyes cast to the floor. ‘I had almost finished a panel of embroidery. It had taken me four months, was to be presented to the Queen – the old Queen Elizabeth. I’d used gold thread, so precious not an inch could be wasted, and ... It doesn’t matter really what I was making, only that it was the finest thing I had ever made. While I slept one afternoon Troilus pecked it all apart, shredded it beyond repair. Uncle – I mean Northampton – found me surrounded by the tattered remains crying my heart out.’ She looked at me then. I had never imagined sadness could be so beautiful and took my handkerchief to dab at her eyes, an act that felt more intimate than any kiss.

  ‘He told me there was a lesson to be learned. “A lesson that will make you strong.” He made me catch Troilus, watched me as I called him down from the ceiling. I’d had Uncle’s lessons before and –’ her breathing was jagged, as if something was stuck in her throat and once he was perched, almost weightless, his little claws clutched around my finger,’ she was shaking her head, shoulders hunched and holding out a hand as if remembering the bird there, ‘Uncle said, “Your embroidery was for the Queen. By destroying it your bird has committed treason.” Oh, God!’ She looked up then and I saw terror scored through her.

  ‘Stop,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to –’

  ‘No, I do have to. I do have to. I’ve never told a soul and I can’t bear it any more.’ She stood straight, seeming to gird herself. ‘And he said, “What is the punishment for treason, Frances?”’

  She placed a hand over her mouth, talking through her fingers. ‘He forced me. “Now break its neck,” he said. Troilus watched me with his little trusting eye, thinking it a gesture of affection as I brought my hands about his throat. His pulse quickened – he must have sensed a change in me. “Go on!” His wings opened, flapping. Uncle was going to tell me to stop, to tell me it was just one of his tests. I waited, struggling to hold my grip. Troilus writhed. Uncle watched, saying nothing.’

  She hid her face in her hands, her breath coming in gusts. ‘He said – he said that to kill something I loved would make me invincible. He said that I would hate him for it, but that one day I would understand. He said that to overcome love was the greatest lesson of all. He said I’d proved I was special, proved I was strong.’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘I sat for hours with Troilus in my hands until he grew stiff and cold. I grew stiff and cold with him. It broke me. I’m still broken.’

  ‘But how did you – your uncle ...’ I had an image of them together, tight as father and daughter. ‘You seem so fond ...’

  ‘You don’t know him.’ She looked at me. ‘Nobody really knows him – only me. He genuinely believed he was doing something good. He wanted me strong, so I would survive.’ She fell silent, immersed in her own thoughts. ‘And doesn’t God ask us to forgive?’

  ‘But even so.’

  ‘No one knew. I lied about it. I was eaten away by it. I was so far under Uncle’s influence I had no will of my own. You see, we Howards are taught never to show weakness. Some of us are better at it than others.’

  ‘But you were so young.’

  She turned away from me for a moment, then back, grabbing me with those eyes. ‘Not too young to know I’d committed an act of murder.’

  ‘You were a child. He made you do it.’ I was appalled, couldn’t equate such an act with the affable man I knew.

  ‘I could have refused. I live with the shame. I pray every day that the Lord will cleanse my soul.’

  The fervour of her piety dilated my heart. ‘It’s not jour shame –’

  She stopped my words by placing two cool fingers over my lips. ‘But some things will not be shaken off or rationalized.’

  We fell to silence once more. The moon had travelled and was half obscured by a filigree of branches. She shivered and said she must go. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am.’

  That small yellow bird was planted in my breast, where it pulsated, forcing life to throb through me, whetting me, making me sharp and ready. She had shown me her broken self and it had become my mission to mend her.

  Her

  Frances’s fingers are white with cold. She reaches her hands over the fire attempting to warm them. ‘Anne Turner was devastated by the doctor’s death.’ Frances treads carefully, talking of Dr Forman. It had been that gruesome assistant of his, Franklin, who had come to give Anne the news. ‘He correctly predicted the time and manner of his own end. Imagine that!’

  ‘Really?’ Nelly seems thrilled by the idea, her eyes sparkling. ‘Sounds like the dark arts, I’d say.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I expect it was just coincidence. Why –’ Frances stops herself saying what she is thinking: Why the pretence, Nelly? You must have heard of the doctor’s death – all London knew about it.

  ‘My ma thinks there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Either God’s plan or the devil’s, she says.’

  ‘That’s what Anne said of it too.’

  ‘I know what I think.’ Nelly seems so very sure of herself, leaning back in her seat with her hands behind her head.

  ‘If you anticipate something greatly, you can bring it on yourself.’ Frances pauses, then adds as an afterthought: ‘Despite God’s plan.’

  The girl looks at her with a puzzled expression, suddenly seeming not sure of herself at all but naive, making Frances’s suspicion that she is a spy seem preposterous.

  Anne was inconsolable,’ Frances continues, remembering clearly how her companion had become hysterical, white as a sheet, ranting and crying, as if the dead man had been her father or lover. ‘I hadn’t known she was so close to him. She’d never spoken of him in those terms to me. She insisted Franklin return all her correspondence with the doctor. I can’t imagine what she wanted to hide.’

  ‘Sounds like you were better off not knowing.’ A whimpering starts up from the cradle. ‘Are you upset, little love?’ Nelly’s voice is singsong as she addresses the baby, taking it in her arms, but then she turns to Frances, asking bluntly, ‘So, how did the doctor die?’

  ‘I don’t know much about it. I expect he was drunk and fell into the river.’ Frances will not be drawn to talk about another drowning. The mere thought reminds her of the water lapping beneath, seeping up through the stone. She can feel it in her lungs, blue mould growing there, clogging her vital organs, rotting her heart. ‘We left tha
t day for Chartley. My great-uncle wanted me away from court by the time the King returned from Royston. He said it would inflame Robert Carr’s desire all the more if I were to disappear for a few months.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever think of defying him?’ The baby begins to howl. The sound gets under Frances’s skin.

  ‘Nobody ever defied Uncle.’

  Nelly positions the baby to feed and the noise subsides. It has grown fat and round and dimpled. Frances wonders how it is possible for someone as slight as Nelly to produce so much milk.

  ‘Besides, what Uncle didn’t know was that I was falling for Robert Carr. I wasn’t meant to. Uncle believed love was a weakness. So in a way – a very small way – I was defying him.’

  Him

  We rode to Royston on one of those early-autumn days, balmy and blue-skied, when summer seems to have returned to collect something forgotten. My high spirits didn’t go unnoticed, and James claimed he’d been right in thinking all I needed was fresh air. He was in good spirits too, urging his horse on and singing a filthy ballad that was doing the rounds, guffawing at its obscenities. But we were barely there, not even in the door, when a dispatch arrived to dampen our spirits.

  James crumpled the letter with a sigh. ‘It’s the French. They’ve got wind of my’ – his voice lowered – ‘Spanish plans. They need placating, and with Salisbury out of action...’ He dragged a hand over his brow. The secretary of state was still unwell and his absence was taking its toll on him. ‘No peace for the wicked.’

  ‘Here.’ I prised the paper from his fist. ‘Let me deal with it.’

  A smile broke over his face. ‘What would I do without you, Robbie?’

  ‘You’d be lost,’ I teased, making him laugh, feeling deceitful.

  Inside the scent of lavender hung in the air, bunches of it suspended from the low beams, and a fire blazed in the hearth. The rooms were small and warm, without the neck-cricking draughts that blew about the vast spaces of Whitehall. Royston reminded me, though my memories of it were vague, of the house I’d lived in as an infant before my parents died.

  Scanning the letter, I was dismayed to see it was written in French. I had only the most rudimentary knowledge of the language. In the past I’d always relied on Thomas to translate any French papers. It was a risk, but rather than admit to James the linguistic failings I’d always managed to conceal from him, I sent for my friend.

  Since his exile our contact had been sparse, but as a lure I suggested I might be able to twist the King’s arm into revoking his punishment. I’m sure he’ll agree that you’ve stayed away long enough, I wrote, with details of how to take the back stairs directly to my room. No one will be any the wiser. As an afterthought, I added, I miss you, Tom. It was the truth. I sealed the note in haste and sent it with a trusted messenger, under strictest confidence.

  Perhaps I was foolish to have gone down such a path but I had James’s best interests at heart. Without Salisbury, he was so burdened with responsibilities and desperately in need of a rest. I was aware that to carry some of his load would be of benefit not only to him but to England. The matter was pressing and calling on Thomas seemed the most efficient way of achieving such an end.

  Upstairs the house smelt of fresh whitewash, and the brilliance of the walls contrasted sharply with the black struts and beams crisscrossing them. I had been allotted my usual room. It was a square space, vaulted into the roof with a door on three of its sides. One led, via a couple of steps, to James’s quarters, another to the main landing. I unlatched the third and, taking the pot of grease I kept for cleaning my pistols, ducked under its low lintel on to a tightly spiralled stone staircase that led to a quiet corner of the stables. I descended in the gloom to the door at the bottom and, finding the key on the cobwebby lintel, unlocked it. The hinges rasped loudly, as I’d suspected, so I doused them with grease, ensuring they were silent, and returned to my room to prepare for supper.

  The following morning the fine weather broke and rain was slashing against the window. I woke feeling the worse for wear after the rowdy evening to find that James had joined me in my bed. He was always concerned that gossip about his private life would undermine his authority – perhaps, if I’d been another kind of man, I might have tried to turn that to my advantage – and in my room we were less likely to be interrupted.

  It was cosy under the covers, warm and intimate. We began, in our half sleep, to indulge in the pleasures of each other. Some might think the acts we performed monstrous, certainly they contravened the law, but human desire can take many forms and something born of great fondness does not seem so sinful. Are we not all sinners in one way or another?

  He had me in a tight grip, giving me no choice but to submit to his rhythm, his urgent breath heating my skin, the sheets flung back. My eyes were screwed shut, my thoughts running wild around Frances, casting her naked in the bed in his place. He reached a hand round to grab me. But it was her cool clasp that sent me juddering and he with me.

  We were drifting in our post-coital daze, when, like a shot, James sprang out of the bed with a cry, to stand in the centre of the room.

  I sat up to see Thomas in the dark opening of the door to the steps. He observed us, his body rigid. He was soaked, water dripping from the wide brim of his hat. His face was cast in shadow but I could imagine his expression. He must have been there for some time, as there was a puddle on the floor at his feet.

  ‘What in Hell’s name are you doing here? Explain yourself.’ The force of James’s rage was like a blow to the head, and I remember being glad that there were no weapons within his reach, noticing my sword propped in a far corner. He stood there naked, his member shrivelled in the cold, the tic in his eye flickering.

  For a moment we were suspended in time, the air crackling with acrimony, until I sprang up to put myself between them and the blade. 7 sent for him. It’s my fault.’

  James slowly swivelled his eyes to me and back to Thomas, who was crouched into a half-bow, still dripping water on to the floor. He was trembling, I noticed, but not with fear.

  Neither man moved. I snatched up the sword, skidding it out of reach under the bed, then flung a blanket around James’s shoulders and pulled on a pair of breeches, fumbling to fasten them.

  ‘What’s going on, Robbie?’ James’s face crumpled and I saw he’d misread the situation. He’d thought Thomas my lover. It was certainly how it appeared.

  I stumbled out an explanation. ‘It’s not what you think. I needed his help with the French problem. You see – you see, my French isn’t up to scratch. I worried you’d think less of me. I was ashamed of it.’ A shot of tenderness crossed James’s features. ‘I wanted to save you from anxiety.’

  He said softly, ‘Oh, Robbie, you can be so very naive.’

  To Thomas, he was not so gentle. He strode up to him, swathed in his blanket like a togaed Caesar. ‘Breathe of this to a soul and I will find a reason to strike your head from its shoulders.’ Menace rattled in his voice. ‘Is that understood, Overbury?’

  Thomas seemed to shrink. ‘I swear to it, Your Majesty. It is my solemn vow.’ He backed into the doorway slowly. ‘I humbly beg your pardon.’

  James turned his back. ‘Just get out.’

  As Thomas disappeared into the dark stairwell, James trained a look my way, direct as a cosh. I knew what he was thinking. He fell into a barbed silence as I helped him into his clothes.

  Crouched on the floor, lacing his boots for him, I dared speak. ‘I know him. He’s trustworthy. I will vouch for his silence.’ I stood to stroke my hand over his hair. ‘James, please –’

  He slapped my arm away. ‘Don’t call me that. You are my subject. To you I am “Your Majesty”.’

  I dared not remind him that he’d often said how much he loved to hear his given name on my lips.

  He began to prod the air with a finger as he fired words at me. ‘Don’t assume you know Overbury better than I. I should never have knighted him. He’s been hanging around court for yea
rs waiting for opportunities. I know a man on the make when I see one. God knows, there are enough of them about.’ He was seething. ‘People like him don’t have my interests at heart. If they see a chink in my armour they will prise it open and –’

  ‘He would never speak ill of Your Majesty. He loves you as a true subject.’ I was back on the floor at his feet.

  ‘You cannot know that.’ He sounded calmer but his face remained tight, his leg jigging frantically.

  ‘But I do – no one knows Thomas as I do. He’s been like a brother to me.’

  ‘And no one knows human nature as I do. And he’s not your brother, is he?’ He sounded exhausted, resigned. ‘I’ve lived two decades more than you and I know that an ambitious man – you cannot deny your friend is that – will go to any lengths to gain a little ground.’

  ‘But there is so much gossip anyway about what might go on between you and me.’

  And he repeated what he’d said earlier: ‘Oh, Robbie, you can be so very naive. Don’t you see? Mere supposition is groundless. Now we have a hostile eyewitness to our – to our –’ It was as if he couldn’t name it out loud. ‘You have given Overbury the means to destroy me.’

  He made for the door, still not looking my way. ‘Something will have to be done about him.’ Those final words thudded, like an axe into wood.

  ‘He would never betray you,’ I said, repeating it, as he didn’t seem to be listening. The rain hadn’t let up: it was driving at the panes and I imagined Thomas soaked and buffeted as he galloped away. I wondered if our friendship could ever be salvaged. The idea of losing him seemed suddenly very real and unbearable.

  I went after James, curling a hand about his neck to kiss him. ‘Please believe me.’ He kissed me back, hard, as if to suck the life from me, then turned away abruptly. ‘You may well be my downfall yet.’

  With a sigh, he wiped a palm over his eyes and left.

  Her

  Frances is sure she can hear whispering outside the door. She presses her ear to the wood but can’t make out what is said and jumps back as Nelly enters, followed by the maid, who is carrying a tray. She has brought bread and soup and places it on the table. Frances is sure she sees a furtive look pass between the two girls as the maid leaves. The soup is lukewarm with a film on its surface. She has no appetite anyway, and walks back and forth like a caged cat. ‘What were you two whispering about?’