The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  I never could work out exactly what Weston was to Anne. He was a kind of henchman, I suppose, to ensure there was no trouble at Caritas House. I’d seen him before once or twice. He was a great big coarse fellow, with square shoulders and a neat white scar, like a line of cross-stitch, running from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. He seemed the sort who had never lost a fight, and even his smart clothes couldn’t quite smooth his rough edges.

  I shook off my cloak, glad of the roaring fire, and settled into a chair, lulled by the soft lamplight and the heady fragrance wafting from an oil burner. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

  ‘You know me, I never can resist a romantic intrigue.’ Something didn’t quite add up about Anne. There were things she was keeping from me. I had seen her earlier in a corner of the yard at Northampton House in a heated conversation with Uncle and that strange man Franklin – the one who’d come to tell her of Dr Forman’s death; his was not a face you’d forget. The sight of them had unsettled me and I was on the brink of asking her about it when we were interrupted.

  A maid, very young, with pale skin and a thick skein of dark hair, put a plate of sweetmeats and a heavy pitcher of wine on the table. The liquid slopped over its lip. Anne reprimanded her. She was cowed, dabbing at the spill timorously with the edge of her apron. I noticed something familiar about her, wondering where we might have met, and found myself captivated by the pale sheen of her skin and the way her hair came alive with copper highlights under the light. I hadn’t met her before but she looked rather like me.

  Once the girl had left, I said, quite firmly, ‘I saw you this morning, Anne.’

  ‘Saw me? Where?’ She was fidgeting with her bracelet.

  ‘In the yard at Northampton House.’ Those tell-tale spots of red had appeared on her cheeks.

  I was hoping she’d have a perfectly ordinary explanation but she said, ‘I thought you went to visit the prince this morning.’ Unease burrowed its way into me.

  ‘I came back early.’

  ‘How is the poor boy?’ She was changing the subject: she knew Henry was dangerously ill. Everybody did. That was the reason for the crowds at St Paul’s: they were there to pray for him. Another great congregation had amassed at the gates of St James’s for the same purpose. The court was in a state of suspension, holding its breath, awaiting news.

  ‘I wasn’t admitted. No visitors.’

  ‘He must be unwell if they wouldn’t even let you see him.’ She had relaxed, stopped fidgeting.

  ‘You were talking to Uncle and that man Franklin.’ She couldn’t look at me and started twisting her bracelet again. ‘It seemed a heated exchange.’

  She hesitated slightly, but then met my eye. ‘Your great-uncle needs a new gardener and I thought of Franklin.’

  ‘Surely that’s a matter for Uncle’s steward.’

  ‘It should be, but you know what he’s like. Wants to take charge of everything.’ That was the truth, if nothing else. ‘And Franklin did so well with Forman’s garden. Never seen such well-cared-for beds. Such an abundance,’ she went on. I didn’t wholly believe her, but chose not to pursue it. It was unlikely she would give me a straight reply.

  I thought there might be other ways of finding out the truth.

  Sipping my drink, I inspected the glass. It was fine, Venetian probably, very expensive, and it struck me that all the furnishings in that room were more lavish than I might have expected. I had no experience of other such places but I doubted them as well appointed. I began to speculate whether Anne was in Uncle’s pay for some reason, reminding myself it was he who had first employed her as my nurse all those years ago.

  ‘Exquisite glassware.’ I held it up. It was delicately etched with a pattern of vines.

  ‘I know,’ she replied, with a conspiratorial tone. ‘Courtesy of a customer. They’re always so grateful.’

  The drink was delicious, spiced and heady, and I could feel it taking its hold as the evensong bell rang. We stood at the window to watch the crowds entering the cathedral. I stumbled, feeling unsteady on my feet, and was struck by the fleeting thought that she’d charged my drink with something.

  ‘It’s strong stuff,’ I said.

  ‘Only the best for you,’ She smiled, draining her own glass. I set mine aside, opening the window to take a sobering breath of cold air. Anne was chattering beside me, in the normal way, and I felt a fool for allowing my imagination to run away, putting it down to the anticipation of seeing my lover again.

  The drizzle had let up and evening had closed in so some churchgoers carried lanterns on rods throwing out pools of dim light. I remembered the summer afternoon I’d spent in that room, how hot it had been, even with the windows thrown wide and the sound of that bell deafening.

  ‘He’s at least an hour late,’ said Anne. ‘I can’t imagine what he’s up to.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the prince,’ I said. I wondered, with a jolt, if Henry had died. But he was robust: we all knew he’d pull through one way or another. It occurred to me that if the King was lying in his sickbed there wouldn’t have been such a multitude praying for his soul. I wondered if it irked him that he enjoyed nothing like the popularity of his son. He certainly lacked his boy’s charisma. Much was made of his intelligence but, in my mind, he didn’t have the presence of a king. People care so much about how things seem.

  The bells died down and we could faintly hear the incantations begin. A rhythmic creaking started in the chamber downstairs and the sound of a woman’s moaning. I felt like one of Anne’s whores, waiting there. The thought excited me, made me impatient for Robert’s arrival, thinking of his body, his smell, my skin under his hands. Anne left the room and I heard her bang on the door below, calling for them to keep the noise down.

  It didn’t seem long before the bell was ringing again to mark the end of the service and the jabber of conversation rose up to us from the departing crowds.

  Eventually we heard a heavy footfall on the stairs: a man’s tread. My heart began to pound. Anne looked at me, nodding. We both made for the door. I was lightheaded with wine and anticipation. She opened it to reveal the hulking Weston with a letter.

  I ripped it open.

  My most beloved Frances,

  I wish beyond anything that I could come in person and tell you of the bad circumstances I find myself in that explain my absence.

  Sir Thomas Overbury is making threats. He intends to spill dark secrets, to which he is party, which would greatly damage His Majesty. I cannot describe to you my devastation, as the condition for Overbury’s silence is that I give you up. I have no choice but to do his bidding or cause great danger to the King and the county.

  I implore you to find it in your being to forgive me and believe me when I say that my suffering knows no bounds. I will hold you in my heart above all others as long as I have breath in my body...

  ‘God must want to punish me.’ I thought of all my sins, running far back to childhood, gathering into a vast and putrid pile, and collapsed to my knees, dropping the letter. Anne swooped in to pick it up.

  I sat on the floor trying to understand what was happening. Since Robert had mentioned Thomas Overbury at Northampton House, his name had come up with increasing regularity. He wasn’t liked. I recalled Father referring to him as ‘nobody’, and I’d recently overheard the Queen say he was guilty of poisoning her beloved son. But the Queen often took against people.

  I’d never met the man, only knew he was some kind of childhood connection of Robert’s. I was aware he’d been slandering me, though. People had delighted in telling me so. One man I barely knew, Sir David Forest, who liked to hang around the women at court, even offered to pick a duel with him on my behalf. ‘I’ll give you a gold crown for it,’ I’d joked.

  The slanders I’d been prepared for, but threats against the King were a different kind of attack – the sort that could get someone killed.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘Oh, dear God, my poor darling
.’ She reached down to embrace me but I pushed her off. I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching me, of anyone’s pity, even hers. ‘I thought we could get him here before –’

  ‘Before what? Did you know about this, Anne?’

  ‘Of course not. How could I? But I feared there might be problems – that someone might try to dissuade him from you... you know, with all the gossip, and the King.’ She was waffling again. ‘I thought if he could see you once more, it would stiffen his resolve.’ A high-pitched laugh came out of her. ‘Stiffen! Oh dear, I didn’t mean ...’

  ‘What are you talking about, Anne?’

  ‘Well, I know what men are like.’ Her forehead was slick with perspiration.

  ‘I’m going to see Uncle about this.’ I waved the letter. I’d had enough of Anne’s odd behaviour. ‘Come or stay, as you wish.’ She chose to come.

  The ride was only a few minutes but the cold was biting, and by the time we arrived my hands were blue. Uncle was in his study with one of his men, discussing the prince’s condition. ‘Things have taken a turn for the worse,’ he was saying. ‘That quack Mayerne has bled the poor boy almost dry, used all sorts of outlandish cures.’ He looked towards me then. ‘What is it, Frances? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ His impatience was almost palpable but he must have grasped that my news was important because he sent his man out of the room.

  I gave him the note. He picked up a magnifying glass to read it, his features hardening, and despair leached into me.

  ‘I had my suspicions that Overbury might cause problems. He’s a difficult character and too close for comfort with Carr.’ He didn’t look at me as he spoke.

  ‘Is that what you were talking about in the yard this morning with her and that Master Franklin?’ I pointed to Anne.

  Uncle looked straight at me, then towards her. ‘Yes, the fellow seemed to think he’d heard Overbury making threats. He wanted to warn us. Isn’t that right, Anne?’ She had apparently been struck dumb and gave a vague nod but kept her eyes down.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ My tone was terse. One of them was lying and, judging by Anne’s nervous hand shuffling, it looked to be her.

  ‘Frances’ – he was smooth as butter – ‘we’re all trying to ensure you are freed from Essex.’ His smile was a grimace.

  Then he dashed his fist hard on his desk. I imagined it was me he’d hit, felt somewhere deep down that I deserved it. ‘That scab’s mouth will have to be shut. Your marriage to Carr is our unbreakable link to the King. It must be salvaged. I need to think.’ His voice seethed with rage, rage towards Overbury, but also, I suspected, as a knot tightened in my gut, towards me.

  ‘I’ll go to Carr. If I see him, I can convince him. I know I can.’

  ‘Carr’s shut up with the King. You’ll never get to him, not with the prince in such a bad way.’ I was about to speak, to suggest that Uncle himself talk to Overbury, but he continued, ‘All you had to do was keep Carr in play. You’ve failed, Frances.’ He pinched my chin hard, forcing my face up to meet his granite stare. ‘You must find a way to rekindle his desire. I don’t care how you do it, I don’t even want to know – but do it.’

  He was completely calm and all the more menacing for it. He swept his hand in the direction of the door to indicate that we were dismissed. ‘I’ll deal with the scab.’

  The betrayal stung. ‘You lied to me,’ I muttered, as Anne and I hurried away. ‘You said Uncle wanted a gardener.’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you. I hoped we could repair the situation without causing you any distress.’ It was a thin excuse and my trust had been so far bent out of shape as to be unrecognizable but I chose to accept her word. I had no one else to help me unpick the knot in which I’d become entangled.

  I have often wondered what my true crime was but foolhardiness must come near the top of the list.

  I walked away towards my rooms. Anne had stopped to speak with Weston. I should have listened in, but I’d had enough of Anne and her scheming. Uncle’s parting words rang ominously in my head – I’ll deal with the scab. I knew I must urgently win Robert back, not only for selfish reasons but to prevent more of Uncle’s ‘dealings’ on my behalf. My strength of spirit had worn thin. I would have sought out my brother’s advice, but Harry was in the country, and so was my closest sister, Lizzie. The extent to which Uncle had secured my isolation began to dawn on me and I had to fight the wretchedness that threatened to sap my resolve.

  Anne arrived soon, wearing a feverish look, closing the door, leaning against it. ‘Weston says he might be able to help.’ She looked me in the eye. Her pupils had dilated disconcertingly.

  Who are you? I thought. ‘Your servant, Weston? Whatever does he think he can do?’

  ‘He knows of a woman. She has certain powers.’ She took my hand. There was only a single lamp lit and the fire was almost dead. Her fingers, clutching me, seemed like claws.

  I stepped sharply away. ‘Not this again, Anne.’

  ‘She’s not a witch. Nothing like that. She just has the power of prophecy. It would help, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t – there’s no good to be had from some woman’s fakery.’ I was thinking of my own silly palm-reading games, done more for amusement than anything else.

  ‘But she has a gift. She located a cousin of Weston’s who had disappeared. Saw exactly, in her mind’s eye, where he was.’

  There were a few sticks and some kindling in the log basket. I threw them on to the embers, blowing until they flared. ‘For God’s sake, I don’t even know Weston.’

  ‘But I do. He’s been in my employ for a decade. I trust his judgement.’

  My reason was being wrenched apart. It was Anne’s trust I questioned, more than that brute of a henchman. ‘I won’t do it.’

  She came up close to me, too close. Those vortex-like pupils made her seem inhuman. ‘You have no choice.’ Then she smiled. ‘And it can’t hurt.’ In an instant, she was back to the Anne I knew.

  I went along with it for lack of any other path of action, I suppose. The idea of doing nothing seemed worse and I was fuelled by desperation, not only to have Robert returned to me but also by my fear of what Uncle might do, were I to fail.

  If only I had gone instead to the chapel to ask the Lord’s help rather than taking the path I did, but I wonder, with hindsight, if I had somehow been bewitched by Anne into discarding my judgement.

  Just after dawn we were up, cloaked and hooded, following Weston on foot along the Strand. We walked eastward, to where the great gated mansions gave way to tall, ramshackle buildings, their upper floors leaning in to their opposite neighbours as if sharing guilty secrets. We stopped at a cook shop. A woman was topping a tray of pies with pastry. ‘These won’t be ready for a good hour,’ she said, thinking us customers. ‘I’ve some from yesterday, if you’re in a rush.’ Beside her a tear-stained girl chopped onions, periodically wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

  A few people milled in the street: a woman selling eggs, another heaving a handcart full of grain, and some boys were playing knuckles close by. One threw a look at me. He couldn’t have seen my face, covered as it was, but I felt suddenly exposed and shifted into the shadows, glad of Weston’s solid presence.

  He explained we were not after pies but had come to see Mary Woods. The woman looked him slowly up and down, taking in the scar and the coarse features, teamed with the good wool suit. She indicated a narrow staircase in the semidarkness at the back of the place, saying, ‘All the way up.’

  We walked past lumpen sacks of vegetables and hanging poultry into the depths of the shop, where a boy was plucking a goose in a corner, feathers, floating everywhere, like snow. We mounted in single file, up and up the creaking staircase, six flights, then along a corridor and up a further flight, to the very top of the building. There were two doors. One hung open and a young man was leaning against the jamb, smoking a pipe. A woman was calling to him from inside for help with something, but he ignored her as he eyed us
silently. Weston knocked on the other door.

  A female voice answered, ‘Who is it?’ Weston mentioned a name she must have known, for a series of bolts shot back, the door opened and we were hustled inside.

  Mary Woods was younger than I’d expected, in her middle twenties, neatly put together with a crisp white apron over a blue dress, and lazy-lidded, bovine eyes. Her very ordinariness seemed all wrong. She didn’t ask who we were, just said, with an efficient smile, that there was no need for names.

  The lodgings were small, lit only by a single mean square of window and the few flames flickering in a diminutive hearth. There was a box bed in the corner, a shelf holding a few jars, and a small table with two chairs and a three-legged stool. Despite the crudeness of the place, everything was impeccably tidy and well swept. A cat was perched on the shelf, watching us, which put me on edge. I wasn’t fond of cats.

  I took off my cloak, provoking a whistling intake of breath from Mary Woods. ‘That’s the finest satin these walls have ever seen, I wouldn’t doubt.’

  I thought it a lie: Weston had told me on the way there that Mary Woods had read the future for several courtiers that he knew of. It didn’t surprise me – people resorted to women like her all the time in the hope of resolving their romantic worries. I’d always thought them foolish, but there I was.

  ‘And look at this.’ She had my ruff between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Have you ever seen the like?’

  Anne began to explain about her special starch. Mary Woods still had hold of my lace, saying, ‘I’d love to wear a confection like this.’ She let go, smiling strangely, as if she knew something we didn’t. ‘But in my line of work it’s best to be inconspicuous.’

  ‘Why so?’ I asked. ‘There’s no law against prophesying.’

  She didn’t answer, just made a strange little snort, and unease crawled over me.

  ‘What can I do for you, then?’ She offered the two chairs to Anne and me while she remained on her feet. Weston stood at the door like a sentry. He seemed too big for the space, his head almost touching the ceiling.