The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  ‘In that case I will petition His Majesty myself.’ He fell into a fit of coughing. I offered him a chair but he refused to sit. ‘I haven’t come for your hospitality.’ His loathing was plain to see, and I wished Lidcote had struck me earlier. I deserved it.

  ‘Let me convey your concerns to the King,’ I told him. He looked sceptical. ‘You mustn’t approach him yourself.’ I sounded overly harsh but I couldn’t risk James’s anger being provoked further.

  ‘Are you forbidding it?’ His tone abraded me.

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ I could see the doubt etched into him. ‘It’s just that it wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘My son’s life hangs in the balance.’

  ‘Listen.’ I lost control, was almost shouting. ‘I’ll deal with it. Now, go!’ He reeled back in shock. I tempered my tone. ‘I think you’d better go.’

  He shuffled towards the door and left without a word. I was furious with myself for having lost my temper but Thomas was my primary concern, not his father.

  Mayerne was an angular man with short hair and a very long beard. His house was spacious and appointed with fine French furniture, which made me conclude he was charging a fortune for his services.

  He began speaking to me in French, and I had to explain that I didn’t understand. He gave me a disdainful look and opened the window, complaining of the heat. ‘No sign of this weather improving.’ His accent was pronounced and littered with French words, as if he couldn’t bring himself to succumb to the vulgarities of our language.

  There was a newssheet on the desk with a sordid image of a woman in a state of undress. It was supposed to represent Frances. There had been a proliferation of such things since the annulment proceedings had begun. I turned it face down. Meyerne seemed amused, smiling behind his beard.

  ‘We would benefit from an orage.’ It was true we needed a storm, the air was thick as treacle. ‘But you did not come for to talk about the weather, like an Englishman.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s your patient, Sir Thomas Overbury, I’m here to discuss. His brother-in-law said he found him in a terrible state.’ Mayerne asked me to repeat myself more slowly, picking up the newssheet to fan himself. ‘Lidcote was complaining that your remedies were making Overbury worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Mayerne mimicked my pronunciation with a baffled expression, distorting the word out of all recognition. ‘Ah, you mean pire.’ He shifted in his chair and fixed his gaze on me. ‘You must understand, my lord, that it is usually the bitterest remedies that are most efficace.’

  ‘Most effective. Yes, I see.’ I was remembering the controversy over Mayerne’s unusual treatments for the prince before he died. But James seemed to have the utmost faith in the man. It was he who’d ordered Mayerne to treat Thomas.

  ‘Often a patient must become worse’ – he tussled with the word again – ‘before he becomes better. But you are correct to be concerned.’ He stopped fanning himself for a moment and met my gaze. That image of Frances stared from the page. ‘This patient is very important to me.’ I suspected he was thinking of his own reputation rather than Thomas’s welfare. ‘It may be that the other remedies my patient is prescribed do not mix well with mine.’

  ‘Other remedies? I’m not aware of another doctor charged with his care at present.’ The only other remedies I knew of were the powders Thomas had requested from me months before to induce sickness in the hope of provoking the King’s mercy. I’d struggled with my conscience over that matter – it had seemed like madness. But his pleas were so very pitiful.

  If you understood the way I’m suffering in this hellhole ... I fear I will lose my sanity and do harm to myself. I beg of you, Robin, if you have even a shred of mercy...

  The memory was horribly vivid, casting me back in time: I am almost in tears as I make my way to Killigrew. The little bell chimes in the bowels of the shop as I open the door and am engulfed in a heady herbal smell. My eyes take time to adjust to the gloom. He shuffles out, asking what I want.

  ‘A powder. Something to make a person have the appearance of illness – an emetic.’ I sound as if I am up to no good.

  ‘This is most unusual.’ He prods at me with a pair of filmy eyes and I feel he can see right into my black soul. But my distress must move him as he relents, asking questions: ‘What is the patient’s weight and constitution? Is it a man or woman? What is the preferred method of administering?’

  I answer as best I can. ‘Make it very weak.’ He breaks the buds from a plant I don’t recognize, dropping them into a mortar. ‘Just a minuscule quantity of whatever harmful ingredient you intend to use.’

  ‘You’d likely be as well served by powdered chalk,’ he tells me, holding his pestle aloft. ‘It can sometimes have the desired effect. I have occasionally even cured people with it, when they believe it to be something else.’ He shrugs. ‘I have no idea why.’

  Relief soaks into me. I want to hug the man. ‘Yes! Give me some of that.’ I tip my purse out. I would have paid a hundred pounds for that powdered chalk.

  But a few days later I had another letter from Thomas, saying the remedy had had no effect, demanding stronger. I ignored his request. He’d fallen ill anyway, weeks later, desperately so. But I had no knowledge of anyone other than Mayerne treating him, come the dregs of August.

  I began to wonder what else I didn’t know about. Had the Howards sent in another of their doctors? Surely Northampton would have mentioned it – we were corresponding daily. Perhaps Lidcote had requested a second opinion but surely he would have mentioned it when he’d confronted me that night.

  ‘Not a doctor.‘ Mayerne seemed offended. ‘No. My apothecary, Master de Loubell, whom I trust implicitement,’ he threw me a look as if to dare me not also to trust de Loubell, ‘has seen various treatments’ – the way he said it made it quite clear that he didn’t regard them as treatments at all – ‘in the patient’s rooms.’

  ‘He has seen Aurum potabile,’ Mayerne continued. ‘It is a concoction by a man I happen to know is not a doctor at all.’ His mouth curled into a scowl. ‘This Aurum potabile may se mêler avec ...’ He hesitated. ‘How do you say? Interfering, with my remedies.’

  ‘Might render them ineffective?’ I asked. ‘What are you prescribing him?’

  He launched into an exhaustive listing of Thomas’s ailments and his treatments: ‘I have diagnosed a distemper produced in the liver and wrought in the spleen. To allow the issue of bad humours, I have made between the omoplates’ – he lifted an arm to point at his back between the shoulder blades – ‘an incision. De Loubell is instructed to apply to it daily a balsam and to administer an emetic of Crocus metallorum to remove from his body the filth ...’

  When I left I was confused with worry for Thomas. A few days later a letter arrived from him, more desperate than any I had yet received. It was a pitiful entreaty to be released, saying he feared he was on the brink of death. It was drastically different in tone from the missives he had sent a month before: a series of thinly veiled threats, the worst of which stated, I’m sure there are many who would be interested to know what I saw with my own eyes at Royston.

  That one had arrived when I was with James. I’d attempted to hide it from him but he became suspicious, snatching it out of my hand to read.

  ‘If I could have that miscreant silenced for good!’ he ranted, tearing the letter to pieces. He didn’t mean it. We were all frustrated because the annulment commission had reached a deadlock.

  ‘It’s my fault. I created this.’ My burden of guilt had become so heavy as to be almost unbearable.

  He turned to me, as he flung the remnants of the letter into the fire. ‘Overbury’s swollen arrogance is his own undoing. I don’t blame you for this, Robbie.’ I didn’t entirely believe him.

  But that letter in the final days of August was different. It was written in a feeble scrawl: I believe I am dying here. I fear I will not last the week. Would you have that on your conscience, Robin?

  I went imm
ediately to James, ignoring any fears of rousing his temper. ‘I am begging you,’ I got on my knees to plead, ‘set him free. He’s been there more than four months. Surely that is punishment enough. I truly fear for his life.’

  James’s exasperation was evident in his terse tone. ‘He’s already receiving the best possible care. His lodgings are comfortable. It would make no difference to his health if he were at home. Indeed, he is likely better off where there is always someone to keep an eye on him.’

  My attempts were futile. It was clear the King wouldn’t be moved. He was exhausted, his eye flickering manically. ‘I have more on my mind than that wretch.’ He waved towards his desk piled high with papers. ‘Best would be if the man was to disappear.’ I could almost taste his bitterness. ‘They call me a wise fool, Robbie. What do you think they mean by that?’

  I didn’t say it was because, despite his great intellect, he seemed unable to curb his profligacy and it was drawing him into alliances that might be disastrous for England. For all his wisdom James was blind to his own flaws.

  I tried to appease him but he brushed me off with a serrated look. He couldn’t hide his resentment, despite what he had said about not blaming me. I had visited the problem of Thomas Overbury on him when I should have been there to relieve his burden of concerns, rather than add to it. I felt toxic to those who loved me, for they all met misfortune: the King, Thomas, Frances – oh, how Frances was suffering, just to be my wife.

  I begged his forgiveness and he pulled my head down on to his shoulder, stroking my hair, which only made me feel worse. I wanted him to rage at me, felt it was what I deserved. ‘The sooner this business is done with and you are wed, the better. I’ve called in two more bishops to sit on the annulment commission. We simply must break the impasse and these two will do as I say.’

  I suppose it had become a matter of principle for him that his favourite should have his chosen bride. Neither was I oblivious to the fact that my marriage didn’t create a bond only for me with the Howards but for him too. Even kings must make alliances with their subjects. We were silent for a time until he said, ‘I plan to make you Earl of Somerset.’

  ‘You’ve given me enough.’ It was true. I felt in such great deficit to him that I couldn’t stomach the idea of a larger debt.

  ‘It elevates you sufficiently to be an appropriate match for the daughter of an earl and makes sense politically. Gives you more influence abroad. You’d be doing me a service by accepting.’

  I met his gaze. ‘If it will help you.’ I may be judged devious but I meant it.

  ‘You will be Earl of Somerset and you will have a splendid week of wedding celebrations at court.’ He sounded calm but his eye was still quivering. ‘There will be no more skulking about for us, as if we are guilty of something. One thing I do know is the value of making an impression. We need only the bishops’ ruling and all will be set. They have said they will request a physical examination of the lady. Once that is done it will be over and –’

  ‘They can’t!’ I spoke too abruptly.

  ‘Why?’ His expression was rigid. ‘Is there something you haven’t owned up to? Have you had her?’

  Despair was taking hold in me and I envisaged the whole thing crumbling away. ‘No, of course not.’ I don’t know why I lied. Had I told the truth, he might have put a stop to the examination but I wasn’t thinking clearly. ‘It’s only that I don’t want Frances to suffer such humiliation.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He poked me with a smutty look. ‘If the girl wants you enough she’ll do what’s necessary.’

  He patted me on the head as if I were a favourite dog. He was relishing it, pleased that Frances would have to pay a high price for a piece of me when I belonged to him.

  Her

  Frances is startled out of her thoughts by a loud knocking. The guard enters.

  ‘This was pushed under the outside door. It bears your name.’ He holds out a fold of paper. ‘I’m not meant to allow you to receive any correspondence, but...’

  ‘But what, William?’ Frances aims a beam at him.

  He looks pleased that she has used his given name, returns her smile. Perhaps he is remembering, as she is, the downpour drenching them both. ‘I thought if you were happy for me to look at it first, to make sure it is innocent, I could ...’

  ‘Of course.’ Frances feels safe in that no one would send anything worth keeping secret by such obvious means. ‘You are unusually kind.’

  The compliment makes him blush, but as he reads the colour falls away and he crushes the paper in his fist.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I – I don’t – I don’t think – I can’t.’ He doesn’t know what to do, can’t look at her.

  It’s Nelly who snatches it from his hand, smooths it open and passes it to her. On it are four lines of verse:

  A page, a knight, a viscount and an earl

  All four were wedded to one lustful girl.

  A match well made, for she was likewise four,

  A wife, a witch, a murderer, and a whore.

  ‘Don’t worry, William,’ Frances says steadily. ‘It’s not something I haven’t heard before.’

  Nelly picks up the letter. Frances hadn’t known the girl could read but evidently she can, as she mutters the final line of the verse aloud before throwing it on the fire with an angry huff.

  ‘Leave us now,’ she orders the boy, opening the door, hustling him out. Frances notices the caustic look that passes between them, igniting her suspicion, making her wonder what has made the girl dislike him so much.

  ‘There was no need to be so brusque with him, Nelly. I have few enough friends here.’

  ‘How can you be sure he’s your friend?’ She is defiant, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Just because he’s handsome and blushes when he speaks to you.’

  Frances resists the urge to rebuke her for her insolence. ‘Do you have reason to believe he can’t be trusted?’

  ‘I hear them all talking about you.’

  ‘Him? You hear him talking about me?’

  ‘Not him, no, but a group of them. None of them can be trusted.’

  ‘Saying what?’ Frances feels her moorings loosen, is afraid she has lost her instinct for sniffing out dishonesty.

  ‘They say you’re as much of a witch as that Anne Turner. I tell them to mind their mouths. I’d throttle them all, given half a chance. Put it this way, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote that poem himself, just to rile you.’

  Frances cannot tell if Nelly’s outrage is genuine. ‘Where did you learn to read?’ She manages to keep the tremor out of her voice. Her aim is to find a solid fact, however small, to secure herself to, so she isn’t carried off into unknown waters. But she is painfully aware she has no way of knowing whether the girl will tell her the truth.

  ‘My pa taught me – he wasn’t all bad, see. Not like your great-uncle. Such a monster. It’s all his fault. If it wasn’t for him...’ The anger fizzes out of her. She would have to be an accomplished actor to make it so convincing ‘... you would not be...’ It is clear what she means: that Frances would not be on trial for murder. ‘You must hate him.’

  ‘No point hating the dead.’ Frances’s hand is gripping the arm of her chair. She unclasps it to see the imprint of the carvings embossed into her palm.

  ‘When he said people would attack you, it was true.’ Nelly points towards the fire, where the ball of paper is no more. Then she takes a taper, dips it into the flames, then touches it to the candles on the table. Light bleeds into the room rendering the damp on the far wall visible. It is growing, its black fingers reaching out over the stones.

  Frances pinches the skin of her wrist between her fingernails. The pain settles her. ‘It was different back then, though. It was the enemies of my family who thought the Howards were becoming too powerful. They spread rumours to get back at us, thinking I would buckle.’

  Nelly discharges a sardonic grunt. ‘They can’t have known you very well.�
�� Her face is lit from beneath, strange shadows making her unrecognizable.

  And you don’t know me as well as you assume, thinks Frances, as she forces a smile and agrees that they didn’t know her very well. ‘It was just gossip, but out there,’ she points vaguely towards the door, ‘they’d lynch me, given half a chance.’

  She makes it sound light but at night she often wakes in a cold sweat, the mob having infiltrated her dreams, a thousand hands tearing at her clothes, then at her limbs.

  ‘They’d have to get past me first.’ The girl wears an opaque smirk and begins to rock the cradle with her foot. Creak, creak, creak. The baby is fast becoming too big for that crib.

  Frances is overwhelmed with the thought of time gushing by, dragging her under. It knocks the breath right out of her.

  A bank of eyes, thorny with reproach, followed our progress as we walked the length of the gallery. Mother’s fist was firmly clenched around my elbow, as if to prevent my escape, making me thankful for the light touch of Lizzie’s hand at the small of my back. Even my sister’s gentle presence couldn’t protect me from the poisonous comments that hung in the air.

  I knew what was said of me. I’d read the pamphlets that were whisked out of sight to the hiss of whispers when their readers saw me approaching. I knew them all, those people. I’d played cards with them, dandled their infants on my lap, visited them when they were sick, provided alibis for their trysts, and there they were, dressed in their sanctimony.

  We progressed at a funereal pace. Lizzie murmured encouragements and I kept my eyes fixed on the door at the end. All those assembled must have relished the idea of my humiliation, my private parts being laid open to inspection by strangers, but I had no intention of displaying any frailty.

  My dress was unbearably heavy. Mother had insisted I wear something impressive. ‘Don’t let them think you are humbling yourself,’ she had said, as she and Lizzie tied me into the unyielding garment. ‘You’re a Howard.’ No matter how imposing my outfit, it couldn’t return my virginity to me and I had no plan, only the vain hope that the inspectors’ knowledge of anatomy would be poor. Still, I didn’t regret that single, glorious afternoon at Paternoster Row.