The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  Anne had been surprisingly stalwart and kept tight-lipped even after a month of incarceration but Frances knew it was only a matter of time before she succumbed. There were already rumblings of witchcraft surrounding her. Once those took hold Anne would be doomed, of that Frances had no doubt. Would they hang her, she wondered, or burn her?

  The men had shown none of Anne’s fortitude. Some servant or other was always happy to take a shilling in return for a little information, and in this way Harry had managed to glean snippets of what was being revealed in the interrogations. He told her that Franklin, in particular, had sung like a canary in a bid to save himself.

  ‘He’s no good, that Franklin – divulged something about your husband,’ Harry had told her only the previous evening, in a whispered conversation. ‘Said that Robert had written a letter, when Overbury was in the Tower. It said –’

  Frances finished his sentence for him. ‘That he “wondered how long before the business would be dispatched”.’ She laughed inwardly. That man monster, who’d believed himself so resourceful, had played right into her hands.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Harry was surprised.

  Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘I might have been the recipient of that letter.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He seemed impressed by his sister’s calm.

  ‘Don’t tell Robert. He’ll only fret about it and I’m sure it can be explained away.’ Her husband’s slow unravelling gave her a sense of her own power, as if his loss was her gain.

  The sound of rain was heavy on the roof, making it difficult to hear the players speak their lines from the back of the hall where Frances was sitting. A current of air passed over her and she turned to see the door was slightly open. No one else seemed to notice her sister Lizzie standing there, out of breath and soaked to the skin, beckoning her with some urgency.

  Frances slid from her seat, and as she tiptoed towards her sister, a hiatus in the downpour allowed her to hear:

  Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.

  The element of water moistens the earth

  But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.

  It occurred to her that the staging of that particular play might have been a deliberate attempt to unsettle her. It was true, she had been surprised at the invitation, given the circumstances. But if the Queen wanted to unsettle her she would have to do more than that.

  Lizzie grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the door. Frances asked what the matter was but all she said was ‘Not here,’ and dragged her through the corridors until they arrived at her private apartments. Two of her maids gawped as they entered, with Lizzie soaked to the skin. Frances dismissed them.

  ‘You’re to be put under house arrest. You and Robert.’ Lizzie looked petrified.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, calm yourself,’ Frances told her. ‘It’s hardly a surprise.’

  ‘How can you be so cool-headed?’

  ‘I’ve no concerns for myself.’ She touched her sister’s shoulder. It was saturated. ‘Let’s get something to dry you with.’ Frances walked towards the inner door. ‘It’s poor Anne Turner I’m worried about. She’s been meddling with things she shouldn’t. I found her making spells at Northampton House once. If a sniff of witchcraft comes out at her trial, it’ll be the end of her.’

  She pulled open the door sharply, to find the two maids jumping back. ‘Do you know what happens to snoops?’ They squirmed. ‘You’re completely transparent, the pair of you. Whatever you might have heard, keep it to yourselves. Anne Turner’s a decent woman who’s made mistakes, that’s all. Now, go and fetch a towel and some dry clothing before my sister catches her death.’

  Frances knew they wouldn’t hold out for five minutes if anyone came asking questions. As they scurried off, she turned back to Lizzie. ‘Am I to be held here?’

  ‘No, you’re to stay at our house. I wanted to warn you.’

  One of the maids reappeared with a towel and a dry gown. She sent the girl away and helped her sister out of her wet clothes, then sat her by the hearth to rub her hair dry.

  ‘Did he pull some strings then, your husband, so I could remain among family?’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so composed.’ Lizzie was still unable to comprehend her sister’s coolness. ‘It’s a murder they’re investigating.’ She was twisting her handkerchief.

  ‘I’m not accused of anything and, besides, I am all taken up by the imminent arrival. They won’t hang a pregnant woman.’

  Lizzie was clearly horrified.

  ‘I’m joking,’ Frances said. ‘It won’t come to that. You don’t think I’m actually guilty of anything, do you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. But I’m worried for you.’

  Frances took her sister’s hand. It was cold and damp. ‘There’s no need, really. Nothing will happen to me. Just think, you’ll be there to help deliver my baby.’ Frances was glad that she’d have the solid presence of her sensible older sister for the birth. She’d been trying not to think about it.

  The door opened and Robert appeared, wearing a hunted look. ‘I’ve been or-ordered to remain here.’ He was tripping over his words. ‘I had to walk through the palace with an accompaniment of guards. They’re outside the door now.’

  Frances took him with both hands, giving him a firm shake. ‘Pull yourself together, for God’s sake. You look guilty as sin.’

  ‘Everyone believes I am.’

  Lizzie was watching them. She had shredded her handkerchief, leaving tufts of lint on her lap.

  ‘Well, you aren’t.’ Frances held him firmly with her gaze for some moments. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Oh, God, Frances. You don’t think ...’ His voice trailed off and a tear slid down his face, causing repugnance to well in her.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She painted on a smile and wiped the tear away with her thumb.

  ‘You didn’t answer me.’

  His whining grated. ‘I said, you’re being silly.’ She pressed his chest. ‘Where’s your composure? Don’t let them beat you. We’re under house arrest. We’re not being tried, and we won’t be. They can’t find you guilty if you’re innocent.’

  ‘You know that’s not true. Innocent people are condemned all the time.’ He looked waxen, as if he was already dead. ‘If I hang, it will make you a widow. Oh, God, Frances, I couldn’t cope with the thought of you having to ...’ He brought both hands to her distended abdomen.

  She remembered the Robert she had first encountered, that reckless spirit, the raw charisma: so much unfulfilled potential. He had had all the power he could have wanted – she could have wanted – yet he’d thrown it away for something as commonplace as love.

  ‘How will you manage without me?’

  She had to resist laughing. ‘I’ll only be a hundred yards away. I’m to be housed with the Knollys’, aren’t I, Lizzie?’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘She’ll be safe with us. You mustn’t worry about her.’

  ‘You’re to be held too?’ He clutched his head, either side of his temples, railing, ‘I can’t bear it,’ and kicked out at the panelling. ‘That monster Northampton – this is all his doing.’

  Lizzie cowered in her chair.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Frances. ‘First, I won’t have Uncle slandered. Whatever you may think, he’s not here to defend himself.’ Robert muttered an apology.

  She pulled him into the corner, near the inner door, where she was sure those girls were still listening, and said, ‘You need to keep control of yourself. Just remember, if it comes to it, and you are charged,’ he winced, ‘which it won’t...’ she paused ‘... but if it does, you must maintain your innocence. Do you understand?’ He nodded, like an admonished child. ‘Even if they offer you a pardon for saying you’re guilty, you must not under any circumstances accept it, because they will be trying to trick you. You must maintain your innocence,’ she reiterated, ‘or you will lose your head.’

  He made a kind of strangled sound and dropped into a chair. Frances noted
how diminished he appeared, every last glimmer of gilding gone. It was impossible to see the man he had once been or feel the attraction he had once ignited in her.

  ‘Remember who you are,’ she continued. ‘You are lord privy seal and lord high chamberlain. Look.’ She picked up the white staff of office that was propped in a corner, handing it to him. ‘You haven’t been stripped of your offices.’ She took the Garter jewel he wore around his neck between her finger and thumb, giving it a tug. ‘And this proves you are one of His Majesty’s most intimate companions. None of this is being taken from you.’

  ‘But you – you’re being taken from me.’

  She couldn’t look at him: he would have seen the derision in her face.

  Him

  I had been deprived of visitors and correspondence for three weeks, with only Copinger to bring me my meals and prevent me falling to filth.

  Thomas would appear, his flesh almost eaten away, to remind me of things so unpalatable I feared I would choke on them. I contemplated escape. He mocked me. You can never escape yourself, never escape me. There’s nowhere to go. He was right. You’d have to abandon the woman I died to make way for. His eyes were gone, just empty sockets, yet still I felt watched. You yearn for her. Now you know how it feels to be deprived of love.

  The jangle of keys and the scrape of bolts made him dissolve into thin air. Words were exchanged between the guards, one laughed, and then came a rap at the inner door. It swung open to reveal the King’s steward and my mood lifted in an instant. Surely he’d been sent to release me. I straightened my clothes, standing to greet him. He wore an apologetic expression – ruffled brow, lips pinched together. He wasn’t a man I knew well. He seemed uncomfortable, unsure of what he should say, and my hope began to disintegrate.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I – I – I...’ Time was suspended as I waited for him to overcome his stutter. Two unfamiliar men in royal livery had followed him in and were leaning against the panelling by the door. One was very large, the other smaller and younger but muscular and tight as a spring. ‘I – I have been sent to – to collect –’ Both henchmen were armed with swords and the large one had a firearm attached to his belt. He sniffed repeatedly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It is strange how one can recall insignificant details with great clarity when things of importance disappear into the air. ‘To collect your seals of office.’

  A wave of nausea broke over me as Frances’s voice echoed in my mind: You’ve not been stripped of your offices... None of this is being taken from you.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ he was saying. He sounded as if he was a long way off, an echo. I looked about the chamber, remembering the elation of first discovering, some years before, that I had been allotted the best rooms in the palace. All my magnificent things, the priceless set of tapestries that had been given to me by someone who wanted a favour; the chairs carved by a master craftsman, given in lieu of a debt; my desk, exquisitely inlaid with marquetry, a gift from the King. The only thing I’d paid for myself was my portrait, looking down at me from the wall.

  Larkin had invested my expression with just the correct combination of gravitas and humour. Perhaps it wasn’t apparent to all but I saw written there, too, the tell-tale lack of self-possession derived from never quite feeling I belonged with the best. It was that which made me mould myself to others’ approval. I had had time to understand much about my shortcomings during my incarceration.

  The steward was awaiting my response and I found myself unable to muster a single sound from my throat. It was clogged with a concoction of regret and self-reproach. I pointed to a coffer that sat on the shelves to one side. He took it, placing it on my desk, remarking on the beauty of the marquetry work as he turned the small key in its lock. Even that coffer had been the receptacle for a bribe from someone once. I couldn’t look but heard the shuffle and clink of things being unwrapped and inspected. The large man at the door blew his nose loudly.

  The steward was on his feet and I expected him to leave but noticed his gaze had rested on the lord high chamberlain’s white staff, which was propped up in the far corner. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, blanching a little, ‘protocol dictates that you must hand it to me freely. I haven’t the right to take it otherwise.’

  I traversed the chamber, each step heavier than the last, picked up the staff and walked back to him. The younger guard snorted slightly. In my mind, I struck him with the staff, until blood poured from his ears.

  I handed it over and the steward apologized again. At last I found my voice and begged him for news of my wife. ‘As far as I know she is in good health. More than that I cannot say.’ I managed to thank him for his dignity in performing a task he clearly found distasteful.

  He made to leave, booty tucked under his arm, still wearing that apologetic expression. In the doorway he turned and, with the look of a child being made to take a foul-tasting medicine, said, ‘I hate to be the bringer of bad tidings, my lord, but you are to be removed to the Tower. They will be coming to fetch you before the hour is up.’

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, imagining throwing myself to the floor, weeping and begging for mercy, but thankfully my composure remained intact. A performance like that would have been round the palace like wildfire. Villiers would have been snickering about it by dinnertime. God forbid that Frances would have known of it.

  I went to my desk and slumped into the chair, noticing only then my Garter jewel splayed across the surface. I hung it around my neck, feeling the threat of tears for this small concession. The jewel, an effigy of St George, became my only reminder that I had once been dear enough to the King for him to make me a knight of the Garter. I would cling to it in my most hopeless hours, remembering the solemn ceremony in which it was bestowed and harbouring a small, vain hope that it might save me.

  Her

  ‘Robert’s to be taken to the Tower.’ Harry grimaced.

  ‘The Tower!’ Frances dropped her face into her hands, to hide her triumph. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to receive visitors at the Knollys’ but no one would deny her the company of her brother.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a formality.’

  ‘What else?’ She looked up, tempering her expression.

  ‘Overbury’s guard was hanged.’

  ‘They must be getting to the bottom of this bloody business, then.’ She was reminded that it had been Weston who had procured the meeting with Mary Woods, which had caused her such trouble. Mary Woods had had to be dealt with. It made her glad Weston was dead.

  Putting his arm over her shoulders, he said, ‘Don’t be frightened, Francey.’ He hadn’t used that name since childhood.

  ‘I’m not – not in the slightest.’ It was true, as long she didn’t allow herself to ponder on it.

  ‘You were never afraid of anything,’ he went on. ‘Except water. Do you remember what Uncle –’

  ‘Don’t bring that up now, Harry.’ She didn’t want to be reminded of the cold shock, her lungs threatening to explode: Teaching you a lesson, my girl. ‘Just tell me what was said at Weston’s trial.’

  ‘Coke called you a rotten and corrupt branch of our family. I could have throttled him.’

  She snorted derisively. ‘He’d better not underestimate me.’

  ‘At his peril.’ Harry tried to sound composed but he was biting his bottom lip and jigging his leg nervously as he recounted the evidence that had been presented. ‘An apothecary, name of Franklin, took the stand – good God, he’s a grisly-looking beast.’

  ‘He’s a friend of Anne Turner’s. Heaven knows where she came across someone like that.’ An image of Franklin loomed in her mind. He was a grisly beast, a grisly beast whom she believed was wrapped tightly enough around her finger not to cause any trouble.

  ‘He said he hoped they’d not make a net to catch the little birds and let the great ones go.’

  ‘I suppose by “great ones” he meant Robert and me. If he intends to drag us down with him, he won
’t get very far.’ She hoped Franklin wouldn’t become a problem. Her shoulders felt tight so she stretched her arms out and back until her joints clicked but the discomfort wasn’t relieved.

  And Weston testified that he carried messages and arranged secret meetings between you and Robert before you were married.’

  ‘Well, that much is true. But no one hangs for being a lovers’ go-between.’ The baby was kicking, distracting her. ‘What was said of the poisoning?’

  ‘It all came spilling out. He told of a phial of liquid, which was confiscated by Lieutenant Elwes. Then mentioned some tarts he thought were contaminated but claimed they never got to Overbury anyway. Then an enema – mercury, if I remember rightly, or perhaps it was arsenic. It was supposedly the enema that did for him in the end.’

  ‘Someone really wanted rid of Overbury.’ She met her brother’s look directly and had the fleeting impression of gazing at herself in the glass.

  ‘There was confusion about the tarts. More than a single batch. And some that went bad apparently, so Elwes ordered his cook to make fresh.’

  ‘Uncle sometimes sent letters in with the tarts I made.’

  ‘You made tarts?’ She saw alarm flit across her brother’s face.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Frances gave the impression of being aghast. ‘You said yourself there was more than one batch. Robert sent him some too.’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘We were all trying to make sure the poor man was fed properly and had a few comforts – I sent him my own featherbed as well. Nothing wrong with that.’

  They sat in silence for some moments. Frances allowed her thoughts to drift. Her brother watched her intently as she pulled the pins from her hair, each one making a little chink as she dropped it into a bowl. Then she unravelled her plaits and separated the tresses with her fingers. ‘I wonder if things would have been different if Uncle hadn’t died.’ She gave the impression of thinking aloud. ‘Do you think he would be under arrest too?’