The Poison Bed: 'Gone Girl meets The Miniaturist'

by E C Fremantle

  I have my wife’s words spinning about my head: Even if they offer you a pardon for saying you are guilty … You must maintain your innocence or you will lose your head.

  ‘No. It’s impossible. She’d never have done that.’ It all comes clear. The Howards are casting us adrift – Frances and me. I begin to doubt once more whether my wife has truly made a confession, or if Harry Howard is deceiving me, like Bacon was. ‘I won’t.’ My voice is firm and I feel my resilience return.

  ‘For pity’s sake, if nothing else, do it for your daughter. Do you want her growing up in the shadow of a father executed for murder?’

  That poor dog starts up its howling once more.

  My focus sharpens and I can see that I had been wrong all along. The look, the Howard poise I wished my daughter to inherit, is the look of pure corruption. The Howards are rotten to the core, the lot of them. Only my Frances is free of it. I look at him and can see now that his resemblance to his sister is only superficial. Harry Howard is a sham. His eyes lack the warm intensity of hers and his smile has none of her beguiling sweetness. ‘Where are your parents?’ I ask. I am sure now that they are the source of this mission, rather than the King.

  ‘At Audley End. They scuttled back there until this business is all over.’ He looks angry again, which confuses me.

  ‘They’d abandon their daughter.’ My poor Frances, even her own mother has left her to her fate. ‘Why would they do such a thing?’

  ‘To avoid becoming mired in her scandal. I tried to stop them going.’ He wipes a glaze of sweat from his forehead. ‘I beg you, come to your senses, Robert. Do as the King asks. Your confession could save my sister.’ He omits to say how this could be and I know better.

  I am certain Frances has not confessed and that her trial will be a mere formality to demonstrate her innocence.

  ‘In a year or two you may be living with your wife and daughter.’ He gesticulates expansively. He is convincing. He could earn his living at the playhouse. ‘You will probably have a new infant on the way. You will retain your lands, your respect. It will be a good life.’

  He thinks I can’t see through him. A thought rises to my surface, like a forgotten splinter – something that will save me.

  I tell him I will think about confessing. He looks pleased, triumphant even, perhaps. Harry Howard cannot see that I have no intention of falling into his trap, that far from making a confession I am determined to prove my innocence.

  ‘Would you do something for me, Harry? There’s a book I need from my Whitehall apartments.’ I explain what I want of him. ‘It must be possible to conceal a single book among my linens.’

  He tells me he will do his best. I don’t know if he can be trusted but I have no other choice.

  I am newly spurred with the thought that, rather than being cast adrift, I will find a way to save my wife from the poisoned claws of her flesh and blood.

  Her

  The barge pushes on up the Thames. It is a perfect day, clear blue sky and a gentle breeze. The river is crowded with craft and choppy for it. Frances holds on to the side so tightly her knuckles are white. She is more afraid of the water than the trial she is about to face.

  The oarsmen swerve to avoid a boat that has come alongside theirs, picking up the rhythm to leave it in their wake, but not before Frances is hailed with a volley of insults. She doesn’t need to look at them to know the expressions they wear, like a pack of hounds at the kill. Lalage is petrified, gasping and stammering. Frances pretends she can’t hear and puts on a show of chatting pleasantly, refusing to display any weakness, biting down hard on her inner cheek until sharp iron floods her mouth.

  Thankfully the Westminster steps are cordoned off and the crowds kept well away, but the roar as Frances disembarks is thunderous. Guards surround her for her own protection. They walk in an unwieldy group towards Westminster Hall and in through the side court. The door is open. She halts on the threshold to gather herself and for her eyes to adjust to the gloom after the bright sunlight.

  She removes her cape, handing it to Lalage, who is shrinking into the wall. Someone leads the girl away and Frances steps forward. She looks around, remembering all the occasions she danced in this room, closing her eyes a moment so she can hear the music and the rhythmic thump of feet. The place is filled to the rafters. A great banked scaffold has been constructed to accommodate the crowd.

  She tells herself that it is nothing more than a performance and they are her audience. She is sure she sees Essex, almost hidden, twitching in a distant pew, and has an abrupt memory of their first night together – his swollen, fumbling desire and her own, assaulting her perversely from nowhere. They coupled like dogs, despite their distaste for each other. The lie about that became fact: There is no such thing as the truth.

  Harry sits at the front. He meets her eye with a smile of encouragement. Lizzie is beside him, looking at the crumpled handkerchief twisted round her fingers. Frances seeks out her parents but they are nowhere to be seen.

  Fear crashes over her, as sudden and unexpected as a summer storm, and with it the doubts about her pardon return. But she holds herself upright and walks across the floor. The peers who will try her are seated in ranks to her right. Most of the men she once danced with are here. None will look at her. Opposite them are the legal men who will judge her.

  She takes a deep breath. As she steps forward the place falls to a hush. A single cry of ‘Whore’ comes from the scaffold, followed by a scuffle presumably as the culprit is ejected. She stands at a lectern on which there is a Bible and she is guided through what she must say to make her oath. She stoops to kiss the leather binding, and when she speaks, she makes her voice so soft she can barely hear it herself.

  She is led to a seat and listens while all that brute Weston’s wrongdoings are read out and it is suggested he was acting on her orders. She mustn’t think of Weston now or she will lose her composure, for in her mind he is with Anne and Franklin and Elwes, suspended from a gibbet. She is horrified to feel a real warm tear roll down her cheek, berating herself inwardly for letting her emotions show, then realizing it is to her advantage to put on a display of weakness and remorse.

  She stands to make her plea. It is as if the chamber itself holds its breath when she admits her guilt. Her words have to be repeated by the clerk of the court because those on the bench complain she can’t be heard. Harry, at the front, holds both hands to his face. Lizzie begins to sob.

  Bacon stands to address the lords and she cannot interpret whether the brief look he gives her is benevolent or otherwise. He begins by praising her for her honesty. ‘Unlike those tried before for this crime, the countess has made a full confession. I know your lordships cannot look on her without compassion.’ Her fear begins to drain away. ‘Many things may move you: her youth, her person, her sex, her noble family, yes, her provocations, but chiefly you must be moved by her penitence. I will enforce nothing against a penitent …’ She can smell victory. He is laying the way for her pardon. She will not need to spill the King’s dirty secret, then.

  The clerk asks her if she has anything to say before sentence is passed and she keeps her voice small. ‘I desire mercy and beg that the noble lords will intercede for me to the King.’

  The lord chancellor stands to pronounce the sentence. While he is stating that she will hang by the neck until she is stark dead, Frances is thinking about the card trick she has been perfecting. His tone of voice is infused with compassion and there is no doubt in her mind that she has won. The dumb show is over and her sentence will be transmuted.

  She makes a meek curtsy to her judges before she is led away. As they walk back towards the river the crowd that was baying for her blood a mere hour ago is completely silent. They are satisfied that justice has been done. The blood they want now is her husband’s. It is all she can do to prevent herself jumping and whooping.

  She turns to the head guard and, with affected confusion, says, ‘Is it over? Am I to be returned to the Tower
now?’

  When he replies that it is, she cries, ‘No, that can’t be so. I have not had the opportunity to tell the lords of my husband’s innocence.’ She even manages to generate a few more distressed tears. ‘Let me go back. I must tell them.’

  She flails at the guard with her fists and he very gently takes her by the forearms, saying, ‘I’m so very sorry.’ His pity is apparent. ‘It is over – there’s nothing more to be done.’ He very carefully helps her into the barge as if she is made of finest crystal.

  The boat sways beneath her. She collapses on to the bench at the back. The water is dark. It wants to swallow her. She begins to shake uncontrollably. They will all assume it is the looming thought of the gallows that has made her so afraid.

  Him

  I stand before the court, eyes down, clutching my prayer book. It conceals the letter that will prove my innocence. Harry’s word was good – it seems he, of the Howards, is friend rather than foe – for he sent me the book and the forgotten letter was between its pages, as I’d remembered. It is written in Thomas’s hand, beside that inflamed heart: The remedy you sent has had no effect. You must send me stronger.

  Westminster Hall is heaving with life. I can feel every pair of eyes burning through me, can sense the impatience to see me brought to my knees. More takes a seat close behind me, whispering his encouragement. This diminutive man, my gaoler, is my only friend here and I hardly know him at all. I think of Frances standing on this spot only a few hours ago, but I am a fool if I think comfort can be had in reminding myself of her ordeal.

  Finally, I lift my eyes from the floor to find, right in my line of sight, Essex, wearing a smirk of triumph. The scarring on his face pulls his eye out of shape, as if his skin might peel away to reveal someone else beneath. He mouths something, I can’t make out what, but I can imagine. He is starched through with bitterness. I see Pembroke nearby, whispering something to Southampton, and there is Winwood, wearing a self-satisfied sneer. Frances had been right about him: That man will come back and bite you. I mustn’t think of Frances, or I will fall apart. I realize the place is filled with my enemies, and I feel as if I am a condemned man before I have even been tried.

  My Garter jewel hangs from my neck, my reminder that I was chosen by the King. I touch my fingers to it as if it has the power to bring me good fortune. But I feel the heft of judgement in the room and see myself, suddenly, as the court sees me: the jumped-up, orphaned son of a minor Scottish nobleman, who gained all he has by dint of his pretty face, like a woman. The only blessing is that the King is not here to witness this and neither is my replacement. The instant I think of Villiers I regret it, for it reminds me of the stark truth of my situation and dread upends me.

  A hush takes hold and I am sworn in before the clerk stands to read out the evidence. He is a long-faced man who speaks as if his tongue is too big for his mouth and tells in detail the many ways in which Weston, supposedly on my orders, administered poison to my friend Thomas. ‘There was barely a morsel that passed the victim’s mouth that was not in one way or another adulterated. It is a wonder he survived as long as he did.’

  The room is swimming and I’m finding it hard to concentrate on what is being said because Thomas is growling in my ear: You think you are innocent but you are as much responsible for my death, in your abandonment of me, as those who administered the deadly dose.

  ‘The Earl of Somerset, here before you, stirred up, moved, commanded, abetted, aided, hired, counselled’ – the clerk is clearly enjoying himself – ‘and assisted Weston in the execution hereof and is therefore indicted as an accessory before the fact of the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury.’

  I turn to More behind, whispering, ‘This is all wrong. It’s not true.’ He tries to reassure me that I will be given a chance to defend myself against the accusations. ‘Or …’ he pauses, imploring with his eyes ‘… you could still confess and fall on the King’s mercy.’

  I do not reply. I can barely hear for Thomas’s rumbling.

  Then the clerk addresses me directly. He asks me how I plead. When I say, ‘Not guilty,’ I sense the tension tighten in the chamber, like the air before a storm. He asks me then how I will be tried. I search for the correct protocol. ‘By God and the country.’

  The clerk shakes his long face minutely and whispers, ‘My peers – by God and my peers.’ His mollusc tongue emerges and withdraws. A wave of nausea catches me unawares.

  I correct my mistake and hear a ruffle of suppressed laughter. I am like a man set in trembling aspic and I fear I will forget everything, so I beg the clerk for pen and paper. ‘This is most unusual,’ he informs me, before consulting with Ellesmere – another enemy – and Bacon. Is he also an enemy? I don’t know. He wasn’t once, but everything is different now.

  My request is granted and writing materials are procured. I hope this is a good sign. A fuss is made about finding a stool on which to place the ink as the lectern slopes too steeply to hold it. If I could sit it would all be much easier, but I do not have leave to do so. I am ham-fisted as I try to organize myself. Thomas, with his invisible hand, pushes the paper all on to the floor in a cascade so I am forced to bend to gather it up. I dip the pen. Thomas grabs my hand, shaking it, so ink drips on my breeches. I am thankful they are black.

  Ellesmere says his piece. He has the air, with his fluff of white beard, of a benevolent grandfather. But his tone is bereft of even an iota of compassion when he reminds the lords that an instigator is more heinous by far than one who simply acts on orders. Essex watches him with a smug expression. Ellesmere was a great friend of his father. Then he turns, fixing me with a look of utter disdain. ‘To deny the truth is an affront to God.’

  Bacon speaks next, standing with a flourish of papers and making an assessment of the room, before speaking: ‘Murder is the most grave of crimes, and of all its methods, poisoning is the most odious. It is a silent killer, a vile deceit that creeps up stealthily on its oblivious victim.’ He looks round to ensure his words are meeting their mark. Bacon has the appearance, with his pointed russet beard and unswerving gaze, of a fox. I imagine I can see his tail bushing out at his back.

  ‘The fact that the victim was incarcerated at the time of his poisoning makes it all the more abhorrent an act.’ He is enjoying his speech, delighting in his selection of adjectives, moving his paws in a dance to emphasize his point. He certainly has his audience captivated. ‘My esteemed lords, it is not necessary to deliberate on the manner, the actual mechanics’ – he pinches together his index finger and thumb, holding them aloft – ‘of the unfortunate victim’s death, as it is already proven that Weston committed the deed, for which he, and his accomplices, have paid with their lives. What must be decided is whether the Earl of Somerset,’ he slides his eyes towards me, ‘did seek to procure the victim’s death in any way …’

  He talks and talks, of Thomas and me, of how our friendship was turned to loathing by our dispute over my wife. On and on he talks. I am trying to concentrate, I know my life depends on it, but I can’t follow. I attempt to scribble notes, but they seem to make no sense either. Thomas has a hold of my pen, is writing gibberish. Bacon talks of ‘an unholy alliance, a deadly triumvirate’ of myself, Frances and Northampton, ‘dedicated to securing Overbury’s downfall’.

  On and on ‘… poison in salts, poison in meats, poison in tarts, poison in medicines … such a quantity of poison was administered to the unwitting victim that its force was blunted on him …’ On and on ‘… there grew a root of bitterness, a mortal malice …’

  On and on and on ‘… over and above his motive and the obvious acrimony between him and his victim, the accused’s subsequent behaviour …’

  My paper is a mess of scribbles. People are being called to give evidence. Some man named Forest is saying that Frances offered him money to ambush and kill Thomas on my orders. I want to stop his lies with my fist. Someone must have paid him to say those things.

  Thomas is in my head, making my thoughts s
pin.

  A witness is called. He is saying I had many meetings with Weston, though I have denied knowing the man. The truth is that I remember him as Thomas’s guard and only vaguely as someone who conveyed letters between Frances and me before we were married – in my mind that is not ‘knowing’. Other witnesses are called and a tangled web of evidence is knitted around me from my unravelled threads. I cling to the thought of the letter lying between the pages of my prayer book as the only tool to free myself.

  And then old Master Overbury hobbles up on his sticks. My heart lists. He looks shattered with grief. He tells the court that I forbade him to petition the King for his son’s release. His words hammer a nail into me. I am guilty of that – saturated in remorse. I want to prostrate myself before him and beg his forgiveness.

  Here comes Lidcote now, the brother-in-law, talking of how Thomas believed I was deceiving him. He trains his eyes my way, like twin cannons. Another nail. Then it is Lawrence Davies’s turn, the loyal boy we rescued from a beating once, to whom I promised a position. What nail will sweet, placid Lawrence Davies pound into me to add to all this incriminating testimony?

  ‘I overheard the earl say, when he was discussing the Moscow embassy with Overbury, “Don’t go.” I am sure I was not mistaken.’ Bang, bang, bang. He was not mistaken, it is true, but I want to scream out that it was not meant as it sounds.

  I turn to More. He must read my distress, as he seems very sorry for me – deep creases cut across his brow.

  Lawrence continues. Hammer, hammer, hammer. ‘Overbury became very sick in the wake of receiving a letter from the earl, which contained white powders.’