Arbella

by Georgina Lee

  “We must find out what he really thinks. I will engage spies around the Court, as my grandmother always did...”

  “No! You will not!”

  “Why should I not? They will be able to tell us something that will help our cause. I hate not knowing what is going on and what is being said.”

  “The king’s circle of favourites is very tight and secretive. We shall not be able to breach it. All we can do is wait for him to calm down and change his mind, which I still believe he will, in time.”

  I started to cry and felt him pulling away.

  “That will not help,” he told me. “You must be strong for both our sakes.”

  I watched as he stood up and reached for his clothes. Already the first rays of sunlight were creeping through the gaps in the curtains. Our time together was at an end and I felt that same sense of overwhelming loss, as if I was losing a part of me each time we separated. I climbed back into bed, wiping my tears with the handkerchief that was always under my pillow.

  “We are lucky,” he continued briskly, pulling on his breeches. “We are kept in some comfort and although our freedom is curtailed, we are still managing to see one another, thanks to the sympathy of my jailors, who are growing richer by the day from all the bribes I pay them.”

  He stood over me, dressed and ready to go. I threw my arms round him and we kissed again.

  “When shall you return?”

  “Soon, I hope. Be of good cheer, wife, and do not give up. I will write each day, as I have promised.”

  I hugged him tightly, unable to speak, then he strode from the chamber and I was alone once more. I pulled the bedclothes round me and curled up, feeling very cold.

  The days and months passed, blending seamlessly into one another like the stitches in my tapestry. As the summer days gradually became shorter, I watched the leaves outside turning golden before falling silently onto the grass below. Sir William’s house went about its business as usual, the servants cutting logs for the wood store, the laundry maids hanging out washing in the cool, crisp autumn mornings and beating rugs free of dust before the winter set in.

  William managed to come to me every ten days or so, and I lived only for those precious hours. Christmas 1610 passed quietly and I thought back to the lively celebrations we used to have at Hardwick when my grandmother was alive. Perhaps they were not so very bad after all.

  I bought a copy of the new Bible that the king commissioned seven years ago, but could not bring myself to open the pages; it sat on the side table before I gave it away to a friend. How could I reconcile his unforgiving treatment of me, knowing he proclaimed himself to be such a virtuous Christian? So I continued to refer to my old, well-worn one that I have had since childhood. I was in need of my books, as the bitterly cold weather forced me to stay indoors and sit round the fire. Eventually I became bored with the constant sewing and reading, not feeling in the mood to play anything other than mournful tunes on my virginals, which only depressed the atmosphere even further.

  Aunt Mary visited regularly; bringing little treats that enlivened my existence. The straw lined, wooden hampers were a delight to unpack, with quince marmalade, saffron cakes, candied cherries, gingerbread and the delicious venison pies to cheer me. She told me Lord Salisbury was evasive when she asked him about my captivity, and would only repeat his majesty was most seriously displeased, which was a statement of the obvious. The king himself refused to grant her an audience, and the queen, although sympathetic, could do nothing; I knew full well the king did not take heed of her advice in anything, though I may have been wrong in thinking Her Majesty was empty headed. Aunt Mary says she is a better judge of character than her husband, and hides her true intelligence to avoid the king’s displeasure. If this is true, then she is to be admired; I know the irksomeness of such a deception. Prince Henry has also been petitioning on our behalf, but he wrote that his father was not yet ready to forgive us.

  Then at the beginning of January 1611, some devastating news reached me. The king found out that my husband and I were meeting, and ordered that William was to be kept in the Tower for life. Viscount Fenton was to escort me to Northumberland, where I was to reside under the care of the Bishop of Durham. If this was allowed to happen, I realised I would not be able to see William at all, given the great distance between the two cities. Sir William was the bearer of this news and presented me with the Royal Warrant to deliver me there with all speed. I was speechless with shock when I saw that uncle Gilbert’s signature was amongst the other nobles at the foot of the page.

  At once I began to write to anyone I thought would be in a position to help us. All men of importance at Court were known to me: Sir Thomas Fleming, the Lord Chief Justice and Sir Edward Coke to name just two. I knew the tone of my letters sounded desperate, but I did not know what else to do. I heard that Viscount Fenton had spoken against me and I sent a tart letter to him of my displeasure, I suspected it would not do me much good, but I had to do something. I was also troubled by a bill of William’s from an Italian jeweller and I was forced to beg for help with its payment from aunt Mary.

  But this latest development had a devastating effect on my health and I lapsed into one of my weak states, becoming very distressed with severe headaches, vomiting and lethargy; I swooned with every effort to stand and beads of water gathered on my forehead. Dr Hammond was summoned, a physician who was recommended to me, and he was very concerned, promising to do all to delay my journey if possible.

  I was too ill then even to write to William and after two other doctors saw me, they reluctantly agreed I should not be moved for a few days. So I rested in bed and tried to keep some food down. But it was felt that we could not wait any longer, the king was losing patience. After much protest and procrastination, I was taken out of the house and conveyed to Barnet, together with Dr Mountford, the bishop, Viscount Fenton and Sir Thomas Parry.

  We must have made an odd sight together and it was no surprise that people stopped in their tracks to look at us. I had to bear the humiliation of being carried out into the street on my mattress, with every common person gawping at me in my distress. I could hear cries of, “who is it?” and, “the lady looks too ill to be travelling” and, “for shame” as curious onlookers voiced their opinions before being moved on by the guards. It was a nightmare of a journey as I was so ill and weak, I truly thought I was going to die.

  The swaying and rocking of the coach only exacerbated my nausea and I did not even have the strength to sit up, but had to lie across the lap of Mrs B., who held me like a baby. We kept up a slow pace due to my weakness and had to stop several times whilst I tried to recover, but by 10 o’clock the night was upon us and we had only reached Highgate. Accommodation was hastily found for me at the home of Sir William Bond, where I was carried upstairs to more unprepared chambers and settled there with undue haste. I was only vaguely aware of activity around me and Mrs B. took charge of the arrangements, unpacking our trunks and giving instructions for my welfare.

  Aunt Mary had been following the location of my progress faithfully and was allowed to visit me. She berated the bishop wholeheartedly for his compliance that I travel, when I was obviously so unwell. It did no good of course. We were left alone for a few moments and she passed me a letter from William; I was still in bed, but the sight of his writing cheered me.

  “We are hatching a plan for you both to escape to France,” she whispered. “I am gathering funds to pay for it and William is making discreet enquiries about a boat to sail across the channel, where you will be free.”

  My eyes widened at the idea and I grasped her hand. “Oh aunt, do you really think it is possible?”

  “Do not despair, Arbell, even as we speak the plans are already in place.”

  “Uncle Gilbert signed the warrant,” I told her accusingly.

  “He had no choice; do not worry about that now. Look to your future and get well again.”

  “I wish I could feel better.”

  “You w
ill in a few more days I am sure. I think they will not move you just yet. We do not have much time to get you out of the country...”

  We were interrupted by Dr Hammond, who asked to speak to my aunt in private. She went with him to the doorway and I turned over, pretending not to hear.

  “...urine is still very discoloured.”

  “...too ill to be moved. I must insist...”

  “I will inform the king, but...”

  I heard only snatches of their conversation, but my aunt’s voice was commanding and firm, she can be almost as formidable as my grandmother if the need arises. When he went back downstairs, she came to the bed and kissed me.

  “I will return tomorrow with more news, is there anything I can get for you?”

  I shook my head and she left in a rustle of silk and lavender water. On an impulse, I asked Mrs B. to bring me a looking glass and, after a protracted search, she finally produced one. The sight I saw shocked me, for I was very pale with dark circles under my eyes that had sunk into their sockets. My hair hung in lanky strands, framing a face that showed anxiety and pain.

  “You have been very ill, m’lady,” Mrs B. murmured to reassure me.

  “You do not need to tell me that!” I snapped at her. “How could you let me see visitors in this state? I look like I have been dead for a week.”

  “I...I beg your pardon, there have been times when you could not bear to be touched. I have not been able to perform the most basic of personal tasks for you,” she said quietly and I immediately regretted my harsh words.

  “I am so sorry, please forgive me. I know you do your best for me, I am very grateful, for I do not know what I would do without you.” I held out my hand. “I am not myself, you know that.”

  She took my hand and patted it gently. “There, there, I shall fetch a bowl of rosewater and freshen you with clean linen and nightwear. How does that sound?”

  I lay back, ashamed of my outburst and replied meekly, “That would be very fine, thank you.”

  I succumbed to her administrations and with newly combed hair, a freshly washed body and clean linen, I felt a little better. My next visitor arrived just as I was finishing some broth, which I hoped to keep down. Sir William, clearly embarrassed to be entering my bedchamber, told me that the king’s personal physician, Dr Mayerne, was here to examine me.

  “I do not wish to be examined by him,” I replied haughtily and pulled the bed covers up further.

  “You must not be alarmed my lady,” he assured me. “He is here to help you and it is the wish of the king himself.”

  “Very well; I shall tell you when I am ready. He must wait downstairs.”

  I gestured for Mrs B. to help me and after 30 minutes I could delay no longer. There was much creaking as the doctor climbed the stairs to my chamber. When we finally met, I could see the reason. He was a huge size with a head that reminded me of a hard-boiled egg. He bowed briefly and ordered the curtains to be drawn back so he could see me properly. The sudden rush of light hurt my eyes and I looked at him coldly. He unpacked a variety of strange, alarming looking instruments, humming to himself as he laid them out on the table.

  “So, you are unwell. It is part of the human condition and my job to cure you, if possible.”

  He guffawed at this feeble attempt at a joke and proceeded to feel my pulse, pull my eyelids down and look at my tongue.

  “Your pulse is dull, but I cannot detect a fever. Your countenance is very heavy, hmm, yes, as I thought. Are you not even well enough to sit in a chair, my lady?”

  “As you see,” I retorted with a glare, wishing he would go away.

  “What are your main symptoms?”

  Mrs B. came forward from her place by the fireplace and told him while he stood tapping his hands on his chest and frowning. He was such a comical figure that I found myself wanting to laugh, which was rather a relief. But my supressed giggle quickly turned to dismay when he announced he wanted to bleed me.

  “No, on no account!” I cried.

  “I will have you know that it is the cure for many ailments. I regularly bleed the most prestigious persons at Court and they are all very grateful for my expertise. I am the best person to advise you, I can assure you.”

  “I absolutely refuse.”

  “On what possible grounds could you have for such a refusal? And against my expert advice.”

  “My grandmother would never have countenanced such a thing, if she were alive now, she would have you removed at once.”

  “Does your own doctor not bleed you?”

  “He does not.”

  “ By your grandmother, you refer of course to the late Dowager Countess of Shrewsbury?”

  I nodded, now tired of his questions and closed my eyes. The mention of my grandmother was enough to silence him and when I opened them again, he had sat down to write furiously in his book, the scratching of his quill the only sound in the chamber for a few minutes. Then he stood up and began to pack his instruments.

  “I have made detailed notes of your condition to report to the king. This has been a most unsatisfactory examination. You do realise that his majesty believes your illness to be feigned simply so that your journey may be delayed.”

  “I can assure his majesty that I am still very unwell.”

  I looked at Mrs B. for affirmation and she produced my chamber pot, removing the linen cloth that covered it, to show him.

  “As you can see, my lady’s water is an usual colour.”

  He took it over to the window, looking at it carefully. “How long has it been like this?”

  “It coincides with my lady feeling ill and happens infrequently; the only cure we find is plenty of rest.”

  He glanced at me once more before handing the pot back and picked up his case.

  “The colour of your urine puts a different aspect on the matter. But I shall tell the king that I believe in seven days you will be well enough to travel. Good day to you.”

  With a bow, he made his way downstairs and Mrs B. closed the door behind him.

  “We have less than a week, events will have to move fast now. What would you like me to do?” she asked, coming over to sit on the bed.

  I dictated another letter to the Privy Council, hoping to shame them into allowing me sufficient time to recover my health; otherwise my death (which I felt sure could be imminent, if I was not permitted to recover. ) would be on their consciences. I also dictated letters to William and aunt Mary telling them we may have less time now, but in truth, I did not think I would be feeling well enough to leave my bed and start the long and arduous journey to Durham, which I knew was much further than Derbyshire.

  The Bishop of Durham was my next visitor and told me he was on his way to report to the king before going ahead of me to prepare what will be my lodgings at his home. I smiled weakly at him, but remained silent, he must not know my real intentions. His visit was brief and I could see he was not particularly keen on the idea of having me as a prisoner. He was not a young man and I imagine I would be a great source of worry and stress for him. But his visit unsettled me and I sank into a mood of despair as if I was in a pitch-black tunnel, stumbling blindly and hitting myself against hard rocks, with no light to guide me. I had not heard from William for weeks and this in itself was enough to bring my spirits very low.

  The weeks lengthened into months, and still I did not recover enough to travel. Representatives from the king came to see and peer over me, shaking their heads and tutting. I knew they did not believe I was really ill. One of them even had the nerve to tell me that this was a trick that Queen Elizabeth had used when she wanted to avoid something. I replied that he was very impertinent and that I would not insult the intelligence of the king by such deviousness. But I did start to feel better at last, although I still could stand up for long.

  Then one evening in April, Mrs B. whispered that there would be a surprise for me that night. My spirits soared as there was only one surprise that I desired above all others and there
was a flurry of activity as I prepared myself for my husband. How sweet those last two words sounded!

  William and Francis arrived just after one o’clock; they both looked tired and drawn. Once we had all exchanged greetings and Mrs B. had poured some wine for us, we sat down as conspirators and began our meeting in whispers. Time was precious and I realised that I would not have the joy of being alone with him on this occasion. We had to make as little noise as possible as the fewer people who knew he was here, the less chance there would be of discovery. He was full of concern for my health and looked at me anxiously.

  “I am feeling better, almost back to my normal self,” I said firmly.

  “I am glad to hear it, I have been so worried about you, but I cannot stay long, we have to leave within the hour.”

  “So soon?” The disappointment was evident in my voice. “But what of your own health? To be in the Tower must be a dreadful thing.”

  “It has not been so bad, although it is damp and unhealthy. My complaints have been listened to and I have been moved to my own quarters above Traitors Gate. You must not fret about me, I am able to look after myself.” He kissed my hand and quickly changed the subject.

  “We shall soon be together; the countess, your aunt Mary, has been especially active on our behalf, raising £1,400 for us to escape. Do you have the funds I asked you for in my last letter?”

  “Under my bed.”

  Francis pulled out the casket and gave a whistle at its contents before emptying the coins into a leather pouch, grimacing at its weight as he returned to his chair.

  “It is a similar sum to aunt Mary’s,” I responded proudly. “I have sold jewellery to raise the capital. Will it be enough?”

  “It should be. We must pay off your debts, then we need money for bribes, fares to France, transport and accommodation. I have had a document drawn up for us to sign, ensuring that Crompton has no more responsibility for our finances, to protect him in the future. He is to be released tomorrow, together with Edward Reeves.”