“Of course,” Jack said. The servant left the room and closed the heavy door. Jack pulled off his clothes and eased into the bath. The water was very hot but bearable. He stretched to his full length, closed his eyes, and floated on his back. If this was a dream, he hoped he never woke.
After a minute or two he heard the door open. He sat upright and watched as Lady Bedford entered, carrying a pewter urn with a wooden handle protruding from the top: a lye-cask and brush, Jack guessed. She also carried a small, stoppered glass vial of some rose-colored liquid. Without speaking she set the cask and vial beside the tub, turned, latched the door, and began to unlace her dress. With a wry smile, she slowly let the dress fall to the floor. She stood before him naked. Lady Bedford was small-boned but as shapely as Jack had ever imagined her.
Still without a word she stepped into the tub, facing him as she eased into the water. Then she leaned forward, laid her breast against his, and kissed him. She picked up the wine, drank some, and tipped the flagon for Jack to drink.
At length she drew the brush from the lye-cask and laid the soft bristles against his cheek. The lye-wash had been mixed with spikenard. He moved about—now on his knees, now with his back to her, now standing—until she had cleaned every inch of him. By then the water had cooled. Hand in hand, they stepped from the tub. They dried each other with soft, thick towels, then let them fall to the floor.
She picked up the little vial, pulled the stopper, and poured some of the rose-colored oil onto her hand. She rubbed the perfume into his skin and hair. He did the same for her. The aroma was intoxicating. Lady Bedford said, “Lavender to heal the roughened skin, jasmine to ease the beating mind.”
She led him to the fireplace. He turned to look back at the basin. The candles still glowed around the polished brass, reflecting waves of shifting light interfused with the red glow of embers in the fireplace. She pulled him close, and they stood watching the dying fire. From time to time a yellow flame licked around a half-spent log.
She stood on her toes and pulled his head toward hers to whisper, “The servants are well away from here. Even so, we must make little noise.” He murmured some half-hearted protest that faded into the heavily spiced air.
Jack was wakened by a shaft of light that flared between the shutters. He draped his forearm across his eyes. As in so many fitful dreams of late, he lay next to Anne at last but somehow could not see her. His mind cleared, and he knew: he was not home, and next to him lay not Anne but Lady Bedford. He groaned.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “My head. Too much wine. And this light.” He recited the lines he had fashioned months before:
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains, call on us?
Lady Bedford interlaced her fingers with his. “That sounds like the start of a poem.”
“It is,” he said. Still shading his eyes, he turned his head toward her. “Have you forgotten? I sent it to you from an inn near Harrowden Hall last winter.” With a sinking in his gut he remembered he had sent a copy to Anne, too: an act of duplicity befitting an adulterer.
“I never received it,” Lady Bedford said. “I would have remembered such verses. In fact I meant to chide you when the time sorted. I charged you to send me poems, and through all those months I never received any.”
He rose on one elbow. “None?”
“Not a single one.”
“But I sent you four or five, some from the north country and some from the Netherlands.”
“To Bedford House?”
“To Bedford House.”
“But I never received them. And letters received at Bedford House are brought here once a week.”
Jack collapsed onto his back again. She sounded sincere, but he had never been sure he could tell truth from craft when she spoke. Especially not now. After all, last night she had committed adultery, apparently without the least qualm.
A queasy sense of the enormity of what he had just done washed over him. He had committed adultery too—lured into it, perhaps, but in full command of his wits. He had betrayed his loving wife on the very point of his long-awaited return. He had sinned against his wife and against God. And with whom had he done this thing? With a powerful woman whose motives might extend beyond mere lust, a woman influential enough to destroy whatever future was left to him.
And now she claimed she had never received his poems, sent one at a time over a period of several weeks. The posts were uncertain enough that one might have been lost, conceivably even two. But four or five? No, either Lady Bedford was lying or someone—most likely some agent of Cecil—had intercepted them.
Lady Bedford had requested that he write the poems as to his mistress. She liked to be flattered, he had thought, and so he had flattered her. She liked to be cast in the literary role of the unapproachable object of male desire, like Sidney’s Stella or Petrarch’s Laura or Dante’s Beatrice. So each of Jack’s mailings had begun with an effusive salutation: hardly unusual for a poet addressing a patron. But Jack had chosen titillating terms of address, suggestive of not only his desire but also the possibility of its fulfillment.
Well, his desire had been fulfilled last night. As had hers, and with a vengeance. He looked at his left hand, bandaged and faintly throbbing. Despite her warning last night to make little noise, she had made more and more of it as she approached her climax. To muffle her cries he had reached an open hand around her head and worked the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger into her mouth. After a spasm she had bitten down hard, then turned and kissed him fiercely, his blood still on her lips. Only then had she torn the edge of the sheet into strips and wrapped his hand.
Now as daylight made its way into the room, she lay placidly beside him, lightly trailing her fingertips along his cheek. She kissed him gently, and he did not resist. Then she said, “Stay with me here, if only for a few days, at least until my father returns.”
“No, I need to get home.”
“But you mustn’t. An attempt on the Princess’s life is at hand, and we need wise counsel to defend the house. You have served in the wars, and with my father gone, you are the man most fit to be obeyed.” She slowly sat upright, looking like a naiad rising from a stream. Her delicate nakedness deferred to his strength. “You owe it to the kingdom to stay.”
Jack could see the game she was playing, and playing it well. This woman who was perfectly capable of giving orders to the household guard, and who enjoyed doing it, was telling him—with her words and with her body—that she needed him. Yet the beseeching, almost helpless look in her eyes seemed convincing. Maybe she was telling the truth, admitting that she needed help in an unaccustomed matter. After all, the household guard would soon be supplemented by troops from London, and how much could Lucy Harrington know about managing preparations for battle? Or maybe she merely wanted him to stay only because she didn’t like the idea of letting him go home to Anne.
Jack knew his place was beside his wife and children, and he ached to see them. He should leave this house, find some forsaken spot along the road, get on his knees, and beg the Lord’s forgiveness for the thing he had done. And Protestant or not, he should seek out a wise priest of the old faith and confess, then ask whether it would be more loving to keep Anne ignorant of her husband’s infidelity or to tell her all, begging her forgiveness along with the Lord’s.
All this he should do. Yet Lady Bedford might have a better idea than she knew. If Jack could command a successful defense of the Princess’s life, would not that one act acquit him of all debt to Cecil, even advance him in the eyes of the King? Jack owed it to the kingdom to stay, she had said. Whatever her motive, maybe she was right. If some group of overzealous Catholics succeeded in capturing the Princess, full-scale war could ensue. He had waited all these months to see Anne and the little ones. If he remained at Coombe Abbey for a few more days, maybe he could go home to them afterward for goo
d. During his time at Coombe Abbey maybe he could even keep clear of Lady Lucy’s bed.
Yet there she was, leaning toward him, her skin creamy and her dark eyes wide with anticipation. “A few days only,” he said, then pulled her to him.
She should have arrived at the chapel by now; what could be keeping her? Cobham taking his time, no doubt, subtly preparing her for what was to come. Cecil shifted his weight a little. The stone floor hurt his knees, and his back would soon go into spasms if he kept kneeling here. Once again he tried to weep, straining to make the tears come. His face needed to be red and wet for this encounter. He thought of his long-suffering wife and her early, painful death; he remembered his humiliation upon learning he had delivered his sonnet to Anne on the very day Sir George discovered her elopement with Donne; he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands; he strained some more. Still no tears. His back ached, both at the sidewise crook in the base and the hump behind his shoulders.
He cursed himself for not simply having had Donne killed months ago. But he had reasoned that if Anne found out her husband was dead—for despite all precautions, word of such things did travel—in her eyes he would always be a martyr, Cecil his executioner for forcing him into such dangerous work. If her husband remained missing, she would blame Cecil for his absence and always hold out hope for his return. No, she must be made to think her husband remained alive but had betrayed his wife and his country. She must think he had abandoned his family to take up with another woman, all the while plotting a Spanish takeover of England.
Some of the elements of this deception were already in place. Beside him lay the rolled-up document he had hastily penned not half an hour before: a royal writ of annulment of the Donnes’ marriage. Twice before, King James had refused to sign such a document despite Sir George More’s requests, saying he did not like to overturn chancery-court decisions unless the good of the realm depended on it. So Cecil had written the document and signed the King’s name, something he had learned to do well enough. In place of the King’s signet seal he had used one of his own, twisting it as he pulled it away from the wax to leave a blurred image. Certainly it should be enough to convince Anne. A week ago the rumor of Jack Donne’s defection to the Spanish cause had been whispered into a few ears, and now everyone at the royal court had heard it.
But then Donne had somehow escaped the dungeon at Warwick Castle, setting all the preparations at risk. It was a stroke of good fortune that the man had not gone directly home but had turned up at Coombe Abbey. Well, Cecil would not make the same mistake twice. Now that Donne had emerged, the man would soon cease to trouble the world. And his death would seem a traitor’s. Cecil had not had time to work out the details, but Donne’s death would make the forged writ of annulment moot, and in her confused and bitter grief, maybe too in the exhausted clarity afterward, Anne would come to see that Cecil, and only Cecil, had loved her all along.
Finally he heard the distant click of Cobham’s boots on the flagstone. Having summoned no tears, Cecil quickly took the little stoppered vial of water from his pocket, tilted his head back, winced once at the stabbing pain between his shoulder blades, and poured several drops into each eye. His hands trembling, he replaced the stopper and dropped the vial into his pocket. At last: a polite knock. The latch slid softly, and a faint creak sounded in the little chapel as the door swung open. He made a mental note to have the hinges oiled. Cobham said quietly, “Lord Cecil, pardon my intrusion, but your guest has arrived.”
For a few seconds Cecil kept his head bowed on his folded hands. He appeared holy, as he imagined, but not too brightly revealed; he had chosen with care the number of candles around the altar. His lips moved in apparent prayer. Then he rose as smoothly as he could. He did his best to stand erect. As he turned he said, “No matter, Cobham; my prayers were almost finished. In an hour or two I will return to them. Ah! Mistress More—excuse me, Mistress Donne—too much time has passed since last I saw you. And your beauty exceeds even what it was! The Lord has smiled on you; the difficulties of your marriage have done nothing to diminish your loveliness.”
Anne gave a shallow curtsey as she said, “It is kind of you to say so.” Cecil looked and listened for any hint of insincerity, but he could discern none.
As he walked toward her he limped a little despite his effort to move smoothly. With a white handkerchief he wiped his cheeks, taking care not to remove all the moisture around his eyes. “I am afraid you have caught me at my worst,” he said. “My prayers have moved me out of all countenance.”
“For what do you pray, Lord Cecil?”
With a delicate wave of a hand—his hands, at least, were well formed and graceful—he said, “Oh, always I pray for the good of the realm, for an end to the wars, for the relief of those who suffer, for the peaceful conversion of all papists to the true, Protestant faith.” He looked her steadily in the eye as he said, “But what has moved me in especial this last hour has been the plight of your poor husband.”
She blanched, pale as the face of the moon. “My husband! Oh, I feared it in my soul. Is he in danger? Is he . . . is he alive?” She reached toward him, then withdrew her hand and held her fingers to her lips. Delicate fingers and full, supple lips. He longed to put his own fingers to those lips, to stroke her long, lovely neck, to remove her dress slowly, listen to it rustle to her knees, and kiss her beautiful breasts.
“Oh, he is alive,” Cecil said. “I would not for the world have it otherwise. In all I have done, I have taken great care to preserve him. Yet. . . .”
“Yet what?” Her green eyes dazzled. “Is he hurt?”
How did she summon the tears so easily? Could her commoner of a husband really mean so much after all he had done to her, after disgracing her with a bad marriage and doing her out of her fortune? Well, regardless, it was best to proceed as if it were true, as if she really loved the man despite all his selfish recklessness. If Cecil underestimated her desire for this son of an ironmonger, the next hour or two could go very badly. He must remain on his guard, must proceed slowly, must not let his own desire supplant his reason.
“No, no, I do not think he is hurt.” He looked at her closely, tried to share her worry, her sorrow. To his surprise the tears began to well in his own eyes. “Would it were only bodily hurt,” he said. “But come, sit. I am sorry to have to bring you these news.”
“Oh, what is it? Tell me.”
“Please, sit.” Her mind could hardly have been on her appearance, but the simple act of lowering herself onto the backed bench looked graceful, effortless. Cecil wanted to respond to this, to tell her she moved with liquid ease, but now was not the time. She sat lightly, anxiously looking up at him, unconsciously sliding along the bench to let him sit beside her. And he needed to sit; to have so close to him all her attentiveness, all her beauty, all her grace, left him light-headed where he stood. As he tried to move with equal grace to join her on the bench, he knew he failed—but knew also that she paid his awkwardness no mind at all. Such things did not matter to her.
She took his hand! He let a little involuntary gasp escape, then placed his other hand on hers, enfolding the delicate fingers as tenderly as one would hold a frightened bird.
He spoke softly: “You cannot know my sorrow for having to say this to you. But I am duty-bound to tell you that your husband has betrayed you. He has betrayed me, betrayed us all.”
“How . . . no! How do you mean?”
Cecil sighed deeply before saying, “He has joined the papists. Now he is one of their confederacy. And. . . .” He held her hand closer to him. “Your husband has taken another woman, one I know to have been happily married before she met him.”
“No. No!” She pulled back her hand. “You are misinformed. He but feigns all this, or someone has misreported him. Or. . . . No. Not Jack. Not. . . .” She sounded like a lost child half-afraid to speak as she asked, “Who is this woman?”
“None but Lucy Harrington Russell, Countess of Bedford.”
She
sat stunned for a minute before saying, “How. . . . Who has told you this?”
“He himself has told me.” Cecil pulled from his pocket a sheaf of five poems addressed to Lady Bedford. He quietly admired his own gesture as he gave her the papers; the very shape of his hand expressed sorrow.
She glanced quickly through the pages. “These are but poems. She is his patroness. They are . . . fictions.”
“Read them. I am sorry. The verses but shadow forth the substance of what he has done to you.”
She looked at the topmost poem, The Sun Rising. She had seen it before. Busy old fool, unruly sun. . . . Jack would say he had merely copied it out for Lady Bedford after writing it for Anne. Still, she did not like to think of Lady Bedford reading the poem and picturing herself in bed with Jack as the morning sun interrupted their night of love.
Anne turned to the next paper: The Relic, surely written for her alone. It was the last bit of correspondence she had received from him. She was the one who had given Jack a bracelet of hair to keep about his wrist, the bracelet his poem said would last until Judgment Day. Her eyes moved swimmingly over the verses as she searched for the place that mentioned her by name, that spoke of the marriage that eternally bound their double flesh in one. In its place she found words that drained her spirits:
If thou and I at last might couple,
Bodies willing, lithe and supple,
Saint Lucy’s glist’ning radiance
Would slide all darksome shadows thence.
Thy husband and my wife
Might soon forgive a love like thine and mine,
Their jealousies consign
To dull Oblivion’s unrememb’ring life.
Love's Alchemy Page 27
