Love's Alchemy

by Bryan Crockett

Forgive such a love? The thought was bitter. Forget it? Never. The last of her breath left her as she read the final three lines:

  If I could kindle thy bright spark to fire,

  And lightened, prick the strings of thy quaint lyre,

  We’d sing the world a miracle entire.

  Anne trembled to the next poem. It was one she had never seen, titled To His Mistress Going to Bed:

  Off with that girdle like heaven’s zones glistering,

  But a far fairer world encompassing.

  Unpin that spangled breastplate, which you wear

  That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there.

  Unlace yourself. . . .

  Enough. She turned the whole sheaf of pages face-down on the bench.

  Cecil said, “It is your husband’s hand, is it not?”

  Her response was barely audible: “It is.” She slowly shook her head. “The words here: they are hurtful to read, to think. . . . Yet I say again: they are but poems. They do not mean he has committed the acts.”

  In the halting speech of one reluctant to part with his words, Cecil said, “I am afraid . . . it is all true. Your husband has . . . dwelt . . . nearby of late. He might have come home to you, but instead he has remained at Coombe Abbey, where Lady Bedford stays with the Princess. While her husband was away hunting, your husband spent his nights alone with the Countess in her bedchamber. Two nights ago Lord Bedford returned to Coombe Abbey unexpectedly and discovered the two lovers . . . in . . . flagrante delicto.” The part about Lord Bedford was not true, but one of the household servants—a man in Cecil’s employ—had reported the noises of lovemaking.

  “No,” she said in a hoarse, sobbing whisper. “It cannot be.”

  “The good Lord Bedford has come to me asking my help in procuring a divorce from Lady Lucy.”

  Anne buried her head in her hands. Cecil continued, “And in the meantime Lady Bedford has somehow convinced the King to grant the thing he has denied your father Sir George all these years. It is . . . you cannot know how it pains me to tell you this . . . a writ of annulment of your marriage to John Donne.”

  Anne slowly turned to face Cecil. Her eyes took on the look of a cornered beast’s. In a voice both frightened and fierce she said, “An annulment! Oh, tell me of no annulments. Jack and I are married; there is no undoing that. We are married in the eyes of God, the kingdom, the Church of England, and the chancery-court. This lawful marriage has produced three children. Are they to be made bastards at the sweep of a pen? How can such a marriage be unmade?”

  Cecil let his eyes express his sadness. He said quietly, “I have the writ here, signed and sealed by the King. It is your husband, I fear, who has urged Lady Bedford to use her influence with the King to attain it.”

  “Not Jack. Not the Jack Donne I know. Has this witch Lucy Harrington cast him under some spell?”

  “That’s as may be; I know not. But I cannot say I have ever trusted her.”

  Anne lifted her hands vaguely, as if she had no more words.

  Cecil continued. “And . . . you had as well hear it all at once. From another trusted source—I cannot tell you who it is—I have learned it is most certain that . . . your husband has joined the Catholics in earnest, and is in league with the Spanish. He means to work with them to overthrow the realm.”

  She sat staring straight ahead. “That were as hard to believe as anything other you have said.”

  “Do you have cause to know otherwise? Have you heard aught from him in these last few months?”

  She shook her head, apparently unable to speak.

  Cecil took her hand again, and she allowed it. “I feared as much,” he said, then asked tenderly, “Have you not wondered why?”

  She let forth a moaning cry and sat awhile convulsed in her grief. He slowly reached his arm around her, softly placed a hand on her copper-gold hair, and coaxed her head onto his shoulder. None of this did she resist. For four years he had dreamed of such a moment. He trembled, but perhaps she did not notice beneath her own racking sobs.

  When at length she had quieted he said, “It is not good for you to go back to Pyrford Place, or at least not yet. The memories there will be too bitter. For a little while come to live at this house. There are diversions here aplenty: people come and go, there is music, there are gardens. You may play with your children, or let our maidservants tend them. And if you want a quiet place to read, there is my library.”

  She looked tired, perhaps on the point of accepting the offer. “Thank you Lord Cecil, but—”

  He lightly put his hand to his chest. “Please. If only for a little. It would do you good, and it would set my own heart at ease.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out, and whispered, “Very well.”

  “Ah. That is something, at least. A coach stands ready to go to Pyrford Place. A trusted maid will ride in it, gather your children, and bring them back here. She will pack your clothes and whatever else you desire to bring.”

  “All right. Thank you.” She sounded as if she had no more resistance in her.

  “Again, nothing would please me more.”

  Cecil told Cobham to bring the maidservant, then sat with Anne in silence for a while. In time she would see the rightness of coming to live with him here. With her marriage to John Donne dissolved, or so she thought, she would begin to consider what it would be like to wed a man above her station, not below. Soon she would see that while the man who loved her truly was not imposing of stature, he could impose his power anywhere in the realm, giving scope to her own powers. She would come to savor the wine of ambition but would not grow giddy with it. And how she would grace his arm at affairs of state!

  Before proposing any of this, Cecil would take her from room to room and let her remember what it was like to live in a wealthy household—and a household better suited even than Loseley to a woman of her sensibilities.

  The library he would save for last, having been told by Sir George More of her great love of books. It was with Anne in mind that Cecil had spent four years buying books and whole libraries. He would give her time to read, time to listen to the woven voices of madrigal singers, time to watch her gamesome children play. For a few days only, he would tell her, he would ask her to stay: only until she could begin to bear the sorrow her husband had brought upon her. Those days would become a week, then a fortnight, and all the while he would attend to her every wish. In the ripeness of time he would proclaim his love for her, would propose the marriage that would bring them both joy. As the well-born wife of the King’s chief minister, she would exercise powers rare for a woman: powers far greater than even Lady Bedford’s. Lady Anne More Cecil would take charge of all the charitable endeavors of the Crown. She would see to it that the hungry enjoyed food in plenty, that the old and the infirm found loving care. All in the ripeness of time. He had waited four years and more; he could wait another few weeks before declaring his love.

  Nor was he merely employing craft. Her happiness would be real, and so would his. Little wonder he trembled in sympathy as she wept on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 16

  The shadows lengthened as Jack made his way along the road. No attempt had been made to capture the Princess. After a week-long search, news of the threat had at last reached the hunting party. Lord Harrington, with Lord Bedford in tow, had arrived at Coombe Abbey three days later. Jack had reviewed with Harrington all the battle preparations. Lord Bedford had eyed the tall, fierce-looking stranger narrowly, his puffy face red and his nether lip abob, but Jack had paid him no mind.

  Ten days ago he had arrived at Coombe Abbey looking like a pallid vagabond. Now with good food in his belly and money in his purse, he strode toward home. With his hair and beard still long—combed but untrimmed, as Lady Bedford had decided she liked it—and with eyes she had said looked haunted still, perhaps Anne would not recognize him at first. But like faithful Penelope upon seeing the truth and welcoming her Ulysses home, she would fly weeping to his side, hang upon
his neck, and rain down kisses upon him. He smiled at the thought. Then, as in a dream, she was not Anne but the light, firm-bodied Countess of Bedford wrapped about him and kissing him savagely. Just hours ago as he took his leave from her, she had said, “We cannot live together as man and wife.” Then she had stood on her toes and taken the lobe of his ear between her lips. She had given it a little tug, then whispered, “Not yet.”

  He shook the image free. No doubt, he assured himself, the memory of Lady Lucy would fade over time, and he would think of none but Anne. Pyrford Place lay a four-days’ walk from Coombe Abbey, but with the few miles he would cover before nightfall, he could perhaps make it home in three more, two if he rose with the first light and moved quickly. As he walked he began to compose a poem for Lady Bedford. She had asked him to send her his verses often. He told himself that even if their time together was a mistake—two hungry souls sating themselves and then parting, never to indulge their lust again—there was no reason she could not remain his patron. Did not his family need the money?

  He wanted something light, something to amuse the wits rather than stir the passions. He pictured a comic version of what might have been if Lady Lucy’s husband had arrived on that first night.

  In another half an hour he had a few lines:

  Once, and but once, found in thy company,

  Thy husband’s irksome wrath now falls on me.

  All unawares you rubbed into my skin

  That which betrayed us in our sweetest sin:

  A strong perfume, which at his entrance cried

  E’en at thy husband’s nose; so were we spied

  When, like a tyrant king, that in his bed

  Smelt gunpowder, the fat wretch shivered.

  Had it been some foul smell, he would have thought

  That his own feet, or breath, that stench had wrought.

  This perfume vial I freely give t’embalm

  Thy husband’s corpse, its fate within my palm.

  Well. It was a start, at least.

  As night approached, a sole horseman came thundering toward Jack at a gallop. The horse and rider passed, then pulled up short, turned, and trotted back toward him. Jack put his hand to the sword Lady Bedford had given him when he left. The blade was one of her husband’s. Jack had to smile at the woman’s boldness.

  The rider reined the horse to a halt in front of him. Even in the dim light Jack recognized the animal: it was his big bay mare. The horse snorted and nuzzled Jack’s shoulder. “Donne?” the rider asked.

  Jack knew the voice.

  “Owen! Where do you ride in such a rush? And why on my horse?”

  “As for your horse, you are welcome to it. I ride it because until today I thought you were dead. Father Garnet is in London. I’ve been finishing a new priest-hide near Northampton. Some two hours ago I got word from him that you are alive but your success is uncertain. He wrote that I am to warn Harrington at Coombe Abbey of Princess Elizabeth’s danger, lest your attempt meet some mischance. Are you come from there?”

  “I am. The house is well fortified, and the guard increases daily.”

  Owen swung himself from the saddle. “Good. Then I need not hazard being recognized in a houseful of Protestants. And we can give this fine beast a rest.” He patted the horse’s flank. “Where do you walk?”

  “Home. London and Pyrford Place. Home.”

  “I’ll turn and walk with you, and when your bay has breathed we’ll ride together.”

  “That sorts well. But the light fails. I’m tired, and so is this mare. Is there an inn hard by?”

  “Not half a mile back—or ahead, as we go now.”

  When the two had stabled the horse at the small barn attached to the inn, they went inside and ordered tankards of ale. They were the only customers in the house, so the mistress told them which bedroom to use upstairs, brought them their ale, and told them to keep track of how much more they dipped from the cask. Then she went to bed. The men sat at a corner table to talk. Although they were alone in the room, they leaned toward each other over the table and spoke in low tones; there was no need to risk being overheard.

  Jack said, “Let me be sure I understand this. The Princess is a Protestant under the Protestant Harrington’s protection. A Catholic plot is afoot to abduct her. And you, a Catholic, are sent by a Catholic priest to risk discovery and capture in an attempt to foil this Catholic plot.”

  “All true.”

  “And the reason, I take it, is that the attempt is not backed by the new Spanish Armada but by hot-headed English Catholics, too few in number to be sure of victory.”

  “True again. Or so Father and I think. We’ve heard no rumor of Spain’s hand in this business.”

  Jack took a deep draught of the ale and held his tankard poised in the air as he considered the matter. Then he said, “And so if the rebels fail, the Scotsman and Cecil will use the attempt to spread fear of all Catholics. Cecil will seem justified in killing us all.”

  “Or driving us from the land, aye.”

  “Owen: could Cecil lie behind this rumor of an attack on the Princess?”

  Owen furrowed his brow, then rubbed his beard. “That were a new thought to me. Cecil would do it if he could; I doubt not that. Yet I think it is not so. Father Garnet would not tell me, but here is my guess: one of the rebels feared for his soul and confessed his part in the attempt.” Owen took a drink.

  “But Nick, this man with the troubled soul: he could be a Protestant, one of Cecil’s spies. His confession could have been feigned.”

  Owen considered the matter, then said, “I doubt it. If a man lied about such a thing, Father Garnet would know.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Jack said darkly.

  “Well. Whatsoever this informant be—true man or liar—I’ll hazard London holds a nest of Catholic souls giddy with bloodlust. We must go there and find out what we can.”

  “No. I’m going home. I’ll pass through London on the way and take you wherever you want to go there. After that I’m riding home to Pyrford Place. I have done with these affairs.”

  Owen spread his hands in protest. “But the fate of all English Catholics might lie with the two of us.”

  “No, it lies with the one of you. I tell you I’m going home.”

  Owen drained his tankard. On his way to refill it he said, “Give the matter some prayer.”

  “Fair enough. But the Lord did not answer my prayers while I lay in Warwick dungeon.”

  Owen returned to the table. “No answer?”

  “None.”

  “But at times you felt the Virgin loved you despite your sins.”

  Jack looked at him carefully. “How did you know that?”

  Owen took another sip of ale. “I didn’t have to know it. I know the Virgin.”

  Jack nodded. “Still,” he said without conviction, as if in a weak attempt to convince himself, “most of the time God was silent. Absent. He did not answer my prayers.”

  Owen considered the matter, then said, “You’re here, aren’t you? Free.”

  “Free.” Jack looked at the tankard before him. “What I want to be is home.”

  The stone of Pyrford Place, with its variegated reds and golds, shone much as it always had. Well, little wonder. Although it seemed a lifetime ago, only three seasons had passed since Jack left the house. He did not take time to stable the bay mare but tethered her to a chestnut tree in the yard, the saddle still on her back. He wanted to see Anne. She would be sitting by the fire, three children playing on the floor around her.

  The door was unlatched, so he walked into the room. No one was there. The air felt colder inside than out, as if no fire had warmed the room for a long time. A sense of foreboding grew in him as he climbed the stairs. His knees went slack when he saw that Anne’s clothes were gone, and so were the children’s.

  Jack braced himself, took two deep breaths, then hurried downstairs and back outside, strode across the lawn to the other end of the house, and stood before Fran
cis Wolley’s door. He knocked loudly. After half a minute a beef-faced servant Jack recognized opened the door. “Is Francis here?” Jack asked as he stepped inside.

  The servant held up a hand to stay him. “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “Jack Donne. You know me.”

  “I know Master Donne, but you. . . .” The servant peered at him. “Why, so you are. Pardon my . . . misremembering.”

  “Of course. Is Francis home?”

  The servant led him to a room Francis had redecorated since Jack last saw it. Three walls were pale yellow with an ornately painted lavender border, and on the fourth hung a richly woven arras depicting a young woman with a unicorn resting its head in her lap while one shepherd boy led another in a merry chase. Meanwhile, a short-horned Pan with sly eyes sat by a stream in one corner, playing his pipes. All this Jack took in at a glance.

  Francis stood. “Jack! Good God, what happened to you? We thought you were dead. And really, you’d look better as a ghost.”

  “Thank you, Francis. You’re looking fine yourself.”

  “Well, I try.” He gestured toward the arras. “But you haven’t told me what you think.”

  “Very fine work, Francis. Where is Anne?”

  Wolley’s face darkened instantly. “Oh. Anne. You don’t know?”

  It was just as Jack feared: Anne had died, perhaps in childbirth—had died longing for her husband, maybe, and he had not been there to comfort her. His breath failed him, and he could barely get out the words: “When? When did this happen?”

  “Not long ago. A week, maybe. Oh, I’m beyond sorry to be the one. . . . Jack, this must be terrible for you. Truly, we thought you were dead.”

  His mind nearly numb, Jack asked, “But did she say anything? Did she want me there?”

  “Well, she hardly. . . . But where were you? We didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. That was Cecil’s plan. He had me secretly imprisoned.”

  “Cecil. So then he knew: knew you were alive. Yet he. . . .”

  “What? Yet he what?” Jack put his hands on Francis’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Did Cecil have something to do with Anne’s death?”