The Dark and the Light

by Josephine Bell

  ‘We go back to Oxford in late April,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Persuade Robbie that my Lady Essex will find me some use to her at Court, secure my visits there and that I am presented again to their Majesties and I will surely meet thee as often as I attend upon her.’

  ‘I would see thee alone,’ Alan repeated. ‘My dear and only love, I would see thee alone!’

  She gave him no answer in words but let him have her hand to kiss and fondle and as the coach drew up and he rose to help her down from it he bent over her to kiss her lips.

  Alone together in the Whitehall room when the other pair had gone, Lord Rochester and the Lady Frances Howard renewed the arrangements they were by now become well used to.

  ‘Your Mistress Anne Turner will see to it we have complete security?’ he asked. ‘No other assignations to be held at her house when we wish to meet there?’

  Lady Frances laughed gaily.

  ‘The creature hath known me for the best part of my life,’ she said. ‘She is totally devoted. Besides, I have knowledge of so many of her secrets she dare not but serve me loyally.’

  ‘Yet she must know an equal number of thy secrets, my sweet love,’ he told her.

  He was sitting with his legs thrust out towards the fire, staring into its bright embers. He did not see the sudden pinched pallor of his sweet love’s face or he might have remembered the warning his own best friend had given him. Tom Overbury had been both alarmed and shocked by his patron’s sudden passion for the lady. He had reminded him that as a Howard she belonged to the Catholic party, so unpopular in the country at large, warning and prophesying too that she had an evil reputation and would ruin him.

  But he was too far gone in his infatuation to heed his friend’s words: far too happy in his adultery even to consider in what light the intrigue presented itself to the King.

  Lady Frances watched him. In her scheming, in her present initial plan to end her loathed marriage no less than in her future intention to marry the King’s favourite, she had not overlooked her lover’s closest friend, Sir Thomas Overbury. But the time was not yet ripe. She must first lay out her plea for divorce, giving as the shameful, shaming cause, her husband’s impotence. She had had one private interview with King James, when she had with all possible modesty explained her case. She had found a ready sympathy and an eager, most intelligent wish for detail and yet more detail. His Majesty had found her tale particularly stimulating, he had pressed her to get instant legal advice. He had promised his active support.

  So Lady Frances brooded and planned and Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, gazed complacently at a hopeful future and both of them controlled their impatience, for they imagined the weak King would presently give them all they desired.

  But King James, weak and vacillating as he was, clever, obstinate, vice-ridden, had much to occupy and vex him, apart from the defection he had already noticed in his long-favoured, much-loved Robbie.

  To begin with there was the failing health of his most useful and dependable servant Cecil, Earl of Salisbury. The man was not old, but he had overtaxed himself in the public service. James did not acknowledge how much he had himself contributed to the excess of work and anxiety, he did not accept any blame at all for his self-imposed penury. He had suffered poverty too late in his northern kingdom to find anything wrong in the wild extravagance he had delighted in since coming to the throne of England. He had indulged himself, his Queen and his family. He had bestowed honours and gifts most lavishly. Only when his debts pressed upon him too hardly did he increase the initial price of those honours and much of the revenue thus won went back to the donors in the form of land or jewels, presented as gifts.

  But always behind him, or rather at his elbow, was the little misshapen, shrewd and careful Cecil, often censorious, but never beyond the careful limit of absolute loyalty, never revealing his often near despair at the state of the royal finances, the appalling national debt.

  Without this constant shielding support, the King began to feel the harsh wind of reality blow freely at him, making him shiver and cringe. He knew his faithful councillor was ill but he did not yet know the condition was mortal.

  Cecil himself, however, guessed right in the matter. He consulted the physicians, among them his cousin Bacon’s own consultant, Doctor William Harvey of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. He found this man careful and thorough, but not very helpful. It had begun to dawn upon him that it was not Harvey’s fault, but that of his disease or accumulation of diseases. Doctor Harvey’s visits did, however, please him because the man’s real interest, he guessed with his usual perspicacity, lay more in the natural history of all living creatures rather than in the ill-functioning of one human frame. They often discussed the doctor’s recent researches designed to reveal not only the anatomical form but also the function of the various internal organs of the body.

  But the visits always ended upon the same note.

  ‘You find no improvement then, sir?’ Cecil asked one day when Doctor Harvey stood beside his bed, thoughtful and silent. ‘Nay, do not answer. I see it in thy face and above all know it in mine own bones.’

  ‘A change perhaps,’ Doctor Harvey suggested. ‘The waters—’

  ‘I had sooner watch the progress of my new home at Hatfield,’ Lord Salisbury answered, smiling. ‘It grows apace but I fear I may never see it finished nor live there.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Doctor Harvey insisted, ‘a change of air, a course of the waters at Bath or even Harrogate, must be beneficial and I heartily recommend it.’

  Cecil thanked him, and when he had gone away got up from his bed, put on a warm gown and sat again by the fire in his room, praying that he might live through the winter and see Hatfield in the spring. But in his mood of desponding he considered again the possibility of this prayer being unfulfilled, of his death cutting short all plans for the coming months. He decided to employ his thoughts less with Hatfield than with his now more expected next dwelling place, his tomb. From that time he sent for architects and sculptors to hear his proposals and submit designs for that final resting place.

  King James, in spite of his concern for Lord Salisbury, took no steps to cheer or comfort his faithful servant. This was largely due to his innate and superstitious horror of illness and death. Again, his upbringing had closed the gates to a mature understanding of the human condition. He equated disease and death with violence and violence with inevitable death. This lay at the root of the unceasing turns and twists of his policies to avoid the threat of a foreign war and at home his insistence upon a strict law forbidding duelling by sword or pistol, indeed even the carrying of short swords or pistols, under threat of severe punishment. This might mean paradoxically the ultimate punishment of hanging.

  His neglect of his sick Treasurer did appear most heartless, but it also stemmed from an absorbing preoccupation with matters that were both personal and of intense interest to the nation at large. Both his elder son, Henry, and his surviving daughter, Elizabeth, were of marriageable age or nearing it. Where would he find partners for the royal children that would be acceptable both to the world and to their fond parents?

  By the world he meant the divided states of Europe; the Empire with Spain, as against the Netherlands, Denmark and their allies; France holding an uncertain position in the centre.

  The division was present in England too. On the one hand the Archbishop Abbot, filling the see of Canterbury made vacant by the death of Archbishop Bancroft, stood firm for the reformed church, the Protestant faith. He was supported by the Chancellor, Lord Ellesmere, Lord Pembroke, Lord Southampton. Also by Sir Ralph Winwood, the Ambassador in Holland, who put forward a project for providing the Princess Elizabeth with a husband of the reformed faith, the young and handsome Frederick, Elector Palatine.

  ‘Your Grace speaks highly of this young man,’ the King said to his Archbishop. ‘Yet you have only our Ambassador’s report in the matter as have we, ourself.’

  ‘Sir Ralph Winwood is a most honest wit
ness, your Majesty,’ replied the prelate.

  James smiled and sighed. His new head of the English Church was also an honest fellow, loyal, of total integrity, provincial in origin, brought up in one of those admirable grammar schools founded by his own young predecessor, the earnest short-lived Edward, whose fortunate death without issue, followed by two barren sisters, had conveyed to him his throne in this still alien land.

  Seeing the King absorbed, as he thought, in the subject under discussion, Archbishop Abbot waited. He had been warned that the monarch was clever but devious, a clear head and a quick wit apt to be spoiled in action by totally irrelevant emotions. He wished he had brought my Lord Ellesmere with him to this interview. The Chancellor was well versed in the ways of the Court and the habits of the King. Whereas he himself had to depend upon the dignity and privilege of his office.

  So he waited while James’s thoughts, always inclined to wander to personal matters, ranged beyond consideration of his accession to the present factions he saw developing at the seat of government. He would enjoy playing off the one on the other, he decided.

  ‘We could bring Winwood back from Holland,’ he said, half questioningly.

  ‘That is so, your Majesty.’ Abbot was cautious, feeling his way. ‘Or desire him to probe further into this question of the young Elector Frederick. Suggest—er—terms. Offer a portrait of the Princess. I believe that is customary.’

  King James laughed suddenly, a spluttering guffaw that shocked the prelate.

  ‘My good Archbishop,’ he said, ‘we will not embarrass you with these matters of approach, the titillation of portraits, the prodding of the necessary desire. Nay. We shall but agree that this deserves further consideration, further discussion. My Lord Ellesmere—yes—we will hear his views. It may be no bad thing to proceed with a Protestant marriage for my beloved daughter.’

  ‘The common people one and all would hail it with delight,’ the Archbishop said eagerly.

  ‘The common people are not asked for their opinion,’ said the King. But he saw an unlooked for expression of obstinate disapproval settle upon the prelate’s face, and not wishing at such an early date in the new archepiscopal reign to encourage a breach in their relations, he changed the subject abruptly.

  ‘There is one other matter we wished to convey to your Grace,’ he said evenly. ‘The state of religion in our realm of Scotland is confused, as you may very well be aware. It is our intention in the coming year to establish a settled episcopacy there. The presbyterians will, of course, have none of it, but they should not be able to annoy, even persecute, others of a gentler inclination.’

  ‘They fear a return to the Catholic following of Rome,’ said Abbot. ‘As we no longer fear it in England, but nevertheless remain ever on our guard against that active remnant of the flock.’

  King James bowed his head, again exercising an unwonted degree of patience with this simple-minded but strong provincial.

  The interview came to an end. The Archbishop bowed himself out, King James went to his private study. There, later in the day, he received the Spanish Ambassador, Gondomar. He did not repeat to him his conversation with Archbishop Abbot, but he did resume the discussion that had interested him more than any other for some weeks past. A discussion of great and particular interest to that other faction in his entourage and his government, headed by the ageing Earl of Northampton, who counted among his followers that former Elizabethan admiral, Lord Thomas Howard, now Earl of Suffolk.

  For these men were of the party in favour of Rome and the matter that King James had sent for Gondomar to discuss once more was the projected marriage of the Prince Henry, heir to England’s throne, with the Infanta of Spain.

  Chapter Five

  Katharine Leslie need not have feared for her hardly-won position at Court, for Lady Essex had every intention of encouraging her, both for her decorative appearance and for her eminently respectable family connections. Her father, old Doctor Ogilvy, her brother an Oxford don, above all her husband knighted by the royal hand for his service in a royal project, all spoke for her own suitability to appear in the royal entourage. Lady Essex took cover behind a screen composed of similar ladies, few of high rank or birth but all apparently discreet, blameless, lovely.

  Only Lady Leslie was allowed any degree of intimacy with the countess. And this was not because of her attractions. Lady Frances Howard took very little personal interest in any woman at any time, certainly not in those who served her tortuous and secret purposes. But because young Alan Carr worshipped the scholar’s wife with as much fervour as his brother worshipped herself. And because before the winter moved reluctantly into spring the young man’s importunities had been rewarded.

  It happened in February, when a snowstorm covered the City of London with a fresh white carpet of snow while a new masque by Ben Jonson, designed by Inigo Jones, was being given before their Majesties in the palace of Whitehall.

  Lady Leslie had paid one of her rare visits to her mother on the day of this entertainment. She had not received any invitation to see the masque either from Lady Essex or Master Alan Carr. But she had taken care to let them know of her proposed whereabouts. So she was not surprised, as she sat in her mother’s parlour upstairs, recounting to that eager lady an endless succession of stale anecdotes of the Court, its frivolities and scandals, when Alan Carr’s arrival was announced by Giles, the doctor’s personal manservant.

  ‘Then bring him up,’ Mistress Ogilvy cried. ‘Unless the Doctor has him in the library.’

  ‘My master is not in the house, madam,’ Giles told her, and disappeared before she could repeat her order.

  Master Carr, who had paid visits before now to the house in Paternoster Row, made his usual graceful entrance and salutation to Mistress Ogilvy, who only half rose from her chair, bowing and breathless, while Katharine made a slight and somewhat chill curtsey. Mistress Ogilvy had grown considerably fatter since her daughter left home. She consoled herself, as she told her friends, for the loss of Kate’s company with sweetmeats and wine and she took no exercise at all.

  ‘You must excuse my not rising, sir,’ she said to Alan with a silly laugh. ‘The effort makes my heart beat against my ribs which can do it no manner of good, you will agree. While my age—’

  ‘Madam,’ Katharine interrupted, ‘you have so harped upon your advancing years to Master Carr that he cannot fail to know them well enough to make all due allowance. Now, sir,’ she said, turning to the young man with a demure face and a gleam of wicked laughter in the eyes her mother could not see, ‘come tell us your news and wherefore you come here on a day I remember there be great revels at Court.’

  ‘Revels!’ broke in Mistress Ogilvy, ‘and my Kate hath no part in them?’

  ‘It is to set right that grievous omission I am here,’ Alan said with great seriousness. ‘A messenger was despatched, returned with a garbled reply, was questioned and confessed he had lost the letter on his way to Gracious Street. He hath been soundly whipped and will take more care in future, I’ll swear.’

  ‘You mean I was invited to attend the masque?’ Katharine asked, looking puzzled. Alan’s story was clearly meant for her mother. It rang very far from true to her own way of thinking.

  ‘Therefore,’ Alan said, ignoring her question, ‘will it please you make ready, madam, at once, for my Lady Frances Howard would have you with her for the occasion.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Katharine, affronted by such a casual, late summons.

  ‘This very evening,’ replied Alan, beginning to show impatience in his turn. ‘I have a boat waiting at the Blackfriars stairs.’

  Katharine hurried from the room. She did not believe Alan’s story of the messenger, she did not believe she would be going to the masque. But it was possible my Lady Essex had need of her services though she could not imagine for what purpose. Somewhat distracted, for she had dressed very simply for her visit to her parents, she rifled her mother’s jewel box to improve her appearance in her own eyes and
then, wrapping herself in her heavy winter cloak and pulling up the hood over her head, she went quickly back to her mother’s room.

  ‘Wait for me below, sir, if you please,’ she said to Alan, with a formal air that brought his obedience. ‘Giles will attend you until I come. I have a message to give to my mother for my father.’

  But when they were alone, she put back her hood, opened her cloak and displayed the borrowed jewels, saying, ‘Forgive me for this liberty, madam, but you know I came very simply clad, because my father does not like my Court gowns.’

  ‘You are welcome to wear those ancient gewgaws,’ Mistress Ogilvy said, admiring their appearance on her daughter’s neck and hair. ‘I have little use now for such things.’

  Before Katharine could make her next request the old lady went on. ‘But thou must return them to me here this night. I would not be easy in my mind with thy father otherwise. Besides, Giles says it will snow again overnight, so thou may’st as well stay here until the morrow. Tell that to young Master Carr. He will look after thee, I’ll be bound. He has eyes for nought else when thou’rt by.’

  Katharine laughed. Had her mother forgotten she was a wife of well over five years, that she spoke so unseemly? Pulling her cloak into place again and promising to return as soon as the masque ended, she went quickly downstairs. Giles was standing with Master Carr near the front door of the house. Katharine said as she came up to them, ‘Master Carr, know you where I am to join my Lady Essex?’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ he answered, stepping back to let her pass first through the door.

  Giles watched them begin to walk in the direction of the river, then shook his head sadly, looked up at the darkening sky, shook it again, went in and closed the door.

  It was very cold on the river, but the tide was making, so the boatman was able to row fast and they disembarked again beyond the great houses along the Strand and made their way up from the hard to the road near the Charing Cross, beyond which lay the entrance to Whitehall Palace.