The Dark and the Light

by Josephine Bell

  Being in such good humour there was no college in the university that was not honoured by the sovereign. Even the most puritan of them all, Emmanuel, that had made no effort to welcome the King, was won over sufficiently to avoid rebuke.

  On his return to London James remembered chiefly how Cambridge had entertained him. He sent for the players to perform ‘Ignoramus’ again before him, but when he found this would not be possible, for the amateur actors, largely drawn from the divinity faculty, were too deeply immersed in their studies and could not break the rules of their colleges in term time, he made up his mind to return expressly to see another performance.

  Oxford, still feeling highly superior, as receiving so many favours and a visit almost directly after the accession, mocked the Cambridge players as a set of crude mummers degrading their status in a school of learning. But Cambridge replied with the doggerel,

  ‘You cannot say

  The King did go from you in March

  And came again in May.’

  Meanwhile the Protestant faction in London, working steadily to promote the fortunes of George Villiers, refused to accept the barrier set up against the youth by the Earl of Somerset. It was a delicate situation requiring very careful handling. But the party no longer had the cunning, unscrupulous Northampton to thwart them. With less to fear they became bolder in which they considered to be a good cause.

  Archbishop Abbot sought an interview with Queen Anne, in spite of her known reputation for sympathy with the Catholic community. He began by complaining of the reckless, extravagant, bold behaviour of the new earl.

  ‘Since his marriage, your Majesty, his very regrettable marriage and various preferment, he hath become well nigh insupportable—’

  ‘To us he was always that, your Grace,’ interrupted the Queen, in a very downright manner. ‘We do not wish to speak of him more than necessary.’

  The Archbishop bowed gravely.

  ‘I do but wish to remind your Majesty of the immodesty, the undesirability of this man’s continuance in the King’s regard.’

  ‘You have some means to lessen it?’

  ‘I think we begin to have a very potent means, madam.’

  Queen Anne was no intellectual; some found her dull if not stupid. In this they were wrong. She was no fool and had long since fully accepted her husband’s deviation. But she was not any more inclined to discuss it nor its implications than she had been when she first understood it.

  So she stared severely at the high representative of the Christian Church of England, reserving to herself her Catholic scruples, forcing poor Abbot to disclose in as dignified a manner as he could muster, the very dubious plan he and his followers had devised.

  ‘Your Majesty may have heard that—that a certain George Villiers hath been brought to the royal notice—hath been presented—hath pleased—’

  ‘We are no more inclined to discuss a new whore, a fresh light-o-love, than the old,’ she said. ‘But since we concede that your office would not have allowed you to approach us with scandal for its own sake, we take it you have some other purpose in this audience. But be brief, your Grace, for we find a most unpleasant smell begins to assail our nostrils.’

  Abbot, inwardly raging at the false position she was pushing him into, hastened to explain his purpose without further preliminary. It was desirable to remove Somerset, now fully in the hands of the Catholic party, from influencing the King, particularly in the matter of the marriage of Prince Charles. His Majesty’s interest had been roused in a young man much favoured by the Protestant party, who represented the people of England, their wishes and hopes. To promote Villiers it would be necessary to place him at Court. What more suitable, the Archbishop said without flinching, than to make him a Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

  ‘Is that not the province of the Lord Chamberlain?’

  ‘Aye, madam. And the office is held by my Lord Somerset, who refuses to make the appointment.’

  Queen Anne laughed harshly. For a moment Abbot was reminded of the late Prince Henry, who would have found humour in just such a predicament. His renewed grief for the lost heir made him submit silently to the Queen’s next remark.

  ‘So, rather than fill the post of pimp yourself, my Lord Archbishop, you would have me do it for you?’

  After a brief silence Abbot said, stubbornly, ‘I would have the power of Somerset over his Majesty broken.’

  The Queen relented.

  ‘There spoke an honest provincial gentleman,’ she said, graciously holding out her hand to show that the interview was ended. ‘Guildford should be very proud of her son. Nay, we are not offended, though we may have less power with the King than you hope for. Aye, do not say it,’ she added, seeing the Archbishop’s face change. ‘It is not our power will serve but that of your young Adonis.’

  Queen Anne set to work very soon after the Archbishop’s visit. Though her leaning was towards the Catholic religion she had enough sense, as an alien in the country, not to meddle with the native religion, now so greatly in the popular ascendant after the fluctuations under the Tudor dynasty. Besides, she was still a Scandinavian. She had no wish to see a Spanish daughter-in-law brought to England. Catholic she might be, but that did not make her a slave of Spain. She both disliked and feared the clever Spanish ambassador with his firm hold upon King James. It would be a triumph to defeat him in any way. With Somerset into the bargain. Yes, a triumph indeed.

  The time was propitious, midway between the two Cambridge visits. Queen Anne gave a discreet party with a masque, which the King attended. George Villiers had been invited to be presented to the Queen. After his crowded intellectual pleasures at the university James was in a state of cerebral satisfaction, if not surfeit. He saw nothing strange in the presence of his new attraction at his wife’s entertainment The natural outcome, with approval all round, was a knighthood for Villiers.

  Following her usual form, well understood and approved, Queen Anne did not invite Robbie Carr to her party, but she did, to allay any sort of suspicion, invite Lady Frances. The new Countess of Somerset had the unwelcome privilege of meeting her husband’s coming successor in the King’s favour and reported all she had seen and surmised to Robbie, who refused to accept her interpretation of the event.

  But before long and without any consultation with James he found himself obliged to agree to the young man’s promotion. The King directed him to place Villiers with the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. Sir George Villiers, the letter of direction called him. And when Robbie, furious, wounded as he had never been before, ridiculously jealous, sought to rebuke his master before persuading him to rescind the appointment, he found his way blocked by frightened attendants, coldly put off to a later time, finally baulked by the King’s sudden departure once more to the delights and flatteries of Cambridge.

  The Earl of Somerset brooded upon his wrongs. He would go to Cambridge, he swore, confront the King with the plots of his enemies and secure their punishment.

  ‘Including that of her Majesty the Queen?’ asked his wife. Her contempt was obvious and galling. ‘Think’st thou she is promoting young Villiers in solicitude for the King’s happiness? That she compounds with vice?’

  These barbed words brought Somerset to his senses. Lady Frances must have spoken truth in her account of the Queen’s party. There were high offices of State behind these moves against his own power. With Northampton dead who was there to take his place?

  ‘Thou art not capable, my love,’ Lady Somerset told him. ‘Thy rôle should continue to be to please, to flatter, to show such affection as thou’rt able to compass. Be gentle towards his Majesty, grieved at this misunderstanding, patient above all.’

  Robbie shrugged off these words. Looking at him fondly Lady Frances was pained to see how heavy his face became when he was out of humour. There was a new physical danger developing here, she thought, with a sense of shock. They were still at the peak of their success, but was it a sharp peak, a mountain top of so little space and assai
led by such frantic winds of opposition that their presence there could be of limited duration? She shivered at such a thought, her resolution hardening as it had always done when she was challenged.

  ‘As for this upstart, this Villiers,’ she said softly, remembering the youth’s fine features and graceful slim body, ‘this pretty boy with his fresh skin and glowing eye, methinks his inexperience should give us ample opportunity to—shall I say overthrow—’

  ‘No devilment!’ Somerset told her sharply. He had seen the look he feared begin to transform her fair face. He turned away to lose it from his sight. ‘No accident! No sickness! On your life and honour I demand it!’

  She went up to him to regain her ascendancy and leaning her head on his breast whispered her total obedience to his will.

  At once he was comforted. She had been right, he told her, to advise patience. The King’s behaviour was devious, fickle, abominable even, after his long years of devotion to the royal person, the royal will. But a King was a King, not to be gainsaid.

  He would submit with a good grace, he would make no more complaints. He would even endure an acquaintance with the upstart.

  ‘Aye, cultivate Villiers,’ Lady Frances urged. ‘So we may know his thoughts and his ways and learn by degrees to find a way to destroy him. Or rather,’ she added, feeling her lord stiffen at this, ‘or rather lead him to destroy himself.’

  So Lord Somerset conducted his behaviour with more care and thought that he was succeeding. He felt encouraged to settle with the King the disposition of two appointments. These were the office of a Privy Councillor for himself and that of Warden of the Cinque Ports for Bishop Bilston. On the death of Northampton he had been offered both, but neither post had been confirmed. By giving up the latter Somerset hoped to prove his own lack of greed.

  He was unsuccessful. A letter came from King James refusing to make either appointment. The tone of the letter was severe. Somerset was acting badly, James wrote; he was ungrateful, he forgot his duty. Let him behave as heretofore. Let him forgo arrogance and bombast. His position in the King’s regard was a matter for the subject, not the monarch. His future lay in his own hands.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Robbie Carr, Earl of Somerset, gave way to panic. He could no longer disregard the King’s letters for they insisted upon his faults too strongly to suggest a passing feeling.

  ‘I have done nought that other men have not done ten times more forcefully,’ he swore to Lady Frances.

  ‘Thou hast been more to him than ten other men,’ she answered with contempt in her voice.

  ‘Have been, have been,’ he answered wildly. ‘Would’st say then my time is over? That he may even hold me answerable for his own ill deeds and weaknesses?’

  ‘The King can do no wrong,’ she said. ‘Hath he not always sworn to his own noble mind, his purity, the flowers of his prerogative as he be pleased to call those unpopular demands he makes upon the realm.’

  He turned upon her in a fury but she made no move and presently he fell to weeping, in fear, in confusion at the danger that had sprung upon him when he thought he was above all danger to his position or his person.

  But his emotion purged his panic and presently he was able, with his wife’s help, to discuss their position more reasonably. Lady Frances altered her mocking tone to one of loving solicitude. Robbie was comforted; he even regained some of his former vanity.

  ‘I will have an indemnity from his Majesty,’ he declared. ‘He must acknowledge my great services, my unfailing loyalty to his interests and his person. It is but just I should have this pardon.’

  So a formal document was prepared in which the Earl of Somerset was to be pardoned in law for any transgression he had ever made or would ever make, such transgression to include even the crime of murder. Others had procured such documents in the past, chiefly where the monarch’s wishes exceeded the scope of the common law of the land. Lady Frances objected to the inclusion of murder, but Robbie had his friend’s death very much on his conscience though he had taken no active part in securing it. He persuaded himself that King James’s feelings had not altered so much he would be denied the security he demanded.

  He was very nearly successful. James at this time was much torn by conflicting emotions. His regard for his old favourite was very great: it had been all-absorbing in the early days: it had brought him much happiness, so that now his sentimental nature yearned for a renewal of past joys, which his clever mind knew perfectly well could not be achieved. Moreover he was much taken by George Villiers, who so far had behaved with the greatest possible respect and modesty. In great, almost overwhelming contrast with the upstart earl, as his inmost thought described the declining star.

  So for a time the King’s will, never strong, always seeking diligently for compromise, swayed this way and that over the matter of the pardon. At one moment he resented the audacity that demanded such a comprehensive covering. At the next discretion and fading love both urged him to consent. He remembered several deeds successfully carried out by Robbie, a number of doubtful financial operations in the royal interest where the law was flouted or circumvented. It would not add to the reputation of the throne to have these things brought to light as they might be in the future when Robbie was no longer too powerful to be attacked by those he had injured. Affection, self-interest, both suggested he sign the pardon.

  But here the Lord Chancellor came to James’s aid. For Lord Ellesmere had no intention of allowing the disreputable waning favourite to escape the consequences of his coming fall. He believed the fall to be imminent. When at last the King presented the pardon the Lord Chancellor refused to pass it under the Great Seal.

  For the moment James was furious. But though his heart was in the matter on the side of Somerset his better judgement was not and Ellesmere’s total refusal upheld him here. He grew tired of the whole business. Past deeds, yes, but to attempt immunity of blame for the rest of his life? Who did the man think he was? It could be called an attempt to usurp the Prerogative! Ellesmere agreed with this view.

  So after an argument he really intended to lose King James left the matter in the Lord Chancellor’s hands and thankfully went off to hunt in the Midland woods where his new young friend had first gladdened his ageing eyes. The pardon was never sealed.

  Lord Somerset waited for the result of his venture with growing impatience and anxiety. Presently he made another move for security, as ill-judged and clumsy as the first. He sent for Sir Thomas Overbury’s servant, a man called Lawrence Davis, with whom he had been in contact from time to time since the former’s death.

  He had seen him first when Overbury was sent to the Tower, ostensibly to make sure the man was honest and would look after his master’s possessions. When Overbury became ill he saw him again to express his concern, and later to speak of his great grief and at the same time discover what was to be done with his late friend’s effects.

  These, he learned, were to be taken over by the relatives who arranged the burial. Including, he understood. Overbury’s papers, letters, deeds, in fact all the documents in his possession when he was arrested. Some of this material had been examined, Davis had told him, perhaps taken away. He had watched until he was told to leave the room. Later he had been allowed to tidy away the documents.

  Master Davis came now at Lord Somerset’s call, respectful as always, waiting to hear what his lordship wanted.

  ‘It hath come to my notice,’ Lord Somerset began, ‘that my late friend, your master, held among his papers sundry letters I wrote him upon a variety of topics. Can you inform me of the present whereabouts of my letters?’

  Master Davis expressed no emotion, no awareness of any particular importance in this question, only a continued respect for the speaker that increased if anything his impatience.

  ‘Come, come, my man!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let us be brief. Know you the fate of these letters or not?’

  ‘Sir Thomas’s papers were subjected to a very long scrutiny. my lord,�
� Davis answered at last. ‘A very long and careful scrutiny at the time of his arrest. There was a great confusion at the end of it, left to me to restore to order. Which I did to the best of my ability, my lord.’

  ‘My letters, which cannot have been considered of any importance to the King’s men, being left alone by them?’

  ‘I gathered up all that was not removed, my lord.’

  ‘Including my letters? What ails thee, man? My letters of none but personal importance to your late master. God rest his soul, and myself, his friend. They were a part of what you secured?’

  A slight emphasis on the last word, together with a dangerous gleam appearing suddenly in the Earl’s cold eyes forced the servant to reconsider his caution.

  ‘Were they not?’ Somerset roared.

  ‘They were, my lord. They had lain in a particular drawer before they were examined. I restored them to that drawer.’

  ‘So.’ Lord Somerset nodded. He had now a weapon in his hand. He used it forcibly.

  ‘You knew beforehand then where my letters lay? You have previously examined them for your own vile purposes! Villain! Rogue! Icould have you flogged or worse!’

  ‘My lord, I protest—’

  ‘You protest! I have a mind to—’

  ‘My lord, the letters are very safe. I have spoken the truth. If it be your lordship’s wish to have them restored—’

  ‘Then you can do so? Sir Thomas’s kinsfolk did not take away all his possessions? They examined but left them in your care? Do you expect me to believe this?’

  Master Davis shook his head slowly. He had not cringed under threats, Lord Somerset had noticed with mild admiration. A sturdy rogue. Perhaps he had best now come to terms.

  ‘Well, my man,’ he said in a changed tone, cordial now, even indulgent. ‘I see you have an aptitude for business. You have taken pains to secure from your late master a marketable commodity. Am I not the only true owner of that part of his property you say you have preserved? Can’st show it me?’