The Dark and the Light

by Josephine Bell

  ‘But the cause of all this lies in my shed at the wharf till nightfall? Then we can do little until she be away. Lucy will continue to protest her identity, I suppose?’

  ‘She did protest when she were ta’en, but I saw her raise a finger to her lips at me before she went with them. I think she knows she must be silent for this day.’

  ‘And therefore we must think of a plan. Meanwhile call Mistress Butters to me, Walt. The poor woman must learn of this grievous circumstance.’

  Not only did Mistress Butters hear with horror of her daughter’s great danger, but she insisted upon going immediately to the gaol to establish her own relationship with the prisoner. Master Leslie pointed out the danger of this course. Mistress Butters agreed, but under stress her excellent common sense and native wit devised a story that would, if helped by witnesses, go far to establish, not the truth of the early morning’s activities, but a very likely and convincing substitute.

  So Mistress Butters passed a couple of hours in very miserable apprehension and then set off with Walter to the place where Lucy was held. Another servant was despatched to Paternoster Row with a letter from Master Leslie to Doctor Ogilvy. Or rather with two letters; one that he carried openly, of no special import, that he might give up if that was required of him on the way, and another hidden under his clothes that he was to produce only when he was alone with the doctor. This one explained all that had happened, set out the story that had been agreed upon by all concerned at Gracious Street and begged Doctor Ogilvy to give the same account when he was asked.

  This done Master Leslie himself went down to his warehouse at Billings Gate and spent the hours until his dinner time conducting his business as if nothing had happened to disturb him. He received one call during that time from a man who said he came on behalf of my Lady Leslie, who was in custody.

  ‘I think you are mistaken,’ Master Leslie told him. ‘I have been informed that my housekeeper’s daughter. Lucy Butters, hath been taken up in error, but I do not doubt she is now released or will shortly be so.’

  ‘If that is so I have been misinformed,’ the man said. ‘Do you then know where I may find Lady Leslie?’

  ‘Have you any authority to ask this of me?’ the alderman demanded.

  The man quite obviously had none. He had been to Gracious Street hoping to find news of Katharine to take to his mistress, Lady Somerset. Instead of confusion and fear he had found calm. He had been told that the merchant was attending to his business at Billings Gate. Here again he had found indifference, which had now begun to embarrass him.

  Seeing the man hesitate Alderman Leslie rang a hand bell on his desk and when his clerk appeared said, ‘Show this fellow off my premises, if you please.’ To the man he said, ‘I think you are a knave and have no possible right to come here with your questions. If I am not mistaken you are that spy my kinsman Sir Francis Leslie engaged in his kitchen. I think I know your true employers, but I will not name them. Only I advise you, for your own safety, to leave the City and avoid Oxford too. For, as God’s my witness, if you meddle further in these matters your end will be very swift and very well deserved.’

  The man went away with a sullen face but no word in answer. Master Leslie sat for a time wondering if he had gone too far in disclosing what he believed. Had he frightened the fellow sufficiently? Could he have done more, short of keeping him close by force? He decided he could not. But he went home to dinner in a very anxious frame of mind.

  Meanwhile Doctor Ogilvy had received the alderman’s messenger in private, as the man demanded. The two letters were delivered to him, for which he thanked the servant and sent him away with Giles to wait for the answer he would take back. But when he had read the hidden script he sent for his wife to come to him in the library. She appeared, white-faced, red-eyed and trembling.

  ‘I have further news for thee, my poor Mary,’ the doctor said, showing her the letter. ‘I will read it to thee. Kate is not yet safe but by the sacrifice that brave girl, Lucy, hath made, there is still hope for her.’

  ‘And for us?’ whispered Mistress Ogilvy, ‘and for Richard—’

  She could not go on. Tears were gathering again in her eyes and spilling down her wrinkled cheeks.

  ‘For us all I hope in God’s mercy,’ Doctor Ogilvy said, putting an arm about the shaking shoulders. ‘But now listen, for it is very important thou understand what we must say if any officer of the law come to see us.’

  He did not add that no other visitor would be admitted, nor that Giles had already sent away Francis’s stable lad to Oxford with orders to speak to no one on his way home. The usual letter-carrier had gone with the lad, carrying the fearful news to Richard, who would hand it on to Francis if the latter had not already left in pursuit of his wife.

  Sad at heart, borne down by grief for his daughter, the doctor looked at the bowed head beside him. A poor, foolish, broken woman. A faithful, stupid, shallow being that had never grown beyond a romantic girlhood, living in a fairy world of unreality. Now they were two old helpless creatures, whom an inexorable fate saw fit to crush with such unnecessary force. A punishment, yes. Deserved, undoubtedly.

  ‘I will repeat what thou must say, must learn by heart, Mary,’ Doctor Ogilvy said. ‘I do not scold. Heaven knows I am as culpable, in my blindness, as thou in thy folly. But we must struggle to save—to save—’

  Overcome himself by the necessity to use falsehood, blatant dissembling, for the first time in his adult life, the doctor himself broke down and mingled his tears with the unhelpful partner who still shared his wretched lot.

  Francis in fact had left Oxford only sixteen hours behind his wife. When she did not return the first evening he waited for her until nearly midnight and then concluded she had been to consult her brother and had stayed there, though they had not passed one another on the way. But the next morning, having had no message he went to his stables and discovered that the stable lad and two horses, the one Katharine’s, the other a groom’s, were missing. He had his own mount saddled and rode at once to Richard’s house. They had not seen Kate for over a week so it seemed she had gone further, the likeliest place, according to her brother, being London.

  ‘I dare swear she hath gone to my father,’ he said. ‘He hath never denied her anything she asked, nor my mother, though she had little to give but bad advice and wrong encouragement, God forgive me for speaking ill of her that bore me.’

  Francis sent a message back to Luscombe and rode on to London, where he arrived at his kinsman’s house eight hours after Katharine had sailed on the Dutch ship.

  Master Leslie was much relieved to see him. He was by now labouring under a responsibility he felt he could not bear much longer. But while he was beginning to tell how he had arranged Katharine’s flight, news came from the wharf that the lady had embarked safely and the ship had been under way soon after midnight.

  ‘At least she is safe,’ Master Leslie said. ‘Now we can enlarge upon the tale of her going and release our poor Lucy from her ordeal.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Francis said, growing pale.

  He heard the tale of her heroism, for he thought it no less, with a great tide of love and admiration sweeping through him.

  ‘Mistress Butters is with her. I do not know how she has made them grant her this, except that I know my resolute worthy housekeeper of old and I think there be few men can withstand her acid tongue when she is driven to use it in her defence. Or in Lucy’s, which would be the same thing.’

  ‘We must go instantly to the prison,’ Francis said, pushing away his breakfast plate but drinking the tankard of ale beside it. ‘Surely I may deny that Lucy is my wife!’

  Would I could not deny it, he thought, with anguish. Kate abroad in exile, but safe. Safe and he himself in marriage chains for ever.

  ‘I will come too, then,’ the alderman said. ‘There is a tale we have all learned by heart and spoken to by turns. You will add to it, as I will explain. I have sent to an advocate who hath the ear of the A
ttorney-General, Sir Francis Bacon. Nay, but you have met Bacon at my house. We have not told his wife till now, but when he hears of the mistaken identity and she comes to know of it, we may get her to tell of her established friendship with Lucy.’

  Mistress Butters, exhausted by her long vigil, was led from the cell where the girl was imprisoned, to allow the three men, together with the officer who had made the arrest, to go in. There was very little room for so many and at first in the dim light from a small grating, Francis could not see past the others to where Lucy was sitting, bowed and silent upon a bare pallet.

  His instant cry of pity and anger brought her head up. Her face was drawn, haggard, streaked with tears, with dirt from the filthy furniture of the place; her hair was dishevelled, her dress disordered.

  ‘No!’ Francis cried. ‘No!’ and checked the outburst that raged on in his mind. What had they done to her? What had they made her suffer? How dared they do this to his true, brave love?

  The lawyer looked straight at him and said, ‘Sir Francis, you cry No. Do you deny this—this woman is your wife?’

  He looked dazed for a moment, then said with quiet emphasis, ‘This lady is not my wife. She is Mistress Lucy Butters.’

  ‘As everyone who hath seen her hath affirmed,’ the lawyer said. ‘What greater proof do you need, sir? Your case cannot be made to stand up!’

  ‘I have a prime witness here,’ the officer said. ‘Bring us the informer.’

  A youth was brought. As he passed Master Leslie he looked despairingly at him, but when he was pushed to the front and saw Lucy his manner changed.

  ‘Tell us your story,’ said the officer. ‘Break for us this conspiracy, this vile conspiracy.’

  Turning to the officer of the law the young man said, ‘I was named—I cannot say by whom—as being apprentice to Apothecary Franklin. I was made witness at my master’s trial, shortly to be held.’ He paused, then went on, speaking more freely.

  ‘I can say upon oath and will say so, I opened our door to a lady who was come for a package to deliver to Mistress Turner. I fetched Master Franklin, who spoke to the lady and bade her wait. He then gave me the package to give to her. I did not know what was in the package. I do not know to this day.’

  ‘But you handed the package to this lady?’ The officer pointed at Lucy.

  ‘No, sir. Indeed no, sir. This is nothing like the lady that came from Mistress Turner. My Lady Leslie is beautiful, the most beautiful—’

  ‘Silence, fool!’ It was the alderman who shouted aloud. But Francis prayed, for the tale matched some of what Kate had agreed to.

  The lawyer said, ‘How did you discover the name of the fair messenger? Or have you been prompted to know it?’

  ‘She told me it, sir. I was too slow. I kept her waiting. She stamped her foot and asked did I know who she was, the Lady Leslie.’

  At any other time in any other place the men would have laughed. But the sight of Francis Leslie’s face alone would have checked them.

  ‘Now will you agree we speak truth?’ Master Leslie said, ‘or do you wish me to call the Attorney-General himself. For he hath met Mistress Lucy at my house and most surely would not deny it. As for Lady Bacon—’

  He turned away to hide a smile he could not control at sight of the officer’s face of consternation. Then he turned back as the man said, ‘I will sign an order for release. Had you mentioned Sir Francis Bacon before—’

  ‘Had you called this young fellow before,’ Master Leslie interrupted, harshly.

  They all trooped out, except Francis, who lifted Lucy from the pallet, kissed her hand and would have gone down on his knees to her on the grimy floor had she not prevented him.

  ‘Is she safe?’ she whispered.

  He nodded, forcing his thoughts back to Katharine, though his heart and mind were fixed on Lucy. Whom he had suspected of malice, God have mercy! Who had risked so much for that worthless—He caught himself up again, murmuring in utter confusion, ‘Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!’

  She could not answer this but she understood what he meant and knew that the difference between them was over.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As the trials proceeded of those concerned directly in the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury it became clearer day by day that the whole thing had been a black conspiracy set in train from above. Suspicion reached for the highest in the land, pointing even to the King.

  This was what James had feared from the start. He knew he had thrust Overbury into the Tower to break the young man’s arrogance. He had been insulted. His favours were not to be refused, but accepted with humble gratitude. After all, the law had upheld his action. Overbury’s fault was considered a kind of treason. There had been no definite sentence because there had been no trial; none was needed. If the young fool had confessed his fault and pleaded for mercy, James told himself, he would have had him released. He had not sought a stronger revenge. Certainly not a secret and most ill-contrived death. But would the people acquit the King in their heads and hearts, unless the true instigators could be named? And had he, the monarch, felt more than affront at Overbury’s behaviour? James knew, repeated again to himself, that he had resented the young man’s influence upon Robbie. Here was motive enough for the dark and evil deed. But he was innocent. Before God he was innocent! The true culprits must be exposed.

  The Somersets knew to what end the King’s mind was moving. Robbie Carr was not for long deceived by James’s last farewell. He had not gained an audience since that sordid, farcical visit. He had been put off with very lame excuses. At long last he too began to be afraid and in a final act of folly tried to buy back his letters to Mistress Turner for twenty pounds. When this came to light he even tried to blackmail the King, which added to the urgency with which James spurred on the original Commission of inquiry to complete their findings and proceed to the trial and conviction of all those concerned.

  With Lord Justice Coke as judge there was no doubt of the outcome. Turner, Franklin, de Lombell, Richard Weston, Simon Merston, Mary Woods, all were convicted and sentenced. After Weston’s confession any defence the others might have sustained collapsed entirely. Sir Gervase Helwys, who might have escaped had he held his tongue, was convicted on his report to Sir Ralph Winwood.

  Only William Reeve, alive and repentant in Brussels, escaped the gallows and also that other apprentice who had warned Katharine and finding she had, as he thought, escaped, joyfully and truthfully secured Lucy’s release. He never knew who had paid him to denounce Lady Leslie. He had agreed, kept the money, but acted otherwise. He never knew the spy placed to watch Lady Leslie who had also been paid to denounce her. Neither appeared at the trials; the apprentice because he wisely left London immediately after he had confirmed Lucy’s identity; and the other because his body appeared in the Thames a few weeks later. By then it was unrecognizable, so no great effort was made over it at a brief inquest and it was buried in a common grave as a ‘man unknown’.

  Sir Thomas Monson who had appointed Helwys to the Tower, also escaped, though he had, as patron, forced Helwys to appoint Weston as keeper of the chosen victim. The judge would have tried him, but the King intervened.

  Those culprits who had been found guilty were duly hanged, with a great crowd assembled to watch them die and cheer or boo their last moments. Mistress Turner wore a freshly-designed gown in rich material with a wide lace collar, yellow-starched in the latest fashion. She had been feared by many during her life of crime. In fact during her trial the superstitious had sworn her master the Devil was himself in court to sustain her. Nevertheless her final courage and contempt did bring her the admiration of the mob, though she could not by any possible twisting of the evidence be considered an unlucky victim.

  There was one very scandalous interruption of the executions, when some young lords rode up to demand further confessions of the condemned wretches. They were driven away without having gained anything but severe censure from all present.

  If they had h
oped to save the Somersets from utter ruin they were unsuccessful. All the evidence that came out at the trials pointed to the guilt of the pair. And of the two Lady Frances was clearly more guilty than her husband. But he was most certainly an accessory after the fact: all his stupid attempts to free himself from possible blame had failed miserably. But he continued to plead not guilty and even Bacon, who as Attorney-General prepared the case against both of the Somersets, could not find more than conjecture to bring against him.

  Lady Frances pleaded guilty, but threw herself upon the mercy of the Court. Where Robbie showed his humble origins in his abject insistence upon his innocence in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, the lady bore out her aristocratic upbringing in her scorn of such base cowardly lying. She pleaded guilty and at the same time used her utmost feminine guile to lessen her punishment.

  She did not succeed. Bacon and Coke between them found both Somersets guilty of premeditated murder and they were sentenced to death, much to the relief of King James, who until the end of the trial was nervous and anxious, lest any blame might be washed off against him.

  He did, however, jib at the thought of the axe or rope. He would not allow the executions and so the fallen pair were lodged in the Tower with no term set to their imprisonment. The love they had pursued with such high-handed, unprincipled ferocity did not survive for long this total fall from all position and power. Without freedom, without the Court sycophants, flatterers, slavish underlings and all, without means, for most of Robbie’s accumulated wealth had been made forfeit, they soon tired of their restricted company. It was a dulled, crushed couple, still fearful of a sudden fatal turn in their circumstances that, after six years of imprisonment were freed to live in a named house, Grays, in the country near Oxford, but restricted to a three mile radius around it. And here they lived, or rather existed, until well into the next reign, on a restored income of four thousand pounds a year and a pardon that meant nothing to either.