by Lucy Jago
‘Lady Frances Devereux, formerly Howard, Countess of Essex.’
‘Abode?’
‘Whitehall Palace, Greenwich Palace, Windsor Palace, Audley End in Suffolk, Charlton Park in Wiltshire and the houses and estates of my husband, sisters and brothers in London, Westminster and the country.’ Forman wrote ‘various’.
‘Age?’
‘Your questions are outlandish.’
‘Illnesses, including those of the heart, are frequently peculiar to certain ages.’
‘Twenty.’
‘Ask me your question,’ Forman said, consulting the clock on his table and noting the time.
‘Will I ever be free from my marriage?’
‘You have no children and suspect none to be upon you?’ he asked, without hint of censure.
‘My husband cannot get children upon me.’ Forman looked up but did not press for details. He moved his quill to the opposite page and wrote, ‘Mistress Anne Turner, widow, gentlewoman, Fetter Lane.’
‘I am only here to accompany my friend.’
‘There is nothing you wish to know? Let me help you, there will be no charge.’
‘I am now in Paternoster Row.’
‘Are you?’ he said, not quite covering his surprise at the rapid deterioration in my circumstances. ‘Your age?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘My dear, the years are kind to you. Six times taken to childbed?’ I nod. ‘Your question?’ he asked, noting the time.
To my surprise, there was not one question I could voice. Forman had been George’s friend for many years. It would sicken him to hear about Arthur.
‘Come, Anne,’ he encouraged me. Frankie stood and moved away to sit in the window and I, with some reluctance, sat in the vacated chair.
‘When will Sir Arthur Waring be able to marry me?’ I said, the skin on my face burning as if an iron swept across it.
‘Is he in a position to?’ said Forman.
‘You knew?’
‘George sought remedies for impotence while you gave birth to three children. I did not know who fathered them.’
We sat in silence until Forman looked again at the clock.
‘Would he consider you as a wife?’ Forman himself was the lover of many women he had no intention of marrying.
‘Of course! It is not whether he will marry me, but when. Arthur has an estate in Shropshire worth fifteen hundred a year and is carver to Prince Henry and steward to Baron Ellesmere. He suffers only the usual financial difficulties of any man at Court. There is little difference in social standing between us,’ I said, fanning my face with my mask. Forman’s raised eyebrow tugged every line and wrinkle in his face.
‘Admit all that worries you, Anne, or how can I help you?’
After some hesitation, during which I realised I wanted his help as much for myself as for Frankie, I conceded: ‘He is younger than me by eight years, currently stands in better credit and, before I was widowed, I made him valuable clothes.’
Forman rubbed the fantail of his red beard, producing a sound that made me shiver. How did his wife suffer him?
‘Sir Arthur has little reason to marry you. You bring no title or wealth, you have six children to support, and you can no longer offer him costly gifts.’
‘He promised George!’ I said, hearing how ridiculous the words sounded as they filled the space between us.
‘Even so,’ said Forman, clearing his throat as though embarrassed by my naivety, ‘Pisces will be ascendant over Leo, feet over heart. His tendency will be to run from obligation.’
‘His tendency? His duty is to provide for his children and their mother!’ I said, furious because I was afraid that Forman was right to question Arthur’s honour.
‘His reluctance is a common ailment amongst men of fortune and good looks in whom the humours are out of balance through various forms of dissipation,’ said Forman, smiling. ‘Do not be vexed. There are ways to encourage such men.’
I was too cross and embarrassed to sit still and could not look at Frankie for fear of what she was thinking of me. She had certainly guessed that my youngest three children were Arthur’s, but she had not known that I gave him gifts. I walked about, tinkering with strange items on tables, remembering the six occasions Forman had correctly predicted the sex of the child I was carrying. His accuracy now frightened me. Frankie sat in the window gazing out, her expression peaceful.
The room had grown dark. By the light of the candles on his desk Forman drew two astrological figures and consulted a volume as thick as three bricks before writing tiny symbols into the figure. He was still but for his left hand twitching across the figures, pecking them with ink. Eventually he sat back and stretched his arms above his head.
‘I will prepare a philtrous powder for use when the moon is not full and the stars and planets are in correct alignment. I will write the dates down for you and you must keep to them strictly. Stir the powder into strong wine but only a small measure or his limbs will shake. It will render Sir Arthur desirous but you must not give yourself to him until he has proposed.’
‘When will we be married?’
‘The charts rarely give specific answers; here I see only that you will not make forty.’ His tone was so jocular the comment passed me by with little impact as he followed it with, ‘Or you will live to be very, very old. But I see that you will be taken care of.’
I suddenly had hundreds of questions, about the children, Mary’s cough, Barbara’s prospects, how I was to survive until Arthur proposed, but Forman turned to Frankie’s chart. She took my place and I hers. The Palace of Whitehall and the great houses on the Strand were silhouetted darkly against the night sky, a few of their windows faintly glowing. There were many lanterns on the river but the moon and stars hid themselves behind cloud.
‘Do you wish to escape your marriage because there is someone else you love?’
‘There is one I like, but my family loathe him.’
‘Is it for him you turn your husband away?’
‘Not at all. Are you acquainted with my husband?’
‘I have not had the pleasure …’
‘There would be no pleasure in it, I assure you. He has abused and violated me in every possible manner. His hatred for me stems from his belief that my family called for the death of his father. How can I overcome that?’
Forman put down his pen and looked directly at Frankie. ‘It seems the Devil has scoured the seeds of forgiveness from his soul. Should he be exorcised?’
‘He does not believe himself at fault.’
‘He thinks witchcraft holds down his member?’
‘He does not consider fault at all, except that it be mine. He hates me.’
‘And you him?’
‘Recently.’
‘Do you wish him dead?’
Frankie stood abruptly. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Calm, sit, sit …’ said Forman, pulling the great ring off his finger and walking around his desk to show it to Frankie. She stepped back.
‘This is an Eagle Stone put in nests by those great birds to enable them to propagate. Within the gem is a smaller stone,’ he rattled it, ‘no one knows how it gets in there. These stones are exceedingly rare and protect a woman from miscarriage if tied to the right arm. I wear it to protect against bladder stones, such as killed poor George, God rest his soul, and from fevers and plague. I was given it by a wealthy woman I treated for her inability to have further children after her fourth baby. She had bought it from a Venetian. Four times it proved effective but thereafter she lost every child. Weakened by miscarriages and gravely ill, she pressed the ring on me but I did not want it, it had lost its power. Then she confessed that the dead babies were not by her husband, who would not sleep with her after discovering her shameful secret: lust for her own brother. The stone had caused the product of incest to fail; it knew what she had kept secret from everyone. For my interventions to work, only the truth between us will do,’ he said. ‘Do you wish your
husband dead?’
She sat down, unsettled. ‘How else can I be free?’ In the silence that followed I could hear the tiny creaks of the window-lead cooling in the darkness.
‘The sacred bond of matrimony can be broken only by the death of one party and I am bound by the Hippocratic Oath,’ Forman stated clearly. ‘Angels are not. They must be called in this case.’
‘Will angels keep a husband from his wife’s bed? Or speed his death? Is that God’s work?’
‘Ah! I have broken my brains in studying the Providences of God. They are beyond our comprehension. We can but ask and they will do as He wills.’
‘Can they keep the man I like faithful to me while they work?’ she asked.
Forman’s eyebrows shot up and he laughed, giggled really. ‘You are used to being obeyed, I see!’ It was some moments before he gained control of himself. Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he said, ‘I need his name.’
‘My lady,’ I warned. Forman placed his hand over his heart and I raised my eyes to heaven.
‘Sir Robert Carr,’ she said, ignoring me, again. She had only herself to blame if by her indiscretion her family came to know of her liking for him.
‘The King’s favourite? Does he not have a friend, that strutting Sir … Overbury? Is it he who admires you but hides behind Carr’s cloak?’
Forman’s giggling had lightened the air around us. Frankie and I caught eyes and laughed so hard we had to put our arms across our chests for fear our laces would snap. One after another, images came to mind of Overbury making eyes at Frankie, each more ridiculous than the previous. Forman appeared delighted by our mirth and circled his hands as if to stir up more. ‘Not Overbury,’ Frankie finally managed to say, ‘he hates women even more than he hates us Howards. His tenderness is all for Carr and it is returned. Carr has come to believe he cannot do without Overbury’s wit, mainly because Overbury tells him so.’
Forman’s expression was instantly serious. ‘Then he will go to great lengths to keep Sir Robert Carr from you.’
Frankie held Forman’s gaze. ‘I am not afraid of Sir Thomas Overbury. He is low in rank and too widely disliked to do harm. It is my husband I fear. He has already done me great wrong.’
Forman sat forward, clearly entranced by Frankie. ‘“Then surely He shall deliver thee from noisome pestilence, for He shall give His angels charge over thee!”’ he cried, before becoming as businesslike as any tailor or jeweller, describing the processes of his trade. ‘As a magus, I follow in the steps of King Solomon. Once summoned, a spirit is named and thereby bound to a master, who can then call it at will. To use spirits against a person or their property is “Magical Assault”, punishable by death according to laws passed by our King as soon as he came to the English throne. That is why I call only on angels. They cannot be made obedient to man and act only according to His will.’
It was clear to me that he was aroused by desire to help two beautiful ladies, hoping that he would lie with us both once he had our trust, but he was also transformed by excitement at the prospect of communicating with God’s messengers. What greater project could there be but to bring happiness to His flock? What nobler calling than to help work His mysteries? It was an act of faith, there was no sin in it. From every pulpit we were told to put our trust in angel helpers, to know that God’s guardians looked over us and kept us safe. The Pope had created a Feast Day for guardian angels two years earlier. Even the strictest Puritan would not question our belief that help came from that source.
Having laid out his stall, Forman cried, ‘Let us call them!’
He looked at us, to ascertain whether we possessed sufficient courage. What he did not know, but soon would, was that the problem with Frankie and me was a surfeit of courage.
Forman locked and bolted the chamber door, closed the windows and shutters and pulled thick curtains over them. He cleared a space in the middle of the cluttered room and from a box took three metal sigils that he hung around our necks.
‘These will keep us from harm if devils appear. Remember that angels are stronger and their love higher than the others’ malice.’ I cannot say I found this comforting. That I might see devils terrified me and Frankie too, judging by the set of her mouth.
‘Bugs, witches, fairies, ghosts, imps, puckrils, goblins … they will not bother us, even devils will be thwarted. We will tell the angels our hopes but they will only be realised if godly.’
Forman pulled away a carpet, under which was drawn a circle and within it a star.
‘Witch marks?’ I said, close to calling the whole enterprise to a halt.
Forman tutted. ‘Witches use them perhaps,’ he conceded, ‘but they are ancient symbols used by great magi.’ In the middle he placed a great metal bowl and lit pebbles from which issued smoke and sweet smells. Our priests never risked burning incense in London, there were too many Catholic-hating noses in proximity, but I knew what this substance must be. He took Frankie’s hand and led her to one point of the star, within the circle, and half-dragged me to the opposite. Forman put on a black cloak that covered him except for his head and arms and blew out all but one candle.
‘Do not step beyond the circle; it protects you,’ he said. My eyes watered in the smoke; its dryness caught my throat. Frankie coughed. Amongst the shadows, I thought I saw movement.
‘When spirits and angels come, they do not like to be clearly known,’ Forman said.
Then he threw something into the bowl, which hissed loudly, and the room around us filled with pungent vapours. Forman began to chant and call in a strange voice and it took all my strength not to run to Frankie in my fear. She resembled a phantom in the pale smoke. Her head was tilted back, I suppose to watch the angels descend, and her curiosity and stillness calmed me.
I began to feel the effects of Forman’s magic. The walls of the room moved in and out, the ceiling rose and fell, like bread proving. The creatures in the jars began to dance and sing, and then, on a cloud of smoke, I saw Forman fly into the air. With my own eyes I saw it. His arms outstretched, he talked in a foreign tongue, at times listening and nodding eagerly. I looked to Frankie, rising like a lark; and when she stared at me in wonder, I knew that I too was floating.
Then I saw them. All above me like a veil over my head but not touching it, angels. So many, they flew as if joined in one heavenly murmuration, but amongst them I saw faces, hands bearing golden trumpets, great wings and flying hair like ropes. They looked through me with dark eyes that beheld the whole Earth and all the rings of heavenly beings right up to the seat of God Himself. Their song engulfed me, frightening and uplifting; I knew the wonder of flight without fear of falling. I heard Frankie cry out in rapture and my voice joined hers.
Held in the arms of angels, Frankie and I flew over the whole world. We saw every living creature from the smallest mouse to the monsters that live in water at the Earth’s corners. We saw kings and beggars. For each and every living being, tree and rock, we felt the compassion of God. George was there. Arthur too. My parents, and their parents, and six generations before them, and my grandchildren, and their children, and six generations to come, all dressed in bright garments. When I knew in my heart that all would be well, I felt the angels lay me down. They left as they had come. I heard movement in the room. The bowl was removed, shutters and windows opened, a breeze blew across us. Forman held burnt feathers to our noses and we sat up, exhausted and changed.
‘They will help,’ he said, his features radiant with joy and peace. ‘Be prepared, for your lives are soon to change.’
8
Forman’s intercession with the angels started well. Arthur returned from the Prince’s hunting trip a week early and sent word that he would call that evening. The house and its occupants were scrubbed and sweetened in preparation; I did not want him to see how low I was brought.
He arrived at twilight, when the street falls quiet and the watchman is yet to begin his rounds, the godly are home supping, the unruly buying their first drink. A
lthough late September, it was hot enough for me to smell the coat of his horse through the window. Old Maggie opened the front door and took Arthur’s hat but immediately retreated, for she had been soft on George and thought my lover a greedy cuckoo.
I pinched my cheeks to hide my pallor, for black clothes are only flattering if one is not actually suffering the effects of grief. I had spent some time thinking where to hide the flask that Forman had given me but the parlour was almost bare of furniture. In the end, I hid it in the folds of my shawl on a stool.
As always, I was caught by Arthur’s beauty. He pulled me to his chest, snatching the cap from my head and covering my hair with kisses. Then he stepped back to examine me.
‘Poor sweetling, has it been hard?’ he said. I smiled through a spurt of irritation, for it was unpleasant to be called ‘poor’ now that I was, and for him to imply that it showed in my face.
‘It is getting better,’ I lied.
‘I have missed you,’ he said, kissing me on the mouth. The pressure of his body and his lips softened what had become hard and knotted but, before I was ready, he released me and went back into the hall to fetch a hamper. While he carried it in, I poured him wine with a dash of Forman’s brew, then sat by the fire so that its glow would bring my complexion to life and add sparkle to my tired eyes. From the hamper he pulled pies, cheese, fruit and wine, speaking quickly and a great deal as he laid out the picnic, perhaps to cover nerves? It was true that our love felt different without George between us.
‘Thank you,’ I said, although he had not bought the ring or returned the ten pounds. Perhaps he had spent it on pies.
‘Are you cold?’ he said, reaching for my shawl.
‘Hot!’ I replied. Arthur took any tincture I gave him to improve his appearance or his love-making, but I knew that he would be highly suspicious of a substance administered secretly. Who would not? And if he found out that the decoction was designed to inflame his need of me, would that not, in fact, produce the opposite response?
‘Some wine?’
Arthur laughed. ‘You think I need courage?’ I handed him the cup. ‘A toast to your beauty,’ he said, and drained it.
