by Lucy Jago
That moment sticks in my mind. I worried that he would taste the infusion or note a difference in my expression, but I felt no guilt. I believed that if we married our union would be legal and blessed by God, our children would have safety and prospects, and he could know them better. I saw only benefit – was that wrong? Was it at that moment I lost my way? It is hard to ask God’s forgiveness for an act that I cannot, in my heart, perceive as wicked.
As we ate, I noticed that his cheeks grew redder. He sucked at a drumstick as if caressing my own thigh with his lips; he toyed with the breast as if his mouth was at my nipple. He licked his fingers, shiny with grease, as if they were dipped in honey; his eyes became unfocused and yet staring. He put an arm around my waist and kissed me. He tried to unpick my lacings, an impossible task with one hand, and quickly grew impatient. He stood and pulled me up with him.
‘Where is your chamber?’ he said into my neck. I ran my hand over his soft hair and murmured nonsense. His complexion was reddening alarmingly.
‘My darling, I cannot get a child upon me while mourning the death of my husband,’ I said forlornly, the torture of declining him mutual. ‘There are six months to wait.’ He chewed my earlobes and near deafened me with his breathing. ‘As you said, we must be patient.’ His lips moved to where my breasts swelled above the line of my undershirt and I pulled gently away but he would not let me go. He kissed me with such intensity that my body replied without thought for the consequence; but my mind was not slave to it. Although light-headed with desire, I walked to the door, opened it and called old Maggie to bring Arthur’s hat, which she quickly did. My heart was trilling in my chest. I had never refused him my bed before and I sensed how it exposed and tested the bond between us.
‘I will come again soon,’ he said, confused, even slightly angry, and I nodded but did not trust myself to speak, suddenly afraid of the effect of Forman’s draught. Would Arthur seek release with another woman? Then I reminded myself of the angels, of Forman’s face after we had flown with them. I could trust in this remedy; it came from God.
I snuffed the candles in the parlour and went to bed, distracting myself from thoughts of Arthur by pondering ways to help my neighbour. A friendship had grown between us since a cart had knocked down her eldest son, badly injuring him. Far from feeling remorse, the carter was suing Mistress Bowdlery for damage to his vehicle. Her youngest was sick with a cough that turned her lips blue, and all of them were hungry, all the time. The harvest was poor; it was said that dogs were become a delicacy in some parts of the country, and badgers dead of unknown cause were eaten. It seemed that when giving out misfortune, the Devil had mistakenly heaped on to Mistress Bowdlery all of my share. I sought to keep her alive, for otherwise that misfortune would need somewhere else to go.
The evening was so warm that I left the window and bed-curtains open to catch any breeze. The night bell struck the hours as I lay sleepless. After midnight I heard a knock. Moths were fluttering around the watch light, I could faintly smell their singed bodies, and beneath it stood Arthur, his face patterned with their tiny, dancing shadows. He was peering through the downstairs window and I nearly let him in, aching to feel loved and secure beside his naked body; a woman not a widow. But Forman was right; I had given him everything and must give no more until the comfort of marriage was offered in return. I went back to bed, putting my whole trust in God, His angels and Simon Forman.
So it went throughout that autumn and winter until a year of mourning had passed and we gathered to remember George, on the tenth day of March, 1611. It is a Popish belief, much frowned upon by those not of our persuasion, and so we did it in darkness.
‘We cannot wait longer or the Watch will have us,’ said Richard Weston, only his face and hands showing in the faint candlelight in the parlour, a ‘parlour’ in name only, for I had moved my bed into that room, my two youngest girls sharing it with me, and let my bed chamber to a sign-painter for threepence a week.
‘Something must have delayed him,’ I said, moving towards the door and signalling the children to follow. I had wrapped them up against the cold of early March. Mary and Katherine had grown bickersome and pale since George’s death, Henry was very quiet although he did speak sometimes. Thomas had refused to join us but Barbara and John had been given permission to leave Baron Ellesmere’s house for the evening. I could not afford to send John to Oxford and he had gratefully accepted a position in the same household as his sister. There was a chance they would send him to study, if he proved himself useful and loyal to the Baron.
Mistress Bowdlery had asked to join our party for her husband was in the same graveyard. Although not a Catholic, she was highly superstitious and had some notion that, if she begged near her husband’s grave, he might more likely hear and come to her aid. On my last visit to her house, I noticed that she had placed little bottles near every door and window.
‘Witch bottles,’ she had explained. ‘Urine and pins … keeps them out.’ I hoped they would prove effective and stem the flow of misfortune she had suffered since her husband’s death.
Weston took the lead and we set off in sombre procession for the churchyard. We had gone but five paces when I heard my name being called. A servant was waving after me. I went back and took the packet and note he carried and he left immediately; no reply was sought. The note was from Arthur. In it he expressed his deepest regret that he could not join us at George’s grave; the Prince had called for him without notice, but he did not want to delay giving me the enclosed. In the packet was a gold ring into which was pressed a small ruby. Engraved inside were the words, ‘May Fate Unite the Lovers’. He must have read George’s Will again, for now Fate had replaced Time, and that made me uncomfortable anew, for was Fate not fickle where Time was relentless?
No matter. He had finally given me a ring and in the box were coins to the value of ten pounds. With these I would pay some debts, especially that to my old maidservant. The ring was too large and so I placed it in the box and handed it to Richard Weston to safeguard. By the time we set off again, the children were shivering in the icy wind.
‘He proposes in writing?’ said Weston quietly so the children would not hear, his scorn apparent.
‘The Prince called for him.’
‘Does this Prince not go to plays? “Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends,”’ scoffed Weston. Sleet blew in our faces.
‘Do not quote at me, Weston. It was not a proposal but an explanation. If it suffices for me, it should for you.’
To my astonishment he reached for my hand, despite the witnesses behind us. The younger children stared, the others looked away and fiddled with shawls and hats to keep out the freezing rain. Weston’s hand was warm despite the bitter weather. ‘I would not wait for others to tell me when I could ask for your hand. I would marry you tomorrow with all pride and pomp and tell the world you are my wife.’
You will judge me, but I felt only anger. I had never sought nor encouraged Weston’s affection, and his enthusiasm made Arthur’s punctiliousness more painful to bear. Weston made it clear I should feel humiliated by my lover’s careful observance of propriety, whereas I strove to view it as courtly necessity.
‘You challenge Sir Arthur for my hand?’ I said, not warmly.
‘I would be proud to win it.’ He looked me in the eyes and would not budge from that windy spot until I acknowledged his gallantry.
‘I am grateful for your concern,’ I finally said and walked on, not caring if I led the way, for it was too dark now for others to see. Weston seemed content to follow and took both Mary and Henry in his arms for they were chilled and sad. His care for us melted my heart, I do not deny it, but not in any way that I could repay with my naked body. I had married an old man once already; once was enough. From that night on, I broke into a coughing fit whenever Weston attempted a romantic phrase; in credit to him, he did not recoil from me.
My brother Eustace awaited us at George’s grave and with him, disguised as his servan
t, the priest. We knelt on the bitter earth, picturing George sleeping beneath; we prayed to shorten his time in Purgatory, but I would have dug through the iron hard ground with my teeth could I have brought him back to us. Weston knelt at our side to shield us from the frigid gusts, but nothing could.
Despite the philtres and the angels, Arthur did not propose to me at the end of the first year of mourning. I remained in black, worked quietly for clients at Court, and sustained my family by pawning the gifts I received as payment, and with rent from lodgers and the modest stipend Arthur provided. I kept my exact circumstances from Frankie but took my children to see her whenever possible, that they might eat their fill and play with her dogs, the parrot and a new pet monkey, Caesar, so named because he did everything he could to torment Brutus. She would tell me the latest gossip and of Sir Robert Carr’s rise in favour; at only twenty-five years old he was to be granted an English title, Viscount Rochester, and would therefore be the first Scot to sit in the House of Lords. Her observation of him was intense and unwavering, but at no time did it spill into indignity. She hid her feelings for him from everyone but me, confessing that his seeming devotion amused her, but nothing more. And I believed her.
She did not ask to visit me as she had when I lived in Fetter Lane; I suspect she understood that I could not welcome her as I would wish. I went often to Forman, always accompanied by Richard Weston, to devise new prayers for the angels and tinctures for Lord Essex and Arthur, to keep one away and the other keen. Frankie did not dare come with me; someone had written to her husband, warning that she sought to poison him. Was it Overbury, afraid that Robert Carr’s attachment to her was eclipsing him? Essex crowed to receive ‘proof’ of the suspicions he had long held about his wife, as if it was some form of victory.
Two months after our visit to George’s grave, the angels gave me a message: they persuaded me to go to a bear baiting. I loathe such entertainment and declined Frankie’s invitation when it came, but Simon Forman sent me a bottle labelled, ‘Fortifies courage: large swig on rising. Avoid at full moon’. Accompanying the bottle was a note, enthusiastically scribbled. ‘Throw off your widow’s weeds! George would want you happy. The angels say go out! They will do the rest!’ The imperatives made me anxious, but Forman could see the future and was telling me to find myself a new place in life, even as a widow. I did wonder if Frankie had asked him to persuade me.
On the morning of the event Frankie was half-dressed when I arrived. I handed her a parcel of biscuits made by the children. She opened it immediately and ate one.
‘Margaret and I used to make biscuits in the shapes of beasts in the menageries: camelopards, a walrus, crocodiles of course, the white bear cubs, an ostrich,’ she said, her mouth full. She led me behind a screen where a tub steamed beside the fire. She had dismissed the servants and herself helped me remove my greying clothes. It was the first time that I had been naked before her. My body was thin compared to her fullness, but I saw only love in her eyes.
‘I have put lavender in it and there is orange oil for afterwards.’
She lined the tub with a sheet and helped me in. After the months of standing washes in my cold and draughty chamber, to fully submerge myself in hot water was better than any meal, or wine, or even money. The smell of lavender filled my nose with summer as I sat there like a queen. Frankie perched on a stool beside me, nibbling biscuits. She looked at the ring on a thin black cord around my neck.
‘Arthur has proposed?’
‘It is his intention. Prince Henry insists on two years’ mourning, especially for Catholics, so we must wait another half year.’ I did not tell her that George had specified the giving of this ring in his Will and left the money for it.
‘Prince Prude! He has a box at his Court into which to put money if you swear. If we had that at this Court, we’d all be bankrupt and the King’s debt solved.’ I saw that Frankie was pleased I could not yet marry and she could keep me to herself, which flattered and annoyed me equally. My heart had been mightily sore when Arthur had explained the need for another year of mourning.
Once the water cooled, she helped me out and wrapped me in a warm sheet. It was shadowy and sweet-smelling behind the screen. She stood close, unembarrassed by my nakedness, pressing the linen to my skin. My heart began a crazy thumping; I understood completely what drew men to her. To be loved by Frankie was like the gift of power; rich with possibility and danger. Her husband was afraid of it; Robert Carr was not and nor did he want to rule her. I believe the nature and intimacy of our friendship had shown Frankie what she wanted. Our devotion to each other grew from mutual esteem. And attraction.
As if she shared my exact thoughts, Frankie leant in and put her lips on to mine. The shock of it slowed me and brought my every sense to its sharpest point. I felt the difference between the pressure at the centre of our lips and the tender exposure at the corners; across them blew the slightest breeze; where her body was closest to mine, the air was thicker. It was a sincere acknowledgement of our love.
Before I could respond, she stepped back and wrapped the sheet around me. She led me out from behind the screen, dressed me in silk, and brought colour to my face with paint.
‘Arthur will not be able to wait,’ she said, steering me to the looking glass. The woman I saw was delicate and beautiful but also a confection; Arthur would struggle to recognise me. I had dressed boldly as George’s wife, but always in fabrics suitable to our rank.
We left her apartment and walked to the river gate, her arm linked in mine, the swish of silk around my legs exhilarating. The beauty and wealth that seeps from silk through skin, Frankie was giving me. I was afraid to like it too much, as I could not afford it myself, but for that day I revelled in my borrowed cocoon.
Frankie prattled as we walked. ‘My sisters will be with us. Elizabeth is too thin, her old ruin of a husband suspects her of taking a lover.’ She talked too much and too fast when she was nervous, and it struck me that she had a secret. Her chattering was to keep me from questioning her.
‘Does she have a lover?’ I asked. Frankie looked at me sharply; I suppose it was a rather direct question.
‘She does, but it’s not how it seems. They were betrothed and in love and three weeks away from being married when Baron Knollys was widowed. His wife was about a hundred but if she could have held on for a few weeks, my sister would now be happy. Instead, my parents broke the betrothal and gave Elizabeth to the old Baron. She was eighteen and he was sixty.’
‘There are more and more speeches made against such matches,’ I said, shaking my head at the horror Elizabeth must have felt, forced to bed an old grandfather instead of the youth she loved. I had met the Baron. His nickname was ‘parti-beard’ because his long, grizzled whiskers were yellow around the mouth, grey in the middle and white at the ends. He looked as old as God.
‘Her lover is in prison for refusing to take the oath and she is growing as staunch a Catholic as he to revenge herself on our parents. Our mother is furious. She thinks religion is to ease our existence, not make it harder. She does not want any more of our family executed for it.’ For once, I agreed with her mother.
We sped downriver in Frankie’s barge, her sisters giving me the briefest of nods as I settled beside her. What Frankie had said of Elizabeth was true: her hair was so pale as to look grey, the effect of premature ageing completed by her thin cheeks and furious gaze. Catherine was as plump as Elizabeth was gaunt, her hair a polished auburn, but she had a watery sadness about her. In the two and a half years since her marriage, she had borne and baptised three baby boys; all had been taken to God in the first few weeks of life. The urgency to produce an heir meant she would be allowed no rest and would be pregnant again soon. She seemed as adrift in her grief as her elder sisters were furious with their own unhappiness. I wondered how the nobility had survived so long, given the exhaustion of those required to bear heirs and the discord rife in so many of their marriages.
The journey was fast and smooth c
ompared to the wherries I was used to. At the Tower, the Court was crammed on to a new viewing platform of the King’s devising over the lion pit. The Powder Plotters would have done better to save their gunpowder and saw through the supports of the stage instead, to have the royal family, the government and the highest nobility, tumble into the mouths of lions below. I received approving looks and felt increasingly at home in my grandeur, sure it would bring me further commissions and encourage Arthur.
It was a gusty May afternoon and sunlight fell in hard shafts between grey clouds. A vermilion ostrich feather was plucked from a hat by the fingers of the breeze. Evading capture, a hundred pairs of eyes followed its nimble revolutions until the wind grew tired of its plaything and the plume sank to the floor of the pit.
‘I have found you a new lace-maker,’ I said.
‘Is the old one not good?’
‘Not as good as my neighbour.’
‘I trust your judgement in necromancers, so why not with lace-makers?’ she said in a low voice, examining the lace on her cuff. As she lifted it, I saw a fresh, purple bruise on her wrist. ‘He keeps from my bed as if it were lined with nettles. Forman’s magic is working in that respect at least. But the angels are taking a long time to free me from him. Can you see the pit?’ asked Frankie.
‘No. It is an argument for smaller hats,’ I said and Frankie snorted, causing those close by to look at us, including Lord Essex and her great-uncle, Lord Northampton.
‘When will we be forbidden to breathe, do you think?’ she said. Essex stared as if Frankie were a Billingsgate fishwife, and she stared back with a directness worthy of the epithet. He pushed his way to the corner of the platform furthest from us.
‘If you did not challenge your husband, your life would be easier,’ I said.
‘It would be over.’ She dabbed her mouth as if tasting vomit, looking over at her family. ‘Beneath those façades are some very hard hearts, the hardest lying within the breast of my great-uncle.’ I hoped we would never meet, having read much about him in broadsheets, none of it complimentary. Even to see him so close felt strange, like meeting Judas, someone known to all but seen by few. He was thin, nearing seventy, with grey hair cut close to the scalp; he was entirely dressed in black.
