CHAPTER FOUR

A beautiful young lady came up from the country to visit me today, one of my pupils, Margaret Board, newly married and Mistress Borne now. She brought me news of my grand daughter who sent a moss lined basket filled with my favourite flowers, violets and primroses from Lindfield woods. My pupil is perfecting her French now, as that will be the fashionable language when the new Queen arrives. We practised conversing in that tongue, though mine is rusty, and she played and sang some of the old songs and gave me news of Sussex neighbours. Bless her heart for bringing some sunshine into my day. Now to my story...

June, 1577

I had thought myself under a spell and that my singing voice had gone for ever, but I suppose it was only the shock of my 'seeing' coming true. In any case, it was time for my voice to change and I went through the usual squeaking and growling until it settled, after which I never had cause to boast of my singing again. I worked all the harder at my lute. Master Philip had brought my Orpheus book back from Penshurst and I managed to convince myself that the beloved music of Don Luys Milan had nothing to do with my seeings. I practised industriously, improving all the time now that I had a good grasp of the Spanish instructions.

We stayed at Leicester House. Luckily the Earl, whom I dreaded to meet, when not at Court, dancing attendance on the Queen, spent much time at his new home of Wanstead, where he was keeping Lady Essex, as she was still named, though the servants, who heard everything, said behind their hands that a secret marriage ceremony had been performed.

Master Sidney was delighted to have the run of his uncle's great house and invited all his friends there, Master Greville and Master Dyer especially, and all the talk was of language and poetry. Sometimes admitted to the circle was a messenger and secretary to the Earl who had not long come down from Cambridge. He was sickly looking and boasted that he was kin to the Spensers of Althorp. He was over respectful to my masters and overweening towards me. I did not like this Edmund Spenser.

Most happily, in this house, I had a cubby-hole of my own where I could practise and compose my music. I would hide away at every opportunity and play my Orpheus music until, in a cloud of rainbow colours, I would rise above this mortal world, where even those who seemed most fortunate were deep in anger and deceit. It was always a rude shock when a loud call brought me back to earth again. I began to resent more and more having to play for an audience.

My place was to eat with the servants, and, when I chose to listen to their gossip, I kept in touch with news that seldom came my master's way. He would have been disconcerted to learn that, while the Earl of Leicester was taking the waters at Buxton that summer, he was also arranging a marriage between two children - his base-born son, Robert, and the little Lady Arbella Stuart, grand daughter of the richest woman in England, Bess of Hardwick. Lady Arbella was the orphan child of Charles, brother of the ill-fated Henry Darnley and had a good claim to be the next Queen of England, as, unlike James of Scotland, she was English born. Leicester was not one to miss a trick and if a legitimate son was born, the groundwork was already laid and the base-born Robert would quickly be replaced. I remembered the angry conversation when he had shouted that Philip would no longer be his heir. He was now keeping to his threat.

~

Queen Elizabeth held no public celebration on her birthday, but her self appointed Protestant champion, Sir Henry Lee, exerted himself to make her Accession Day on November l7th (the date Doctor Dee had chosen as the most propitious) a public spectacle to outshine any Catholic feast and set Elizabeth up as a Virgin to outdo Mary. 'Vivat Eliza for an Ave Mary' as he wrote and I set to music in my 'Second Book of Songs'. Master Philip, Sir Henry, Masters Greville and Dyer laboured for weeks, choosing a theme for the entertainment, writing the words and devising splendid and unusual costumes. I, naturally, was in demand to compose the music.

When the day came, I saw Queen Elizabeth for the first time, seated on high, surrounded by fawning courtiers, dressed in white and gold with flashing jewels, a huge red wig atop, a great ruff and golden lace collar outlining her head like a halo, and paint so thick on her face that her true features could hardly be distinguished. I recalled what Father Campion had taught me of the Greek actors with their masks and buskins and realised this exaggerated dress was necessary for the general sort who had paid their threepences to get a good view of their monarch in the Whitehall Tiltyard. What the real Elizabeth was like I had yet to learn.

Christmas was spent at Wilton, now the home of the sixteen year old bride of the old Earl of Pembroke. She who had been the second Lady Mary Sidney was wild for company and so regretted having missed the Tilts that Master Philip described them for her in a long-running story, later published as 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia'. She was a sweet lady to me, only a little older than myself, and she loved to dance to my music and sing my songs in a small, true voice. I would have played for her until I dropped and, under her influence, I came out of my shell and began to feel young rather than ageless.

We acted out a Court of Love. I was the humble troubadour, while Master Philip wrote poems to Mira, Fulke Greville to Myra and Edward Dyer to Amaryllis. All was laughter, joy and the vying of lively minds. Our charming hostess cast her spell over us all. I brought a smile to her lips with my 'Frog Galliard', mocking the pock-marked Prince of Anjou, who was courting the Queen.

Master Philip and I stayed on as long as we could, in spite of the old Earl's grumpiness, but we were required back at Court for Twelfth Night. Though the Queen had shown Master Sidney no favour since his return from Europe and wished to hear nothing from him of a Protestant Alliance, neither could she bear any of her young men to desert her court. Despite tears from the little Countess,and our own unwillingness, we were obliged to leave her lonely.

The Earl of Leicester soon set his nephew the task of preparing another entertainment for the Queen, who was to visit Wanstead on her Summer Progress. The play was to be called 'The Lady of the May' and no expense was spared of mind or money to make it an occasion to bring Elizabeth pleasure and the Earl favour (his wife having been sent north to the Essex home at Chartley.) I became closely involved with the rehearsals, never having seen a play before, so much so that I soon had every role by heart.

May came and we repaired to Wanstead. The early summer weather was warm and nothing marred the outdoor entertainment, where the Queen was pleased to interact with the characters in the play. I was delighted that she did not choose the Leicester figure to carry off the lady. His obsequious yet familiar manner disgusted me, knowing that he had two wives and a child to conceal from his sovereign. She praised my music and seemed genuinely happy in simple country surroundings. Her face was unpainted in the mornings and her dress unaffected. I heard her say to Master Philip, as I sat at her feet on the grass, quietly playing my lute,

"What a delight to cast off the trappings of state and be myself. I swear I could live happily as a milkmaid, breathing this pure country air. How cruel is fate when an accident of birth can change a life!"

She was a different person from the idol displayed at the Whitehall Tiltyard. Her little dog yapped about her petticoats and she frolicked with him blithely, reminding me of none so much as little Lady Pembroke. And, indeed, the resemblance was now striking. A sudden thought came to me, 'Born in sorrow and violence and destined to live without love.' That night the story told me by old Thomas Heywood, which I had thought forgotten, resolved itself into a dream, or, rather, a repeated nightmare.

~

You know, Rob, it felt strange to feel pity for the Queen of England. To be a living icon seemed a sad fate. To hold the Church of Rome at bay so that her advisers and new nobles might keep their lands and houses, stolen, like Wilton, from the abbeys in Cromwell's time, was much for a single, weak woman to maintain. No wonder, when she showed the slightest sign of illness, the whole Council panicked and sent for her 'best friend', Leicester, to sit up with her all night and give her strength to carry on. Robert Dudley, that arch deceiver! I heard Master Philip say something about 'our safety hanging on so frail a thread' and it was true enough. Only the Queen's life could stave off civil war. It must have been bitter to realise that when she, the woman, looked for love, all she could find, as the Queen, was greed and self interest. She cultivated her people and believed that, at least, their love was genuine. When young Essex shattered that illusion, his death warrant was early signed.

In June Master Greville went with Sir Francis Walsingham for discussions with William of Orange. It was almost arranged that Master Philip should take troops to join his friend, Prince Casimir, against Spain in the Netherlands and he travelled to Audley End,where the Queen was on progress, hoping to receive his commission from her hands, but,as was her wont, she changed her mind.

Wanstead, that September, saw a new secret wedding ceremony, as old Sir Francis Knollys was determined that his daughter should be so firmly tied to Leicester that nothing should undo this knot. The Earl of Pembroke was a witness and told his wife that the bride wore a loose gown, eyeing her angrily because she, as yet, showed no sign of carrying a child.

The Queen now gave the court cause for worry with a raging toothache, and Master Philip's uncle, the Earl of Sussex, who had been generous with money to enable him to keep me, 'the poor stranger musician', in his employ, was heard to pray, "God, shortly give her perfect health, for with her good estate we all breathe and live, and without her we all stifle and perish,"which would indeed have been the case should Mary of Scotland have escaped from her prison and been helped to the throne.

I had hardly been free from the John Heywood nightmare since I saw the Queen, so, when I was sent to fetch Doctor Dee to court to advise about the toothache (but I think for a meeting with my master and his friends), I determined to consult him on my own account. I took care to leave my lute behind, as I was still not wholly convinced that it had played no part in my painful 'seeing' of William of Orange.

The schoolroom into which I was shown, now in full daylight, displayed a range of what I supposed to be navigational instruments - a strange globe made of metal rings,, a stone miraculously floating on a large bowl of water, a sextant, an hourglass and innumerable books, maps and charts. A splendid model ship, fully rigged, hung from the highest beam.

When I had delivered the summons to Doctor Dee, I dared put my case to him.

"I can give you what little time it takes my wife to put together the few things I shall need at court. A recurring nightmare, you say. Tell me how it begins."

"Sir, it is a most happy beginning and the contrast between that and the ending holds the horror of the dream. A great concourse of richly dressed nobles, speaking English and French, are dining in a magnificent hall whose walls are hung with cloth of gold, the seams encrusted with precious stones, yet this is nothing to the splendid attire of the two kings who sit carousing together at the head of the table. The tall, dark one with the devilish look is clad in red velvet and cloth of gold, and the broad fair one with the open face wears a coat smothered with gold braid, pearls and numerous gems. When the banquet is over, a group of masquers enter, four in crimson, seven in gold with curious masks. Each English lady dances with a French nobleman....."

"I remember hearing tell of this scene. It was at Calais," interrupted Doctor Dee, "but I find nothing nightmarish here."

"Sir, it will come..... The fair king snatches the mask from the face of one of the ladies, who, among many finer jewels wears a pearl necklace with a jewelled letter B as a pendant. She has a long, graceful neck and fine black eyes, yet I would not call her beautiful. The dark king bows low over her hand and dances with her for the rest of the evening, while the fair king sits back and drinks himself into a stupor. The dark pair retire to the window seat from time to time and the lady appears to plead with her partner of the dance, who shakes his head. Last of all, before the revels are over, that king leans forward and whispers urgently in her ear."

"Come, boy, we have not all the time in the world. I do not linger here to watch a masque but to hear a nightmare."

"The worst begins here, sir, out in the dark, cobbled streets with rain blowing in the wind. Heads down, wrapped in dark cloaks, a man and a woman hurry as if the devil were at their heels, little knowing he awaits them in a warm, firelit room. 'Oh, brother, I am afraid. Let us return to our lodging.' But the man tells her there is too much at stake to falter now.

Their knock is quickly answered. They climb the stairs and are admitted to a bedchamber where the dark king with the satyr's face sits, wrapped in his furred bed gown by the crackling fire.

"We do not require your brother's presence," pronounces the king, haughtily waving away the young noble and the deeply obeisant attendant.

Stripped of her wet, black cloak, I see it is the dark lady of the dance. She flings herself at the king's feet, begging him in impassioned tones to support her marriage. He replies that to accede would put him in jeopardy with his enemies and this he may not risk.

"However," he adds with a sinister smile, "we have thought of a sure way to expedite your wedding." And, as the lady looks up at him in anticipation and gratitude, he pushes her violently, so that I hear her head crack on the floor. He tosses her golden skirt over her face and, naked beneath his rich gown, he flings himself upon her, entering her fainting body with the same battle lust as if he held a sword thirsty for blood.

Each word emphasising a vicious thrust, he rasps, "What your fat monarch has been unable to achieve in seven years, we can accomplish in as many seconds. How like you that?" And he leaves her, choking and fighting for breath on the crimson carpet. "Now," he continues, wrapping his furred gown around him, "it is for you to deceive your king into thinking he is a father at last. Oh, yes, there will be a child.We have willed it. And pray to your Lutheran god that it is not a girl." And his diabolical countenance sets into lines of evil mischief. Unmoved by her racking sobs, he gestures to her to resume her cloak and remove herself from his presence. His triumphant laughter follows her as she blindly stumbles down the stairway.....

"Sir,I have seen the animals mate, but, though they are urgent, they are not cruel. When this desecration is acted out repeatedly in my dreams, I feel that I am defiled by witnessing the evil in man. I struggle to wake before the end, I fight against sleep, but it is of no avail. I beg you, help me rid myself of this curse."

"Some other told you of these events?" asked Doctor Dee.

"A very old man in Louvain. But he did not describe it in detail. It must be of my own invention. Yet it seems so real."

"When did the dreams first trouble you?"

"It was after 'The Lady of the May' was performed at Wanstead. When I began to feel pity for the Queen....." And my voice trailed away miserably.

"If your head was full of acting, that is why your nightmare unfolds as a play. It is strange, for to my own knowledge some parts of what you have told me are true. It is a most dangerous story. That old man knew it and, wishing to unburden himself before he died, passed it on to you. Now you, who are young and vulnerable, must pass it to me, for I have much experience of good and evil and it will not damage me as it has hurt you."

He pulled me round to face him and, holding both my hands in a firm grasp, gazed into my eyes with such intensity that, as I felt a warm current course up my arms and through my body, I seemed to float, as when playing my Orpheus music...I came to earth, feeling light and free, to hear Doctor Dee's voice saying, "Now your dream has passed to me and, as long as I live, it will torment you no more."

(I knew the very day he died, Rob, because the dream returned, though it had no power to distress me then, being, by that time, wise in the wicked ways of the world.)

On the river, having urged the boatman to make up for lost time, Doctor Dee said, thoughtfully, "You have been mixing too little with young ones of your own age, lasses as well as lads. We must remedy that lack."

~

All the time the Queen was on progress, there was worry that the adventurer, Thomas Stukeley, with whom Sir Henry Sidney had at one time been on good terms, was preparing a Spanish fleet to attack Ireland. Fortunately, it came to nothing but the anxiety and lack of trust shown by the Queen and Council were the last straw for Sir Henry, who retired as Lord Deputy in a sad state of ill health and straitened circumstances.

Master Robert Sidney had come down from Oxford and it was his turn to embark on a Grand Tour, by no means as extravagant as his brother's. Remembering my earlier experience as his whipping boy, my feelings were mixed when I was instructed to accompany him.

The Queen entertained Prince Casimir in January, 1579. He had come across from Ghent to beg her help against Spain in the Netherlands. Master Hubert Languet, a great man for the new religion, who had been Master Philip's mentor since his first visit to Europe, was entertained at Penshurst and, in February, accompanied Master Robert and his small party to Flushing. As he was extremely strict, we were glad soon to escape with a less vigilant tutor.

You may imagine, Rob, how a pair of sixteen year olds, on a loose rein, drank and wenched their way across Germany. I began to appreciate what Doctor Dee had meant when he said I needed the company of lasses. Serving maids were always kind to me - I spoke their language - but, though he boasted of his conquests, Master Robert wore a sheepish look. He was very touchy, the more since his German was poor, and his hand went to his sword too often for our safety. Luckily, I could still use my ability to stare folks down and so avoid conflict. Also, I could calm an inn full of quarrellers through my playing, which earned me many an extra tankard from the landlord.

Master Philip's letters to his brother were full of admonitions to economise. His own debts were mounting and he had to go, cap in hand, to Lord Burghley and settle for one hundred pounds a year in fines taken from Catholics, saying, 'Need obeys no laws and forgets blushing', which was needless advice for young Robert, who never blushed to demand a 'loan' from his lutenist, who had means to earn a coin or two.

The 'Frog Prince' paid a secret visit to the Queen, his agent, Simier, having told her of Leicester's marriage, which put Sweet Robin in great disfavour. Master Philip wrote a frank letter advising against the French union and he too was dismissed the Court. He wrote to his brother from Wilton 'as one that for myself have given over the delight in the world.' We could not think what had caused his melancholy, as he was usually at his most happy when in the Countess of Pembroke's company.

Master Robert tried my patience almost beyond bearing. Despite his airs, he continually sought my company and it was hard to rid myself of him. Have you noticed, Rob, how people you actively dislike seem to take to you, just as a cat will invade your lap, delighting that you cannot bear its touch?

The last straw came when he confided, "Johnny, (he refused to change to John) you know that ring with the Sidney crest my father gave me on parting? You refused a loan and the ring had to settle a gambling debt, which I was honour bound to pay. My father is sure to miss it, so I shall say you stole it. That's the best solution and it can't matter to you one way or the other. It's a well known fact that all Irishmen are thieves."

I was dumbstruck at this turn of events. Fixing on his proud back as he strutted away a look I wished could kill or, at least, turn him to stone, I walked off to pack my bundle and that was the last I saw of Master Robert for some time.

~

You will know, Rob, how I made my way back to London A lutenist has his passport at his fingertips.

I could not go to Wilton in case news of my defection had gone before me. In any case, I had no money to hire a horse and it was too far to walk. The late autumn weather was unusually fine, so I slept rough for a while to the detriment of my already worn Sidney livery. The days were spent playing in pot-houses and the nights entertaining the clients of Paris Gardens where I saw many well known faces. As the nights got colder, one of the girls would find me a corner to sleep, for which I was grateful. At Christmas, I longed for Wilton but, though I had a little money now, I was ashamed to present myself like Lazarus at Dives' gate.

So the new year of 1580 began. I managed to buy myself some less conspicuous clothes and covered over the coat of arms on my lute case. My Orpheus book I wrapped in my old livery which none was likely to purloin. The friendly wench in whose room I kept my property was ever on the look out for a better place for me and one day she came smiling to me with good news.

"I heard Master Henry Unton, one of my best gentlemen, tell a friend that he was to be married soon but that his lutenist had been stolen from him, leaving him little time to find a replacement to join his consort. Those were his very words. Don't he talk grand, Johnny? What's a consort? Oh, never mind now. I'll take you along and tell him you are just the man he is looking for."

That is how I came to have my portrait painted and was part of the life story of Sir Henry Unton which Lady Unton commissioned after his untimely death. Only I was not wearing black at his wedding but a suit the bridegroom provided for me and I was not balding at seventeen, as in the picture, though I admit to a high forehead, which Father Campion once told me was a sign of intelligence. The ass of a dauber painted me as I was in my thirties when I composed and played funeral music for a man who was one of the best of my masters and whose loss I truly mourned.

A guest who wandered in late at the wedding feast shocked me by his untoward appearance. Pale and thin with haunted eyes, I at first failed to recognise Master Philip, who seemed the wraith of his former self. The guests crowded round to welcome him.

"Where have you been hiding yourself, Philip?" "Is it true your sister's with child at last? Old Pembroke will be like a dog with two tails." "Of course, you have a new cousin too, so Leicester is cock-a-hoop, if not the Queen." "What about the latest poem dedicated to you, Philip? Who's this Immerito who wrote it? The whole Court, including the Queen, is puzzling over the identity of the characters in 'The Shepherds' Calendar', it's quite the fashionable new game."

Master Philip held his hands to his ears and tried to smile but it was a half-hearted twitch of the lips and his eyes retained their hopeless expression. Later, he noticed me and expressed surprise. I thought it best to tell him the whole story. He answered me abstractedly, "I have heard nothing of Robert for some time. I am sure he has thought better of his threat. If not, I shall take steps to have the ring returned. We must allow nothing to distress our parents, my father at Ludlow and my mother at Penshurst and both in poor health." And he brushed his thin hand across his eyes.

He took me with him to Leicester House, so that I no longer feared the heavy hand of a catchpoll on my shoulder or the rough voice, charging me as a common vagrant. I put on my Sidney livery again, Master Philip not noticing its worn state, but now that I felt myself home once more, I would have gladly gone in rags and tatters.

It worried me to watch my master pushing his food away from him and to listen night after night to his footsteps pacing the bedchamber floor. His friends gathered round him, Master Dyer, Master Greville and Sir Henry Lee, sometimes even the hanger-on, Spenser. None of them appeared to know what had caused the sad change in Master Philip's mien.

There seemed to be some mystery about 'The Shepherds' Calendar which Sir Henry Lee, at fifty the senior member of the group, appeared to understand best. As so much curiosity had been aroused about the identity of the characters in the poem, it was decided that Edmund Spenser, who fancied himself as a poet, should admit authorship and that the Sidney circle should take on the names of the other characters. The Countess of Pembroke was the obvious choice for Rosalind and I was ordered to take on the role of Cuddie, which none other would accept as it meant 'donkey'. It was Spenser who made the suggestion and Master Philip could see that I was mortally offended. He mollified me by saying that it was a word taken from the Irish 'cuid oidhche', meaning one who gives his lord an evening's entertainment, which was exactly my case.

Apart from this annoyance, I took little notice of this affair. My mind was filled with plans for returning Master Philip to health through my music. When I saw him most melancholy, I played him the Orpheus music that lifted me out of this world, but now I concentrated on keeping my feet on the ground and raising my master above his sorrows. In time, though very gradually, I saw a real smile return to his countenance, the night time pacing grew less and meals became more than a pretence at eating. The group of friends congratulated me on my success.

Later, Master Philip wrote a private poem about me, for he swore I had saved him from self murder, but there was a sting in its tail and, later, when Thomas Ravenscroft was bothering me for a poem for his 'Pammelia', I gave it to him.

Now thanked be the great God Pan,
Which thus preserves my loved life,
And thanked be I that keep a man
Who endeth hath this bloody strife.
For if my man must praises have,
What then must I that keep the knave?

I did not care for the last couplet but I was glad that Master Philip's sense of humour was returning with his improved health.

Once more, we were at Wilton, where the little Countess was slowly recovering from the birth of her child. That spring, she too was melancholy as I had never seen her and for her also I played with all my heart and soul to promote her well-being. An angry message summoned us before long to Leicester House, where the Earl had found passages in 'The Shepherds' Calendar', which he deemed insulting both to himself and his Countess. Spenser was packed off in disgrace to Ireland, which, though I assured him it was the most beautiful country in the world, he regarded as exile among savages.

I too was exiled, but most willingly, to France to be servant to the new Ambassador, Sir Henry Cobham. I felt sure there would be much to learn of music there and I was not afraid to leave Master Philip, now well on the way to recovery, continuing the 'Arcadia' and working on an 'Apology for Poetry'. We all thought it pity that the Queen would give him no opportunity to use his diplomatic talents and he still remained her mere Cup Bearer at a salary of only thirty pounds a year.

~

Do not think that I ever forgot my true master, Edmund Campion. Each time I lifted the lid of the red, leather case and took out my lute, gloating over the signature of Laux Maler, I thought of his generosity. Whenever I opened my Orpheus book, I remembered it was through him it had come into my possession. Father Campion had said in Prague that I was a pupil he would not forget. Had I done enough in the eight years since we parted in Ireland to make him proud of me? He had told me to obey my masters, as he himself did, yet I had often taken my orders in a grudging spirit and had wished that I had not to be at the beck and call of others.

I had worked hard at my music, but selfishly, for that was my greatest pleasure in the world. But I had often let my reading go by the board. Why had I let slip the opportunity of learning Greek? True, I had learned Spanish and picked up a useful amount of German but that came easily. I made up my mind to apply myself to French and widen my musical horizons by learning as much as I could of the Pleiade of whom I had heard Master Philip and his friends speak with admiration.

My life so far had enabled me to mix with poets and thinkers and I had kept my ears open in palaces and pothouses, where my playing made me equally welcome. My greatest good fortune was the start in education I had received from my true master, so freely devoted to the pursuit of perfection. I could never thank him enough for the love of learning he had instilled in me. Religion was a subject on which I was still unclear. It was hard to reconcile the old religion of my true master with the reformed beliefs of Philip Sidney and his group. I regretted the division in the Church, which seemed certain to involve us all in war, yet I was convinced that each man had the right to his own faith. If only all religions might live together in harmony like the animals in the Orpheus picture. Suddenly, it came to me. Orpheus had achieved that concord through his music. Was it too much to hope that I one day might do the same? That was an ambition for the future of which my true master would certainly approve.

~

Once in the English Embassy in Paris, this dream began to fade. I was constantly sent on messages so that my most urgent need was to become fluent in French. The music most in request was for dancing and I wrote galliards and pavanes for each new visitor with never the chance to practise on my own. I had hoped too that in a Catholic governed country I might find news of Father Campion. However, I learned that the English College had been moved to Rheims, the stronghold of the Guise family, England's worst enemy, not counting Spain, so I was hardly likely to be sent on an errand in that vicinity.

I did the next best thing and made friends with some Catholic musicians who had found England too hot for them. They were able to inform me that my true master and another Jesuit priest, Father Parsons, had left for England as missionaries. In Prague, his fellow Jesuits had painted a wreath of roses and lilies above Father Campion's bed, as a sign of martyrdom, they said, and the English Catholics found this a great matter for satisfaction. It plunged me into despair to think of my true master in such danger.

I became acquainted with an English priest, Father Smith, who took me to mass in Notre Dame Cathedral. The droning in Latin, the tinkling of bells and the wafts of incense affected me little but I was truly fascinated by the magnificent rose window, as though the lovely rose on my lute were magnified a thousand fold and illuminated with the rainbow colours of my reveries.

Saint Paul's, where I had been to worship with Master Sidney, was drab by comparison, and, as today, folks gathered there just for the exchange of news. They told me that the great steeple had been struck by lightning the year before my birth and never replaced. Indeed, it is only in the last year or so that the proper repair of the damage has been discussed. I asked myself what kind of religion was it that could allow the house of God to fall into such a state, far less smash and tear down all objects of beauty from the past.

As I travelled about the country, I saw signs of the wars of religion everywhere in the uncultivated fields and ruined peasant dwellings. It was obvious that it was the poorest of the poor who suffered most from civil war. It seemed to me that while their 'betters' quarrelled over the correct way to worship God, the Devil had stepped in to hold sway. I found myself hankering after the Greek Gods, each compact of good and evil, rather than this fatal opposition of the Trinity and the Prince of Darkness. It was all a great puzzle.

~

My writing was interrupted by a visitor I hardly expected to see in my little room, the Dean of Saint Paul's, no less. Strange that I was writing about Powles not long before his knock came at my door. But I am used to these coincidences in life, if that is what they are.

I had known John Donne from 1589 when he was a boy of seventeen and none was more surprised than I when old Jamie persuaded him into the Anglican church. John's mother was the youngest daughter of John Heywood, and he started life as a Catholic in the dangerous days. Indeed his poor young brother was sent to prison for sheltering a Catholic priest and died there. Ah well, we all have to compromise in the end. Needs must when the devil drives.

To round off the workings of chance, Doctor Donne (come on a sick visit to Doctor Dowland) had been at Chelsea settling his family at Sir John Danvers' house and who should he be but the brother of that little imp, Henry Danvers, now the grave Earl of Danby. We recalled how Henry and his brother, Charles, had to take refuge in France after killing Henry Long in some young men's quarrel. All forgotten now and poor Charles executed for his part in the Essex rebellion. We might have reminisced longer but John Donne had come up on Church business (his parish of Saint Dunstan's in the West demands much care) and he had to leave me, promising a further visit. He had taken his family to Chelsea to keep clear of the plague. As for me, whether the stone or the plague take me, it is all one.

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