CHAPTER ONE
March 27, 1625
Today the old King died. I suppose they will want me to turn out to play at the funeral.. They say Steenie tired of his silly old 'Dad', so his witch of a mother helped James out of this world with her nostrums to make room on the throne for her son and 'Baby Charles'. Old and ill as I am, I can now afford to utter treasonable words - the rope might prove a blessed release. Not that I can foresee my own end.
You never knew, Rob, that, as well as the gift of music, I have the two sights. We cannot see for ourselves and seldom for those we love, but, I tell you, I have seen the new King, Charles, with his head on the block, and you will do best, my Rob, to content yourself with the small inheritance I have to pass to you - a humble place as lutenist in the new King's consort, however long that lasts.....
1612
I had not been with Jamie's consort myself more than a few weeks when I played for a sadder death, eighteen year old Prince Henry's. For Princess Elizabeth's wedding to the Palsgrave, which followed with indecent haste, "the funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table". We played then for a Court performance of 'The Tempest'. (Not the best of opening scenes for a bride about to cross the seas to Germany!)
Yes, Rob, you too saw King Jamie, who never washed his hands, but wiped them on a silken cloth, watch stinking Caliban in the play, half man, half fish, staggering, drinking and swearing like the King.....stinking Jamie, stinking Caliban.....stinking seven year old Johnny of Dalkey.....
1570
My first memory was not the sound of my mother's voice - I never knew her - but the reek of fish as I crept through the streets of Dublin, lugging the heavy basket from my Aunt Johan's shop in Fish Lane, where I had been gutting since first light, crying my wares from door to door. People would scuttle across the cobbles to avoid me, or vanish hastily round corners, crossing themselves furtively. Yet, I had glimpsed myself in puddles and I was not so ill-favoured. It must have been the stink.
.....Caliban...Cannibal...Spenser (that lesser Edmund) wrote of us Irish as savages. That was in the war that began when I was born and whose end I cannot foresee. To think we believed that the power of music would bring peace to the world! Today Europe is in a turmoil that will last thirty years and poor peasants will turn cannibal again. You will be old, like me, at its end.
I am getting drowsy and afraid, as often happens, to fall asleep. Old men repeat themselves, I know, but I trot out words to keep the dread sound from my mind, to ward off the ghostly tapping ...sca...sca...sca...sca...
1570
"Scalpeen!" laughed a voice as the window was thrown open. "Look, Edmund, an Irish pickled mackerel that sings to heaven as high as he smells!"
I had lingered outside that window day after day, gladly risking a beating from aunt Johan, drinking in their lute song. At first I had hummed to the music, but, that evening, my own words burst forth to fit the tune.
Another face, shining with goodwill, appeared at the casement.
"If Irish fish can all sing like angels, Richard, we need a net like Saint Peter's to draw in a whole choir. What's your name, boy, and who taught you to sing?"
I told him Johnny Dolan and I could as soon sing as breathe, but more than all the world I would die to play that music.
"Rather say you'll live," smiled Edmund Campion, and, truly, a new life began for me that day.
Richard, the Recorder's son, took a fancy to make a gift of me to his friend and former tutor and he bought me from my father for more than he could earn in a year's fishing and gave my aunt a consideration besides, so that I left the hovel in Dalkey for ever.
The Stanyhurst's groom flung a pail of freezing water over me (my baptism as an Englishman) and rubbed me down roughly in the stable-yard, hissing as though I was one of his horses, while I spluttered and begged for mercy. My comfortable, if fish stained, Irish cloak was burned and myself trussed into strange, constricting livery.
I must tell you, Rob, that Master Campion had come to Dublin, hoping to teach at the new University, but things move slowly in Ireland and, before the post was ready for him, he was no longer ready for it. Meanwhile, for want of a better pupil, and to keep his hand in, as he said, he tutored me and, from this lump of unpromising clay, hoped to fashion a scholar-musician.
Everything that happened in those two short years I remember as clearly as if it took place yesterday. More clearly. I spent most of yesterday searching for my pipe and there it was all the time under my nose. It was Sir Walter taught me the consolation of the weed. I wonder if they left him that enjoyment in the Tower? To smoke at James's Court meant instant dismissal. To swear at Prince Henry's only meant a fine in the box.....Where was I? Oh, yes, remembering.....
Who but Edmund Campion would have taught a street urchin like me to love his books and his lute before I even learnt to read or play them? My fingers spotless, I might take down any book I chose, stroke its leather cover, open it and turn its pages with the greatest care until I came to a woodcut which my master would explain to me in a wonderful story so that I longed to learn of my own accord. Later, he would read from the mysterious symbols on the page. I had thought I would master their magic in a flash but was dismayed to find it was to be an uphill task. Still, before the first year had passed, I could read fluently in both English and Latin, translate from one to the other and back again.
Learning the lute , too, took its own unhurried way. First the handsome, red leather case.....
"Sir, why is there a poor bear, muzzled and chained to a tree without branches? What has he done to be punished so?"
"Perhaps he is a proud bear, Johnny, to be the badge of a great family. Can you read the initials? Yes, "R.D." and they stand for Robert Dudley, who was my patron at Oxford and promised me preferment. He is Earl of Leicester now and he and his brother, the Earl of Warwick, are pleased to call themselves Ursa Minor and Major and hold the Ragged Staff."
Thus I learned that the great Earl had given one of his own lutes to my master. And what a lute! It was signed by Laux Maler, one of the great lute-makers. The ribs and the finger board were of richly coloured maple and the back of fir from Cologne. (My master told me that all the best lute wood came from Germany.) The rose was most exquisitely carved, so that I could have gazed on it for hours, and the bridge and pegs were of finest ebony. What a teacher was Master Campion to let me as much as touch that priceless instrument, let alone practise on it! I, of course, in my ignorance, knew nothing of that, or that I had to myself the most brilliant tutor Oxford had known in years.
Singing came so naturally to me that I was sure I only had to lift the lute for magical music to obey the touch of my fingers. Alas! as with reading, the mastery of the lute was hard. First I had to learn how to sit correctly, then to use only my right hand until I could control the lute. It seemed an age before I could use both hands and bring some tuneful sounds from the strings.....
But I am so far in the past that I have forgotten to whom I speak. You know all this, Rob, from your lessons in Sir Thomas Monson's household - the bleeding finger tips, the cruel nips from the strings, the raps on your knuckles from the sharp edged pegs. I cared little for these rubs. A boy with fingers so nimble as to gut fish fast enough to keep out of Aunt Johan's black books could ignore such cuts and scrapes.
I dare say you learned on a child sized lute. I learned on my master's best instrument and, as my hand span was too small, he took an old lute string and wound it round the neck of the lute between the fourth and fifth frets with a piece of wood to tighten it. As my hand span grew (and how I exercised to make that happen!) the string was moved back a fret. Master Campion had no idea of 'mine' and 'thine'- all was share and share alike with that good man.
All things, great and small, held his interest and so my own. He told me , jokingly, that my name meant 'Black Defiance' and his 'Champion' so that we were both fighters. I preferred to think of that gentle soul as his namesake the wayside flower he told me was a sovereign remedy against burning pains and kidney stone.....
Mary, Mother of God, that stab of pain brings me back to the present! Oh, for one of Michael Maier's soothing draughts, but he is gone to his Maker these three years past!
My master's generosity was such that he took me with him on his visits to Kilkea, where the Earl of Kildare had given him the run of his great Library. We would set out at first light, take food with us in our pouches and eat it by the river, watching the fish jump in the sparkling waters - it seemed always summer then - and ride on (I on the pony Master Stanyhurst had as a boy) until we reached the great castle and were allowed to climb the stairs to the turret room of the Wizard Earl.
I had thought that Master Campion owned many, many books but these shelves reared themselves from floor to high ceiling and every one was packed with volumes. As long as I was quiet as a mouse while the two great minds thrust and parried, I was allowed my choice of authors. There was Iamblichus' translation of Pythagoras, Plato, Boethius, Cicero, Virgil and Ovid, whom I liked best. I made of them what I could then and, later, they became my constant companions.
On an early visit, while my Latin was still imperfect, I came across a volume that I felt instinctively to be meant for me alone. It was a music book - I was just beginning to read and copy tablature - but, at first, I took no notice of the songs. It was the picture inside the covers that fascinated me so that, between visits, I would even see it in my dreams, night and day, and try to interpret its meaning.
The central figure I knew to be a man because of his strong hands and arms, though he wore a strange, short skirt. On his head was a garland of thorns which must have caused him pain, yet he was smiling. More than that, he was dancing on the stony ground in shoes that gave his feet little protection. He danced to his own music, which he played, not on a lute, for, though his instrument had a rose and a long neck, its back was flat.
There were animals all around him, listening to his music and they too were smiling - a rabbit, a dog, a stag and a blissful-looking lion. There were birds, too, in the trees, one an owl, and a long-legged, crested winged creature also seemed to smile.
In the distance were hills and two burning castles and, coming from one of them (or was it towards?) was a boat or barge, poled by a tall figure and he, like his passengers had horns on his head. I wished above all things to understand the words that framed the picture but they were in a language strange to me. The word under my dancing figure must be his name -ORPHEO-. It looked as though it might be Latin but meant nothing to me.
On the way home, I ventured to ask my master. "It is indeed a strange name, Johnny, neither entirely Greek or Latin and none knows its exact derivation. When we are home I shall give you my Ovid and you will see what you can make of his Orpheus story."
Now I had a name for my mysterious book, 'The Orpheus Book', and so it remained.
~
It was not until a month later, when we paid our next visit to Kilkea Castle, that I had made some sense of the Latin Orpheus story, though I needed to see the picture again to be sure. To my amazement, the Wizard Earl was waiting for us in his library, my precious book open in his hand. My heart sank. Had I marked the book through careless use? None had so much as spoken an angry word to me since I left Dalkey. Was I in for a beating now that I had grown soft and trusting? I turned in frantic pleading to Master Campion.
"Never fear, my boy, " said the Earl. "Tell me the story you have learned and I will grant your wish and tell you the meaning of the Spanish words you cannot read."
How could he read my thoughts? I began to stammer. I did not know how to address an Earl.
"Oh, Sir....." I began.
"Sir will do very well." He read my thoughts again. "I was plain Master Fitzgerald at your age and long after when my aunt escaped with me abroad and we went on our wanderings, often without food and proper clothing. When Queen Mary restored me to my Earldom, I was grateful but not proud. I cannot forget the days of poverty and exile."
Completely disarmed, I asked if I might hold the book and study the picture. Then I told the story as best I could.
"Orpheus was a great musician who charmed the birds and beasts by his playing so that even the rocks and the woods would follow him. He loved a beautiful lady called Eurydice but, before they could be married, she was bitten by a snake and died. (But, Sir, why could he not charm the serpent like the other creatures?) She was taken to the nether kingdom where the dead live. Orpheus followed her there and so delighted the Lord of the Underworld and his Queen, Persephone, with his music that she was allowed to follow him home, provided he did not turn and look back at her. That was cruel. If I could bring my mother back from underground, I would look round to see that she did not stumble. Orpheus turned and his love was lost to him for ever.
"I think in the picture Orpheus is happy because the boatman is coming across the River Styx to take him to find Eurydice. He would not be dancing with joy if he had lost her. And I think the burning castles represent Hell because it would have been too hard for the limner to show the Underworld. Why does Orpheus wear those strange clothes and what is the instrument he is playing?"
"One question at a time, " interrupted the great Earl. "You have understood the Latin well and now I will translate the Spanish for you. It says, 'The great Orpheus, the first inventor for whom the vihuela appeared in the world. If he was the first, he was not without a second, because he is of all men the creator of all things.' That is not easy to understand, I know. I have already answered your last question. He is playing a vihuela. Look, " and from behind a curtain he brought out the very instrument.
"I will make a bargain with you, boy. You may take your 'Orpheus book' which, by the way, is named 'El Maestro' and was composed by Don Luys Milan. If you can learn any page of its music before you come again and play it for me on this vihuela, the book is yours for ever."
I was too overwhelmed to speak and sat studying the music, which did not seem easy, while the two scholars embarked on their accustomed, learned discussion.
On the ride home I could not refrain from asking the answer to my other question.
"Orpheus is wearing Roman dress, Johnny, such as Caesar's soldiers wore. Perhaps Orpheus was a soldier of God."
I thought Orpheus looked too warm-hearted to cause the death of others, but, though I often questioned my master, I never contradicted him.....
Bear with me, Rob. I am reliving my boyhood as I tell my story.
~
I worked on my Orpheus music with heart and soul to the neglect of my other studies until it was time to return to Kilkea. When we arrived, my master decided to sit in the garden for a while and enjoy the fine weather, telling me to go on in advance and reread the tablature until I was very sure of it, although I knew it almost by heart.
As I sat in my chair with my back to the door, I felt a cold current of air and my spine crawled as it does when some unknown stands behind you. Strong hands gripped my upper arms, raising me to my feet, and swung me round to look into dark, deeply inquiring eyes.
"I was right," said the Earl of Kildare, quietly, "when I recognised you the last time you were here. You are what they call an old soul and we have known one another in past times."
Thoroughly bewildered and rather frightened, I was reassured by Master Campion's familiar presence as he entered, apologising for his lateness. A servant brought a music stand for the book and the Earl drew the curtain to bring out the vihuela, which he placed in my unaccustomed hands.
"Now, play the song you have learned, " said the Wizard Earl, "and, if successful, the Orpheus book shall be your prize."
Faltering at first, but gaining confidence with each strain, I played the music I had rehearsed, missing the occasional note, but, boyishly, ending with a flourish.
"Not at all bad for a first attempt on an unknown instrument. Now, try again, " said the Earl, encouragingly.
This time I reached the close without mistakes. Above myself with my success, I cried, "Now I am Orpheus, and because this is a vihuela and not a lute, I too can dance."
And, feeling myself in every way (except dress) the man in the picture, I rose and played and danced with such fire that ... how shall I put it, Rob?... my own light went out for a moment and, in the darkness, I saw, dressed in garments of days gone by, the Earl and, kneeling before him, myself, yet not myself. His hand was on my head. Was it perhaps in blessing?
When my lids fluttered open, an old woman servant was holding a cup of cordial to my lips. Master Campion looked concerned and the Earl quietly triumphant.
"Too much excitement, boy, " he said. "Here is your prize, which you richly deserve."
Struggling to my feet, I tried to bow deeply in gratitude, but staggered and almost fell. Perhaps it was the cordial that made me feel sick. I longed to be home.
Riding on my master's horse, clutching my Orpheus book as firmly as he grasped me from behind, my pony trotting quietly alongside, we made our way slowly back to Dublin in the fading light.....
1625
Why do I write for you, Rob, perhaps to no avail? Words mean little once the sound is gone, written notes of music even less. I who played with Luca Marenzio, find only a small part of him in the tablature. Still, in our day, we have something of him to remember and all is not lost, as with the unrecorded music of days long gone. Perhaps, as with myself, only the more trivial strains are set down and the music of deep inspiration lasts for the occasion only. I meant to write about my method but put the work aside. It should have been attempted when I was young and knew it all. With age comes wisdom and reticence...I am wearying you, Rob, and losing track of my thoughts......
Much of my life I have been solitary, even in a crowd, surrounded by adulation. Oh, yes, I have had that and known its emptiness. You are the only one now left whom I would wish to understand me. That is why I bid you farewell with my life story.
I am no writer and need to borrow words. Raleigh, whose marriage began in disaster and ended in contentment, wrote a beautiful last letter to his wife. She was rightly proud and passed his words to some of his friends so that I had a glimpse of the man in his last hours. He wrote, 'My love I send you that you may keep it when I am dead, and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no more.' Maybe this story is my counsel to you, Rob, perhaps my confession.....
It is good that they published the plays in time for me. I read them often and the voices come back to me - Alleyn's and Burbage's and those of all the young gentlemen. But where is the music? A few songs remain, but the rest? And it was so much a part of the plays. Were the words written to the music or the music to the words? What remains is a sad fragment.....
I want to tell you something about myself that only John Forster knew.
1571
After my strange experience at Kilkea, which I tried to put out of my mind, Master Campion decided that I needed young companionship, so Master Stanyhurst looked among his friends to find a boy of my own age who was inclined to study. He found me a friend for life, John Forster, the son of rich merchants. He was a merry lad and infected me with some of his carefree ways. We worked and played together.
For one afternoon in the week, John and I were allowed to run wild. I taught him to swim and he taught me to guddle trout. Strange that I, who had gutted so many fish had to beg him to finish them off with a sharp stone or 'priest'.
I still noticed that, as we walked through the streets of Dublin, folk avoided me. I could not find a reason for it -I now washed every day, as my master was over nice as to ablutions. John gave me the answer.
"It's the way you look at others, Johnny, as though you saw right through them. I too found it frightening to be made invisible. I suppose they think you have the evil eye."
We made a good game of it after that and found it worked as well from behind. If a fisherman had a better place on the bank, I would creep up, fix my gaze steadfastly on the back of his neck, whereupon, he would shudder, hastily collect his tackle and shamble off. Sometimes we came upon a pack of bigger boys out for mischief who would turn and pretend to walk away casually when they met my stare.
It was a useful gift in after life. I never carried a sword, or needed one. I could hold my enemies to ransom with my basilisk gaze. I often thought that , if there were more of us with that power, we could put an end to war. But conflicts begin and end in secret council chambers, not on the battle field. Robert Cecil was the only one I found with a truly evil power of his own who could resist me. A false friend to Essex and even more treacherous to trusting Raleigh, he was sworn enemy to me and mine and I wish I had written every one of the scurrilous rhymes published after his death. Some say Sir Walter wrote this 'epitaph' but he was never a man to bear a grudge. More likely it was penned by Cecil's jealous cousin, Francis Bacon.
Here lies Hobinall, our pastor while ere,
That once in a Quarter our Fleeces did sheare.
To please us his Curre he kept under Clog,
And was ever after both shepherd and Dog.
For oblation to Pan his custom was thus,
He first gave a Trifle, then offer'd up Us:
And through his false worship such power he did gaine,
As kept him o' the Mountaine, and us on the plaine.
Where many a Horne-pipe he tun'd to his Phyllis
And sweetly sung Walsingham to's Amaryllis.
Till Atropos clapt him, a Pox on the Drab,
For (spight of his Tarbox) he died of the Scab.
The evil green of envy surrounded both cousins.....
Ah, I have come roundabout to what I meant to tell you about John Forster. He was the first to discover what I called my 'colours'. I had never talked of them because I took it for granted that every one saw them as I did.
One day I mentioned to John that as Tim, the groom, was a singularly good colour that day, we might venture to ask if we could take the ponies out by ourselves, which he was usually reluctant to allow.
"What do you mean, a good colour?" asked John. "He looks as pale and hangdog as ever."
We went through a fair deal of misunderstanding before John realised that I was not referring to Tim's complexion but to the haze of colour I saw surrounding him.
"When he is pleased, his brownish colour lightens and, when he is angry, it is shot through with scarlet. I always know what to expect of folk through their colour. It is very useful to be able to judge them at once. Why do you think the first time I saw you, I knew we should be friends? Because your colours were right, of course. I'll tell you how I think it works. The darker and dingier the colour, the uglier the passion contained in its frame."
"What colour is Master Campion, then?"
"Ah, he is pure gold because goodness shines clear and only evil thoughts display themselves in shadow."
John looked thoughtful. "What is your colour then?"
"Don't be a fool. I can't see my own colour, not in a pool or a steel glass. Stop asking questions, and we'll race the ponies."
~
When I was young and roamed the streets of Dublin, I saw most folk as bordered in dirty brown. Perhaps that is why I seemed to look through them, as there was nothing of interest on which to fix my gaze. I shall speak little of my colours in these pages. Seeing them was as natural to me as breathing, which it would be foolish to describe. Colours added richness to music too.
When I first heard the play 'Hamlet' I thought the author must have the same gift, 'Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off' did not seem to refer to his garb and 'The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought' described exactly my way of seeing. But perhaps I am merely reading my own meaning into the poet's words. Rambling old fool again.....
1572
The two short years of what I called my 'Golden Age' suddenly came to an end. I had been copying pages of my master's 'History of Ireland when he had to flee, leaving it for Richard Stanyhurst to complete. As a suspected Catholic (or so they said) after Queen Elizabeth's excommunication and the scare of a threatened Spanish invasion of Ireland, his life was at stake and, disguised in rough Irish garb, we sought shelter in friendly houses, always only a step ahead of Burghley's pursuivants.
My master had now found his true cause to champion and planned to leave for Father Allen's English College at Douai. It was a dark day for me when his ship left the little port of Tredake. I begged him to take me with him, saying that I would serve him in any way I could, but he told me I was Master Stanyhurst's helper (he was too kind to name a boy of nine 'servant') and that my duty was to him. He left me his beautiful lute, signed by Laux Maler, in remembrance of 'all we had learned together', gave me his blessing and the assurance that we would meet again. As the little ship dropped over the horizon, so my spirits fell, bereft of all that made life worth living.
To add to my woes, John Forster was now sent away to school and I would accept no playmate to replace my friend. I would sit in my room, day after day, unwilling to emerge for food and lessons, playing from my Orpheus book music that seemed to raise me above my present loneliness and transport me to realms undreamed of.
Master Stanyhurst had promised his friend to continue my education along the lines laid down by him, afterwards published as 'De Homine Academico', a portrait of the ideal student. I was by no means that. With this new master, I was abstracted and no longer soaked up knowledge as the sand does ink. All my efforts were absorbed in the difficult task of interpreting the music of Don Luys Milan. I was obsessed and poor Master Stanyhurst distracted with anxiety over the change in me.
He made me his amanuensis, copying for him his first attempts at a translation of Virgil's 'Aeneid'. My Latin now was of a high standard and we continued with elementary Greek, which I disliked. Always Master Stanyhurst had to tempt me to work by telling me what Master Campion would have wished. Sometimes he almost lost his temper with me and told how boys even from noble families had their lessons beaten into them with tears and tribulation. Then, regretting this lapse, he would remind me how, with Master Campion, my learning had been made exciting and I would agree that each waking had been to fresh adventures of the mind. However, these memories merely underlined the poverty of Master Stanyhurst's teaching, animated only by his sense of duty. I escaped to my room and my Orpheus book as often as possible.
My music won me a good reputation at the houses of Dublin merchants, but these were not the noble houses and Master Richard explained that he was ambitious for me to attain greater heights before my voice broke. That I would lose my angelic voice I refused to believe and called him a silly old fool in my mind. Was that why he decided to place me with the newly returned Lord Deputy, Sir Henry Sidney, 'Harry of the Big Beer' as I had heard him named?
"You are going far in this life, Johnny, " Master Stanyhurst told me, "and you will learn more of the world's ways in a great house than you may with me. Perhaps Edmund and I have not taught you enough of obedience and decorum, which is how to act a part suitable to your station. Our dear Master Campion is above such things. To him all men are equal under God."
He gave me this instruction to read:
'Even the duke's son is the preferred page to the prince, the earl's second son attendant upon the duke, the knight's second son the earl's servant, the squire's son wears the knight's livery and the gentleman's son is the squire's serving man.
All this was new to me. "So what am I?" I thought but dared not ask. "What is the place of a fisherman's son?"
