CHAPTER TEN
It seemed that Suzanne had confided to her lady, as she was brushing her hair, that she had been abandoned by her parents and left as a babe at the convent gate. Much to her surprise, her mistress had replied in tones of envy, wishing that she had been orphaned at birth or never seen the light of day in this wicked world.
Little by little, in broken tones, there emerged a tale, shocking indeed to my innocent Suzanne, who wept bitter tears as she disclosed it to me in the hope that I, who in her eyes, cured all ills, might find a way to help her afflicted mistress. It appeared that old Gamage, Lady Barbara's father, had, as was common practice when wives were with child, used his young daughter, not as a wife, since in the marriage market her virginity must be preserved at all costs, but in those vile ways which leave no outward mark, such as all but the basest whores detest.
The child bride came to Robert Sidney 'virgo intacta' to all seeming but inwardly damaged to an extent that his clumsy advances could only intensify. I imagine that he was a poor enough lover at the best of times and that, as she lay stiff as a board in their marriage bed, distancing herself as far as she could from his sweaty body, silent tears coursing down her cheeks, he would feel his manhood shrivel and wonder, cursing, if he would ever get an heir.
When he, at last, managed to rape his poor, young wife, the resulting child, William, cried incessantly and would not be held. Worst of all, he was the image of her father, and Lady Barbara could not bear to look on him. As he grew, it was clear he was a freakish child, subject to strange fits and violent tantrums. He was kept at Penshurst with special attendants, while his mother led an unhappy existence in the London house.
Full of pity for her young mistress, and believing my musical powers to be curative (had I not played away many a migraine and soothed Annie to sleep in the worst of her childish ills ?) Suzanne begged me to play for Lady Barbara. How could I refuse her?
I realised now that the dingy colour surrounding Lady Barbara's frail form had nothing in common with her husband's earthiness, as I had supposed, but was the shadow of the deepest despair. Her eyes were dull, as was her hair and her voice was toneless. My heart went out to her and I determined to play as never before to cure her melancholy. The music of Don Luys Milan had been successful with Sir Philip and the Countess of Pembroke and in that I placed my trust.
As I played, Lady Barbara seemed to relax a little more each day and I noticed she ceased twisting and untwisting her fingers as they lay idly in her lap. Suzanne remarked on the improvement, but she was concerned that, now February had brought a strangely early spring, her lady still refused to stir from her chamber, where she had made herself a prisoner for many months.
"She seems truly afraid to leave the house, Jean," (so Suzanne named me) "I persuade her as far as the door of her chamber, but then she backs away, hugging the wall, until she has regained the safety of her chair. She is pitifully anxious to please me but it seems that each time she is overcome by dread. Surely, some evil spirit holds her in its power. I believe she is punishing herself because of her son, blaming herself for his sad state."
The next day I persuaded Lady Barbara to sit in the window seat so that she had more light for her embroidery, though, for the most part, it lay ignored in her lap. She moved obediently, as if in a trance, and I sat at her feet, playing solarian music to disperse her sad mood. Chancing to look up, I saw silent tears coursing down her pale cheeks, as she looked through the leaded panes and watched Suzanne playing ball with Annie in the courtyard below. Sorrow and envy blended in her face, as her lips formed the words, "Oh, William, William." Though I was touched with a sharp pang of pity, I realised that the ice around her heart was melting and recovery was on the way.
Fearful to move too soon, I played on,then, "Lady," I ventured, "the sun is shining. I spend so much of my time in airless rooms, I crave the out of doors. Let us take our cloaks and join Suzanne and Annie. The child so loves to play with me and I have little enough time to give her."
Lady Barbara's dull eyes widened in dismay, but such was her instinctive courtesy that she nodded her head, gave me her hand, and, stumbling a little, allowed herself to be led into the courtyard, where it was warm enough for us to sit and resume our musical cure.
"That was indeed a miracle," exclaimed Suzanne afterwards. "Pray the fine weather holds."
It was as though my Orpheus music had brought the sunny days. I concentrated on singing the most graceful songs, hoping Apollo would continue to smile on us. Each day I persuaded Lady Barbara to take a little wine to nourish her spirit and, as it was too early for roses , whose perfume would have helped her most, Suzanne obtained cakes flavoured with cinnamon, which also had the Sun's properties.
Soon, our mistress was almost hastening down the steps into the courtyard and, one day, as I followed with her cloak, Suzanne, in turning to greet us, missed the ball Annie threw to her, which landed at Lady Barbara's feet.
"Toss it to me, toss it to me!" cried Annie excitedly, and, to our joy, my lady stooped for the ball and threw it. We all joined in the game, panting and laughing like the children we had never been. After that, as the weeks passed, under Annie's guidance, we reverted to other childish pursuits, picking the earliest leaves and buds, garlanding our brows like old-time shepherd folk. Annie would sing and we would all three accompany her on our lutes. It was a joyous time.
"Listen, Suzanne," smiled Lady Barbara, "my fingers are all thumbs no more. I shall soon play almost as well as you." Her voice rang like a bell in my ears and I saw that her aura , which had been growing clearer each day, now shone diamond bright, reminding me of Doctor Dee's talk of the 'albedo'. The pinched expression had gone, her clear skin seemed almost transparent, her hair full of golden lights and there was a spring in her step. She was so unaffected, so charming in her delight, so free from the condescension I had found in great ladies at Court (except for both my dear Lady Marys) that I felt myself drawn to her as though we were equals.
Controlling my voice, I said, "Then now is the time for work and study, my lady, as Sir Robert commanded. Playtime must be over." She nodded, solemnly, "I shall learn all the music that you heard in France and Suzanne shall correct my accent as I sing." Her new found confidence delighted me. So must Pygmalion have felt when he beheld the living Galatea. That evening as I walked back to my lodging, Suzanne's parting words echoed in my mind. "Do you know, Jean, I think you are a little in love with Lady Barbara."
After a wakeful night of tossing and turning, I had to admit to myself that I, whose dealings with women, though pleasurable, had never touched my heart, had indeed come to love Lady Barbara, who, in the eyes of the world, was beyond my reach.
~
I should have kept away and, indeed, tried to make my visits less frequent, but my lady was so downcast at missing a lesson and so fearful of my displeasure, for my voice in addressing her was gruff in the attempt to hide my feelings, that I gave in to my desire for her dear company. At first, I had been Master Dowland but now she adopted Suzanne's name for me.
"I am improving at my lute, Monsieur Jean, because you do not make me afraid. Until now, I have been so full of fears but you and your music have swept them away as the wind blows autumn leaves. You see," she laughed, "You have made me quite a poet."
Little she knew that, night after night, in my lodging, I wrote poems of my own to assuage the burning torment of being so close to one to whom I might not confess my love. As Lady Barbara's inner confusion dispersed in smiles and soft laughter, my own mental turmoil increased so that she would frown and demand what ailed me, to which I had no answer. The words to each new poem were branded on my mind, yet I might not voice them. 'Touch not, proud hands, lest you her anger move' was no mere poetic fancy. I ached, as I sat so close, yet dared not position her fingers on her lute.
As my lady blossomed each day from the sad, withdrawn creature she had been, so I, her healer, became the suffering one and learned the truth of the maxim, 'Nec prosunt domino, quae prosunt omnibus artes' ('the arts which help all mankind cannot help their master'). Small wonder it became the motto for my 'First Book of Songs'.
Sometimes, alone in my room, burning frustration found its way into such bad though heartfelt verse as this:
Each hour amidst the deep of hell I fry;
Each hour I waste and wither where I sit;
But that sweet hour wherein I wish to die
(in union, Rob, with the beloved)
My hope, alas, may not enjoy it yet,
Whose hope is such, bereaved of the bliss
Which unto all save me allotted is.
Often, sensing that my mistress was now ready for love, I dared to hope that she might choose me. Then I recalled, as with the unhappy lutenist, Mark Smeaton, that if I expressed my love, even with a look, Lady Barbara Sidney, like Queen Anne Boleyn, might say, "You may not look to have me speak to you as I should to a nobleman because you are an inferior person." I could not think that I should humbly reply, "No, madam, a look sufficed and so fare you well." In my heart, I felt myself equal to any man, yet, I knew that, in the eyes of the world, I could never aspire to union with a lady.
I was grateful to the Queen that her ungracious humour kept Robert Sidney in Flushing for so long at a time. He had his informant, Rowland Whyte, who sent him all the news of the court, town and family, but there was nothing for me to hide. My constant attendance on his lady was merely what Sir Robert had repeatedly demanded.
~
On the evening of the last day of February, I stayed late at the Sidney house. Annie had a slight fever, as did all the servants, and said that she could not sleep until I had played and sung for her. Suzanne came down from settling her mistress to bed and she too was feverish and admitted that she did not know how she had kept on her feet to perform the last duties of the day.
"I cannot remember whether I dampened down Lady Barbara's fire before I left her chamber," she fretted. I reassured her, absent-mindedly, and, when she was abed, played for her as I had done for Annie, my mind toying meanwhile with the words of a poem, just come to me, of how the fire that burned in my heart might only be dampened by my mistress's love. As soon as Suzanne slept, I crept from her room and was crossing the hall to the front door, when I smelt smoke.
Bounding up the stairs to Lady Barbara's chamber, I threw open her door. Great flames leapt up as I closed it quickly, by whose light I saw her, newly awakened, crouching among the pillows. Snatching up a heavy cover from a nearby chest, I flung it over the burning rushes and stamped out the flames, pulling another close-woven cover from the bed to finish the work. A large pitcher of water made all sure and I flung open the window to disperse the choking smoke.
Coughing and spluttering, I turned to the bed, where my lady, her eyes streaming, both with the smoke and tears of fright, huddled clutching a blanket round her as she shivered in the sudden draught. We spoke with one voice. "Are you harmed?" "Is all well with you?" The candle lit, each saw the other's face and we fell to overwrought laughter. I was the more smoke- blackened of the two and Lady Barbara bade me sit on the bed while she wiped my sooty face with her hand kerchief. She was still trembling with cold but I was shaking with emotion as I pulled away and went to close the window.
My lady beckoned me back and imprisoned my hand in hers. "I must thank you, Jean, for my life. I sleep heavily these days and failed to wake until you flung open the door. Lit by the red light of the flames, I did not recognise you at first, but then I knew it could be none but you, who have been my saviour in all things."
The words 'lit by the red light of the flames' struck a chord in my memory and I heard Doctor Dee's voice saying, "To achieve the rubedo you must go through spiritual fire, perhaps material fire also."
Lady Barbara continued, "You should go to your rest, but before then, I pray you, play to me to bring me calm." Taking my lute from its smoke besmirched case, I impulsively played and sang words which were not my own but exactly expressed my need:
'Oh, Western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.'
"You sing that for Suzanne?" came a questioning whisper. I spoke without thinking. "Never, my lady. Suzanne is my friend, not my love, and we have never shared a bed." "And Annie?" It was more a statement than a question. After a silence, I nodded. From that time, each read the other's mind. "I cannot be surprised, she is so lovely and he lonely."
Such generosity angered me. "I have long lived with loneliness." "I, too," she whispered, and, taking the lute from me, she clasped both my hands. For the first time, our eyes met and it was not long before our lips followed suit. The household slept on, undisturbed, and before daybreak, the alchemy of love fused our two beings, as are the Red King and the White Rose Queen in that magical union of opposites described by Doctor Dee - the Chemical Wedding.
I awoke in the dawn, words of Ficino echoing in my mind: "Why is Love called a Magus? Because all the force of Magic consists in Love. The work of Magic is a certain drawing of one thing to another by natural similitude. The parts of this world, like members of one animal, depend all on one love and are connected together by natural communion...This is the true magic."
Gazing at the still sleeping Barbara, it seemed right to me then very softly to play and sing the Orphic Hymn to draw down on us the heavenly influences which would make our love everlasting.
~
To tell you of that love would be unseemly, Rob. I hope one day you will know that physical and spiritual blending and find your other half without whom you remain for ever incomplete. It happens rarely. The song I wrote for Barbara, words and music coming together magically, has been sung so often it is meaningless to the ruder sort. Now you know what manner of love it celebrates, I hope it will come alive for you as you reread the words.
Come away, come sweet love,
The golden morning breaks;
All the earth, all the air
Of love and pleasure speaks.
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet, rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss.
Eyes were meant for beauty's grace
Viewing, ruing lovelong pain,
Procured by beauty's rude disdain.Come away, come sweet love,
The golden morning wastes,
While the sun from his sphere
His fiery arrows casts,
Making all the shadows fly;
Playing, staying in the grove
To entertain the stealth of love.
Thither, sweet love, let us hie,
Flying, dying in desire,
Winged with sweet hopes and heavenly fireCome away, come, sweet love,
Do not in vain adorn
Beauty's grace, that should rise
Like to the naked morn.
Lilies on the river's side,
And fair, Cyprian flowers new blown,
Desire no beauties but their own ;
Ornament is nurse of pride,
Pleasure, measure love's delight.
Haste, then, sweet love, our wished flight.
The lilies and roses of martyrdom that had haunted me so long, were now transformed into the emblems of bliss, banishing the nightmare of Father Campion's death.
To maintain 'the stealth of love' we accepted Suzanne's generously proffered aid. Never hear the word 'bawd', Rob, without thinking it blasphemy to her, who was our truest friend. Our happiness was free from care, for Suzanne had told her mistress of those measures in which I had instructed her.
When I dared not touch her, I had wooed my love with music. Now she was mine, I laid my lute aside. Our mutual desire made music transcending my most rainbow dreams. We had a motto which meant we two were one. When Annie was learning to speak, she did not say 'I am' but expressed a child's view of the wide world with her own version, 'I are', laughingly translated by her mother as 'Je sommes'- a fine watchword for twin souls.
Barbara had the motto chased on a gold and ruby ring, which she made me swear never to take from my neck or finger. I gave her in exchange the Spanish diamond, placing it on her wedding finger, where it fitted exactly, as it must have done her husband's mother. My love later presented me with a Nicholas Hilliard miniature of herself with our motto and the date of our first union. I had only Arthur Dee's drawing to give her and she commissioned Hilliard to copy that in an even more flattering likeness with a background of flames. Nicholas had his own style and none but Barbara could put a name to that idealised face.
The golden months of spring and early summer passed in a glow of supreme happiness, each of us completely absorbed in the other, with no thought for the morrow. June, the month of roses, which should have crowned our perfect joy, brought the first shadow.
Suzanne came to tell me that her mistress was indisposed and must keep to her room for a time and though I called to see my love day after day, Suzanne stood at the chamber door, determined to bar the way, stoutly refusing my pleas to play for my lady's welfare. I was distracted with concern and my thoughts ran riot. What type of illness could cause my exclusion?. I would have risked the plague to be with Barbara, yet dare not compromise her honour by forcing the door.
Came the day when I opened the door to Suzanne's and Annie's room, to find neither hide nor hair of them. All their goods were gone, the bed stripped and a servant was sweeping out the rushes, as though readying the room for fresh tenants. I ran to the steward in dismay, who told me that Lady Barbara was awaiting me in her chamber. My spirits rose. At last an end had come to my days of distress and Barbara would set all to rights. I flew up the stairs, but, at their head, froze in my tracks.....
Who was this standing stiffly erect in the doorway and where was the diamond brightness which hitherto surrounded her? My lady dwelt once more in shadow. As she answered my anguished questioning, Barbara's voice was icy. "I have sent them ahead to Lincolnshire to prepare for my arrival. I intend to pay Sir Thomas and Lady Monson a summer visit."
I knew Sir Robert had met the Monsons at the last Parliament and that they would welcome me as Lady Barbara's lutenist, for Sir Thomas was musical, but her next sentence stunned me.
"Here are your wages, Master Dowland. I no longer require your services." Stony-faced, her knuckles white, Barbara turned on her heel, closing her chamber door firmly behind her. The hireling had received his dismissal.
~
Outside the house, I gazed unbelievingly at the money still held in my frozen hand, then hurled it into the teeming gutter, where a swarm of urchins splashed and scrabbled for it. Back in my lodging, I gave myself up to the deepest despair. What false plot was here? Why had Suzanne told me nothing? How could my loving Barbara have become by some black magic that stone-faced traitress? I must be in the throes of one of my worst nightmares. I longed for the relief of tears to disperse the bitter, burning lump in my throat. They say that hearts break and the pain in my breast bore out the truth of that. They say that brains break also and mine were shattered, as my whole world crashed around my feet.
I clutched at straws. Perhaps Barbara had not yet left. Perhaps she was testing the constancy of my love. I determined to plead my case with her. Once, when I sped to meet her, I walked on air; now, as I trudged along, I felt on the verge of some hellish pit. At last I reached the familiar door. The house had an empty, untenanted look. A servant grinned at me mockingly, holding out a small package, seizing which I stumbled away.
I hardly dared unseal my prize. Would there be a loving letter of explanation or a further cruel dismissal? I threw it on the table, summoning up courage to peruse its contents..... There was no letter. I shook the packet impatiently and out fell the Spanish diamond, confirming my utter rejection. Yet, it proved, as did the ruby ring I wore, that I had not imagined our high joys. The sight of my ring stabbed me to the heart, but I had given my word to wear it always and I, at least, would not be forsworn. I hung both rings on the chain round my throat, where the ache tormented me. Tears of exhaustion and self pity at last eased the pain.
When I could weep no more, I left my lodging and wandered through a world as grey as the first seeing of Father Campion's death, until I found myself, footsore and weary, at the riverside. I might have continued my nightmare walking until the waters closed over my head forever, had not a persistent waterman forced me into his wherry, as though I were his only fare of the day. Still in a dream, I found myself at Whitehall steps, and, tossing the boatman my purse in answer to his importuning, hardly knowing what urged me, I went to find Henry Noel.
Just as my Paris friend once tended me, so did this kind master and friend care for and keep me from self murder, for I had lost the will to live, worthless as I deemed myself now that Lady Barbara had betrayed our love. Never, even in the most wretched moments of despair, did I allow her name to pass my lips. Only once, at a later date and in another place, did I compose music for 'La Mia Barbara', which none in England heard.
Master Noel sent to my lodging for my property and paid my reckoning, for I was penniless. He fully realised my sorry state on finding that I had abandoned my lutes and my books, including my Orpheus books, for which I cared not a jot in my bereavement. He inquired for the Monsons' direction and sent a messenger with a letter for Suzanne, answered briefly with no word of Lady Barbara. Master Noel supposed that my plight was caused by the defection of my wife to another lover. It was well known in Court circles that Sir Thomas Monson was unhappy with the ugly heiress he had taken to his bosom.
I would sit alone, twirling the ruby ring on its chain, gazing on the hollow mockery of 'Je Sommes', heaving great sighs at Barbara's deceit and my utter folly in believing that she could have shared the overwhelming passion of which I was now bereft. Bitterly, I could only conclude that, having obtained her cure, on which our love-making had set the seal, she, like her husband, had used me, as he had ever done from the time of our youth. They might even now be together, laughing at my pretensions. I wrote poem after poem to ease my growing resentment. Later, when the pain was less, yet the poison remained, they were published in my First Book of Songs.
The weather matched my mood and at night fierce winds sent the branches of a nearby aspen tree tapping against my casement. My nightmares of Father Campion's death returned, which I had thought forever banished by Barbara's love. When I at last fell into a brief, restless sleep, instead of the grey sombreness of my first seeing, the scene would be coloured with the bright flashings that herald the onset of a migraine. The sound was present now and the mob would bay like dogs. I struggled to awake but lay pinioned, as though by bands of iron. The dreadful obscenity would unfold inexorably in brilliant colour and, oh, the blood! Waking would bring the usual nausea and I would tremble like the aspen leaves whipped by the wind. Each night I struggled to hold off the sleep so needful for my recovery.
Master Noel tried his best to bring me back to the real world but all the news was ill. Essex seemed to have run mad, for he arraigned and sent to the gallows the Queen's physician, Doctor Lopez, who, like me had spied for Walsingham, now dead and unable to speak for his informers. Tyrone had led a successful rising in Ulster and, worst of all, a book was published under the name of Dolman, dealing with the forbidden subject of the succession. What hope was there for me, Irish, a former spy, who had Catholic friends and had lived in Rome?
Suddenly, I remembered Patrick Gray's mischievous smile, last time he passed through London, and his words, "You look mighty cheerful, Johnny, for a man who calls himself Dolman." How did he know the name I had used in Rome and what secrets were safe with a handsome ruffler who had bought and sold as many lives as Leicester, including that of his Scottish Queen?
