CHAPTER ELEVEN
I find it hard to write of this time of my life, Rob. Read the words of my songs; all is there with the deep felt love and longing urged by Kit Marlowe to bring my verse alive. Possibly, it seems maudlin and sentimental to you and you may think I was merely following the fashion for melancholy in my songs, just as Sidney's later followers turned his great themes into contemptible 'Phyllising'. I wrote it all into the music of 'Lachrimae' and even that was vulgarised by its popularity. It was not greed but need for money that caused me to bare my soul to the common sort, who never recognised the true pain in the words and music. I myself cheapened my sorrow with play on the words 'doleful', 'Dowland' and Dolandi' but I should be sorry if my then forlorn state means nothing to you in your maturer years and sorrier still if it is my lack of skill with the pen that leaves you ignorant of my past despair.
~
Master Noel persuaded me, much against my will, to apply for the post of Court Lutenist now that John Johnson was dead, yet it was a further rejection when I was refused. My master was undeterred and tried another tack.
"I deem it time you had a change of air, John. Here is an old acquaintance of yours from Academy days, who is excused the Summer Progress, as his father needs him at Codnor Castle. I am sure you will remember one of my fellow Gentlemen Pensioners, Master John Zouch."
I did indeed recall that tall young man, abler at the crossbow than the lute, full of kindness and good humour. We shook hands, and, before I could object, my traps were packed and loaded and we were riding North to Derbyshire.
"My father was Sir Walter's colonel in Ireland," confided Master Zouch, and never ceased to sing his praises. He put me to the Academy after I left Gray's Inn, so that I might get a smattering of the new learning and glad am I that he insisted, though I thought, at the time, I had my fill of schooling. I know that you have written music for Essex, but I have never forgiven him and Southampton for traducing Raleigh to the Queen."
I murmured something about needs must when the devil drives. It was best to say no more. A wrong word,even among friends, might lead to the gallows, as shown by Doctor Lopez'fate. Having been one myself, I knew that the least suspected folk might be informers. My own instability made me extra sensitive to this danger. If Barbara could prove false, where was trust in the world? We turned to safer reminiscences of the Durham House days.
Sir John Zouch gave me a good welcome and was delighted with a Galliard I composed in his honour and, in spite of poor health, stood up with the prettiest young ladies of the neighbourhood to dance to it. Such merry-making caused me mixed feelings though I was happy to be able to repay my hosts with my lute. Master Zouch's help was much needed on the estate and I rode out with him daily with benefit to my health and spirits.
A letter came from Master Noel, on progress with the Queen, saying that, when he had spoken to her of me, she had named me an 'obstinate papist'. Before that false description turned to the dread word 'traitor', I deemed it time to quit the country. Sir John spoke so angrily of Tyrone and the Irish rising that I had begun to feel out of place in his house and realised that, if the land of my birth became known, I should be less than welcome there.
Making my excuses to my hosts with profuse thanks, I rode off to London, mentally composing a letter to the Master of Gray, requesting his good offices to obtain me a post abroad with King James's brother-in-law, the Duke of Brunswick. To my surprise, as though by miracle, without any effort on my part, an invitation from the Duke awaited me, enclosed with a letter for me to deliver to Doctor Dee. I was glad of an opportunity to visit my old friend and lost no time in asking him how an invitation to visit Germany had arrived in the very nick of time.
"Ah," the magus replied, "my Monas magic is now in operation, though only at an experimental stage. I realised you needed an escape route and that chimed with my other plans. I told you communication would be swift, though sometimes, as in this case, the written word is needed to confirm an arrangement. I see young Essex runs upon his fate. Poor Doctor Lopez treated him for the French disease and we all know what madness follows. That unnatural couple with whom he plots, Anthony and Francis Bacon, will do him no good. You are wise to leave the country. How I run on! Let me look at you, John Dowland. I see a new sadness in your eyes and there is somewhat adding to your melancholy in which I perhaps may help you."
I confessed only to the nightmare and added that I had no wish for him to take on the burden, as with the John Heywood dream. The Doctor looked concerned. "I shall give you a plentiful supply of a harmless medicine that should bring you sweet sleep. They say that tobacco is a specific against all ills and I heard tell in Germany that a small spoonful of aqua vitae before bed has a good effect. But you are going to the home of up-to-date medicine and will hear much of the great Paracelsus and his cures which affront the dusty doctors here. You will find much in common with the teachings of that peerless sage, who prescribed the vibrations of music and colour as well as charms, herbs and divine elixirs. Learn all you can of him while you are in Germany. Of this other matter, which you are loath to confide, remember the saying 'Time is a great healer' though I can see it is of scant comfort at this time. You have been through the fire, indeed. Now, I bid you heartily farewell, and may your journey have a happy ending."
It was of help to have my invitation from the Duke himself to show to Essex and Cecil, who, at that time, were in joint control of the country's affairs and who both appended their signatures to my licence to travel. Essex had a message for me to carry to his friend, Sir Robert Sidney, and, though I was most unwilling to encounter him, I was in no position to refuse. Master Noel was still on progress with the Queen , so that all I could do to thank him was to send a letter, promising that I would write to him often from overseas. Alas, I was never more to see that kind friend in this unhappy world.
It was August in the year 1594 when I disembarked at Flushing. Robert Sidney seemed pleased to see me, but could not wait to break the seals of his correspondence. Life as Governor there held no excitement for him, as was clear.
"Well, Johnny," he exclaimed, waving one of his letters, "here's good news for one or other of us. It seems that Suzanne is with child and will soon give birth. If it's a boy this time, we'll call him Robert, for I'm pretty sure it's the result of my Christmas visit when, I must say, Suzanne gave me a better welcome than my lady wife. If it's your child, I'll stand gossip, even if it has to be by proxy. Why, man, you look thunderstruck. Is it not good news?" And he went bustling off on some business raised by another of his letters.
I was more furious than dumbfounded. Suzanne had sworn to me that there would be no more bastards. Were all women deceivers? I had once thought her as true as the pole star. Now I was twice befooled by women! It was all very well to be fobbed off with one of Robert's byblows, though I had learned to love Annie as my own and she knew no other father, but another child to keep? No wonder Suzanne had gone running off to the country and sent only the briefest of replies to my letter.
I travelled on to the court of Brunswick without staying to look on Robert Sidney's hated face more. One small satisfaction remained to cool my fury. To all appearance I was the deceived husband, yet, this time, I had cuckolded Robert. Two hands to play on one lute with a vengeance! I am too ashamed to tell you more of my poisoned thoughts as I journeyed.
At Wolfenbuttel, I was given an excellent reception both by the Duke and Duchess and by their musicians, who were amazed by what they thought my newfangled style of playing. Such was my black humour (anger having replaced self-pity) that I chose to think they mocked me and that the Duke's chief lutenist was jealous enough to wish me harm. When, one September day, agonising stomach pains gripped me, I at once thought of poison. There was strangely no purging or vomiting, but still the searing gripes continued until next day, when they ceased as suddenly as they had arrived.
Since Barbara's rejection of me, days and weeks had passed uncounted in a turmoil of ill humour. Now I reckoned up the time, and realised that Suzanne's labour should have begun by now and, although I was not the father of the child, perhaps our close friendship had caused me to share her pains. I had heard of such things. The Duke of Brunswick had rewarded my playing with a rich gold chain, which I sent by safe messenger to Suzanne in token of the renewed affection, which, unbeknown to her, she had so nearly lost.
In the welcoming air of the German court, my wounded self-esteem began to heal and I tried to think more kindly of Barbara also. After all, what sort of future could await us? Did I expect her to wander Europe with me, leading a life of poverty and disgrace? Perhaps she was right to shatter the fools' paradise in which we had lived and stronger than I to find the courage to do so. My music remained to me, but what had she to cling to if she had truly loved me? I saw again, in my mind's eye, her white knuckles and stony face. Could it have been not pride but pain which made her give me such short shrift? She had shared each thought and feeling with me in the past as though we were one being. It would be too, too cruel if now she shared my misery.
I banished my fears with day-dreams and began to imagine that Barbara had returned to me and that we were happy again. I even wrote a song to that effect, though I knew such optimism was born of craving only. I was glad of a letter from my former pupil, Tom Campion, enclosing a poem he was about to publish in a book of Latin verse, celebrating my playing in the most flattering terms. Master Noel wrote to me often with news of court and town, but never a word of Lady Barbara. Sir Walter Raleigh had left for Guiana, but Sir Robert Dudley had forestalled and humiliated him by first exploring the Orinoco River (such outlandish names!) and discovering an island which he called Dudleiana. The worst news was that Robert Southwell, a Jesuit, like my true master, had been tortured and executed even more cruelly. They called Ireland a land of savages. What then was England?
Doctor Dee's letter to the Duke of Brunswick had confirmed the discovery of the Orphic Hymn of Ficino and promised that I would sing and play it in his presence for the success of the Protestant Alliance and peace in Europe. I postponed the ceremony as long as I could, feeling myself unable as yet to attain to the spiritual state necessary for a favourable issue, but the Duke was insistent and I played and sang to the best of my ability, though my heart was not in it.
I set off on the next stage of my journey with twenty-three pounds in my purse and the most splendid suit of clothes I had ever owned made of velvet satin and gold lace which the Duke had given me that I might not disgrace his court. Having thrown myself into rivalry with the court lutenist, Gregory Howet, I fear I was still sometimes scornful and unfair to him. Yet he bore no grudge and accompanied me to the court of the Landgrave of Hessen, bearing himself so cheerfully that I felt ashamed of my former, sick suspicions.
I came out of my shell at this new court. As the young Landgrave and I first set eyes on each other, there was that immediate flash of recognition that meant, we thought, not only that we were to be future friends, but that there had been a deep relationship between us in a past life. Like all our best loved philosophers, he was a firm believer in reincarnation, which, though the Christian church had long rejected it as heresy, I had been taught at the Academy, where the would-be playwrights had made fun of Pythagoras' metempsychosis, explained to them in all sincerity.
The Landgrave was a scholar of deep learning and I had to draw on all the knowledge I had gained to keep pace with him in our discussions, which were a joy to me. Better even than all our talk (and my friend's English was excellent) was our music-making together. Landgrave Maurice was a most accomplished lutenist and composer of motets and church music, playing the organ as well as other instruments. Much of what I had learned in France and Italy came fresh to him and we debated theories of music endlessly.
Like Tom Campion, he did me the honour to name me the 'English Orpheus'. I answered that was as yet a mere compliment, but that one day I hoped to hear the first Orpheus and be privy to his secrets, though I knew that, before I made the attempt, I must purify myself of human frailties. After explaining my musical magic, I went on to confess the unhappiness that had brought black anger and jealousy, plunging me into deep melancholy, which made me unfit to speak the invocation and question musicians of the past.
To disperse my dark moods, the Landgrave took me on hunting parties, where we galloped our mounts so fiercely that our cheeks flamed with colour and the air tasted like wine. After a hearty meal - I had never seen such eaters as the Germans- I would try to avoid the drinking bouts, making my lute the excuse, for I found excess made me quarrelsome. To drive away sadness, the Landgrave played me music from my Orpheus book, which fascinated him, but my unhappiness remained.
"I find myself gazing on my lady's miniature with dissatisfaction. Her face seems stiff and unlifelike and my mental image of her is slipping away. Oh, God, I long to see her, if only once more."
"If you would steel yourself to undergo one of your magics, might it not be accomplished?" suggested the Landgrave. "I will play the Fantasia of Don Luys Milan while you gaze fixedly on the portrait of your loved one, holding her ring. Are you willing to make the attempt?"
"I have never before been able to choose my subject. In truth, I have had no control soever in my 'seeings'. In them, there is no sense of time, so I shall not know whether it is in the past, present or future that I see my lady. But I care not, if only my longing be assuaged by a sight of her."
We retired to a turret room, far away from the noise of the court. At first, we played in unison, then I laid down my lute, placed the ruby ring on my finger, took up Barbara's portrait and gazed upon it, remembering our happiest moments together. Soon, as my friend continued to play, I felt myself drift out of this world.....
.....I found myself standing in the corner of an unknown chamber. A woman (a lady, I should say, from her rich dress) ugly of visage, gave orders to two servants, one of them my Suzanne, as they bustled from fireplace and press, carrying bowls of steaming water and cloths to the great bed on which lay a figure, writhing in agony, a cloth stuffed in her mouth. I could see from her eyes, wide in pain and terror, that the gag was to muffle her screams. Even as I recognised her, watching in utmost horror, my Barbara, in a final convulsion, gave birth, assisted by Suzanne, and fell back against the pillows in a swoon.
The ill-favoured lady pushed forward when the cord was cut, snatched up the baby boy and washed him herself gently, taking no notice of the poor mother. Now Suzanne had removed the gag, I could better identify Barbara's exhausted features, grey against the white pillows, ghastly as I had never seen them. As the second maid changed the bloodstained sheets, Suzanne tenderly raised her mistress's insensible form. The lady, now cradling the mewing, swaddled babe in possessive arms, hastened from the chamber without a backward glance. I longed to take my suffering love in my arms, sweetly kiss her damp forehead and smooth her tangled hair......
.....I came to myself, weeping bitterly, to see my friend's shocked face above me. Helping me to my feet, he exclaimed, "Forgive me, John, I did not imagine it to be so painful an experience as this. Tell me, at least, that your seeing brought you comfort."
"Comfort!" I cried, in furious bitterness and despair. "I saw my lady giving birth to her husband's child and I know not whether it caused her death." And, inconsolable, I sped down the winding stair and locked myself in my chamber.
~
Even as I sit here, Rob, enduring my own invading pain, I still feel that distant, shared agony and the mourning that followed, not knowing whether my lady lived or died. I remember still the selfish, shameful pangs that came later when I told myself again that Robert Sidney had fathered Barbara's child. I thanked God that his hateful face had not been part of my vision, triumphant as he beheld that tiny, yet perfect babe, who would have been my own, had it not been my desire through Suzanne's advice to protect my lady. I bitterly regretted the loss of the golden child who might have crowned our union. Yet, if it had brought her death? It was easier to hate Sir Robert as her murderer.
~
I kept to my room until my emotions were under control and I was fit once more for the Landgrave's company. He was full of sympathy and regret that he had led me into such an unhappy undertaking.
"Leave magic well alone until you are fully recovered in spirits, John. The playing of the Orphic Hymn can wait awhile. The Duke has sent, demanding your return, complaining that you have stayed too long. I will send Gregory back to him with a good will and, though I am wishful to keep you with me, I dare not offend my kinsman. Perhaps the best would be if you make the journey to Italy you have planned, and, on your return, the Duke may have forgotten you and you can stay here at Cassel for as long as you are willing."
It was agreed that a change of scene and a reunion with my close friend, Luca Marenzio, with whom I had corresponded over the years, might work wonders and with a farewell gift of a costly ring, which I dispatched to Suzanne, and a great standing gilt cup, which I left until my return, keeping for my travels the coins it contained, the Landgrave and I said our farewells.
At Cassel, I had given little thought either to the Protestant Union or my work as James of Scotland's informant, although, since the birth of his son, Henry, he had been sounding out the princes of Germany as to an alliance of his own. Essex had also charged me, when he signed my travel permit, to send information from Italy as to any further planned sea attack from Spain and the part the Pope might be expected to play.
I could only think, as I travelled, that journey's end would bring a meeting with Luca, who would dispel all my sadness in a joyous, musical reunion. I knew that he too had experienced love troubles, having left Rome for Poland, but was now returned, though not on the best of terms with the Pope. I will spare you the description of my triumphs as I travelled south, even the welcome I received at the magnificent court of Ferdinando, Grand Duke of Tuscany. I achieved an ambition in meeting the members of the Camerata, introduced to them by my former travelling companion, Vincente Galilei.
Yet all was naught when I perused a letter from Luca informing me that I must by no means come to Rome, where I was remembered from my previous visit, when correspondence with which the English College had entrusted me had gone astray. It would have been as much as my life was worth to enter the stronghold of the Bishop of Rome, where Luca himself was in such bad odour that to leave his post and meet me elsewhere would put him in jeopardy. I had anticipated our reunion so keenly that this disappointment was almost more than I could bear. I never saw Luca more, for, within four years, he was dead.
I turned to my duties as an informer, anxious to leave Italy as soon as might be. In Florence, I met with an English priest, John Scudamore, as had been previously arranged. He too was a spy, playing a most dangerous game. He confirmed the instruction that I was to go to Rome and, not knowing I had no intention of using it, wrote me a letter of safe conduct. Now I was in all-round trouble and my fears for myself grew. Fears for Suzanne and the children came to haunt me, for Scudamore told me that Spain was preparing once more to attack England.
The message he sent to Rome, telling of my arrival, resulted eventually in the appearance at my door of a friar who brought a pressing invitation to the Holy City and promise of a large pension from the Pope. I was immediately on my guard and temporised, saying I had my wife and children to consider. To this he replied, that there were agents in England who would arrange their safe transport to Rome and, if I or they were unwilling , he suggested darkly , their lives might well be forfeit. Yourself, Annie and Suzanne were in the gravest danger.
The Master of Gray was in Florence and entertained me to dinner with some English gentlemen to whom I confided my alarm. They promised that, on their return, they would seek out Suzanne and warn her that she must have no truck with strangers. I hesitated to use the word 'kidnap'. Helpless to do more, I sent them all the money I could spare. Making my way to Bologna, myself keeping a weather eye open for danger, I found that Ferrabosco had died in Armada year. I bought a good lute as a gift for Landgrave Maurice of Hessen, had my own lutes repaired, and bought a plentiful supply of strings.
On reaching Venice, I found more English gentlemen with news of home. There had been a raid by Spanish forces based in Brittany on the coast of Cornwall. Mousehole, Newlyn and Penzance, all places of which Digory Piper had spoken, had been put to the flames. Spaniards on English soil as enemies for the first time! Born in the Pale under Elizabeth's rule, I felt her loyal subject as never before, hating the Jesuits, who had sent my true master knowingly to his death and who, with King Philip, were sworn to destroy peace and the reformed religion.
I now learned that Robert Cecil was gaining more and more power and that Essex was less concerned with government than with war. Safely over the border in Nuremberg, my concern was to obtain safe passage to England before hostilities broke out. I had thoughts of taking Suzanne and you children north of the Border and finding such safety as there was at the court of Scotland. Essex had ordered me to Rome and I had disobeyed and should get short shrift if I applied to him. There was no possibility of return to England without a permit, so I determined to throw myself on Robert Cecil's mercy. With some difficulty, I concocted a description of my travels, incorporating a number cipher used with Walsingham, which I knew Cecil's agents would recognise. I made a clean breast of my Catholic involvement, knowing that would make me his man, but what choice was there? I was wild with worry for the safety of my family and took the best course I could to facilitate my return.
Back at the Landgrave's court, the threat of the new Armada seemed less and newly arrived Englishmen were reassuring. One brought me a letter from Master Noel, relating all the court news. These words leapt from the page: 'Sir Robert Sidney is unbearable with the news that his wife is with child when all thought she would bear no more after that last, unfortunate boy. The birth is expected in December.....'
My heart leapt! My Barbara was still alive! Then misery returned tenfold. I had seen into the future and the thought of her agony to come, perhaps her death, racked me once more. When I had played in Italy, I had styled myself 'infoelice Inglese', now I adopted the motto 'Semper Dowland, semper dolens'. Fate had dealt me a double sorrow and there was nothing but grief ahead. Yet I must think first of Barbara and my mourning must be for her alone.
