CHAPTER TWELVE
I realised too how much I had depended on Luca's help to put me back in frame as he had done after my true master's death with his cheerful demeanour and his divine playing. Even with the Landgrave Maurice, I had not known such delight in the communion of music making. Now I had to crawl out of a slough of despond by my own efforts. The understanding came to me with shocking force that, in my life, I had always thought first of myself and my needs. Even when helping others, there was that edge of pride because I had the power to cure them. And there was anger that my gift could not mend my own life. I now knew that I had desecrated my love for Barbara with the poison of resentment, instead of recalling with gratitude those brief months of bliss - more than was granted to most in a lifetime.
The bitterest disappointment was that Ficino's Orphic hymn, which I had played with such confidence to ensure our lifelong happiness, had failed. But what overweening arrogance to think that I could direct the shape of our future and stretch out the days of sweet delight to suit my own selfish ends. Perhaps that fleeting interlude was all that was ordained for us in this life. Yet, all my good resolutions were as naught and jealousy engulfed me when I remembered that Robert Sidney was to father the son that might have been mine. Suzanne's child would be a poor substitute. My music suffered as it always did when evil thoughts held me in thrall. At Cassel, I could not look on the Landgrave's two beautiful children without a pang of envy. Otto was named for a kinsman but, secretly, perhaps for the Kapellmeister, Georg Otto, held in high regard by his master. The new babe was to be christened in honour of the English Queen they hoped would lend more than her name to the alliance of German princes against the Hapsburgs and the Jesuits.
One day the Landgrave came to me in great excitement. "I have wonderful news. Doctor Dee has at last perfected the means of exchange of ideas through the Monas Hieroglyphica with myself, the Elector Palatine, the Margrave of Brandenburg and the Dukes of Saxony, Wurttemburg and Brunswick, who was the first to learn this method. Though there have been bitter disagreements in the past between Lutherans and Calvinists, we have sworn to rise above them and, in united strength, dissuade the Catholics from breaking the peace. Your part in this is to go from court to court and, by singing and playing the Orphic hymn, call down on each prince the heavenly influences which will bring success to our endeavours for a union of the religions and a Europe free from strife."
"I do not yet feel myself worthy of this trust," I began, only to be interrupted by the Landgrave.
"You are the only one of us who has been privileged to hear the hymn and Doctor Dee has confidence that you will perform it to good effect. If he and I, who are your friends, have faith in you, how can you fail? Let mine be the honour of sharing in your first attempt. We will begin at sundown this very day."
Thus, in a room heavy with the scent of roses, the rays of the setting sun the only light in the hushed apartment, the Landgrave knelt, as I sang in the best interpretation of Ficino my power could achieve, the Orphic hymn to Apollo. None other attended us, yet, when I came to the Greek words I will translate as, 'Hear me entreating for the human kind. Hear and be present with benignant mind', I felt another presence in the chamber and, opening my eyes to discover from my friend's expression whether he shared my perception, I solemnly swear I saw golden rays descending on the head of the supplicant as he knelt in the growing gloom.
Travelling Germany, intent on my new enterprise, I did not see this phenomenon repeated, which added to my belief that the Landgrave of Hessen was the only prince whose motives were truly disinterested and who would follow the cause to the end.
I realise, Rob, you will find this strange beyond all understanding now that Germany is riven by war and all our best efforts seem to have been in vain, but in those days we were upheld by the belief that we could, through love, bring about peace.
~
As I say, in August, 1596, I was journeying from court to court when Sir George Carey, as the new Baron Hunsdon, arrived at Cassel to deliver, in his capacity as cousin to the Queen, her congratulations on the birth of her namesake and godchild, Elizabeth of Hessen. So it was that I missed the splendid display of fireworks which celebrated the christening, though I was in time for the feasting and drinking which continued long after my return.
Now that I had been given a useful purpose in life to keep me occupied, there was less opportunity to mourn the past, though my spirits fell when, in December, a scrap of paper as postscript to a letter from Henry Noel announced the birth of a son, Robert, to Lady Barbara Sidney. However, the sense of relief that she had survived the ordeal upheld me and I heartily wished her every happiness.
The main part of the letter contained the news that the Queen had been asking for me and that I should be welcomed back at court. Though the threat of invasion had passed, I was still wary of Essex and, as I had received no answer from Cecil and no permit to return, I was glad to leave for England safely in Lord Hunsdon's train.
The Landgrave and I said our farewells with the utmost regret and he begged that I should return to his court if ever need arose.
"Those poems you have been setting to music with which you have delighted us all must certainly be brought to publication," he urged, as we were about to leave. "Has it not struck you that the lady for whom they were written might see them and her heart be softened towards you?"
Turning to Lord Hunsdon, he requested, " Be sure that Master Dowland does not neglect this work. I shall eagerly await holding one of the first copies from the press in these hands." And he shook both of ours heartily. Lord and Lady Hunsdon did not fail to fulfil this charge when we reached London and, from January, 1597, gave me shelter and sustenance in their house at Blackfriars until the task was done.
It was a sad home-coming, for my dear friend and master, Henry Noel, was no longer there to greet us with his beaming smile. We were told he had died of a calenture after a vigorous ball game. All my mourning was expressed in the music of my 'Lamentatio Henrici Noel'. Tom Morley dedicated a charming canzonet in his memory and Thomas Weelkes a madrigal. To add to my grief, my other master, Sir Henry Unton, had died in France. I commemorated his loss in a pavan. My heart was heavy indeed at their passing - it seemed the end of an era.
As I sat at Blackfriars in yet another of my modest rooms, I pondered on what the future might hold for him who had been in turn, Johnny Dolan, John Dowland, Suzanne and Barbara's Jean, Luca's Giovanni and the German princes' Johann Doulandt, ('Doul' as I signed myself in my despatches to James of Scotland.) Would I have yet another name and, under all these disguises, I asked myself, did I remain my own man?
~
At long last, I obtained sure news of Suzanne. Lord Hunsdon's sisters, Lady Hoby and Lady Scrope, were clients of the self styled 'Doctor' Simon Forman and at his house they had encountered both Sir Thomas and Lady Monson on separate errands of consultation. Suzanne was still with them in Lincolnshire as was her little son, Robert Dowland. ("You sly dog," this from Lord Hunsdon, "you have never told us of this offspring.") Lady Monson had adopted the boy and was bringing him up as her own. Sir Thomas was beginning his musical education, as, with such a father, he expected him to be a genius. I thought sourly that any son of Robert Sidney was more likely to grow up a blundering ass.
I wrote at length to Suzanne, telling her of all my doings since we last met. A reply soon arrived. It had not been a happy time, as she had been the unwilling victim of Sir Thomas's attentions until her rebuffs turned his fancy to young Annie, now, unbelievably, fourteen years old. Lady Monson had soon put a stop to this by sending Annie to the Howards to act as personal maid to seven year old Frances, the child of Lord Thomas's second wife, Katherine Knevett, also a member of Father Forman's family of the faithful. Suzanne felt the miss of Annie greatly and three year old Robert was of no comfort, as he regarded her as a mere servant, recognising only Lady Monson as his mother.
'Oh, Jean,' the letter ended, 'if only we might have a home of our own where we could live together peacefully as the friends we have always been. I am so wearied, as I am sure you must be also, of truckling in the houses of others, subject to their every whim, and ever in fear of losing one's place.'
This reminder of the insecurity of our existence, determined me to work even harder at my Book of Airs. I was the more anxious to place it in the hands of the printer quickly, as I had returned to find that thieving William Barley had dared to publish some of my lute solos, and in incorrect versions, too. That which made my blood boil even more was the discovery that, in my absence abroad, Edmund Spenser had brought to the public a long, sycophantic effusion called 'Colin Clout's Come Home Again' in which he celebrated every lady at court in the most familiar terms (including my dear Lady Hunsdon) and re-introduced that character, Cuddie, most unwillingly adopted by me to please Sir Philip Sidney, making me out to be an Irish dolt in the most derisory fashion. I felt that in my years away from court, all who remembered that pseudonym had been laughing at me behind my back. Worst of all, Spenser coupled himself with Raleigh, as though he, too, took me for a fool.
The sickly-looking poet was back in Ireland where I could not confront him, which increased my hatred. He was in great favour now and taken up by Essex because of a poem of chivalry, called 'The Faerie Queen' in honour of Elizabeth. It celebrated every Protestant hero in England and was called the banner of the reformed religion. Spenser now held a castle and estate at Kilcolman - an Irish landlord with a well born wife and family - whereas what was I but a dependant in another's house, unable to support a family and that not my own? The bitter bile of jealousy rose in my throat.
My thoughts returned to Suzanne's letter. I could not give her a castle but, perhaps, I might find her a house. I recalled that Lord Hunsdon owned property in Blackfriars. I went to him and described my problem, offering him Sir Philip's Spanish diamond as security for future rent.
"I own a house in Fetter Lane, which is, at present, untenanted. You may certainly have the lease of it," he promised, waving away the proffered ring. "I trust you to pay me rent when you can. The proper legal forms shall be drawn up and you shall have safe shelter for your wife and family." Indeed, on my lord's untimely death in the same year as the Queen's, I found that he had left me the house in his will, which was more than I deserved. I sent for Suzanne as soon as possible and she was delighted with our first home together. It was a modest house and the money from my First Book of Airs helped to furnish it. We lived there like brother and sister but, to my surprise, Suzanne did not appear to feel the want of little Robert, with whom Lady Monson refused to part.
"He is better off with the Monsons," she affirmed. "They will give him a gentleman's education, which we could never afford."
She felt the miss of Annie more, though, there again, she said she would do best with the Howards, knowing that 'Good Thomas', as the Queen named him, would never pester the child as had Sir Thomas Monson. When I broached the subject of Lady Barbara, Suzanne was strangely uncommunicative, yet they had been so fond. Indeed, she was not the same Suzanne and said that I also had changed. It seemed that our parting had estranged us. Determined not to be a burden to me, she soon found that her skill with her needle could earn her a living. Lady Hunsdon employed her and told her sisters and her friends at court of the fine work my 'wife' had learned in her French convent. Suzanne became quite the fashion.
Fetter Lane was the musicians' quarter and we had visits from such as Tom Morley and Tom Campion, who now announced his intention to travel abroad and train as a doctor of medicine.
"I wish to learn more of Paracelsus and his secret remedies, which restore celestial harmony between the star within man and the heavenly star. That which you achieve through music, John, he found through metals, tinctures and alcoholic extracts. But you must know all this, as each of the German princes, I am told, has his own Paracelsan alchemist and physician."
"I have found the princes more interested in the alcoholic extracts than aught else," I jested. "Take care to avoid excess in Holland and Germany, for if you drink too much gin or brandywine, you will be sleeping through your lectures." But he only shook his head.
Doctor Dee came to Fetter Lane and at once posed a question. I was glad I still possessed the Spanish diamond and could tell him that Christian of Denmark would outlive the other Protestant princes.
"Could not be better," and the magus rubbed his hands. "He has asked through his brother-in-law, the Duke of Brunswick, that you come to Elsinore as his court lutenist. He offers a salary equal to that of a Danish admiral such as you could never expect at our Queen's frugal hands. You will serve the cause and your own best interests at the same time. From a base in Denmark, you may travel again from court to court in Germany, strengthening our allies' commitment with the Orphic hymn. Nothing could be more advantageous to us all."
I had not long received an invitation from the Landgrave Maurice and should have much preferred the court at Cassel as my base, but Doctor Dee was adamant that I could do more good at the court of the young Danish king, who had only recently escaped from the strict tutelage of his Lutheran regents and was ripe for new ventures.
~
It was a blow to my hopes that, after the successful publication of my songs, I had no word from Lady Barbara. I was certain, however, that her sister-in-law, the Countess of Pembroke, would welcome me. The Earl, I had been told, was in poor health, so I did not expect him on the doorstep of Wilton House to turn me away. Adrian Gilbert greeted me in the grounds, where he was supervising the planting of new shrubs.
"Rose bay or rhododendron for Rosalind, our lovely rose," he told me, as though ten years or more had not passed since our last meeting. "You will find her in the laboratory with some students."
Time has no meaning with old friends and, as with Adrian, it was as though Lady Mary and I had met but yesterday.
"Tell me everything that has happened since I spoke with you last," she demanded in the old, enthusiastic way. "And what of the musical magic?"
We went out into the beautiful grounds and sat under the trees by the lake. When all our news was exhausted, Lady Mary congratulated me on my Book of Songs. "But some of them are too, too sad. When Lady Barbara and I first heard them, she was moved to tears. Unfortunately, she has become prey to melancholy again since the birth of little Robert and he is now two years old. Pray God she does not fall into a worse state after the confinement she is expecting, it often happens so after childbirth. What a pity you are leaving for Denmark so soon. Your playing was of great help in ridding her of that strange humour which held her in the first years of marriage but it seems that your magic does not outlast your presence."
Another pregnancy! It was clear that Lady Barbara was now a dutiful wife and that Lady Mary knew nothing of our past. Yet my love had wept as she heard my songs. All feeling could not be lost. I took the Spanish diamond from my neck.
"Pray, madam, tell Lady Barbara that if she will gaze on this stone, remembering the music I used to play for her, the magic may yet work from afar."
Looking puzzled, Lady Mary took the ring, promising to deliver it ostensibly as a gift from herself with my message. I asked after her two sons and she told me that William was at court and a great favourite with the Maids of Honour, which gave her cause for concern. Philip was noisy and only fond of games and sport. I also learned that Sir Robert Dudley, whom she now knew to be her half-brother, had lost his first wife, Mary Cavendish, (for whose cousin I had composed Captain Candish's Galliard) and had married Sir Thomas Leigh's daughter, who seemed capable only of girl children. It seemed that Kit Marlowe's tedious years at Hardwick had been love's labour lost indeed.
~
News of great portent awaited me on my return to London. The English army had been annihilated in Ireland and the Queen was devastated also by the death of her faithful servant, Lord Burghley, whose son, Robert Cecil, now took his place as Secretary. It was high time I left the country. First, I had to settle Suzanne with a maid servant, a sturdy young woman answering to the name of Mall Sims. Next, I had to write a letter of farewell to Annie, as there was no time to visit. Lastly, I made my way to Cecil House in search of my permit to cross the sea to Denmark. After a lengthy wait, I was ushered into Robert Cecil's presence.
"Before you state your business," he said in his cold, precise tones, "I have a letter to read to you, though, first, I must remind you of one written by yourself and kept in my records under the heading 'Doul to James V1, 7th September, 1596.'"
My heart sank as he waved the paper at me and I glimpsed the familiar hand. It was a report I had sent from Germany, foolishly mocking Cecil, who never forgave an insult.
"Yes, Master Dowland, my men have been intercepting your letters since that time and, if harmless, I have forwarded them to his Grace on your behalf. In truth, you had little of interest to impart and, if he has paid you, his money has been ill spent. Now," and he paused significantly, "I will read a letter intercepted more recently, addressed to you at the home of Lord Hunsdon in December of last year, just after the publication of your book of Songs, I believe."
I sensed danger and his next words, as he began to read in sneering tones, were as a sword in my heart, for I knew the hand that penned the letter was not Suzanne's. "'My very dear Jean, I could not hold back my tears as I heard your songs. Some of the words bring back happy memories, some I am grieved to find so bitter, some my heart bleeds to find so forlorn. I cannot help but think that a number of them were composed for others, more beautiful and beguiling than I. Though I dismissed you so cruelly, I did it for the best and have never ceased to love you.
'You see, I found I bore your child from the night we first came together and I could not endanger your life by telling you. During those days I shut myself in my chamber, I tried to find the courage to let you go. Suzanne and I formed a plan. Lady Monson was lonely in Lincolnshire and had repeatedly invited me to spend time in her company. She was to suppose Suzanne with child by you, her husband. More heavily padded month by month, my maid's state would make my own less obvious. Suzanne was to find a village far from the Monsons', where was a reliable midwife. When we left for home, we would stay there until after the birth and then make our way to London. You were to suppose it Suzanne's and Robert's child. He would be quite content and I would have our own child with me to love as a constant reminder of you. It seemed to us the best plan possible.
'I was seven months gone and we were already planning our departure, when, in my haste, I tripped, fell down a stairway and began my labour. It was impossible to deceive Lady Monson, who was present at the birth. She had three daughters and could bear no more children. Jean, she snatched away our beautiful, perfect son. True, he might have died, tiny and frail as he was, if she had not cared for him so well and obtained the best wet-nurse she could find. I was delirious for days and, when, at last, she allowed me to see the babe and hold him in my arms, she reproached me for a faithless wife and swore she would tell Sir Robert all I had spoken in my ravings unless I gave up claim to the boy. I begged on my knees to keep him with me but she was adamant and I had no strength to resist her, even if the thought of your danger, Jean, had not deterred me. She promised to say no word to Sir Thomas, who thought the babe Suzanne's and she sent her maid, who had attended the birth, back to her home with a rich gift from me and held a threat over her head if she broke silence. My only consolation was that Suzanne was to stay as the baby's nurse and would send me news of him.
'I returned to the London house, and, when Sir Robert next came over from Flushing to find that Suzanne had stayed in Lincolnshire with little Robert, his fury knew no bounds. 'Then I shall get a Robert of my own,' he shouted, and so it proved. Oh, Jean, I cannot love his child as I should for my deep longing to have our own son with me. I know I may never see you again but, after hearing your songs, I could deny you the truth no longer. All I wish for is your safety and your happiness. Do nothing to risk your well-being. Ever your Barbara.'
The hateful,derisive tones that desecrated the words of my love ceased. If ever looks could kill it was in that moment but his baneful gaze outstared mine. I was in this monster's grip and could do nothing but await my doom, sense bereft as a young rabbit in the eye of a stoat. I felt the blood drain from my cheeks and hid my trembling hands behind me so that he should not have the satisfaction of seeing my fear. My brain in turmoil, I could hardly distinguish his next words.
"You know well, Master Dowland, in whose hands I shall place this letter if you disobey me in the slightest degree. I leave you to imagine the consequences for those you 'love'." This last word came from his tongue perverted and envenomed by hatred and envy. Never would I forgive him for filching from me what should have been my most precious possession, for staining and distorting in my mind forever the discovery of my son and the continued love of my Barbara. The odious voice continued.
"These are my orders. From this day forth you will act as secret messenger between myself and King James of Scotland. You are aware of the penalty if you betray me to Doctor Dee or to your German friends. I will sign your travel permit and expect to learn from you all that passes between King Christian and the German princes.
"I know also of the magic you practise through your music. You are at once to make your way to Scotland, and find that arch-villain, Patrick Gray, who will introduce you to King James as one who can draw down on his head the heavenly influences. You will fall into a seeming trance, then tell him that you have seen Robert Cecil placing the crown of England on his royal head. Obey me to the letter and you may safely board your ship, hoping that your 'mistress' and your 'wife' and child will come to no harm in your absence overseas. Do you clearly understand me?"
I could do nothing but nod dumbly. He tossed me my permit and I stumbled from his presence.
~
From my disturbed thoughts of Barbara, who had wished only my safety, now herself in jeopardy through unthinking words of my own, came one small comfort. In that painful seeing at Cassel, it was the birth of my own son I had witnessed and, for the first time, my vision was not of death, as before, but of new life.
Now, at last, Rob, you know your true parentage. You are not the son of Lady Monson, or of Sir Robert Sidney, as you later suspected, but the child of true love between Lady Barbara Sidney of Penshurst, Viscountess Lisle, Countess of Leicester (God rest her soul) and plain John Dowland. I loved you, my son, before I ever saw you grown and that was not to be for some time yet.
~
I wandered the streets until my mind had cleared somewhat and then, to my shame, stormed into my house, accusing Suzanne wildly of deceit, when it was my fate to live from then on as a trickster. Practical as ever, though her tears flowed, she packed my clothes, my books and my lutes and busied herself preparing food for the journey. Thank God, before she was finished, I came to my senses and made it up with her so that, by the time Cecil's horses, one with an outrider, were at the door, we were good friends once more.
As I rode unwillingly on my way north, the changing beat of the horses' hooves drummed out my thoughts.....'She loves me still. She loves me still. I have a son. I have a son. Hostages to hunchback Cecil. Hostages to hunchback Cecil'.....Then Father Campion's voice sounded loud and clear, 'Obey your masters in all humility and promise me you will never pretend again.'
He had meant good masters, surely, not a fiend like Cecil. He himself had escaped his evil master, Leicester, rather than obey him, or so I surmised. Yet I was forced to conform to a wicked command or put all those I loved best in dire jeopardy. I had made a faithful promise not to pretend and now my orders were to deceive James through a false seeing. What choice was there? No matter how I racked my brain, I saw no means of untangling this coil. I must obey my 'master', Cecil, and be forsworn or keep faith with my one true master, Father Campion, and cause untold harm to those who deserved only the best from me.....By the time we rode through the narrow, cobbled streets of Edinburgh, my decision was made.
I found the Master of Grey dicing with companions, as roaring drunk as he was stone cold sober. He took me aside to hear Cecil's instructions, chuckling gleefully at the part he was to play.
"At least I can vouch for the fact that your visions are true. Luckily, this one will give you less pain than the seeing of Mary's beheading."
I knew what to do. I would not misuse the Orphic hymn, as, no doubt, Cecil intended. That same evening, called into the King's presence, I asked for a music stand on which, with great ceremony, I placed my first Orpheus book, open at the picture I had loved so much as a boy. Patrick Gray fell to his knees with consummate grace and James followed suit awkwardly, as I took my lute and, eyes closed, played the now less familiar fantasia of Don Luys Milan, unheard since the seeing of my son's birth. The rainbow colours soon came to be replaced by what I now called the albedo, and, as my trance began, I fell, not into the dreaded blackness, but into a deep red glow from which emerged in quick succession the figure of a young man on his death bed, a young queen, her crown roughly snatched from her and, lastly, a slight but dignified, shirt-sleeved figure, laying his head upon the block.
I gained consciousness without the usual faintness and, as my eyelids fluttered open, I heard Patrick Gray say, with assumed awe, "Your Grace, I saw the heavenly rays descending on your royal brow." And he winked at me. Suddenly, my head cleared and I recalled my part. James soon had it firmly in his mind that Cecil would help him to the English throne. I saw him look greedily at the music stand and knew that I had yet a sacrifice to make to atone for my deceit.
"Will your Grace do me the honour of accepting my Orpheus book?" I asked, the words bursting out louder than I intended. It was a hard thing to do. I still had the record of much music of earlier times in my second Orpheus book but I had always meant, when I felt myself fit, to gaze on my beloved picture and summon up the words and music of the first Orpheus. Now it would never be.
James snatched the book with his grubby hands and shambled off, no doubt, to find his lutenist, a Yorkshireman of modest talent. I shuddered to think what he would make of the divine music of Don Luys Milan. The Master of Gray led me to his chamber.
"After that performance, only our Highland usquebaugh will put you right - better far than whatever witches' brew they gave you in Germany. First, a toast. 'To James 1 of England and his chief adviser, by then, I expect, Lord Gray.' I must bow low to little Cecil until he has shifted the crown and, then, goodbye Monsieur le Bossu! Now, 'To success for John Dowland at the Danish Court.' He invented countless other toasts, some so ludicrous that he had me giggling sottishly.
I was all but unconscious when he dragged me to my horse and put me on the road to Leith. Soon the cold air sobered me enough for me to hear the hoof beat sound out the old saying, 'Once forsworn, ever forlorn', which continued to echo in my mind as I lay tossing in my hammock, queasier than I had ever been since I first crossed the Irish Sea.
