CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henry Peacham had lately been busy with a work of his own, intended to bring him favour in court circles, especially Prince Henry's.
"It is an emblem book called 'Minerva Britanna' and it is almost ready for the press. When I next visit you I will bring the proofs for your inspection. Now, never mind feathering your son's nest; you have done more than enough for him. The name of John Dowland must once more come before the public eye. If you can prepare a work to appear at the same time as my Minerva, I am sure of its success."
When I saw Henry's excellent drawings, I longed to ask him if he had seen my Barbara at court and would put her face on paper for me, but I could not bring myself to endanger her name. I feared that Sir Michael Hickes held our secret and, though nothing had been heard from that quarter, the dread remained. My scruples owed much to my past life as an informer when I had learned never to trust even a friend.
One of the emblems was dedicated to myself and said (I will translate) 'There will be other rewards. To his friend, John Dowland, the most expert in musical compositions.' And in a clever anagram of my Latin name, he wrote, 'I have exhausted my years in playing.' Did you ever read those words, Rob? And did you ever thank Henry for the Latin poem he wrote commending the 'Musical Banquet?
"There is a hidden emblem for you also, my friend," said Henry. "You always name yourself 'the Sorrowful one' but I have drawn you as 'the Sanguine one' (though your lips are turned down at the corners where they should be smiling) for that is what you are to be in the future, successful as Orpheus once more."
Perhaps I was to be successful again and thanks to the exiled Robert Dudley, who also remembered old friends. Dudley, to whom the Pope had given the title of Warwick (though James gave Fulke Greville the Castle) had been corresponding with Prince Henry since he was made Prince of Wales in 1610, not only giving him excellent advice about the Navy but also sending him comedies, thrown off in an idle moment, for his company of players - 'Cymbeline', 'A Winter's Tale' and now 'The Tempest', which I am sure he wrote as a tribute to Doctor Dee. He sent these through his former tutor, Thomas Chaloner, the Prince's Lord Chamberlain, who interceded so well on his behalf that young Henry persuaded his father to give him Kenilworth, which he intended to present later to Robert Dudley when he succeeded in obtaining a full pardon for his return.
I digress. The good news for me was that the author had stipulated that I alone should compose the music for his latest play. There were a number of songs and magical background music. It was a joy to do the work and gave me great hope that, through this contact, we might introduce you, Rob, into the Prince's household, where Cecil held no sway.
You will remember some of the events of the year 1612, though your recall will not be as mine. Henry's 'Minerva Britanna' appeared just before my 'Pilgrim's Solace', dedicated to Theophilus Howard. Both met with success and I am grateful that my friend's kind praise aided the acceptance of my work. I dedicated a song to William Jewell, but it was also meant to remind my own jewel, Barbara, of our days of love together. My songs were now, as in the past, the only means by which I might reach her.
All the talk, that year, was of royal marriages. My old friend's son, Prince Otto of Hessen, had come to pay court to Princess Elizabeth but was not grand enough for King James. Prince Henry was anxious that his favourite cousin, Frederic Ulric of Brunswick, should marry his sister, but in the end the most politic choice fell on Frederick, Elector Palatine of the Rhine. Prince Henry's bride was not yet decided upon, though he was determined it should not be a Catholic princess.
Annie told us that the young Countess of Essex was still madly in love with him and, through devices and potions obtained from Simon Forman, had managed to hold off the attentions of her lawful husband and keep herself virgin for the Prince, who, however, had ceased his courtship on her husband's return from his Grand Tour.
"Poor Lady Frances was in despair," confided Annie to her mother, "until I reminded her that, when Doctor Turner died, two years ago, in spite of his expressed wish that I should remarry, Sir Arthur ceased his visits, until one of Simon Forman's sure potions brought him galloping to my side one dark night through wind and rain. Now he loves me more than ever and I easily persuaded him, as Prince Henry's Carver, to add Simon's powder to the Prince's food, bringing him back to Lady Frances' side with more ardour than before. Her great uncle Henry says there is every possibility of marriage with the Prince, as my lady can easily obtain a divorce on the grounds of nullity. Just think, my dear young mistress may one day be our Queen!"
"But Simon Forman died at the end of last year,"objected Suzanne. "How do you obtain the powder now?"
"Oh, I went to his house after his death and collected a good supply. Remember, I have helped him with his work for years now."
Suzanne told me that Annie soon got up to leave and she had a strange presentiment that all was not well. I resolved that, on her next visit, I would warn her of the dangers of meddling in great affairs and with love potions of any kind, but it was months before she visited us again.
~
A cloud was lifted from our heads with Cecil's death in May. Shortly after, Sir Michael Hickes came to see me at Fetter Lane, a package in his hand. He looked old and tired. My gift of colours warned me that he was not long for this world.
"I did this once before," he said, "When Robert's father, Lord Burghley, died. I examined his records, which none knew better than I, and gave Robert Sidney all the papers concerning Sir Henry Sidney, which were dangerous indeed, so that, naturally, I exacted a good price. Now I have done the same for Lady Barbara, this time as an act of charity, hoping that a good deed will redeem my soul.It was not hard to find her record, once more under the name Sidney. I had the ruby ring and the miniature of Lady Barbara, both with the same French motto. I put two and two together and guessed, if there were some secret, Robert would have ferreted it out and I was proved right when I found this letter. Take it with the miniature and the ring. Not a word more. I refuse any reward."
And, not waiting even for thanks, putting for a moment his wasted hand in my firm grasp, he was gone. How I regretted my unworthy suspicions of blackmail! Once more, I held two of my most precious possessions in my hands; the third, Barbara's letter, I had never held and my eyes devoured it now. Mine, after fourteen years in the hateful Cecil's grasp! I could hardly wait to send a message at last to Barbara, whom I found in the night, gazing on my portrait for comfort and bewailing the death of her strange, unloved son, William. She could hardly believe the consoling words heard, after years of separation, in her mind's ear, or that we were now safe after prolonged disquiet. I never enlightened her, Rob, as to how her portrait fell into other hands. Your mother never had cause to think ill of you and loved you well until her last hour.
Now we were complete again as in our motto, 'Je sommes'. There was much to say that first night and we had little sleep. Without the clumsy time-wasting use of lips and tongue, however, we could,from now on,cram more into our moments together than any amount of meetings and letters exchanged and so felt ourselves most blessed.
I began once more to add to my second Orpheus book. I was able to record the music of Boethius and others of the past but I could never again hear clear speech as that single time when Doctor Dee helped me to reach Ficino. Having made the sacrifice of my Orpheus picture to King James, I no longer hoped to fathom the source of all music and, in any case, felt myself unworthy since the sacrilege of the Orphic hymn to obtain revenge on Cecil.
In my life, pride has often got the better of me, but I fought it when the post of lutenist to King James fell vacant and Cecil could no longer stand in my way. Such posts were often hereditary and, if I held on to it, there would be some security for you, whatever might befall. When I had an engagement, and more came my way since the publication of my 'Pilgrim's Solace', you will remember that I dragged you along with me and we played together, still hoping you would catch Prince Henry's eye.
The Prince had ever been an active youth, unlike poor Baby Charles, but now he became wild for every form of exercise, swimming great lengths of the Thames, playing long games of tennis and practising at the barriers for hours at a time. Lady Frances had found a new way of enslaving him by looking kindly on the King's catamite, Robin Carr, whom the Prince hated.
Carr's best friend, Thomas Overbury, encouraged him to believe himself in love with Lady Frances, even to the extent of composing billets-doux for the illiterate Scot, for he and his party wished a Protestant princess for Henry and wanted the Howard girl out of the way. This Overbury was said to be more proud than Raleigh himself (whom the Prince had begged his father to release from the Tower that coming Christmas) and was as apt as Robert Cecil had been at uncovering secrets and using them to his own advantage. James made Carr a Privy Councillor at twenty-five, intending him to take Cecil's place, but it was not the King's instructions that the new Viscount Rochester, Knight of the Garter, followed but those of his ambitious friend, Thomas Overbury.
~
In spite of my happy reunion with Barbara through the miniatures, I could feel a dark cloud hanging over me. It was connected in my mind with the sacrifice of my first Orpheus book to James at the time of the false seeing. Now I remembered. There had been a true seeing also and at first I had seen the death of a young man. I racked my brains to remember more and gradually it came back to me. It had been a strange scene, the bed surrounded by black clad doctors and divines, the poor patient lying pale and exhausted, his head shaven and small, dead birds applied to it, their still warm blood trickling over his pain furrowed brow. I did not recognise that waxen, bloodstained visage, hazy as it appeared in my memory, yet I was filled with a heavy sense of foreboding.
I was not officially appointed King's lutenist until October 28th, too late for me to play at the ceremony of greeting for Frederick of the Palatinate, as he came to meet his future bride at Whitehall. It was a surprise when Queen Anne summoned me to Denmark House. She had her own musicians and I did not think she would have forgiven my defection from her brother's service. I had not seen her close since that interview at Winchester and was shocked at her worn and wrinkled countenance. She looked as if she had spent sleepless nights of late.
"Prince Henry is desperately ill, Dowland," she breathed. "I have sent to the Tower for Raleigh's Great Cordial, which did me so much good, but the doctors delay in administering it. I wish you to go to Richmond straightway and play the Orphic hymn for my son's recovery - that music which meant so much to King Christian. They cannot refuse me that." Almost in tears, she quickly wrote me means to obtain entry to the sick-room and I made all speed to the Prince's palace.
The passage outside his room was lined with solemn, often weeping courtiers; even servants, aprons flung over their heads, lurked in the background, waiting for the latest news. The smell of burning lavender did little to conceal the stench of vomit and of excrement in the airless, darkened room. The doctors gave place to me, drawing their black gowns about them, as though my touch might contaminate. I could just make out the contorted figure on the bed, the face waxen and stained with blood, the prominent nose pinched at the nostrils. There was little doubt in my mind that this was the dying man of my Scottish vision.
I saw at once that there was no hope of his recovery, yet played the Orphic hymn, singing as best I could, with the fixed intention of making his passage from this world to the next as calm as possible. The Prince's eyes remained closed and only the smoothing of his furrowed brow told me that he had heard the hymn. As I withdrew, the waiting attendants drew back from me and I heard whispers along the passage. "Raleigh says his cordial will not work in a case of poison." "Who sent for the luteplayer to perform his devil's rites?"
On the stairs, the Archbishop of Canterbury swept past me, bound on his own errand of mercy. Outside, the bells changed their peal of rejoicing for the failure of the Gunpowder Plot, which they played each November 5th, and began to ring solemn changes, as the Archbishop commanded prayers for Prince Henry.
King James was away hunting at Theobalds next day when Prince Henry's death was announced. He feared infection almost as much as the assassin's blade. Moreover, he had sensed that there were those who would have put Henry on the throne in his place and he could not fail to be somewhat relieved at his son's death.
You, Rob, took the news calmly. "Ah, well, another hope dashed. I shall have to try Princess Elizabeth and her Palsgrave."
~
At Fetter Lane, I found Annie in floods of tears and quite incoherent. Her hair was wild, her dress torn and her face bruised and scratched.
"What in the world has happened here?" I asked Suzanne. I thought some villain had attempted rape.
"Lady Frances seems to have run mad and set upon Annie. Each time she tries to explain, she breaks down in worse sobs so that I cannot get a word of sense out of her."
I put some brandy to the poor girl's lips. She choked on that, then, as Suzanne rocked her in her arms and I played soothing music, the storm of tears began to subside and, little by little, the story emerged.
They had been administering Simon Forman's love powder to Prince Henry for some time with great success, as they thought. He had begun to make violent love to Frances Howard in a way that frightened her, though she had fallen in with his desires. Soon, he became lethargic and seemed to tire of her.
"Lady Frances said the effect of the powder was wearing off and that we should give the Prince larger doses," wept Annie. "I told her that Simon had warned me never to increase the dosage but she is headstrong and would have her way. Now she says the blame is all mine and that I have murdered the one she loved best in all the world and destroyed all her fine chances of becoming Queen. She flew at me, tearing and scratching and pulling out my hair, screaming at me to get from her sight, she wished never to look on me more....." The tears flowed fast again but there was yet a question I could not avoid.
"What was the powder called?"
"I think it is pronounced Cantharides. Simon sometimes called it Spanish Fly."
Her mother dressed Annie's bruises and put her to bed, while I went to fetch the children, telling the servants to take good care of the house while their mistress and family spent a day or so with us at Fetter Lane. Mall was in her element and, as soon as they were in at the door, swept the children off to the kitchen to make sweetmeats.
Suzanne crept down the stair, much shaken. "What can it all mean and what are we to do?" she faltered.
"Best do nothing and wait and see what the doctors find. The King will countenance no talk of poison in case it reflects on him. Perhaps it will all blow over," I replied, wishing that I believed my consoling words. But, when Annie and the children had been settled for the night and Suzanne persuaded to bed, anxious thoughts went whirling in my mind. If Lady Frances confided in any member of her family it would be that arch plotter, her great uncle Henry. He would know best how to protect her and, with luck, Annie, too. When you returned from your revels, Rob, asking why I was up so late, I told you nothing of Annie's plight. The fewer in this dark secret the better.
Still I could not rest for thinking. There was more to it than the danger of a trial for murder. The whole of Protestant Europe, after the death of the French king, who I first knew as Henry of Navarre, depended on Prince Henry's support against the Hapsburg threat. True, it might have led to war, which Doctor Dee and I had sought to avoid, but war came in any case. Those two silly girls had unwittingly overturned the plans for the betterment of Europe of men of the religion in our country and abroad. They had also destroyed the hopes of Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Robert Dudley of reinstatement and return to their rightful homes, now that their sole champion at court was no more.
Those wasted years in Denmark and Germany, the exhausting journeys from court to court, the filthy inns and fouler food; those interminable periods when I could not play for myself, much less compose and all for what? Anger and despair boiled up in my brain. Every sacrifice of my talent gone for naught! I felt that my head would burst with bafflement for my own case, with terror for Annie's fate.....A red mist dimmed my sight and I felt a sharp, searing pain in the nearside of my head as I fell into blackness.....
Suzanne was alarmed when Mall called her to say that I had slept all night long among the rushes, without a brandy taint upon my breath. I explained that I had stumbled and knocked myself insensible on the edge of the table. Indeed, the throbbing in my head justified my excuse. But I recalled the truth of the matter. It had been like a gun shot exploding in my brain. I had been victim to strange sensations in the past but the feeling of doom that held me now o'ertopped the worst.
~
Our uncertainty was relieved for the time when the doctors said no word of poison but ascribed the Prince's death to the common ague. What more could we do but hope for the best, though our doubts lingered. Prince Henry lay in state until December 7th, when his funeral procession of ten thousand mourners took place. Suzanne stood in the bitter cold for four hours, watching for Sir Arthur Mainwaring among the Prince's household. He was there, solemn and pale as befitted a mourner, and I was told that he was also present on the last day of the year at St. James's Palace when the household was formally dissolved and many ambitions thwarted. After that, I imagine, Henry Howard's money took him abroad, for he was never seen in England again, abandoning his children to their mother's care. When recovered, she took them home again and, after a while Lady Frances, then living with her parents, sent for Annie once more and the foolish girl was glad to return to court circles.
Prince Henry had laboured long to make the arrangements for his sister's marriage festivities and, though curtailed, they went ahead. His death, however, augured ill for this new Chemical Wedding. The court came out of mourning at Christmas and 'The Tempest' was performed on December 27th, the day that Princess Elizabeth and the Palsgrave formally plighted their troth in the King's presence. I sat with the consort and played my music with a heavy heart and a blinding migraine. I wished none to recognise me as the composer and had in fact allowed Robert Johnson to claim the songs. What should have been a joyous occasion was as dust and ashes in my mouth.
Do you remember, Rob, how the scene was set with my song 'Up merry mates' which I had published in 'A Pilgrim's Solace'? As the words died away, the uproar of a fearful storm was heard to James's delight, for, above all things, he revelled in loud noises so long as they did not threaten him. The mock thunder made my head ache the more but what matter? I had the music off by heart.
The King flattered himself that he was Prospero in the play, the father of Miranda, who enfigured Princess Elizabeth, in love with Ferdinand, otherwise Prince Frederick. But the Magus was Doctor Dee and James, 'God's representative on earth', was the sottish butler, Stephano, of whom the beast, Caliban, truly said;
'What a thrice, double ass was I
To take this drunkard for a god,
And worship this dull fool.'
Yet, not even a wry smile came to my lips at these words. The pain was now so acute, I could hardly keep to my place. No sooner had I set eyes on Princess Elizabeth, so gay and full of delight, as she sat, hand in hand with her bridegroom, than I had known her for the second figure of my Scottish vision - the Queen from whom her crown was snatched. The brilliant scene in the Banqueting Hall held only bitter irony for me and, as soon as I could, I dragged myself home to Fetter Lane where I locked myself in my room with a bottle of brandy for company.
Before I touched the brandy, I resolved to work out my sorrow and frustration in a lamentation for all my good friends gone - Father Campion; Sir Henry and Lady Sidney; their son, Sir Philip; Master Henry Noel; Sir Henry Unton; Captain Digory Piper; the divine Luca Marenzio; Doctor John Dee and Sir Edward Dyer; Sir Walter Raleigh languishing in the Tower; Sir Robert Dudley, his friends cruelly executed and himself exiled for ever; Prince Henry dead and by my daughter's hand, for Annie was as much to me as if I had truly begotten her. I would write a masterpiece of sorrow compared to which Lachrimae would be a mere nothing.
Full of good intentions, though my temples pounded, I lit two candles, fetched pen, ink and music manuscript paper and pulled up a chair to the table. I wrote the title and my name, prepared for my swift brain to run ahead of my hardly less nimble hand.....NOTHING.....my usually teeming mind was a blank - a gaping void! Panic stricken, I sought to calm my fears with a glass of brandy but my trembling hand spilt the liquid on the empty page before me. I took a draught from the bottle - the terror mounted. I must fill the page by some means. Echoes of the evening's playing sounded in my mind. I would write that down.
My pen moved in a scrawl down the paper.....I could no longer form the tablature! I scrabbled through a pile of manuscript. Yes, I could read it as well as ever, and on picking up my lute, I found I could still play from the page. Yet, try as I might, by some malign fate, I could not then compose music, and, should I have done so, I could by no means record it.....
I sat for an hour with my head in my hands but nothing changed. Was this gelded mind my punishment for a life of nothing but failure and loss? Prospero had drowned his book. Best I should drown myself if doomed never to compose again.....I awoke next morning, the empty bottle beside me and, in the grate, the charred remains of my second Orpheus book. A poor sacrifice, as I found it still locked in my head, though I might never commit it to paper. I felt sick with shame that I had proved too craven or too drunken to end my life. I could not bring myself to confess, even to Barbara, that I was now a half-man, a crippled musician, whose best talent had vanished in a flash of red smoke, like the devil and Faustus in Kit Marlowe's play.
~
1625
After a night of bad dreams, Mall came to me this morning with news of a visitor at the door. I shouted at her that my house was barred to all visitors as she well knew but she said the fellow would not take 'No' for an answer. It was a man I thoroughly dislike who pushed his way past her into the room.
"Robert Johnson," I grumbled. "I saw and heard enough of you at old Jamie's funeral. Has someone else died?"
"A far happier occasion, Doctor Dowland," he smirked, giving me my proper title, I was glad to hear. "Our new Queen will be arriving from France, after long delay, and we must practise the music for her welcome. We have been trying to get in touch with you for weeks past."
I suppose you thought I was in my coffin," I replied sourly. "Well, I am sorry to disappoint you. I intend to wait until my son, Robert, returns from his successful tour of the Continent. What newfangled, foreign rubbish am I to play for my two pounds and ten shillings this time?"
I went on being as rude as I could until he took his leave. The sight of the man took me back to the royal wedding and Chapman's Masque of the Middle Temple where that paltry amount was my fee compared to his forty-five pounds for the songs and music. You yourself were paid two pounds, Rob.
1613
For weeks I could not pass a gallows without shuddering, thinking of Annie's narrow escape. As for my own case, I never ceased to be deeply shocked and amazed at my inability to compose. I became secretive, certain that my lack was as visible to all as if I had lost a limb. None must uncover my loss; none must pity me. I could never bring myself to confide even in Barbara, still less in my friend, Henry Peacham, who so much admired me as a bard.
St. Valentine's Day came and I had to play for the second of three masques in honour of the Princess and the Palsgrave. The masquers were dressed as knights of Virginia - a bitter reminder of the imprisoned Raleigh. We musicians attended them as priests of the Sun, garbed, like our torchbearers, as Indians in feathered costumes, designed by the Welshman, Inigo Jones. Later, we priests sang a paraphrase of the Orphic hymn. What a travesty! Robert Johnson never thought of asking me what was the true music, nor would I have enlightened him.
What an indignity, to be made ridiculous in a disguise of feathers and forced to play Johnson's contemptible inventions and hear his self-satisfied voice braying out his ludicrous version of the words. I closed my eyes to avoid the humiliation of seeing my Barbara in the audience,though she well knew it was for your sake I would do anything to keep my place. The true Orphic hymn echoed in my mind and I was back at Prince Henry's deathbed. All this nonsense was an insult to the young prince who had planned the festivity and who had died before his time.....I would not think how.....
At the end of April, Rob, you were off to seek your fortune at Heidelberg, where, now that James had joined the Protestant Alliance, for the time, all was roses. None of us knew how long your absence would be and Barbara fretted that news of you arrived so infrequently.
