CHAPTER SIX
On my return to Paris, I was tormented once more with the nightmare of Father Campion's death. I learned of a house of Charity in the Faubourg St. Marceau where there was a medical laboratory providing herbal remedies, which I hoped would help me to regain restful sleep. To my surprise, I found there a music school also and I formed the habit of going there to play for the orphans who tended the apothecary's garden. In the Music Pavilion, I made a new friend, Claude Le Jeune, a musician of de Baif's Academy of Poetry and Music, situated not far away in the Faubourg St. Victoire.
"I envy you your Italian journey," he pronounced in his solemn fashion, "though, as a Huguenot, I should have felt unsafe in Rome. I am reminded daily of the Paris Massacre when I see our children here in their scarlet-violet gowns, some crippled, all orphaned by that evil mob. Yet here in Nicholas Houel's Maison de Charite we drive out by love all anger and, as at the Academy, both religions work in harmony for enlightenment and peace."
When I questioned him about the Pleiade and the 'vers et musique mesures', which I had heard Master Philip discuss with his friends, he explained the great difficulties in exactly measuring the words of a song to its music, which alone would bring about the desired result.
"We try to follow the teaching of Ficino, who discovered the ancient Greek Hymns to Orpheus, since lost, alas. They combined words, music, colour and perfume to bring down the influence of favourable stars on our unhappy earth. Our faltering efforts have met with some success, for, since the dreadful events of St. Bartholomew's Eve, an uneasy peace has reigned, which the King and his mother try to maintain.
"You were unlucky to miss what was in truth the last flowering of the Pleiade (so many of the seven are now departed) - I mean the Magnificences at Court to celebrate the marriage of the Duc de Joyeuse for which I myself wrote the music. Jean Dorat, who began it all, outlasts his pupils and is active as ever, writing and designing for these great occasions. Ronsard wrote some of the verses, though his health is now so poor, they may prove his last.
"As you might guess, I hardly approve of the extravagance of the court, when so much dire poverty is abroad in the land. It seems of late that King Henri is thinking in terms of religious processions and the measured singing of the Psalms of David, himself an Orpheus, for which I shall be happy to compose, rather than for masques and tournaments."
I did not give voice to my thoughts, knowing that the measured verse and music had been used vainly to bring about the birth of an heir to the throne, just as my puny efforts had failed to save Father Campion from his fate. I was fascinated, however, by the attempt to recreate the music of Orpheus, for, though I called the compositions of Don Luys Milan 'my Orpheus music', I knew that for a childish fancy. Yet, I had taught myself those songs, pavanes and fantasias with such loving pains that, for me, they held their magic too and somehow had helped to cure Master Sidney of deep melancholy. I was unwilling to surrender the belief that my own Orpheus music had unusual powers.
~
At the Embassy, I sat at table with the servants and found them all agog with the news that the Ambassador's wife had been the mistress of the Earl of Leicester and gave him the baseborn son he had betrothed to Arbella Stuart. Cast off by the man she had firmly believed to be her husband, she had married Sir Edward Stafford and, by so doing had lost her son, put by his father to a tutor in the country.
Little, hunchbacked Robert Cecil was in Paris with his cousin, Edward Hoby. So was that handsome Scot, Patrick, Master of Gray, whom I glimpsed at the Embassy, where he sought a travel permit to pass through England on the way to the Court of King James V1 with young Ludovic Stuart, the son of the king's former favourite. (You know Ludovic, Rob, as the great Duke of Lennox and Richmond, but you surely have not heard of his death only last year.) To return to Patrick Gray, later, when Cecil was no untried lad but at the height of his power, he spread the story that they first met in the same brothel, a dangerous jest, which he lived to regret. Cecil never forgot an injury, real or imagined. He was an implacable adversary, as I had cause to know.
I renewed acquaintance with the Catholic emigres. Left to myself, I should have avoided them, but my Italian adventure had made me Walsingham's spy and he pressed me for information as to plots to place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England. I thought how soon the warnings of Alfonso Ferrabosco had come to pass for me. Double dealing went against all Father Campion's early teaching and troubled my conscience.
~
An absurd figure, dressed in the height of French fashion, strutted into the Embassy one day, demanding Johnny Dowland. It was Master Robert Sidney, his padded trunks so abbreviated that, when he sat, you could see more than the outline of his buttocks. He wore the ring that had been the cause of our parting, so Master Philip had kept his word. Robert was in trouble, else why should he seek me out? This time, surprisingly, he had succeeded in getting a wench with child.
"What of that?" I asked, with hidden sarcasm. "A byblow never troubled you before."
"Oh, well, my luck ran out," explained Robert, reddening, "and this is a special case."
"Tell me about it," I urged, knowing full well I should not only hear the story but play some part in it, willy-nilly.
"Naturally, not being a gentleman, you cannot be expected to understand such matters," pronounced Robert, as always, full of his own importance. "You know how mad these Frogs are about ancient stuff - Eleusinian rites or some such nonsense. We were made to fast and take a bath, even though I had had one this year already, and then they kept us awake all night. I had had enough by then, I can tell you. But, no, next they blindfold you and push you through what feels like a narrow passage and they do things to you, which I won't describe." Here he swallowed loudly.
"The language shouted and the filthy jokes! I was glad when I came out into the open and they pulled off the blindfold. My eyes were dazzled with the sudden brightness and then I saw, standing in front of me, the loveliest girl, naked as the day she was born, and so was I, of course. I found out later that she's supposed to be a goddess and untouchable, except for the priest, but, for the moment, I lost my head. God, Johnny, it was the best time I ever had, the only good one, if you must know. Today they came to tell me that she's with child and that she must have a husband which is a gentlemens' arrangement. Noblesse oblige, if you know what I mean (though, of course, you don't.) What am I to do?"
"Well, you can't marry her," I said with deliberate obtuseness, "you've got to marry money and retrieve the family fortunes." Another time he would have cuffed me for impertinence but, apparently, this was too serious.
"Don't be such a dunderhead, Johnny, it's obvious," Robert exclaimed, impatiently. "You've got to do it. Philip would tell you the same, only he's too wrapped up with helping Dyer and Walsingham and listening to that mad Italian, Giordano Bruno."
With no more ado, the matter was settled. Marrying for colour they called it. All the old goats provided for their byblows in the same way, which they thought very noble. Old Lord Hunsdon married his Emilia to a musician, Lanier, and she spawned Cecil's lutenist, that prideful Nicholas, well known to you, Rob. Will Shakespeare, as I later found, was served in the same fashion and was obliged to marry Anne Hathaway, no chicken at the time, whom some great lord had made fruitful, instead of Anne Whately, to whom he was pledged. At least, I had no other bride in mind.
So it was that I and an unknown French bride found ourselves in the Embassy chapel with Richard Hakluyt, who was chaplain at the time, to say the words over us. Someone had provided the 'bride' with a loosebodied gown to hide her shame and I noticed that, even so, she was comely enough. She stumbled over the vows, as English was new to her, not believing them probably, being of the old religion, and I not meaning them either, since marriage had never been part of my plans.
Master Robert's words about not being a gentleman had rankled. Oh, yes, only gentlemen made plans and servants did as they were bid. The sin of pride reared its head. No matter how they used me, I was a bard and a seer.
Robert seemed pleased at the idea of being a father and hung about the new Mistress Dowland. As her name was Suzanne, he went around humming Orlando di Lassus' 'Suzanne un jour', which they were still singing that year. It was an annoying habit. I came to like my 'wife'. She had been an unwanted child, left at the gate of a convent, so we both lacked parents. The Mother Superior had made a pet of her because of her pleasing looks and had her taught a little reading and music as well as skill with her needle. When the old lady died, the jealous nuns had been unkind and,not realising the world outside the convent walls could be more cruel, Suzanne had run away.
The child was born that October in London, where Master Robert had found a lodging for them and, as she was a puny baby, he had her christened straightway at St. Martin in the Fields. Little Susanna Dowland was to be of the reformed religion. We called her Annie to avoid confusion.
~
Suzanne was still suckling the baby in the new year of 1584, so Master Robert, who wanted to keep her in England (but not at his expense) found her a post as wet-nurse to Sir Thomas Howard's new-born son, Theophilus. She had to wean Annie but they were kind and let her keep the baby with her at the big house. Master Theophilus, who lost his mother young, became most attached to his nurse and Suzanne stayed on in charge of the sewing room, either at the Charterhouse or at Audley End.
It mattered little to me that I seldom saw my 'family', though I would have become fond of baby Annie had not Robert been so proprietorial. Suzanne and I never lived together as man and wife, though we became good friends. I was too proud to take another's leavings and she seemed genuinely fond of her lover, looked forward to his visits and behaved in quite a wifely fashion towards him. She boasted to me once that he had arrived at the Howards in a rain-storm with his huge starched ruff hanging like a wet rag round his neck and she had used her skills to restarch it blue to match his suit and with heated irons and pins made such good work of it that he swore he would have her from the Howards any time. Even when Robert snapped up the required heiress, Barbara Gamage, a poor thing, not ready yet for marriage and even younger than Master Philip's sixteen year old bride, Frances Walsingham, Suzanne seemed no whit disturbed.
Like most young mothers, she was preoccupied with trifling domestic matters of little interest to me and, though I played lullabies for Annie, threw her chuckling into the air and was chided for it, my true life was in France where I looked forward to my frequent meetings with Claude Le Jeune and further discussion of Ficino and his Orphic Hymns. I decided that to match words with music, I must write my own verses, starting with a few lines at a time, like a child learning to walk. My efforts were stumbling indeed and I showed my prentice work to none. Trying French, Spanish and Italian, as well as English, I first sought to match the style of the country in my music, but, with the little time available from my duties, it was long before I could reflect their spirit and I realised my verses were but toys. Still, I was learning. The work of informer took up time that I grudged, as did the travelling. Sir Philip, as he now was, became my spy-master too, for he now lived under Sir Francis Walsingham's roof at Barn Elms. That alliance with the daughter was a strange one for a gentleman who had been offered the sister of William of Orange, but I supposed that it solved the worst of his money problems which were pressing.
Sir Philip had long decided that my 'seeing' of the death of William the Silent had nothing to commend it, but, when that summer I crossed the Channel with news for my masters, I found the household in black. The leader of the Dutch people had been assassinated by one Balthasar Gerard in exactly the way I had described. The old soldier, Captain Roger Williams, had witnessed the scene and confirmed that the Prince was wearing the Beggars' medal with the motto (not Latin as I had thought) 'Fideles au Roy jusqu'a la besace'. I felt no satisfaction that my vision had been justified, only great sorrow and a creeping sensation down my spine which filled me with dread. My Orpheus music most certainly held awesome powers.
~
Back at the Faubourg St. Germain, we received news of another death, that of little Lord Denbigh, the crooked son of Leicester and the wife he had stolen from Walter Devereux. I wondered if Sir Philip had renewed hope of becoming his uncle's heir, which would give him credit with the money-lenders, or if he realised that the base-born Robert would resume the place his half-brother had usurped.
Yet another call to England came. It wasted my time and I could not ignore the fact that the smell of the sea always caused me deep unease, something more than mere queasiness. My heart sank further at the French Embassy, where my presence was required, when I saw Sir Philip, wearing his unfashionable orange suit, the velvet now faded to a golden shade. Another golden figure came through the archway and, to my amazement, I recognised Patrick Gray, whom I could never have imagined the associate of the upright Sidney. Taking my courage in both hands, I dared enquire the reason for my summons, as I had been entrusted with no despatches.
"We thought to use your music for a special ceremony to take place at noon today, but, no doubt, since you landed you have eaten and are not fit to take part in a Sun ritual such as, you will remember, we celebrated with Doctor Dee. In any case, on this occasion, it is to be an Egyptian rite for which your playing may not serve."
Could he see from the relief on my face how glad I was to be excluded? The memory of the seeing at Mortlake had often tormented me. I loathed and feared transportation to that unknown place beyond the realms of brightness where my Orpheus music took me. Worse still, was when I came round from my 'seeing', sick and shaken, as though I had barely escaped the cold clutch of death. The thought of undergoing this horror to order was more than I could bear.
Sir Philip continued, "One task you may perform. Stand at this window and, when you see the sun reach its highest point, knock on this door when we will know it is the proper time for the ceremony to commence."
As he spoke, the door opened and an impressive figure, clothed in a robe of gold and white, beckoned them in. I could smell burning frankincense as the door closed and shuddered at the thought of the strange ceremony about to begin. The celebrant was Giordano Bruno, whom I had once glimpsed at the French court and who had been pointed out to me as a magician unafraid of summoning demons.
Through the well-made door, I could discern only faint murmuring. Bored with inactivity, I went to the other end of the anteroom, took my lute from its case and began to play to myself softly. It was long since I had the leisure to play my favourite Don Luys Milan fantasia. I could not resist this rare opportunity and surely I was safe from harm if I took no part in the ceremony. With my eyes closed, the blissful colours began to dance and weave in my mind and I abandoned myself to the joy of my Orpheus music.
Sca..sca..sca..sca.....I found myself falling into blackness. It seemed that fire and ice at once possessed me. How long I was out of the world I had no means of knowing. A dream that seems to last for hours takes place in seconds and I had been in some domain where time has its own meaning. Nor did I wish to return to my world, dreading the faintness and the nausea that would take me.
A rough shaking brought me round and the stench of a burnt feather under my nose. It was the Master of Gray, his face as white and scared as that of Sir Philip Sidney. Giordano Bruno, like Doctor Dee, was only interested to learn what I had 'seen' before they emerged to find me in a swoon. I was querulous and wished to forget but the magus berated me in angry Italian. I began unwillingly to answer in that language, but, lost for words, soon turned to English.
"It is very cold in a great hall crowded with noblemen, among whom I recognise the Earl of Shrewsbury, tears coursing down his cheeks. The silence is uncanny. A slow procession enters, headed by a cross-bearer. A tall lady of regal bearing paces after, her black dress contrasting with the pallor of her face. She carries a crucifix and a prayer book and round her waist are two rosaries. Hanging from her neck is a golden pomander and an Agnus Dei. It must be a Catholic ceremony but why do the English lords attend what is against the law?
"Oh dear God, now I see the black-draped block and the great axe. Why, oh, why are these visions always of death?" I began to shiver uncontrollably and was racked with sobs. Sir Philip put his arm about my shoulders, encouraging me to continue.
"The attendants remove the lady's white head-dress and long veil and I see her hair is red. They respectfully remove her overdress, revealing a red petticoat to which they attach red sleeves. The executioner strips her of her ornaments but allows her to keep the golden rosary. All her servants are sobbing and praying and she tells them in French that she has guaranteed their silence. Her eyes are bound and she places her head on the block.....I beg you, no more..."
"Only a little and then it will be ended," urged the Master of Gray.
"It takes three strokes of the axe to sever the head and when the executioner holds it aloft - oh, Christ - it rolls away, leaving him with the red wig in his hand. When he retrieves the bloodstained head, I see the hair is short and grey. Why could they not leave the lady dignity in death? Her lap-dog creeps from its hiding place beneath her skirts, lifting its paws daintily to avoid its mistress's blood....." And turning aside, to my shame, I vomited up the meal I should not have taken.
The gentlemen moved disdainfully to the other end of the hall but I heard their conversation through my misery.
"The execution of a Catholic lady of regal bearing, the dress, the ornaments, the words in French," mused Patrick Gray. "I believe he has seen into the future." And, turning to Sir Philip, he added, "Walsingham's dream is to come true. From now on, James is our man."
"It is true that John was correct in every detail when he foresaw the death of Prince William. We have reason to believe him now."
Giordano Bruno joined them and they moved into the inner room. A major domo entered and berated me, as servants bustled in to clean the marble floor, but all I could grasp was that the Orpheus music did indeed bring about my seeing without the aid of any magical ceremony. All I had to do to prevent another such awesome experience was to give up the beloved music of Don Luys Milan.
~
Soon after, Sir Philip was appointed Ambassador, this time to commiserate with the King of France on the death of the Frog Prince, his brother, but also to bring about a treaty between our two countries against Philip of Spain. I joined Sir Philip's train and we made our way by water to Gravesend.
Seeking me out, Sir Philip said, "I wish to discuss your visions,John. I can see that you dread them and that the experience must be fearsome indeed. I had thought them connected with a magical ceremony but it seems this is not so."
"I am sure it is the music of Don Luys Milan which is at fault and I have determined to play it no more," I ventured.
"It cannot be the music alone," Sir Philip continued,"for when you played for the Countess of Pembroke and myself, you succeeded in dispersing our melancholy without any of those nightmare 'seeings' as you call them. You must not give up the music that saved me from self murder. There must be some other cause that brings about what you find so painful. Is there aught else but the music you hear?"
"I hear a strange tapping noise - sca, sca, sca, sca, before I fall into that deathlike darkness....."
"That must be it ," interposed Sir Philip. "The ceremonies of both Doctor Dee and Signor Bruno ended with a required number of taps of the wand."
"And then begins the terror," I concluded.
"Without that sound, therefore, your music should hold no fear and you may play it as freely as you wish."
"I have remembered another circumstance," I told him. "When I played with the intention of healing, I prevented myself from seeing my colours and set my whole mind to dispersing your melancholy." I went on to explain my musical colours and the magical world to which they transported me. I promised I would attempt to eschew that pleasure which only led to pain and fear.
"Yes," murmured Sir Philip, "like the pleasures of love which are fleeting and followed by a lifetime of regret." He fell into a reverie which, after some time, I dared to interrupt by asking him the purpose of the ceremonies at Mortlake and at the French Embassy. Still abstractedly, he told me that the first was for the successful formation of a union of Protestant rulers to ensure peace in Europe and the second was for a union of France and England, which I had already surmised.
We arrived at Gravesend, only to find a dismissive message from the French king, saying that,after two months, he had ceased court mourning for his brother and would receive no embassy. Once more Elizabeth's procrastination led to failure and unnecessary expense for Sir Philip, who made his way back to Barn Elms, while I took ship, then rode to the Faubourg St.Germain and the English Embassy.
~
In late summer, a disquieting matter came to light. A pamphlet appeared, telling some home truths about the Earl of Leicester, which the Queen and Sir Philip Sidney hastened to refute. Entitled 'Leicester's Commonwealth', it was a Jesuit publication, supposedly written by that Robert Parsons who escaped capture when Father Campion was taken.
Remembering that Father Smith, after he cared for me in my delirium, had said that I had disclosed secrets about some 'great ones', I could not help wondering whether some of Parsons' material came from my ravings. I cared nothing for Leicester, but I was desolated to find Lady Stafford driven into deep melancholy by the untimely revelations of her deception by him leading to the birth of their son, Robert.
Once more recalling what my true master had advised, I played my best to calm her but how could I help that sweet lady if mine was the hand behind the blow which struck her down? Strong feelings of guilt led me to make another excuse about the needs of my family in England and I gave up my work at the Embassy and left for London.
A masterless man again, I was at first reluctant to apply to Sir Philip and then learned that he had a new lutenist, a talented boy named Daniel Batchelor, whose indentures Walsingham had bought as a gift to his daughter and son-in-law. So, hoping that he would remember the favour I had done him and his brother, I put myself in Master Henry Unton's way and he was kind enough to take me to Court whenever his handsome presence was required by the Queen. She seemed now a different person, crabbed and hard to please. Was it possible that she had been serious over her dalliance with the dead Anjou? Certainly, her diplomacy (and, indeed, Bruno's magic) had failed to bring about a rapprochement with France, though the gossip at the English Embassy had it that the Ambassador had been working against this, in the pay of Spain.
The only one who never failed to 'undumpish' Elizabeth with his quips and antics was Dick Tarleton, Leicester's fool, who did more for his master's policy than Chris Hatton and the other substitutes he directed towards the Queen's bedchamber. The latest, Master Walter Raleigh, who became her Oracle, proved recalcitrant and went his own way. More of him anon.
At court, I met Master Henry Noel, of an age with Hatton and Raleigh and a year or so senior to his cousin, Sir Philip Sidney. Though his only sure income was his stipend as Gentleman Pensioner and his gambling losses often outweighed his gains, he took me on and cared for me well so that my wages, though meagre, arrived on time. He was deeply interested in music and became my friend, as well as my master. We passed some happy days at court and the name of John Dowland became known again.
