The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  ‘See this.’ He fondled the leather before flicking open the ornate clasp that held the book shut. Then, rather than laying it flat on the table, he stood it upright, opening its cover like a door. She leaned in closer to see, catching a sulphurous stench.

  It was not a Bible at all, or once had been but was now defaced for a new purpose. The sacrilege disturbed her, and she would have moved back but felt some otherworldly force rooting her to the spot. Its pages had been cut away to secrete a cabinet of little drawers, each labelled and furnished with a minute handle, carved from a glassy black substance.

  A green bottle the height of her index finger was strapped by a leather thong into a niche. It contained a dark liquid. On the inside of the cover was an ink drawing of a skeleton leaning on a staff, its head thrown back in despair. Fascination drew her to read the labels on the drawers: Hyoscyamus niger; Papaver somniferous; Aconitum napellus...

  ‘But they are poisons,’ she murmured. Instinct was telling her to run from that place before it was too late. But she was immobilized, as if victim to some nefarious spell. Anne, though, seemed entirely unconcerned and continued petting the monkey that was sitting on her lap like a baby. She cooed at it and scratched its belly until it cackled, exposing its fangs.

  ‘Please don’t be afraid.’ Forman’s voice was velvet smooth. He held Frances momentarily with a limpid gaze that seemed profoundly benevolent, which, instead of reassuring, bewildered her.

  ‘And, yes,’ he added, opening one of the drawers to scoop, with a small ivory spatula, a little powder from it into a fold of paper. ‘If the dose is sufficient, any of these will kill a man, but if correctly administered they have great healing powers. They must be harnessed, that is all.’ He continued spooning small amounts of different powders into the sachet. She leaned in closer but he told her to back away: for those unaccustomed, he said, even the scent could cause giddiness or worse. He sealed the sachet, then repeated the process.

  ‘Where do you get them?’ she asked, transfixed.

  ‘From all sorts of places.’ He looked at her once more. ‘But I cultivate some myself, with the help of Master Franklin. He has wonderfully green fingers and can distil like a wizard. Distillation takes patience, you see – like alchemy.’ He gave a cough of laughter but she couldn’t see what was funny. ‘Would you like me to show you outside?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer and led the way out through a door that opened on to a walled garden at the back of the house. She stopped on the doorstep, temporarily blinded by the sun, and had to lean on the jamb to steady herself. She took a deep inhalation, but the air was thick and made her breathless. A harsh inner voice told her to pull herself together. Anne squeezed past and Frances grasped her arm, walking with her down the path behind the doctor. As she became accustomed to the brightness, her senses settled, leaving her feeling silly for having allowed herself to become so addled.

  Forman came to a halt, saying, ‘Here it is, my little physic bed.’

  It was a racket of colour. Blushing foxgloves and purple larkspur towered over wavering black-hearted poppies. Blue monkshood sprouted in and around fronds of rue the colour of ripe lemons, and nearby grew a bush that dripped with clusters of waxy crimson berries. Intoxicated bees purred lazily from bloom to bloom, and an almost unbearably pungent scent hung in the air. Franklin was there, crouched over the bed wearing a big pair of leather gloves, rendered more grotesque than ever surrounded by all that splendour.

  ‘It’s all so beautiful,’ Anne was saying.

  Frances knew well enough that if she picked a bunch of that pretty rue her skin would show raised welts within the hour.

  ‘Beautiful, yes,’ Forman said, ‘and these plants will heal most ills, but you are wondering how it is,’ he turned his eyes on Frances once more and echoed exactly the thought that had crossed her own mind, ‘that God makes deadly things so alluring.’

  She refused to submit to fear, saying brightly, ‘It hadn’t crossed my mind.’ But she was sure he could see it was a lie.

  Once back inside, Forman found a small silk pouch into which he put one of the sealed sachets. He hung it round her neck, instructing her to wear it next to her skin for the full duration of a moon’s cycle. The other he told her to place beneath Essex’s pillow, promising that her problems would be solved, then told her what she owed for his services.

  She took out her purse, as he continued, ‘I recommend also you design a figure in wax, a little man with the correct anatomy.’ Frances was taken aback to see him point towards the monkey’s genitals. ‘That detail is most important for it is there you must thrust a needle daily to douse any residual ardour in your husband.’ He spoke in a prosaic manner, as if giving her a recipe for a fruit cake. ‘It is crucial the wax comes from candles that have been blessed. We must call on the power of Godly spirits, rather than the dark arts.’

  As she counted out the coins to pay him, she stepped out of herself for a moment and the sceptic in her returned, making her wonder if she had fallen for an elaborate hoax. But she had no other means to deal with Essex, and chose to believe in Dr Forman and his peculiar methods.

  ‘You will find his anger abates, also.’ His tone remained matter-of-fact but she was unsettled once more. She felt certain she hadn’t mentioned Essex’s temper to him.

  As the two women made to leave, he took Anne to one side, saying, ‘It is unlikely I will be able to see you many times more.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She looked distressed, like a rejected lover.

  ‘The date of my passing is near and I must prepare myself.’ He was expressionless, standing there with his monkey on his shoulder, its tail curled about his wrist, as if he’d been telling them nothing more extraordinary than the time of day. Frances wanted to say he’d gone too far with his deception, that only God knew when someone’s time was up, but something stilled her tongue.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Anne was aghast.

  ‘I’ve seen it in a vision, the manner and moment of my death.’ He gave a date in early autumn, a mere few weeks away.

  Anne was muttering, ‘It can’t be true. It’s not possible.’ Her eyes were wet and her face twisted in distress. But Forman hustled the women out, saying if they were to need anything, ‘anything at all’, they were to consult Master Franklin, who, Frances noticed then, was looming in the bright opening to the garden, watching them.

  As the door shut she turned on her friend, angry with her for luring her to such a place. ‘What is he to you?’ Anne was in a dither on the step, white as a ghost, unable to answer. ‘He said it for effect. There’s not a soul alive can predict their own death. It’s against the order of things.’ Frances didn’t temper her harsh tone and Anne refused to look at her, so she took her roughly by the shoulders repeating, ‘What is he to you?’

  Anne looked at her then, with red eyes, and gave her head a little shake.

  Him

  The hot days sloped by, eventually giving way to autumn, and I was to accompany the King to his hunting lodge. Royston was a modest place and I knew James was at his happiest there, where he could imagine himself an ordinary man without the burdens of his status. In many ways that was the version of him I preferred and I usually enjoyed those visits to Royston too. But this time I feared that, when I was alone with him, James would strip me back and discover evidence of my secret passion engraved in me.

  On the eve of our departure Northampton invited me to visit. As I arrived at his house I held the hope that I might encounter Frances there, though I never yet had. I found him alone in the vast gallery. He guided me to a window niche looking over the busy sprawl of Whitehall.

  ‘I’m pleased you’re here,’ he said, as we sat, explaining that the niece he’d suggested for me had received an offer of marriage.

  ‘It’s a good proposition – very suitable. Obviously, I’d prefer to see her married to you but she’s not getting any younger.’ He gave me a stringent look. ‘And I’m not entirely convinced by your enthusi
asm.’ I inspected him for signs of what might lie behind his firm tone but he was indecipherable. He continued: ‘I’m afraid I’ve decided to accept. And her father’s keen.’ Convinced that he was cutting me loose, I admonished myself inwardly for allowing my obsession with Frances to interfere with my good sense. But then he added, ‘I’m sure we can find someone else for you – a cousin, younger, prettier.’ He gave me a conspiratorial nudge.

  I made my enthusiasm clear and he apologized for not having spoken to me sooner. He’d been distracted, so he said, ‘by other pressing family problems’. He was fidgeting, rearranging the objects on his desk, seemed perturbed. ‘You must be familiar with another of my great-nieces, I’m sure. Frances. Wed to Essex. All sorts of difficulties there. The boy’s not even managed to consummate –’ He stopped abruptly, thrusting a hand over his mouth. ‘Forgive me – I shouldn’t have ... It’s not something I ought to talk about. Can we pretend you didn’t hear that?’

  I nodded, smiling. ‘Hear what?’

  He matched my smile and continued talking about other matters, oblivious to the fact that his blurted confidence had opened a fissure in my imagination into which ideas of Frances were pouring. When I left the room, my head was filled to the brim with her, and as I descended the grand sweep of staircase to the hall, my heart sprang to see her there, being helped out of her coat. I stopped halfway down, waiting for her to see me.

  ‘Robert Carr.’ She began to mount the stairs. ‘Again! Anyone might think you were spying on me.’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’ I trained my eyes on her. She flushed slightly and I leaned back against the banister to watch her climb. ‘Actually, I’ve been with your great-uncle. We were talking about marriage. He’d like me to wed one of your cousins.’ She’d reached me and I looked for signs of disappointment in her face but found none.

  ‘I have several cousins.’ Her tone was playful and she came close to my ear, almost touching, and whispered, ‘I’d be very jealous.’

  It took a superhuman effort to keep my voice even. ‘But you’re married.’

  ‘So are you – as good as.’ And then she tripped on up the stairs away from me. I stood a moment, gathering myself, and at the top she called back, ‘I hope I’ll see you at the entertainments later. I’m performing.’

  I floated on air back towards Whitehall but Thomas blew into my mind out of nowhere, like a cold breeze, registering his disapproval. I don’t know why. I’d barely thought of him lately.

  I was crushed. Frances hadn’t looked my way all evening. It was as if I didn’t exist. The banqueting hall was alive with dancers and filled with the grating jangle of cheerful tunes. I sat beside James, frayed, watching her, unable to disguise my dark mood.

  Across the room, she peeled away from her family and slunk towards Prince Henry, engaging him in a whispered conversation. Then, to my horror, she took his hand and, finger by finger, removed his glove, before – as she had once done with me – unfolding his palm to examine its lines. Though it was torture I was unable to drag my eyes away. I could have stormed over and snapped his head off with my bare hands. James watched them, too, his suspicious gaze shifting back and forth from them to me. At once she dropped his hand, a look of alarm passing over her face. ‘What?’ he appeared to ask, her distress catching like a flame in his eyes too. ‘What have you seen?’ But then she broke into a smile and said something with an insouciant little shrug. The idea of leaving her to go to Royston was tormenting me.

  ‘The little hussy,’ James said.

  Without thinking I spat out, ‘Leave her be.’

  ‘Why are you jumping to her defence?’ James’s bloodhound look fixed on me.

  ‘I’m not defending anyone.’ I tugged my eyes away and stretched out a placatory hand to James’s arm.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with you?’ He swilled back his drink. ‘You’re so tetchy this evening. For goodness’ sake, cheer up.’

  ‘I’m not feeling very well.’ I dared a glance, to see Frances had settled in to sit beside the prince.

  ‘The fresh air at Royston will do you good.’

  ‘Perhaps ...’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should stay here and join you in a few days, when I’m feeling better.’

  ‘You were perfectly well an hour ago.’ His scrutiny fizzed under my collar. ‘Why do you want to stay? What’s keeping you? You’ve been so distant lately anyone would think ...’ He drained his glass, holding it out to be refilled and didn’t finish what he was saying.

  ‘Of course I want to come. I love Royston.’ I hated myself for my deceit.

  ‘You love Royston?’ He spat out a bitter laugh and drained his glass again. I knew I should have said I loved him.

  People were taking turns to perform, each with a song or a poem. Princess Elizabeth, delicate as a moth, skipped through a few dance steps, to a clamour of applause. James glowered beside me. When Frances stood to recite ‘The Folly of Love’, a spellbound hush fell over the room. I sat stiff as a corpse, watching my adversary’s eyes devour her.

  ‘Come outside.’ James got up, stumbling slightly. ‘Come on. Come outside.’ He was slurring and pulling at my arm.

  The music stopped and everybody rushed to stand, wood scraping against wood. He left the room, and I followed as he zigzagged along the passage towards the gardens. Once outside he pressed me up against the wall. The brick was cold and damp. A low full moon cast a pallid glow over his features, illuminating his annoyance. ‘My favour isn’t limitless, you know. I saw you looking. I saw you.’ He prodded a finger in my face. I tried to calm him: he was much drunker than I’d realized. ‘There are no guarantees, Robbie.’ The stink of his breath made my stomach turn. ‘Everyone’s replaceable.’

  The thought flashed through my mind that some accident might befall him: he might stumble, hit his head on a stone, making him unable to travel. I should have taken him to his rooms then, to sleep it off, but I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving without at least trying to speak to Frances, so I took his arm and guided him back to the melee.

  We stood a moment in the entrance, and I saw through the throng that Henry had taken his father’s seat. He must have assumed we’d gone to bed. James hadn’t noticed and I distracted him by pointing out the dancers. I knew how he would feel to have such a bald vision of the future: that new-minted boy sitting on his throne, the hated Southampton and Pembroke at his side with a fawning host of followers. Frances wasn’t with him. I scanned the room, unable to find her, supposing her with the clutch of Howards at the far end.

  People began to realize the King had returned and got to their feet, those nearest first, parting to allow us to pass. Henry, chatting with his friends, was still lounging in his father’s place. As we approached I felt James wind tight as a bowstring. It was only when we were a yard from him that Henry saw us and sprang up, appearing genuinely mortified. He offered profuse apologies, while his cronies slunk away to the edges of the room.

  ‘Wouldn’t be so quick in my grave,’ James snapped. He looked drab and worn beside that fresh boy. One eyelid flickered and his jaw gritted as he watched his son sidle off. ‘He’d take every last thing that is mine, given half a chance – even you.’

  I wanted to laugh out loud in relief to hear that it was Henry, and not Frances, whom James suspected was taking my attention from him. ‘Not me – he won’t take me from you,’ I said. ‘You can’t possibly think such a thing.’

  I must have sounded convincing – after all, it was the truth – for he chose to believe me, apologizing for his suspicion. His mood transformed instantly, as he claimed his seat and called for more wine. I knew he would stay until the bitter end to make his point. But as the crowd began to thin and the Howards dispersed there was still no sign of Frances. Despair bit into me and, desperate to be alone, I begged leave to go to bed on the pretext of sleeping off my feigned illness before the following day’s journey.

  As I trudged away to mount the stairs, the muffled hubbub from the hall became more distant. I stopped at
the large window on the landing, and stood to look at the moon, contemplating, like a lover in a poem, the tyranny of desire. Thinking of Troilus pulled back and forth by love, I basked in the frigid light, rolling her pearl between my fingers.

  I heard a door sigh below. Air riffled over my skin. Then came the soft patter of footfall. I made to leave, reluctant to nod a greeting to whoever it might be. A touch, light as a feather, caressed my shoulder. Turning, I heard my name whispered, the sound bringing with it a trembling stupor, as if I’d been drugged.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you. Why do I always find you on the stairs? As if you only exist in the space between floors.’ She took my hand. ‘You’re cold as death.’

  I feared I would wake and find I had dreamed her. She began to rub my hands between hers, bringing them up to her mouth, blowing hot breath on to them, as a mother would to a child.

  ‘Look at the moon,’ I said, willing myself to think of something less banal to say. I watched her gazing out, the sinuous curve of her neck and how the silver glow caught on the edges of her golden lace, reflecting a pattern like frost on her cheek. I remember, with a clarity that is undimmed by the five years that have passed since, the way that the moon was mirrored in her eyes, two bright spots in a sea of gleaming black, making my breath catch in my throat. She was talking, telling me how the poem she had recited earlier had made her feel a hypocrite.

  ‘It was a celebration of wedded bliss and I have found no contentment there.’ Her voice wound around me like smoke. ‘And there I was,’ she continued, ‘for all to see, reciting on the foolishness of lovers and celebrating the soundness of marriage. They are not my words.’

  ‘Not long ago I was offered a parrot at Billingsgate docks,’ I found myself saying. ‘A great beauty.’

  A parrot?’ She seemed thoughtful, as if something sad had settled over her.

  ‘It spoke three languages, or so the vendor told me. But it didn’t have any words of its own, only mimicked those of others.’