The Poison Bed

by Elizabeth Fremantle

  Nelly seems to falter slightly. ‘Daft girl’s sweet on someone. But he’s married.’

  Frances doesn’t know whether to believe her. From the window she sees the maid cross the yard, stopping to watch as a man is dragged over the cobbles with a sack over his head. He trips and one of the guards kicks him in the kidneys. The maid spits on him before disappearing into a doorway.

  Frances feels like a dead weight, as if her bones are filled with lead. Pouring herself a cup of wine, she returns to sit by the fire away from the window.

  Nelly wolfs her food as if it is her last meal, talking between mouthfuls. ‘There was a laundrywoman lived near us who used to starch them yellow ruffs. Her arms were stained with it, up to the elbows.’

  Frances takes a gulp of wine. It is sharp, unpleasant on the tongue, but she keeps swallowing until the heavy feeling is gone. She is reminded of the fine French wines she used to drink.

  Chartley was frigid. It had snowed. Not the thick blanket that makes you want to dive into its arms but a sparse covering over hard black ground, dusting the trees with sadness and hanging dull icicles from the eaves. Anne and I languished in the gloom of my quarters, barely venturing out, awaiting word from Uncle to bring us back to court.

  She was throwing papers into the fire. Each sheaf flared up for a moment, then died back. She had waited months, fretting, for those papers, and as soon as they were in her hands she’d spent hours combing them, like a mother searching for nits.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘all traces gone.’ Fine black flakes floated, twisting upwards into the flue. She looked pale and upset. Dr Forman’s death had distressed her, more than seemed normal. I’d seen her once or twice rocking to and fro on her knees on the floor, incanting his name as if it was a spell. I didn’t ask her about it. It seemed like the kind of trouble it was best to stay out of. Once all the papers were gone, she prodded the embers with a poker. ‘No one will be any the wiser.

  ‘I thought there might have been mention of that.’ Anne pointed at the little homunculus on the table. ‘But there wasn’t.’ She had procured the wax from the verger at St Martin’s and insisted on making the thing, on my behalf, then mutilated it daily with her embroidery needle. I’d allowed it, more to humour her than anything else. The ritual was absurd but Anne took it with deadly seriousness and was gleeful that my husband’s attempts between the sheets had been reduced to the occasional impotent tussle, in which he would become frustrated and sometimes violent. She was convinced it was her doing but I was certain it had less to do with her wax figurine than with my encouraging him to drink heavily in the evenings. He lacked the head for it and often collapsed in a stupor, having to be hauled to his bed by a servant.

  We had been at Chartley by then for the entire dead winter. The only thing alive was my secret passion. The absence, designed to inflame Robert Carr, had caught in me too, surprising me. Like any woman, I had known the fixations of youthful desire. But this was different. This was like possession. I had believed myself incapable of such feelings, that Uncle had trained the possibility out of me. My siblings always told me I was too unemotional, too flinty, to be susceptible to the whims of love. But even flint will cause a spark if rubbed in the right way, and in the wake of our moonlit conversation on the Whitehall staircase I had begun to smoulder. Love is like that, I suppose. It takes you by stealth. In the back of my mind I imagined Uncle’s disdain: That was not part of our plan – you’ve weakened yourself with it.

  That encounter with Carr was never far from my thoughts. His honesty had disarmed me; his guileless self-revelation had made me forget Uncle’s orders and allow my own true self to appear. We were, both of us, peeled back. He was nothing like the swaggering courtier I’d assumed him to be and wore his undeniable magnetism with a surprising tenderness. But still I regretted so readily spilling my darkest shame to him. I feared he would like me less for it. What man could love a woman who was capable of murdering a beloved pet? Only Uncle, and Robert Carr was nothing like Uncle. I was unused to self-doubt. Uncle had trained me well, but perhaps not well enough.

  Anne tugged me from my thoughts. ‘Why are you so sceptical of Forman?’ She couldn’t hide her annoyance. ‘His methods are working on your husband. He hasn’t succeeded in,’ she made a crude gesture with her finger, ‘has he?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it.’ Infuriated, I pointed to the wax figure. ‘And you still haven’t had your marriage proposal, have you? If Forman was as gifted as you think... All you did was line his pockets.’

  ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’

  I noticed she was almost in tears and felt guilty for being so insensitive. Charlatan or not, Dr Forman had meant something to her. ‘I’m sorry, Anne. I don’t mean to argue. It’s just this situation is becoming too much for me. We’re rotting away here and I’m beginning to wonder if Uncle really means to get me out of this infernal marriage.’ I had begun to suspect it was just another of his power plays, that he wanted the King’s favourite in his pocket and I was the lure to achieve his ends, just as I had been with the prince.

  Anne apologized too but looked at me strangely as if something had struck her. ‘If you really want to escape your marriage there are ways. Franklin could –’

  ‘What – that great ghoul who came to tell you of Forman’s death? I don’t want that creature doing anything for me.’

  She looked hurt. ‘I only meant –’

  ‘Enough!’ I snapped. ‘I’ve had enough of your mystical nonsense. I’ve had enough of this waiting.’ I sank on to a chair, deflated.

  ‘This place is getting to you,’ she soothed, her own upset seeming forgotten. ‘I’m sure there’ll be word from your great-uncle soon.’

  She was right. A few days later a letter arrived.

  I scanned the page. ‘It’s beginning, Anne!’ She stood, looking over my shoulder. ‘He wants me to talk to Essex. I’m to convince him that we should seek an annulment, say that it’s in both our interests. He’s going to make sure I am ordered back to court.’ I felt suddenly daunted by the thought of confronting my husband.

  ‘At last.’ Anne was smiling. My doubts must have crept to the surface, as she added, ‘But what’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s so unpredictable.’ She tried to reassure me with platitudes. ‘If you want to help,’ I said brusquely, gathering my fortitude, ‘you can make sure his pistols are out of the way before I go to him.’ Alarm scudded over her face. ‘Just a precaution.’

  I picked up the wax figure and flung it on to the fire. Anne clapped a hand over her mouth in outrage. ‘It’s only a toy.’ Watching the wax succumb to the flames, I wished my marriage could be undone as easily. I left for the chapel.

  The place vibrated with silence; a lonely candle burning on the altar cast a vague light that made the shadows shift, as if people were hiding in the corners. The single crucifix hung behind, stark against the pale wall, Christ slumped forward, hanging from nails. A faint whiff of sandalwood hung in the air. The prayer stands had been stacked to one side, so I got down on the bare flagstones, kneeling in penitence. The cold bit in, prowling up through my body until my extremities were numb. My sins pressed, like hands about my throat. I begged forgiveness and protection again and again, until my prayers dried up.

  As I got to my feet the candle snuffed itself out and I rushed in a panic, stumbling through the dark, out of the chapel to face my husband.

  Him

  I noticed a slight withdrawal of James’s affection, a new guardedness, and felt sure, though he never mentioned it, that the embers of the incident with Thomas smouldered in him. Thomas had gone to ground. I had never felt his absence so keenly and it made me understand that he was the only friend who saw beneath my surface and cared for me, despite the failings he found there. A part of me had been ripped away – I even missed our quarrels – and I was determined to find a way to make amends, though I questioned how it would be possible when my being was so subsumed by Frances of whom he disapproved so gre
atly.

  On the journey back to Whitehall I thought endlessly of her, anticipating our next encounter. But when we arrived I was crushed to discover that she had left for her husband’s house in Staffordshire.

  I don’t know what I’d expected – a note, a message, a letter, some kind of sign, but there was nothing. Christmas came and went – still nothing – and winter gave way to spring, but even the bright buds unfurling brought me no joy. Each day crawled by as I waited for news of her return, indulging in my lover’s misery, like a pining sonneteer, and seeking out the company of Harry Howard just for his resemblance to his sister.

  Summer was almost upon us when news came that the secretary of state had finally succumbed to his illness. I was alone with James in his rooms, just a single guard by the door, stifling yawns in his heavy uniform. Sun danced across the floorboards, filtered through the trembling leaves of a horse chestnut, where a magpie cackled. A messenger arrived, disrupting the peace, and I watched James’s demeanour crumple as he took the letter, inspecting the seal, recognizing it as Salisbury’s. He slumped forlorn and wordless at his desk.

  Cark, cark, cark, went the magpie, laughing at his sorrow. James seemed, in an instant, a decade older. I thought perhaps he was remembering that he and the dead man were close in age and felt a step closer to death himself.

  ‘It was the sickness that did for him, not his age,’ I said, with that in mind. ‘Forty-nine is not old.’ The bird cackled on.

  ‘That damned creature.’ James screwed up his face, as if in pain. ‘Can’t you do something?’

  The guard on the door was almost dozing, lolling against the wall, and before he realized what was happening I’d whipped the loaded pistol from his belt and fired it into the tree. The kickback jarred my arm and the sound, a blast of shattering intensity, boomed round the walls and through my head, as I watched the startled bird take to the sky. James, his hands clamped over his ears, shouted something at me but I was temporarily deafened, as if under water. A consignment of guards burst into the room, at the ready, taking hold of me, disarming me with ruthless efficiency, and James was obliged to explain that it wasn’t an attempt on his life.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, when they’d gone. ‘It would have been enough to shut the window.’ He began to laugh, wildly, as if determined to shake off his grief. Once calmed, he turned to me, rearranging his features in seriousness. ‘Now to business. I must decide what to do with Salisbury’s offices. I’ve a mind to make Northampton lord treasurer. What do you think of that?’

  I imagined the Essex crowd enraged to see their adversary promoted. ‘I think he’s a steady pair of hands. A sound choice.’ I recognized the potential advantage to me of Northampton’s promotion. I had grown to respect the man, with his firm grasp on the nuances of politics. He had none of Thomas’s fervent righteousness; he was measured and realistic – a good statesman. I had chosen to set aside the lingering menace of Frances’s story. It was from the distant past and people change, don’t they?

  ‘If Northampton is treasurer then the Essex crowd will want one of theirs as secretary.’ I understood that the ship of state needed ballast on both sides to keep it buoyant. ‘I won’t give it to them.’ James looked defiant. ‘I don’t trust them. Do you know what I think, Robbie? I think we, you and I together, can cover the duties of state. I won’t have that lot sneaking about making trouble abroad, poisoning the alliances I seek and pushing for a German bride for my son. I won’t have it.’ He looked at me then and I knew I was firmly back in the fold.

  ‘As you wish.’ I should have tried to convince him not to pursue such a one-sided policy, but an idea was taking shape in me, a way to facilitate Thomas’s return.

  A servant arrived with a suit of black mourning clothes. I dismissed him and dressed James myself, carefully stroking the nap of the velvet over his shoulders. ‘Do you think,’ I tendered, ‘it might be wise to invite Thomas Overbury back to court?’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘That man?’

  Very quietly I said, ‘Keep your enemies close.’

  And his expression transformed to that of a proud father who has witnessed his son shoot his first roebuck.

  Her

  The baby has been crying for a good hour with colic. It’s fraying Frances’s temper, making the walls encroach on her, as if the space is shrinking. Nelly, though, appears unperturbed as she balances the infant upright on her knee, deftly lifting its chin with one hand and patting its back to wind it with the other. ‘Weren’t you afraid of your great-uncle?’

  Frances answers with a question. ‘Were you afraid of your father?’ She cannot find the words to explain how Uncle, even when he had to punish her, made her feel special. She suspects Nelly must have felt the same about her father.

  ‘I was terrified of him!’ The girl looks defiant.

  Frances is taken aback. She can’t imagine hard-nosed Nelly frightened of anything.

  ‘And if I could have got away with it, I would have caved his head in.’

  Essex, puce with rage, shouted a string of obscenities and hurled his glass across the chamber, narrowly missing me. It shattered against the panelling, leaving a deep gash in the wood. ‘I’ll be assumed impotent. You think I’ll tolerate public humiliation just so you can be free?’

  I cursed Uncle for forcing the task on me. He could have convinced Essex to sue for an annulment – it was business between men, after all.

  I spoke very quietly, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘To set us both free. We’re neither of us happy.’ I took a step towards him but he backed off as if I was contagious. ‘Think of it. You could marry someone else – start again, choose your own bride this time.’

  He turned away, staring at my feet where a large shard of glass lay. ‘No one will accept me if they suspect I can’t –’ He wasn’t able even to name his impotence and, despite everything, I felt compassion for him.

  ‘Your peace of mind is as important to me as my own.’

  His demeanour tightened. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that? You’re one of the most selfish people I have ever had the misery to know. You gad about court like a whore in your yellow lace, making eyes at Prince Henry, drawing attention to yourself, not considering for a moment that you make a fool of me.’

  I wanted to shout at him that he didn’t know me, but held my tongue and set my foot so it covered the glass shard.

  He slumped on to the edge of the bed with a defeated exhalation. ‘I’ll be a laughing stock – did you think of that? Of course not. You only ever think of Frances Howard.’

  I refrained from pointing out that I also risked ridicule for not having the power to arouse my husband, that it would be equally humiliating for me. ‘You can say the fault lies at my door.’

  ‘Not a soul alive will believe that – oh, God!’ He began to hit his forehead repeatedly with the heel of his hand, like a lunatic. ‘Only death can release me from this prison of a marriage. You know what, Frances?’ He looked up and his expression softened, so I thought at last he was going to say something kind. ‘I have wished you dead every day since we first –’ He didn’t finish.

  A dense silence hung over us until he spoke again. ‘Everybody thinks you’re Prince Henry’s mistress. Are you?’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip. The prince is nothing but an infatuated boy.’

  ‘You have many faults, but I suppose stupidity isn’t one of them.’

  ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t be so stupid. But I will be labelled a whore nonetheless.’ I was thinking that it might be the longest conversation we had ever had.

  ‘If you’re a whore, that makes me a cuckold. You won’t get any sympathy from me.’

  ‘I don’t want sympathy.’ I wondered what had made him the way he was. I’d blamed his overreaching father, hanging in the hall with his white satin clothes and self-satisfied expression, the man Uncle called an Icarus. ‘What fool,’ he’d once commented, ‘would raise an army to overthrow his monarch wh
en there are far more effective means to gain power?’

  ‘Please.’ I sat beside Essex. The scars on his face were taut and sore. ‘Please. We are both so very unhappy. Can we not give each other our freedom?’

  ‘I’ve had other women, you know. It is only you who renders me –’ He still couldn’t name it. ‘You’re poison.’ He prodded a finger at me with a grimace. ‘Some say only a spell can render a man impotent in such a way. There are rumours about you – your fortune-telling. You pretend it’s just a game but they say it is only a step from there to befriending the devil.’ His eyes dug into me. ‘If you were found to be a witch I’d gain my freedom, wouldn’t I?’

  His words froze me. ‘Is that a threat?’

  He didn’t answer, just kept his bitter gaze on me until I slunk from the room.

  Him

  I arrived unannounced at Thomas’s lodgings, two rooms behind Newgate Market. Much of the neighbourhood was run down. Few wanted to live so close to the prison. The houses leaned against one another like drunks, their beams laced with woodworm. Thomas’s building was sturdy, though, made of stone, and his rooms were large and high enough up to let in the light and offer a good view over the square, with the prison and the church beyond.

  I found Ralph Winwood there. I hadn’t seen him since Thomas and I had lived for a time in his London house, long before I came into the King’s orbit. It was where my friendship with Thomas had begun. I was a page in Winwood’s household and Thomas was employed to help with his legal matters. They were simple days with few responsibilities and I felt lucky to have landed on my feet.