Viper Wine

by Hermione Eyre

  And her face? ‘Oh, sweet as milk,’ said Mungo, and Humphrey de Habington said, ‘Aye, it is,’ gravely, not to humour me but as a word of truth.

  ‘Phonecia Anastasia Stanley,’ I said to myself, like a charm.

  Although I wanted to know a good deal more, I did not care to impose too much upon the conversation of the table, and I fell silent, resolving to ask more tomorrow, and the company’s talk moved on to trade and treatise, and like Asparagus when he is lying by the fire I felt my eyelids growing heavy. The next I knew, I was stirring from sleep. Luckily one of the other women at the table had my purse in her hands when I woke up, or else, as she told me, I might have lost it as it fell out of my pack.

  Mungo Stump offered to see me upstairs, which was kind of him, but I had my own candle’s sufficiency. When I refused his help, he called after me that I had the Keeper’s name wrong: Sir Kennel Dippy was the man I sought.

  I was not so foolish as to believe that. Nor did I listen to him when he shouted up the stairs to tell me he was called Sir Kenelm Digby. Mungo Stump was in his cups, and I shall not be so easily put off my search for Sir Keyholme Digbin.

  Sir Kenelm’s bilious moment passed, and he and William Cavendish took a restorative pipe of tobacco under the stars.

  ‘Have you heard of the cure-all “Venice Treacle”?’ asked Cavendish. ‘Our women drink it, you know.’

  Kenelm thought of the backstreets of Venice, where he had seen the apothecaries of the guild flip their wooden rattles and display cages of live snakes outside their shops, showing off their writhing ingredients, as a sign they would soon be producing, for sale, the one, the only, the authentic Theriaca: a thick tarry still with a purple sheen to it that looked and smelled to Kenelm as noisome a slobber as he had ever seen. The vulgar called it Venice Treacle.

  ‘Theriaca, sir; it is called Theriaca by me. I stayed in Venice a short time in the brewing season. Theriaca is a long-known cure-all. I believe Trajan’s doctor dreamed it up. It has treated poison bites since before the birth of Our Lord. Made of powdered vipers, rare balsams and other salves. Because, of course, the poisonous snake is not poisonous to itself, therefore it contains within its body the antidote to its own gall. And thus they claim it gives the life eternal.’

  ‘Have you any with you?’

  ‘No, sir, I see no snakes in London.’

  ‘But death, sir.’

  ‘Oh, this is always and never with us.’

  ‘Oxford has a plague again, they say.’

  ‘God save it. I prefer my own methods – my metheglins and life liquors. My plague water. I can give you my receipts. I have a book of ’em. I don’t take the Theriaca myself. I heard that a batch from the monastery San Giorgio Maggiore, adulterated with tar or wormwood, killed a fresh young girl who drank a pottle of it for her health.’

  ‘Bad,’ said Cavendish, striving for a profundity he did not achieve. ‘Bad and sad.’ He shook his head. ‘They drink it here, you know, our women. The Venice Tipple.’

  ‘I would not drink it without giving it first to a dog.’

  ‘I mark you, sir, I mark you.’ Cavendish was swaying again, looking at the middle distance, since upon the stars, his eyes would not focus. He nodded: ‘’Tis a dog’s drink!’

  ‘Though any dog who tastes it might outlive his master,’ said Kenelm.

  ‘Then like the Ægyptian, mummify the dog and put him in a pyramis,’ said Cavendish, full of mirth.

  ‘Cup us till the world go round, the world go round,’ interrupted Davenant, singing and twirling.

  ‘A piss on your pyramis,’ said Suckling, lurching at Kenelm, who turned to him with his fists up.

  It was lucky that neither of them were wearing swords, out of respect for the Leges Conviviales – the convivial rules of their club – which held there were to be no rough words, no breaking of windows.

  ‘No swordplay between Brothers,’ said Cavendish. ‘No digladiation. But simple fisticuffs, now there’s the spirit! Have at thee, sir!’

  While Cavendish cheered them on, Davenant tried to pull them apart, crying, ‘Eruditi, urbani, hilares, honesti!’, as if these words from the Leges Conviviales would bring them to their senses.

  Suckling swung his left arm at Kenelm, missing wildly and grabbing his hair instead. Kenelm’s hat, unnoticed, fell into the gutter. Kenelm retained Suckling’s arms behind his back in a wrestling lock, and roared. Thus the erudite, urbane, happy gallivants began their evening.

  Venetia, dozing in bed with her book open, knew that Kenelm was come home because she heard him singing at the house gate, then a great jangle as he dropped his keys. She heard a hollow thud as he walked into the water butt, said ‘My pardon, madam’, and finally unlocked the front door, muttering.

  She came downstairs in her nightdress and nightcap, to check he was well, and to witness what a state he was in, so she could enjoy censuring him and maybe laugh at him. He had lost his hat and there was a little mud around his face. She saw by his dear eyes, which had a haunted look, that he was wild with sack.

  ‘My love, how are you?’

  ‘Darling, did I ever tell you about the Malaga wine I have hidden under the old boxes in the cellar? It’s very important that it is not put out to the household. It’s a fine, fine beast of a wine. Which is to ask why? First it roars, no, first it purrs, sweet as a cat . . .’

  ‘Kenelm, what have you about your person, under your doublet?’ Her face, shiny with borage-oil night-cream, loomed over him; Venetia could see that he was unshapely, his doublet distended by a sideways angularity that was nothing like her husband’s body.

  ‘Then the wine begins to growl, which is like the bigger animal. Then—’

  ‘Kenelm, tell me what you have hidden in your midriffs.’

  Kenelm looked up to heaven, and said, ‘Nothing particular.’

  ‘Well then, my darling, the Malaga sack – should I pour it away tomorrow?’

  ‘Ay, ay, ay – no, madam! Be not so hasty. It is the wrong time of day to pour away perfect cordialls.’

  He had seen off Suckling, neither of them sustaining much more injury than a sore lip (Suckling) and popped fastening (Digby). Suckling was reduced to trembling, roaring in pain when Kenelm pulled his hair. Both enjoyed the panting, coursing elation of the unexpected fight, although Suckling had to savour the bitter taste of his own bloody lip. They ended their brawl by embracing one another, pushing their heads hard together like bullocks, while Davenant and Cavendish reconciled themselves to an end of sport.

  Then Suckling and Davenant retired together to a house of ill-repute, and Kenelm celebrated by going with Cavendish to the bookbinder at the Blue Bible, and hammering hard at his door, and calling out that, if you please, Digby was come for his books.

  Kenelm stood up, put his hands round Venetia’s waist and puckered his lips to kiss her. At that moment, a whoosh and a clatter surprised them both, and they looked down to see that his doublet had disgorged four volumes, which lay tumbled on the floor – Roger Bacon’s Opus Majus, a pharmacopaeia, Piers Plowman – and another book, which fell open so as to reveal pages that were written in a script that, as they both looked down, neither of them could read. It was covered in stars, slashes and disjointed sentences of Java Source Code, ready to run on any standard-linked computer. Kenelm looked wonderingly at it, forgetting his surroundings as he hunched over the book on the floor:

  response.setContentType(‘text/html’);

  final PrintWriter pw = response.getWriter();

  try {

  pw.println(‘Hello, world!’);

  } finally {

  pw.close();

  }

  }

  }

  The letters seemed to him like a spell or symbolism more than a story: hieroglyphs, in a word. There was a bare beauty in them. Perhaps these were corrupted, or an ill-copy. They might be inscriptions from an obelisk, too faithfully translated. If he followed each of these directions, Great Work might be done. Perhaps it was a Mayan cal
endar. It was hard to keep up with all these discoveries of the New World – no wonder his library overflowed.

  ‘Dearheart.’ She pronounced the word with a crisp, married tone. ‘We have spoke of this! I have nowhere to put my second nursemaid, she must needs sleep with the cook, we are so full of books. We have a whole houseful of books arrived the other week, and yet you come home with more? It is beyond all reason, Kenelm. I love your learning but this is madness, darling.’ Again, the endearment: tartly said. ‘I am going to bed, and doing so I walk past stacks of books along the way. I am surprised I must not yet sleep with my bed full of books, my pillow stuffed with them . . .’

  Thus lamenting, Venetia made her way upstairs, stopping resentfully to blow a kiss back at him, at which Kenelm ran to her, knelt, or rather subsided before her, and clasped her hand to his cheek. And they tarried a while together, embracing, until she said, fondly, that he was ripe as a brewhouse and she was going to bed.

  In the hall, he picked up his volumes unsteadily, and went to his study, where after many attempts, he lit a candle, found his quill, and settled down to drawn the symbol, the image of life eternal: Divine Gnosis.

  His quill was remarkably poor, much worse than it had been that morning, but he took care to cover one sheet with insignias of the circle and the straight line, along with divers occult marginalia.

  The dots, in the shape of the quincunx – the sign of five. An ancient signification; a pattern used for the planting of fruit trees in the garden of Cyrus.

  As he drew, the dots seemed to disappear in front of his eyes.

  When he could inscribe no more he staggered to his hammock and dived headlong across it into heavy slumber.

  In the dry-parched morning, before he took his cup of ale, he looked for the sheet he had drawn on for so long, and found it blank.

  When he looked in the mirror, would that be blank also? Had all his solid parts been blasted, as his penmanship, to vanishment? This seemed as Magick, and yet it must have an explanation in Natural Philosophy. He seized the sheet again.

  When he held it up to the light there were craven scratchings and marks: signs of a quill at work without any ink.

  ‘One spoonful of this beauty elixir every day has much greater bio-availability than a capsule so it’s readily absorbed into the body and can help eliminate wrinkles from within . . .’

  Fountain: The Beauty Molecule – a drink containing Reservatrol, extracted from Japanese knotweed, launched on the UK market in 2013

  Venetia continued to be nurtured by her secret advantage, holding it close like a trump. Three mornings a week, the ladies came to Venetia’s salon: tapping cards, clinking coins, exchanging sharp talk. They liked to see one another, and to drink posset, but more than anything else, they liked to win at cards. The sweetness of winning, the desire to taste it in their mouths, brought them back to the table again and again. Penelope and Venetia felt a longing for it in their throats every morning. Only Olive amongst them had some deficiency of will or surplus of self-restraint, and played for fun, not for love of winning – but the other two needed her to make up the table, so she become a gambler too, out of friendship.

  With Venetia’s returning confidence came her old habits of sociability, and she had a whim to see young Lettice at her card table. Besides, it was her duty to include the poor child. Lettice arrived unconscionably early – from her bedroom window, Venetia saw her standing on the doorstep in a new bonnet, what, an hour ahead of time? Venetia felt oppressed, sometimes, by Lettice’s adoration.

  It soon became clear that Little Miss Furtherto-Moreover had picked up fashionable ways. She clasped Venetia close in a loving embrace, then without looking at her, flung herself down on the daybed in an affectation of exhaustion. She had, she said, been dancing her very slippers out, though when Venetia pressed her, it seemed the revels had taken place more than a week ago, so Lettice’s exhaustion could not have been a direct consequence. Certainly, she found enough energy to regale Venetia with many opinions as they took their spiced cups of caudle.

  ‘Penelope, I adore that woman, she really is my dearest creature, and to me her plain, blunt manner is simply who she is. I insist you cannot take her any other way, because she is born to be like that. We were out in Hyde Park last week with our new mufflers and she looked at my muffler and said, “Yours is an ominous colour, because it is yellow, because Mrs Anne Turner wore it when she was hanged.” She said so, just so! Anyone who did not know her as well as I do would think it was an insult, but she and I have a most special understanding, so it made me love her all the more . . .’

  Venetia was an indulgent patron to Lettice, and she was used to her importunities, and glad she had forged new friendships. It was sweet of the girl, really, to talk as if she were unaware that Penelope and Venetia had been close friends for a decade. Venetia hoped Lettice’s nerves would soon abate. But a tray of sweetmeats gave her second wind.

  ‘There is something particular about my feeling for French music,’ said Lettice. ‘I do not say that I have any talent, it is simply that I have a feeling for it deep in my heart. When I stop singing, people ask me why I have stopped, that is all. I do not know what they mean by it. Master Warwick asked me how long I had been singing, and I said since my birth, practically . . .’

  Venetia found herself reaching, surreptitiously, to pour her Viper Wine into her cup, so that its rich, liverish taste might comfort and distract her.

  It had revolted her at first; now it was half-disgusting, half-delicious, and she was drawn to taste it again and again, as if every next sip might bring her to decide if she liked it or no. She supped from her caudle-cup slowly, with an opaque look, nodding as Lettice spoke.

  A jangling at the gate announced Olive and Penelope had arrived, at last, and they came into the salon exclaiming about a dozen things at once while Mistress Elizabeth helped them out of their furs and tippets. Penelope was in her usual grey twill, but Olive was wearing something new, of yellow, with frills and rosebuds adorning it. She had stuck her ‘heartbreaker’ ringlets down upon her forehead, as some of the younger ladies did at court. She looked very much the new penny, and she seemed to know it. She came close and as she embraced Venetia, she held her at arm’s length, the better to view her, and making a loud noise of approval.

  ‘My sweet,’ she said significantly, ‘you are the very picture of beauty today.’ Then, embracing her closely, Olive whispered in her ear, ‘Your teeth are red!’

  She turned away to sit down with a meaningful swish of her skirts.

  ‘She is always the picture of beauty,’ said Lettice loyally, without looking at Venetia.

  ‘But today she has never looked more beautiful,’ said Olive, winking. ‘Has she, Pen?’

  ‘Well,’ said Penelope, getting ready to equivocate. Then she looked up at Venetia and seemed struck by her appearance.

  ‘You do look rather pert. Are you enceinte?’

  ‘No,’ said Venetia, swallowing the hot caudle she hoped would shift the viper stain from her teeth. ‘More’s the pity – I would love a little girl.’

  ‘She’s newly plucked maybe,’ said Olive cheerfully. Discreetly, to Venetia: ‘Has Kenelm noticed?’

  ‘He notices a change, but not the reason for it,’ replied Venetia.

  The lovely cure was taking effect. Life could be resumed, and with it everything she had put off wanting for so long. New clothes, new portraits, the court masque – all these trivial activities, as well as the business of being alive, and being adored, for really they were one and the same, were they not? She could lift her veil and shine her light upon Edward Sackville.

  There was the distant sound of horses stamping in the mews; winter sun glowed intensely on Venetia through the casement above their card-table, lifting her dark hair so it was momentarily bright copper.

  Penelope was about to cut the cards when Chater hovered into view, his hands on his prayer book, clearly about to address them. He had been in the room long enough to sense
that they had been talking about secret things. He looked at Venetia and Olive, at Olive and Venetia, and he saw that they shared a conspiracy, and that it was a personal matter that went to the core of their feminine selves. Chater had enough secrets himself to know one when he smelled one.

  There were a few prie-dieu chairs in Venetia’s drawing room, against the wall, but prayers were not required today – Pen and Olive were both Protestant – and so Chater simply read aloud some of Venetia’s book, A Mirrour for a Modest Wife. Chater declaimed sonorously and with style.

  As he spoke he looked often at Olive. Her pretty, too-tight face was frozen into a rictus of concentration. If she could have frowned she would have frowned, but instead her face had settled into an expression that looked somehow stunned. Chater could not help looking at her more than was seemly, examining her face with an unwilling, morbid fascination. While he was concentrating on speaking, he had less control over his eyes, which returned to Olive again and again, as a tongue returns to search a chipped tooth. He was drawn to shiny, broken people.

  After he was finished, Penelope immediately started dealing the cards, while Olive laid her hand on Chater’s. ‘Father, that was most beautifully said.’

  ‘My lady, if you ever feel you would benefit from a spiritual conference, or private prayers . . . Or even a walk and a long talk, I am more gentle than I look; indeed, I can even be quite a pleasant companion,’ he said, laughing at himself. ‘I can resist from delivering any thunderous sermons for, oh, at least half an hour.’ He could be so sweet; no wonder the ladies loved him.

  Olive smiled at him sadly. ‘You have my sympathies but we are not of Rome.’

  ‘Venice, did you really write this book – all those purple passages?’ asked Penelope.

  ‘No, that which we just heard was taken from Chater’s own little book, which is a work in progress, but what I hear I like,’ said Venetia, patting Chater encouragingly on the sleeve.

  Chater coughed with disbelief. So Venetia had not read her own book before it was published. He had just declaimed some of its star passages. It was currently on sale in Powles Churchyard under her name – both her names, Venetia Stanley – writ large – and Lady Digby – a little smaller. She had remarked that she did not intend, so late in life, to lose names, only acquire them.