Love's Alchemy

by Bryan Crockett

  Jack’s whole examination of the document had taken perhaps a dozen heartbeats. Then there were noises in the hall. Jack had folded the writ and slipped it into an inner pocket of his jerkin just before three soldiers from the household guard entered the room and bound his hands behind him.

  Now Anne was asking Cecil to produce the writ. Jack hoped she knew what she was doing; now that Jack Donne had reappeared, surely Cecil’s plan would be to have his rival searched, then quietly killed as soon as possible. After that, there would be no need for any annulment; Cecil’s marriage to Anne would be unimpeded.

  Unless Jack was misreading Anne’s actions, she must have seen the truth: Jack would soon be dead if she did not find a way to prevent it. At least, Jack prayed it was so. And probably she knew that Cecil’s next step would be to destroy the false writ.

  Anne turned to Cecil’s servant. “Mr. Cobham: I pray you, fetch the writ of annulment. I think I saw it yesterday on my lord’s desk.”

  Cobham looked at Cecil, who said to Anne, “Again, my love, there is no need.”

  Anne backed away. “My lord, will you deny me this one small pleasure? I but wish this Catholic Jack, this puppet of the Pope, to see that in the eyes of the law his marriage to me has never been.” She turned to the servant. “Mr. Cobham, if you please.”

  The servant glanced again at Cecil, who gave him a knowing nod. Cobham stepped into the hall.

  Anne gaily clasped her hands together and held them to her breast. “My lord, let us have a great spectacle of a wedding, with all the lords and ladies in London attending.”

  Cecil eyed her a little suspiciously. “My dearest, I thought we had agreed. A small wedding were best: a private affair with some few well-chosen guests.”

  She gave him a coquettish look, then said, “Well, we shall see. Only for now, announce our plans to all assembled here. Perhaps the ceremony will not be large, but today I would have the tidings of our joy proclaimed to the world.”

  Cecil looked at her as if surprised to hear her saying these things. “My love,” he said, “this is not the world, but two nobles—Wolley and Monteagle—along with one traitorous prisoner and a few common soldiers.”

  “Even so, I would like everyone, especially this traitor, to hear the words. Call it a bride’s whimsy.”

  Cecil exhaled audibly, then said, “Very well.” He raised his voice to the stentorian level he used before Parliament and other assemblies: “Let it be known to all here assembled that Sir Robert Cecil, Earl of Essendon, and Anne More of Loseley, erstwhile supposed wife to one John Donne, whose illegal marriage is now dissolved by express order of King James the sixth of that name of Scotland and the first of that name of England, will marry at the earliest opportunity, expecting to enjoy, by the grace of God, perpetual felicity thereafter.” He turned to Anne. “Will that suffice?”

  “Yes, my love. It is just what I longed to hear.”

  Cecil’s face contorted into what Jack took to be a smile.

  Cobham entered and said, “My Lord Cecil, may I speak aside with you?”

  “My good man, tell me what you have to say; we have no secrets from these good people.”

  Cobham looked uncertain, then said, “Very well. My lord, the writ of annulment is not on your writing-desk.”

  Cecil made a sweeping gesture to include everyone in the room. “Ah, well, we shall present it hereafter, once it is found. Probably I misremember where I laid it.”

  Cobham looked uneasy. He said, “My lord, I don’t think you understand. The writ is not on your writing-desk.”

  Still looking at others around the room—the good-natured, caring gaze of a born politician—Cecil said to Cobham, “Yes, I heard you well enough the first time. I must have placed it somewhere else.”

  “My lord, I will say it again: the writ is not on your writing-desk.”

  Cecil now looked at Cobham directly. “Not. . . .” Cecil turned to Anne, then Jack. His expression said he had suddenly seen the truth. The little man’s eyes widened. He hissed at Jack, “Where is it?”

  “In a safe place, rest assured.”

  “How could—? When?”

  “When you had perused Monteagle’s letter, and had gone off with him to make preparations. You will recall you left me in your study.”

  Cecil narrowed his eyes. “You! You wrote the letter Monteagle carried.”

  “I assure you I did not.”

  “But you stole the writ of annulment.”

  “I did.”

  “Where is it?”

  “With one I can trust to follow my instructions. If you ask Wolley here, he’ll confirm that I sat at your desk as he left me soon after you had departed the room with Monteagle. When he had gone I took the writ—it is forged, you know—and had time to exit the house through a back door and give it to a third party.”

  Cecil asked suspiciously, “Which door?”

  “It is painted a dark blue, with a steel bolt and a trigger-latch. I left the bolt out so I could get back inside, if need be. And if you but inspect your desk, I think you will find I have helped myself to some of your paper and ink as well as the writ. By this time the document and its accompanying message will have been delivered by the courier I hired. I thank you for your generous gift of writing materials.”

  Cecil looked at Anne again, then at Cobham, then at Jack. “And what might be these instructions?”

  “That should any ill fortune befall my good wife here, or me, or any of our children—any ill fortune or accident—then the keeper of the writ, with its forged royal signature and its false seal, will turn the document over to the King. And I assure you, this person is well placed to crave admission to the royal chambers.”

  With a deadly look in his eye, Cecil turned to Anne. “And you knew of this.”

  She returned his gaze. “Knew it? I designed the stratagem. And I saw to it that you announced before all these witnesses your plan to marry a woman you knew to be married already. With that pronouncement you confessed your treasonous lie that His Majesty King James of England had annulled my marriage.” She turned and looked each soldier in the eye, then Wolley, then Monteagle, and last, Cobham, as she said, “Each of you is a witness. I pray to each of you: in the name of all you know to be good, do not perjure yourself in a court of law.”

  With a note of desperation in his voice, Cecil said, “You told me you loved me.”

  A cold fire burned in Anne’s eyes as she said, “And you told me lie upon lie about my husband. You told me he was well when you had cast him into a dungeon and left him to die. You told me he had committed all manner of wrong and infidelity: that he had turned Catholic. That he was an agent of Spain. That he plotted terror against his native land. That he loved another woman.”

  “But all these things are true!”

  Anne narrowed her eyes. “If I were a better Christian I would pity you and your shrunken little soul.”

  Jack said, “Tell me this, Cecil: Why did you not have me killed at the start?”

  Cecil looked at him stonily, then said, “Because I told you I would not. Because no matter the precautions, word of such a death will spread. Because I would not have your wife think you a martyr. Because I thought you might do the realm good service. Choose what reason you will. But I should have killed you, and with my own hand.” Then with a despairing look at Anne, he said in an almost infantile tone, “I trusted you.”

  She glared at him. “And I knew better than to trust you.”

  Cecil closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Well. I shall take my leave.” He turned to go.

  “Not yet,” Anne said. “There is more.”

  The stabler sat on the topmost stair, the letter still in his hand. He had knocked on both doors, knocked his knuckles sore. No one was within: no Owen, no Mrs. Aylesbury. Probably the stabler had been waiting only an hour or so, but it seemed more. His throat threatened to wilt within him for want of drink. When he thought of the Blue Boar, he felt he would soon die of thirs
t.

  Finally, he stood. He would have one stoup of ale, maybe two, then return to knock again. Surely the bare-chested stranger did not mean him to sit waiting until he had pined away altogether. He descended the stairs and pushed open the door.

  The cold rain was now driving so hard that the street had become almost a river. The stabler saw that his gelding stood looking miserable, fetlock-deep in water, where the man had tethered the poor beast to a post outside the chandler’s shop. As he stepped onto the street, the water swirling about his boots, the stabler held together the collar of his faded buckram coat in a vain attempt to keep himself dry. In a few seconds he knew it was no use; already, in only half a minute, he was soaked to the bone. He gave up trying to fend off the rain, and stopped to pat the gelding’s neck. “Just a drink or two,” he said. “Then I’ll be back. If this Owen is still not home, I’ll stable you for the night. I’ll buy you oats.” The horse looked at him as if he understood but did not believe what he heard. “Ach, never fear it,” the stabler said. “Just a stoup or two.”

  Cecil turned slowly and looked at Anne. “There is more?” His expression said he had never been addressed in such a way, had never fathomed the depth of depravity to which a woman could descend. He slowly shook his head.

  “You wrote me a sonnet,” Anne said. “Wrote it, burnt it, and then recited it to me from memory. Feigning admiration, I asked you to pen me a copy.” She patted her pocket, which contained a rolled parchment tied with a green ribbon.

  Cecil’s shoulders hunched even more than usual, and his eyes took on a haunted look. No sound came as his lips moved, forming the word feigning. Then he spoke: “You said you treasured that poem.”

  “I do treasure it, and for this reason: should anything go amiss with the revelation of the writ of annulment, I have made arrangements that your love poem be read aloud at the royal court, to the amusement of all present. All will be encouraged to inspect the parchment, composed, as it is, in your own inimitable hand.”

  “So it is not enough that you would ensnare me in the sticky web of your deceit. You would ridicule me as well. Is there anything else, you she-spider, you brach?”

  Jack lunged toward Robertus Diabolus. Hands tied behind him or not, he meant to throttle the twisted little man, come what may. But two of the soldiers moved with such speed to restrain him it was clear they had been watching for him to attack their master. Three more of the guard quickly moved to help the first two. Jack allowed them to hold him back, then said to Cecil with deadly menace in his voice, “Hold. Your. Tongue.”

  Cecil’s response was barely audible. “Very well. I am sorry; I repent me. I am not. . . . I am not myself.” He seemed unable to look Anne in the eye. He glanced toward Jack. The hunchback sounded as if he were trying to control his tone, but what he said came out as a hiss: “What else?” Jack looked at him. Cecil’s face was behaving oddly, twitching and slowly contorting. Then he gradually regained his composure.

  Anne had been watching as if the little man were some strange beast. Cecil looked to her pocket. He jerked toward her, moving like a grotesque insect, and snatched the scroll. Anne did not resist. Cecil slid the ribbon off the scroll and unrolled the parchment. He seemed confused as he looked at it. “What is this?” he asked.

  Anne said, “Read it aloud.”

  Spittle formed at the corners of Cecil’s mouth. He stared at Anne, who nodded calmly and said, “Proceed.”

  Cecil read through clenched teeth: “I, Robert Cecil, Earl of Essendon, do hereby order and direct the following three items: First—”

  Anne’s voice was firm: “Louder.”

  Cecil stared at her for a time as if he could wither her with a mere look.

  Unruffled, she returned his gaze, and it was he who turned his eyes away first. He took a deep breath and raised his voice to a defiant shout. “First: should John Donne or any member of his family meet any mischance, I, Robert Cecil, hereby direct that the sonnet beginning If but thy lightsome footfall might but pause become the centerpiece of a comic court masque to play before the King and Queen, said masque to be fully funded by me. Nota bene: Anna Stuart, Queen of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Denmark, has consented to oversee the production of said masque. Second: I hereby direct that this same John Donne’s mother, Elizabeth Heywood Donne Syminges Rainsford, now residing in Antwerp, be granted, at my expense, free and open passage to England. Further, should said Elizabeth ever be molested in England for worshipping where and as she chooses, I, Sir Robert Cecil, pledge to do all in my power to have any charges or punishment imposed upon her be declared void, and her public record utterly expunged of any record of wrongdoing. Failing the success of my efforts to spare punishment to Elizabeth Heywood Donne Syminges Rainsford, the masque aforementioned is to be performed. Third: I hereby direct that for so long as Elizabeth Heywood Donne Syminges Rainsford desires to remain in this country, she be granted at my expense a pension, for so long as she lives, of three hundred pounds per annum.”

  Cecil stared coldly at Anne. “And have I assurance that you and your family will maintain public and private silence about this agreement?”

  She said, “You do. And to be clear to you and all others present: my family includes Sir Francis Wolley here; he is my cousin. No harm is to befall him.”

  There was something like death in Cecil’s eyes as he said again, “Is that all?”

  Anne said calmly, “That is all, except that the document you hold requires your signature and seal.”

  Cecil looked almost numb. Cobham quietly slipped from the room. Cecil limped to a little chest of drawers against one wall, took pen and ink from one of the drawers, and signed the document. Such silence hung in the air that the only sound was the scratching of the pen. Cobham returned with a lit oil sconce and a stick of chestnut-colored wax. He bowed slowly, according Cecil as much dignity as ever, before handing the sealing-wax to his master and holding the lamp over the parchment. He tipped the flaming spout slightly to give the molten wax a clear path through the air. Cecil held the stick to the flame and let the wax drip onto the parchment. He waited only a moment for the little pool to begin to congeal, then pressed his signet ring into the center. The thickened edges, which must have been hot still, swelled to touch the flesh of his ring-finger, but if Cecil felt the burn, he did not let on.

  Jack watched this self-inflicted punishment attentively—it would have been easy enough for the little man to remove his ring—as his own hand throbbed at his side. Perhaps Cecil was offering some gesture of minor atonement for causing the burn. In any case, this time the little man did not twist the signet but waited for the wax to set around the embossed image before lifting the ring. He handed the parchment to Cobham, who silently blew the ink dry, then rolled the document and gave it to Anne. She retrieved the green ribbon from the floor and slid it onto the scroll.

  Cecil straightened his doublet and attempted to stand erect. He looked at Francis and said, “Wolley, what have you witnessed here today?”

  Francis did not hesitate: “Exactly what you fear I witnessed, Lord Cecil. But should you grant the items my fair cousin requested, and should no harm befall her family, then I too pledge to maintain public and private silence.”

  Cecil nodded stiffly and turned to Monteagle. “What of you, then?”

  Monteagle bowed deeply. “My lord Cecil, I swear that I comprehend nothing whatsoever of what has transpired here today. Nothing whatsoever. No man, woman, or child shall ever hear from me any breath of the day’s doings, for I understand none of them. None of them.”

  Cecil turned to his chief servant. “Cobham, I pray you speak with the soldiers. Make them understand what is required of them.”

  “Of course, your lordship.”

  No one seemed to have heard him coming, but a clear-eyed military officer—in fact his clothing proclaimed him the commander of a regiment—stood in the doorway. “Lord Cecil,” he said, “I must speak with you.”

  “Well, speak.”

&nb
sp; “Without door, my lord. Upon the instant, so please you.”

  Cecil lifted his hands, as if it didn’t much matter who gave him his next orders. He stepped into the hallway with the officer. Once outside, the commander closed the door to the room.

  It seemed only a few seconds later that Cecil reappeared, looking like a changed man. The canniness, the sense of shrewd command, had returned to his eyes. “Guard: to your posts!” he said. “You two: a coach approaches, carrying a young boy. Admit him and the lady who accompanies him to the house, then bolt the door. Open it for no man without my order. Bring the boy and the woman to this room.”

  Cecil then turned to Wolley. “Now: if I have the leave of everyone in this household, down to the greasiest scullery-wench—” here he looked at Anne—“and the sootiest turnspit—” he looked at Jack—“I have a kingdom to protect.” With that he was gone. Monteagle hesitated, then followed him.

  The Blue Boar was not where the stabler remembered it. As he stood where the alehouse should have been, he looked up and down the street. But the rain hardly allowed him to see a dozen feet in front of him. He made his way past several more shops, all of them shuttered against the storm, then doubled back. He patted the drooping neck of his rain-soaked gelding again as he passed, and kept walking. At last he found the alehouse.