But here Alan turned aside, with a hand firmly holding Katharine’s arm above the elbow. He led her by sharp turnings through several small streets she had not known existed, all near but not a part of the palace buildings, until he stopped outside a house of some size and knocked at its heavy carved oak door.
Before Katharine had time to ask where they were the door was opened by a servant, very respectably dressed, though not in livery.
Alan said, ‘Mistress Turner expects me.’
The man answered, ‘Yes, sir. Please to enter.’
Alan, still holding Katharine, pressed her gently but firmly into the house, not letting her arm go free until they were inside a room on the ground floor, the door closed, and alone.
If Katharine had not, until this moment, understood the full purpose of Alan Carr’s behaviour from the moment of his arrival at her father’s house, she could hardly fail to do so now. She had heard enough of Mistress Anne Turner, designer of ladies’ fashions, maker of Court gowns, familiar of Lady Frances Howard, to know that the woman allowed her well-appointed house to be used by certain very privileged persons for those assignations that must be kept secret, though gossip saw to it they had, too, a very secret but widely enjoyed publicity.
Katharine stood at the centre of the room, looking about her. It was most discreetly furnished, warmed by a glowing fire of close-packed sea-coal. A table stood at one side below a heavily curtained and shuttered window. It carried at either end a branched silver candlestick with lighted fresh wax candles like two galaxies of clustered stars. Across the room, but drawn up nearer to the fire, a low couch, broad and flat but literally strewn with soft cushions, proclaimed its purpose to all but the wholly innocent or entirely stupid.
Katharine was neither. She knew young Alan had long desired her, had never concealed from her his plain intention of possessing her. So this was to be the occasion. Waiting, apparently submissive, certainly not angered or alarmed, she cooled his passion somewhat by her calm indifference to their present situation. In fact, she had for the moment forgotten him as she swiftly reckoned up the dangers ahead.
They should not be great. She knew, but Alan did not, that in less than a month she would be again in Oxford with Francis and the children, living at their new house where she intended to remain for the whole of the summer. Alan would not pursue her there. He had no wish to fall out with Francis, particularly now that private fights between gentlemen at odds with one another were wholly forbidden by the King in the new duelling law. Then again, on this particular occasion she had left her mother expecting her to return to Paternoster Row on her way home to Gracious Street. Even had invited her to stay the night there. Well, at least she must return those jewels she had borrowed. She would, too, be expected to describe the masque at the palace.
‘We do not go to the masque?’ she said, thinking aloud.
‘The masque?’ Alan had already forgotten this excuse for bringing her away with him.
‘There is to be no masque?’
‘Aye, there is some such in train and there will be another very soon I have no doubt. Their Majesties are obsessed by such dull ploys.’
‘I am not to attend my Lady Essex?’
He moved rapidly to where she stood and with one arm about her began to loosen her cloak and put it back until he could let it fall to the ground.
‘Kate!’ he urged. ‘My lovely Kate, think of nothing now but love! We have waited too long already.’
It was indeed, she knew, too late to stop the course of his passion. His mouth on hers made words impossible; his hands, frantic to find their way to her body, disrobed her of her will together with her clothes; she was wholly, willingly, triumphantly his.
The snow was falling when later that night Alan stood with his fresh-won mistress at the door of Anne Turner’s house. To return by water, as he had planned, was now impossible. He had no coach of his own. When he suggested he might borrow his brother’s or even that of Lady Essex, Katharine protested. She had no wish for the lady to learn of her indiscretion. Rather anything than that. She still remembered her humiliation six years ago when old Lady Chiltern had dismissed her for her behaviour at Theobalds when King James had entertained his brother-in-law, the King of Denmark, and she had stayed behind to be with Alec Nimmo. To secure him in marriage, she had planned, then. Poor silly chit, she had but secured her own near ruin, an unwanted husband and an ill-conditioned bastard boy.
That, at least, would never happen to her again, she swore gazing at the snow with such disgust on her face that Alan, misunderstanding, thought her protest was due to the silent flakes falling on the road before them.
‘Horses, then,’ he cried, ‘if thou’lt have none of Robbie’s coach. Indeed I know not where it is likely to be at this hour. But there must be horses here. And walk we cannot, that is certain. Take me to Mistress Turner, fellow,’ he said to the man who was holding the door for them. ‘And go thou back to the warm fire, my love, while we wait,’ he added to Katharine.
So, wrapped in borrowed extra cloaks, they presently rode off. Alone, Katharine insisted, so that no servant at Mistress Turner’s house should know where she had arrived to spend the night.
In his new-found happiness Alan was willing to suffer anything his lovely mistress demanded, even to the extent of riding back to return the horses to their stable before seeking his brother’s house, dry clothes and a much-needed meal.
He found Lord Rochester sitting with his great friend and protégé, Sir Thomas Overbury. Both men exclaimed at the sight of Alan, wet in spite of his extra cloak, muddy, dishevelled, grey-faced from the cold, pinched with hunger.
Rochester half rose from his chair but indolent as usual sank into it as Alan came forward.
‘Whence come you, brother?’ he asked. ‘Wherefore this disarray?’
‘It snows, God rot it!’ Alan answered, furiously. ‘That is why.’
‘Was it necessary to venture into it?’ Sir Thomas Overbury asked. He was not pleased with the young man’s intrusion. He had worked hard that evening to dissuade his friend from his present courses but foresaw another failure from this ill-timed interruption.
Alan ignored the question.
‘I am famished,’ he said. ‘I have ordered food to my room. I would speak with you, Robbie, but later. I must first get me into dry clothing and eat.’
Lord Rochester nodded. Though his young brother had not confided in him, he already knew of his proposed visit to Mistress Turner’s house, for Lady Frances had told him of it. Her creature Turner kept her principal patron well informed while guarding the latter’s own secrets most diligently.
When Alan had left the room he turned again to his friend.
‘So, Tom,’ he said. ‘You would have me forsake the house of Howard, would you? You would have me tear out my heart, destroy my new-found pure happiness—’
‘If you call pure this shameless adultery with a woman who seeks her husband’s death—’
‘Have a care, Tom! You go too far in slandering my love. You go very much too far.’
‘Well, then, she seeks to humiliate my Lord Essex beyond the limits of decency. No modest woman of feeling would plot and plan to succeed in such allegations.’
‘You lie and you know it!’
Overbury sprang to his feet, his face flaming, his hand clapped to his sword. Rochester watched him without moving. He marvelled at the change that had come over Tom in the last months. From a shy, rather silent young man, devoted to himself, ready to perform any useful errand, he had become loud-voiced, arrogant, a reckless spreader of scandal. Which now began to overlap the bounds of discretion as far as he himself was concerned. A filthy sewer, as he well knew, but in the past flowing in dark drains well hidden, only guessed at beyond the Court’s ambience. Now it seemed, with Tom Overbury to crack the culvert and spread the ordure abroad, the Lady Frances Howard stood in danger of defilement.
‘Sit down! Control that vile temper, sir, or by God I’ll have you
thrown out in the gutter and never let in here to me again!’
As he watched the anger fade from Overbury’s face, knowing he had won, he added, ‘Into the snow, Tom, into the snow! So sit thee down and keep that dangerous tongue still. More dangerous to thyself, I promise thee, than to me or to my beloved.’
He had nearly said ‘beloved mistress’ but held back the word. With preparations going forward for a divorce for the lady it was more than ever desirable that no one should know positively how he stood with her. He was still the King’s acknowledged favourite. He dare not risk damaging that position any more than harming Lady Essex’s plans to secure her freedom.
But Sir Thomas Overbury was not mollified. He had lost dignity by his own impulsive fault and this he could not endure. So he took his leave, coldly polite, with no apology spoken. He went out into the blizzard, still raging inwardly.
Robbie Carr sat on, not overly disturbed, waiting for Alan to return with his news, his secret that was no secret any longer. But the young man did not appear again that night, nor on the following day did he have any confidences to give his brother.
Meanwhile in Paternoster Row, Mistress Ogilvy with a great show of concern fussed over Katharine, ordering her immediately to bed where she had already commanded a hot brick to be placed in readiness. A scalding drink was soon prepared for her, laced with spirits.
‘I marvel my Lady Essex did not send thee back in her coach as she hath done these many times,’ she said. ‘To have thee ride on horseback through the storm—’
‘You would not have had me brought by water, madam?’
‘The Lord forbid! Could not a chair be found?’
‘With two poor wretches to carry it, slipping and stumbling and most likely tipping me into the slush of the street?’
Mistress Ogilvy had to agree that Lady Essex had every right, using her own coach for herself, to spare her servants and her horses any extra hazard on such a night. Master Carr had done what was possible. It was just a pity the masque had gone on so long they were overtaken by the snow.
‘And how was the masque? Were their Majesties pleased with it?’
‘What masque was this?’ Doctor Ogilvy asked, coming into the room where Katharine lay propped on pillows in the bed, warm again and comfortable, though not a little anxious for the outcome of that evening’s pleasure.
‘Twas called ‘‘The Tempest’’, sir,’ she answered, trying to remember the name of a more recent work, but failing.
‘They have done it before,’ her father said. ‘The King’s Men you had, I suppose? A work by Master Will Shakespeare.’
‘I have not seen it before,’ Katharine said, regretting this which might have helped her to describe the work to her mother.
‘I think the wise philosopher and magician Prospero is to be taken for his Majesty,’ Doctor Ogilvy went on. ‘At least it is probable his Majesty sees much of himself in the wise, all-knowing sage. He rules both the world of the spirit, Ariel, and the world of the flesh, Caliban. It is a fine masque as one would expect coming from Will.’
He sighed, remembering those great plays that had delighted Court and people in the old queen’s reign. But Katharine said nothing, fearful of showing her ignorance.
The next morning, the snow having ceased to fall, she went back to Gracious Street. Francis greeted her kindly, praised her common sense in not attempting to return the evening before, but asked no questions about her visit. When the weather improved again, he told her, he would go to Oxford and then if, as he hoped, their new house was fit to live in, he would return to bring his whole family there at the beginning of April.
Katharine made no objection to this plan. There had been some talk at Court of the King’s proposal for a new Progress in the spring, probably to the Midlands again where there were many great houses to take him in and much excellent hunting to entertain him. It would be possible, she hoped, to join the Court with the Carrs and Lady Frances for a part, at least, of this progress, especially if the King chose to stay near Oxford in the course of it.
So matters were arranged very amicably by the Leslies, while the breach between them widened with every week that passed.
Chapter Six
The summer months passed very pleasantly in Oxford, both for Francis and his wife. In the first place she could not help but be charmed by their new house, its dignified appearance, the spacious rooms, well chosen furniture and appointments, delightful grounds, with a walled garden made many years ago by a former owner of the site, trees that had not been disturbed by the demolition of a ruin and the erection of the new mansion.
The children were overjoyed to find that the coveted playground they had visited only occasionally with their father or Uncle Ogilvy was now their own to enjoy every day. Katharine was inclined to resent their freedom and the noise they made out of doors, but Francis was indulgent. Provided they did not shout or scream in the house when he was working in his library he did not care how they behaved in the garden. He reminded Katharine how they had been cooped up in London at the alderman‘s house and how well they had behaved there during the winter.
‘It is to their health and well-being they run wild for a space,’ he told her. ‘You must agree they thrive as never before. Why, they quite rival Celia’s brood in clear skins, bright eyes and high spirits.’
‘Celia’s rules for the upbringing of children are sacred to your way of thinking,’ she answered. ‘Not so to mine. George grows daily in impudence and Kirstie in sly evasion. The boy hath need of a tutor to order him.’
‘I have told you Dick and I plan to combine the education of the boys when we shall no longer have need for any long stay in London. Now that we have our own home at last it is well we stay in it.’
Katharine heard this, not for the first time, with a slow sinking of the heart. She had realized for some months that it was inevitable, though Francis had not said in so many words that her future must lie in Oxford, not London. He had made it perfectly clear by his behaviour that he hoped for an increase in his family. While she, fearful of a repetition of her earlier exposure, was taking all necessary precautions to avoid a further pregnancy. Partly because she had no wish to suffer the discomfort and dangers of it, but chiefly because the child might as easily be Alan’s as that of her husband.
For her illicit love had gone on from time to time in spite of her considered caution, both before she left London and after it. The King’s Progress, as she had hoped, brought him to Woodstock, from which place many of his courtiers paid visits to Oxford, among them the Carrs, both the Earl and Countess of Essex and other members of the Howard faction. Lady Essex paid a formal visit to the Leslies’ new house and quite openly demanded Katharine’s presence at Woodstock for a few days. Francis consented with a good grace, since he had no wish to offend the King and knew that the Howards were as much in favour with the monarch as was Robbie Carr, that widely despised playboy. Or so the Oxford intellectuals regarded him. Lady Essex had been wise enough to come alone. Francis would have found it difficult to receive the upstart Viscount Rochester.
So Katharine rode away to Woodstock in high spirits at the beginning of May, to spend, she hoped, a month of pleasure in the surroundings and among the people she admired. Alan took full advantage of her presence and if her affections were not so fully engaged that she satisfied him of her misery at their prolonged absence from one another, she at least made up for it in her ardour at their fresh meetings.
But this season was soon over, cut short by the calamity of a death. The Earl of Salisbury, who had survived the winter and seemed no worse by the end of it, had ventured upon further treatment by way of a cure at Bath. He had, however, been taken very much worse, had turned about to go home, but was forced to stop on the way and had died after a few days of acute suffering.
A message was sent to James when the illness was judged to be drawing to a fatal close. But the King did not go to visit his faithful servant. His usual horror of illness and death prevaile
d to keep him at Woodstock, though he sent a jewel by special messenger with the hope that Cecil would soon be well again. This to the man who had been the chief instrument of his succession to the throne of England, who had secured him there in London in the face of much unpopularity, who had kept him from actual bankruptcy, though never able to control the royal extravagance and who had worn out his frail body in loyal service to the State.
When news of Lord Salisbury’s death on May 12th came to Woodstock the King at once removed himself again to the Midlands. He did not attend Cecil’s funeral, did not see his small coffin committed to the elaborate tomb the dying man had devised at the new Hatfield House he had not lived to enjoy. So Katharine was back in Oxford after only ten days’ absence.
The university was much depressed by the death of Robert Cecil. They feared the effect of his loss upon the management, or attempted management of the King’s affairs. They were disgusted by the immediate wave of abuse and obloquy poured out upon the dead man’s memory. Lewd verses appeared on broadsheets, were recited or sung in the streets. Francis heard his little son, George, singing and hopping to the rhythm of one such and called the boy to him.
‘What’s that thou say’st?’ he asked, angrily.
George looked up at him with a defiant grin.
‘Will taught it me,’ he said and began to repeat. ‘“Here lies thrown, for the worms to eat, Little bossive Robin that was so great—”’
Francis in a rage shook him fiercely, so that he fell, cut his lip on a stone and burst into loud crying. His father set him up again, repenting his anger, clearly seeing the boy had no idea what the words had meant.
‘Wilfred shall pay for thy fault,’ he said, ‘but it does not excuse thee. Take not lessons from stable lads in future.’
George ran away sobbing. Francis sought out his head groom and gave direction that the lad, Wilfred, be instantly dismissed for corrupting his young master with lewd verses directed against a great statesman, whose death was a grievous loss to the whole nation.
The Dark and the Light Page 6