The Dark and the Light

by Josephine Bell

  ‘Alec! How comes it you speak of Alec? Ah, I mind me. We had news of him, good news again. He prospers famously, it seems, with a third addition to his family. A second boy. A third boy, should I say?’

  He said this deliberately, watching Lucy. But she made no sign that she understood his allusion to Alec’s bastard son. He sighed, regretting that Katharine’s first-born, though going by his name, should be living still with the Leslie grandparents at Kilessie near Falkland.

  They settled to the game, but played it badly, each being disturbed by the other’s presence. At last Francis pushed his various rows of counters aside and said, ‘It irks me to fight thee left-handed, Lucy. My sword-arm jerks in response each time I wish to make a thrust. Yet I was swiftly disarmed, in our garden here, was I not? Though in my youth I was considered a pretty blade. Not unbeatable, as Alec was, with his great height and strength and his eye like an eagle and his joy in battle. Nay, but well able to defend myself, as I failed against that young upstart villain, Carr.’

  Lucy, who had never been told the real nature of Francis’s so-called ‘accident’ exclaimed in horror. Her concern, her innocence, maddened Francis beyond endurance in his present mood.

  ‘You cannot pretend ignorance of that sordid encounter!’ he cried. ‘Have you not heard it from Walter, from the stable lad, Dick, who wiped clean the blade before Carr mounted to ride away? Have you not heard it from your gossip, Alice Bacon, who gives you all the filthy tales of the Court? Who even dares to slander my wife as this wicked rogue did?’

  Lucy, white-faced and trembling, stricken dumb at first by this violent, unexpected attack, struggled to her feet, finding her voice at such a dreadful accusation.

  ‘I have never shared any pleasure in Lady Bacon’s malice,’ she panted. ‘I have tried to restrain her worst extravagance. As for my Lady Leslie—’ she broke down into sobbing incoherence ‘where there be danger, and danger is evident—not alone from Alice—the Court whispers but doth not know true facts—ask Master Angus what the City knows—I have but tried to warn—to save—’ She gave a last despairing little cry and fled from the room.

  With a great sweep of his right hand that reminded him sharply of his wound, Francis sent the backgammon counters flying from the board.

  He went home at the end of the week, riding quietly with his groom who made all arrangements for him on the journey and looked after the luggage.

  Before he left Gracious Street he saw Doctor William Harvey again to pay his fees both for the surgeon’s attention and materials and for the physician’s consultation and recommendations. As a final piece of unpaid advise Doctor Harvey warned him against over use of his right arm until the scar was both healed and sound. ‘There were no important vessels cut,’ he said. ‘No vital sinews or ligaments. But the acting muscles were severed and they mend slowly, however well the bandage hold them together. So be quiet in movement and above all discreet in speech. This duel must not come to the ears of the King.’

  ‘There is no danger of that,’ Francis told him.

  There is always danger where a bribe will bring knowledge to an enemy. The new law is strict. Lord Justice Coke revels in it as he doth in all punishing upon conviction. So be careful, as I hear young Carr is careful and more so since his brother ‘s elevation to an earldom.’

  ‘Why more so? I would have imagined less. Somerset is above all law, most people say.’

  ‘They speak rashly who say that. In England no man is above the Law.’

  ‘Not even the King?’

  Doctor Harvey gave Francis a very straight look, but only said, with a kind smile, ‘I have had the honour to attend his Majesty,’ which was no sort of answer to the question.

  The doctor’s advice did however seem to Francis to be very sound indeed. He said nothing to his groom, rightly believing that the boy would think less of anything he had heard if his master did not refer to it. But he made no attempt to conceal his slight disability. So by the time they got home to Oxford the groom had ceased to think Sir Francis was at all inconvenienced by whatever had caused him trouble and in the lad’s joy at being with his own folk again he totally forgot all about it.

  Richard Ogilvy and Celia were solicitous but not inquisitive. Even to them Francis did not tell the whole story. He simply described very vaguely an accident with a knife that slipped. They accepted this and spoke of it to no one.

  But Katharine, who was very curious to know what had kept her husband so long in London, plagued him with question after question until he decided to tell her the truth. He needed her assistance to remove the final dressing from his wound, because he did not want to employ any man in his household who would be likely at once to recognize a sword thrust. When Katharine exclaimed at sight of the scar he told her who had given it him and why.

  ‘You think to drive me out of favour with the noble Somersets!’ she cried instantly furious with him. ‘Know then that nothing alters my opinion of them!’

  ‘Not even the news that your lover attempted the life of your husband?’

  ‘Under provocation! You will not make me believe he attacked you first!’

  ‘Nay, he did not, being too much of a coward!’

  ‘He is no coward, but he fears the King too much to play the fool like a braggart boy!’

  This struck Francis hard, for he had blamed himself often most bitterly for losing his temper with Carr.

  The quarrel petered out miserably as did most of their differences. When, a few days later, Katharine announced, without any request for agreement, that she would visit her parents in Paternoster Row before the end of the month, Francis made no attempt to stop her. Richard Ogilvy agreed that his sister must be again indulged before another winter closed in. Celia arranged visits between the two families to prevent her dear brother-in-law feeling lonely. There were often parties of visitors travelling to London from Oxford with their wives and daughters in fine weather. It was not difficult for Katharine to attach herself and a maid to one such. Francis saw her go with more relief than sorrow.

  Her visit was profitless, but she was not at first made aware of this. As usual her mother rejoiced in her presence and set about entertaining with and for her lovely, distinguished, highly honoured daughter. She scarcely noticed that Katharine’s surviving contacts were hardly in themselves distinguished, being mere hangers-on of a like kind, friendly because they still hoped for much from one who had been in favour with the great Somersets though now perhaps even these luminaries were like to be dimmed.

  ‘There is a young man, rumour hath it,’ announced one gossip, sitting at wine and sweet cakes with Mistress Ogilvy and Kate. ‘On the King’s progress to the midland houses when he stayed at Apethorpe with Sir Anthony Mildmay he met a youth of remarkable beauty—’

  ‘By name George Villiers,’ put in Katharine sharply.

  ‘You know of him, then?’

  ‘Doth not all the world know and conjecture? But I believe it will come to nought. King James is not so fickle.’

  The visitor smiled but did not press her point. She thought she knew where Kate had learned this simulated indifference.

  She was right. The Somersets poured out to the world a veritable flood of indifference, but when they were alone their real fears grew, substantiated by agents’ news with detailed accounts of what had already passed.

  ‘’Tis not the first time,’ Robbie insisted languidly. ‘His Majesty’s roving eye hath lighted before now on some pretty boy. But nought comes of it. Never hath—for long.’

  ‘This is otherwise,’ Lady Frances rebuked him, ‘if thou wilt but rouse thy slow wits to perceive the danger. Know’st not thine enemies lie in this? To supplant first and then ruin?’

  ‘Which enemies? I see none now that do not envy me, but fear me too much to employ active malice.’

  ‘Blind fool!’

  Lady Frances turned away to hide from him the anger she knew disgusted him when he caught sight of it in her eyes and face.

  Cont
rolling her voice she added, ‘Abbott and his party and this new Winwood, made Secretary of State, have brought the young Villiers to James’s notice. They put him forward, have brought him to Court, press him upon the notice of the great lords of that faction. Southampton is not backward as you might imagine. I hear they intend to get this young whelp made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber.’

  This was news to Somerset. He had become increasingly indolent since his marriage and preferment and acquisition of great Offices of State. He had left the gathering and sifting of news about the Court, however important this continued to be for his well-being, to the care of his wife. At this unpleasant suggestion he got to his feet, roaring out an oath of denial and rage.

  ‘God’s wounds, while I live he’ll get no sight nor smell of that position! Smell!’ he laughed wildly, coarsely. ‘Poor Jamie, his guts rot, his piss stinks, while he calls for love on the dungheap of that old body. But I am Lord Chamberlain and there’ll be no new Gentlemen of the Bedchamber without my leave.’

  ‘Well, so be it thou’s warned and ready,’ his wife said, turning to him again. ‘I do but inform thee for thy good.’

  She went to sit beside him on a window seat, spreading her rich cherry-coloured damask skirts and playing with a round diamond brooch she wore by a gold chain about her neck. It lay between her perfect breasts, almost but not quite revealed under a covering of finest muslin, by the low edge of her bodice.

  Within five minutes she had restored her lord to his usual good temper and affection. She hoped nevertheless that her warning about Villiers had gone sufficiently deep to provoke him out of his laziness. She had no fear of falling herself into a like unawareness of the danger. High in favour, the Sommersets were invulnerable. But supplanted, Robbie would be dragged down like a bear at the post attacked by mastiffs. And she with him, for of the two she knew well she was the more hated.

  It was not a very propitious time for Katharine to see her former friends. Since she did not and could not know their real feelings she imagined that her messages went astray or were overlooked. Once again she appealed to Alan Carr and once again, though much against his better judgement, he rode down to the City to see her.

  He had not meant to tell her of the quarrel with her husband, but when she spoke of it, giving Francis’s own account, he was both annoyed and embarrassed.

  ‘I did not think he would so far forget himself, since thou wast the object of our dispute.’

  ‘He did not so,’ she said, indignantly. ‘It was I would know the cause of his wound and made him describe it.’

  This increased young Carr’s anger.

  ‘To the devil with the both of ye!’ he shouted in the accents of his distant youth. ‘A carping, complaining, hell-cat as ever I met with on an illday for me and mine!’

  Katharine was overwhelmed. A small but still very clear vision came to her of the true nature of her entanglement and more important, the true nature of the man at her side, whom she had believed in, depended upon, in some measure loved.

  Her silence, that he took for submission, brought Alan to his senses. In another few minutes he was at her feet begging for forgiveness, begging to be taken back into her friendship, even if her love was now denied him.

  In this mood and this disguise Katharine found him irresistible. Mountebank, ill-bred yokel like his brother though she found him, she had need of the great pretence when the great court life for her was crumbling. She made her peace very prettily, until even he was moved to confide in her.

  ‘I am distraught, Kate,’ he said. ‘I am afraid of the Law, I start and tremble in the street, thinking at any moment to feel a hand clapped to my shoulder.’

  ‘Because this duel was illegal?’ she asked, opening wide incredulous violet eyes at him.

  ‘Chiefly,’ he said, not daring to point out those more deadly rumours that threatened the Somersets and so himself. ‘I think I must go abroad for my safety, and that soon. To Holland, where I may serve my country,’ he added piously.

  ‘Oh, my poor Alan. And what shall I do without thee?’

  He stared at her, risking much but fairly confident of her answer. ‘Come with me,’ he urged, clasping her in his arms. ‘Together surely we may find a lasting happiness.’

  For one moment of complete ecstasy, or wild madness as she afterwards both regretted and shuddered at it, Kate felt herself lifted beyond reason and almost agreed to go. But, as Alan knew, it was not in her self-regarding, self-centred little soul to undertake a risk of such magnitude, a make-or-break adventure. And with him, for whom, he remembered later that day, she had never sacrificed a single thing nor acted outside a narrow margin of safety.

  They parted very lovingly that day. Each felt the ultimate had been met, scrutinized and laid aside. With mutual satisfaction in their own conduct. What could be more perfect?

  It was when Alan had gone away that Mistress Ogilvy said at supper, ‘He did not take leave of me after he brought thee home, Kate. It is a not altogether well-mannered youth, my child. But what of my Lady Somerset? When will she receive thee?’

  Then Katharine, looking at her sadly said, ‘I think they have forgot me, madam, who am now so very far below their great estate.’

  Doctor Ogilvy said, ‘Quite so, Kate. And be glad of it. Thou hast a life of more purpose and splendour at home in Oxford than ever thou found’st at Court.’

  Only safety, Katharine decided, dull safety. She was silent, humble, between her loving parents, while in her heart she began to consider how, upon a more convenient level and with easier friends, she might find a new way into the charmed circle of the Royal Court.

  Chapter Eighteen

  King James was ageing; more in body than in mind, for his brain was still nimble, he continued to love learning and every kind of argument. But his sick body made him irritable, so that he saw affront where none was intended.

  In this field the chief offender was his sometime beloved, the Earl of Somerset. Robbie was grown too big for his boots. Spoiled by the total success of his ambitions he had shown his royal master a kind of disrespect he had never before dared even to approach. He had also, giving perhaps more offence than his arrogance, shown boredom.

  All this had led to quarrels of a most unseemly kind. James suspected, rightly, that the root cause was jealousy of young Villiers. Very well, so why should not the King favour a subject who pleased him? Why should not the pretty boy, George, entertain when Robbie was grown fat on riches and lazy with content? Why, above all, was Robbie so foolish as to attempt to thwart his sovereign? James took pen to paper and wrote a letter of warning to the favourite whose sun was already beginning to sink down.

  Lord Somerset felt an initial shock on receiving the letter, but he was too deep in the featherbed of his comfort to feel more than a tiny prick of unease.

  ‘Jamie is peevish, but when hath he been otherwise?’ he said gaily to Lady Frances, tossing her the letter.

  She took and read it, but said nothing. On the other hand she did not treat it lightly. She knew very well what had caused the King’s displeasure. Robbie, as Lord Chamberlain, had refused Villiers the post of Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which James desired for him but did not wish to demand. Well, Villiers should not have it. He must never have it.

  ‘If Villiers be a danger to thy welfare, sweet lord, we may find it necessary to remove him before ill be done.’

  Robbie was startled.

  ‘He will be kept in check,’ he promised. ‘But by none of thy methods. I am out of love with thy Mistress Anne Turner. I begin to regret thou ever employed her.’

  Lady Frances made no answer. The time had not yet come for her to feel the same regret. But she knew she must now exercise more care in her private dealings and she regretted, not for the first time, her confiding in her Robbie so many of her earlier plans for her divorce and subsequent marriage.

  There was, however, no immediate danger for either of them. King James was occupied with other, far more congenial matters tha
n quarrelling with a former love. He had decided to make a first visit, a most belated first visit, to the younger of his two English universities, situated at Cambridge in East Anglia.

  In March of that year, 1615, he set off with an ample train and every expectation of spending some days of academic pleasure in unfamiliar surroundings.

  He was not disappointed. The ancient stone colleges, so many of which stood mirrored in the quiet waters of the Cam that flowed along their backs, delighted him. It was March, a bright early sun in a clean blue sky shining upon the water, the green lawns beyond under tall trees. In this flat country the sky seemed immense. There was an air of great freedom about the little town clustered around the high walls of the colleges. The King’s College chapel decorated so lavishly with the roses and portcullis emblem of Henry VIII’s double inheritance pleased particularly a monarch so jealous of his own part in that continued power. To James VI and I there had been nothing in Oxford that touched him so deeply as this chapel of King’s College.

  He was royally entertained. The university was delighted to receive him, the heads of colleges made speeches to him worthy of his great learning, he felt. He made them learned replies; he attended symposia where he could display his considerable grasp of classical knowledge. The arts, too, were not forgotten. Poets recited their works to him. Plays were written especially for him and acted by members of the university. Amongst these was a piece called ‘Ignoramus’, a very scurrilous piece of bawdry that delighted the King. He had become rather tired of the current fashion of plays in London, full of gloom, of cruelty, of high tragedy, such as those of John Webster with his ‘White Devil’ and Cyril Tourneur with ‘The Revenger’s Tragedy’. They did, indeed, mirror the times, but James was never able to see his Court as others did. He never understood that there lay his true enemies. When he was finding fault with the Commons and seeking to wreck, or at any rate modify, the constitution, he would have done better to have applied the common laws of the land to the many abuses that went on in the Palace of Whitehall. Instead, he quarrelled incessantly with his Lord Chief Justice Sir Edward Coke, and applauded the discomfiture of lawyers in the Cambridge play ‘Ignoramus’.