Love's Alchemy Page 7

  And in all the twenty years since, the dark doubts remained.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jack let the reins lie slack, whether unconsciously steering with his knees or otherwise somehow allowing the stallion to sense his reluctant desire to move toward Cecil’s house. But by some means horse and rider conspired to make their way steadily toward Ludgate until they crossed the little bridge over the thickly gurgling muck of Fleet Ditch, with its noisome welter of human and animal excrement, its offal discarded upstream by Smithfield sausage makers, tripe dressers, and cat-gut spinners, its dead dogs, its occasional body of some poor suicide, unworthy of burial in sanctified ground—and, when God was merciful, its rainwater. Jack’s eyes burned with the disgrace, the shame, the stench of it—the criminal indifference of his beloved city toward the awful fact of death. He took up the reins, sat tall, and steeled himself for the interview with Cecil. The horse eased off the bridge and, looking proud and stepping high, made his way around to the front of the house. Jack announced his appointment to the stout, crop-haired soldier at the gate, who examined a paper and let him pass. Once inside the grounds Jack dismounted and left the horse to the care of a well-dressed groom who seemed to know the worth of such a fine Andalusian. The man led the stallion off to Cecil’s stables, promising to take good care of him. A kind-eyed old doorman nodded gracefully as he showed Jack inside and walked off to inform Lord Cecil of the visitor’s arrival.

  The spacious anteroom gave off a pleasing smell. Often enough when Jack had found himself inside a stuffy, musty, greasy, or smoky room he had stepped outside to breathe more freely. This was the opposite. Fresh-cut boughs of evergreen trees, seeming somehow to purify rather than merely scent the air, stood here and there, artfully arranged among the tapestries. A few crushed leaves of aromatic herbs in ornamental bowls added an invigorating flavor to the air. This room alone told Jack something about Cecil’s tastes—not that what he saw came as any surprise. Everything here was finely appointed: well-crafted furniture, artfully woven tapestries with scenes from the Aeneid, books in a handsome case, an ample fireplace with a good supply of quartered, seasoned oak and ash, and a well-tended fire. All this was to be expected for a man of Cecil’s position: he must entertain ambassadors and kings, and they must be treated well. Yet while lavish spending had become commonplace among the wealthy, nothing here spoke of extravagance. Here all was reasoned, ordered, sane: life as it should be.

  With a touch of unease Jack saw that this was exactly how he himself would appoint such a room, had he the means to do it. A reasoned, ordered, sane life was the one he too would live—or so he had often thought. But even with the money and power of Cecil, could he live such a life? Would the seething moil in his mind ever settle into steady reason? He doubted it. No, Robert Cecil, not Jack Donne, was the reasonable one. And what had Robertus Diabolus done with God’s great gift of reason? Raleigh, no saint but innocent of treason, paced within the Tower walls. Heads of other innocent men, congealed in their frozen howls, haunted London Bridge. The poor, weak, and sick who in another time might have gone to Bridewell Hospital now sweated and toiled their life sentences in Bridewell Workhouse. The desperate men so poor and forgotten and lonely they took their own lives floated or sank or hung on snags in Fleet Ditch not fifty yards from this room.

  The kind-eyed doorman appeared, said that Lord Cecil was ready, and led Jack through a series of rooms—one for music, one with a large oaken table for meetings, one with an armor collection, one for games, the great hall for banquets, dances, and masques—entertainments that could hardly come naturally to the little hunchbacked Cecil—and at last to Cecil’s study, which might have doubled as his library. It was a room to take Jack’s breath from him: large, with a high timbered ceiling, but made comfortable by fireplaces at both ends, well-lighted by high clerestory windows along two walls. But especially this: below the windows, books—hundreds upon hundreds of them. Perhaps Cecil would allow him to explore the collection later, but he could hardly peruse the books now. He removed his velvet hat as he bowed, only slightly—he did not want to appear obsequious—and said, “Your lordship.”

  Cecil had aged a decade in the three years since Jack had seen him. The little man ebbed even thinner than before, paler, his long, contorted face more cadaverous, his back more hunched. A deep crease ran vertically along his left temple, making his high forehead seem to bulge outward, as though the brain within had expanded beyond normal bounds. Yet his eyes maintained their enigmatic calm. “I see you admire my books,” Cecil said.

  “Very much.”

  “These few I keep about me.” Cecil motioned for Jack to take a chair—an intricately carved one with a padded seat—and continued. “There are more—many more, and other copies of some of these same—in my library. In the last three or four years I have—wherefore I know not—taken to improving my store of books: buying smaller libraries, sending agents here and there to find those volumes I lack.” With half a smile, half a grimace he added, “A whim.”

  “I fear,” Cecil continued, “I must entertain the Count of Villa Mediana when you depart.” He held up both palms and shrugged as if to say in a single gesture, What can one do? The Spaniards insist on sending these doltish ambassadors along with the real negotiators, and the dullards must be entertained along with the rest. “Otherwise,” he continued, “you could spend the morning here and the afternoon in the library. But perhaps your passing the whole day in the library will suffice?”

  Cecil had already found Jack’s weak spot. “I should be honored,” he said.

  The little man nodded. “Master Cobham tells me you arrived on a fine Andalusian war horse. Your own?”

  The library, now the horse. . . . Jack looked Cecil steadily in the eye. “No, my lord. My circumstances are straitened of late. The stallion is borrowed.”

  “Still,” said Cecil calmly, “you chose an Iberian breed. Most thoughtful of you.” He bowed his head briefly in a good imitation of Jack’s earlier gesture. “Most thoughtful. You might have chosen an English breed or a French, or a Netherlandish. But you chose a Spanish, knowing that you were coming to see me, and knowing that most English hate all that has to do with Spain.”

  “I did choose the horse with some care.”

  “You know then of my efforts to forge a treaty with Spain.”

  “I do.”

  “What think you of the idea? You fought the Spanish at Cadiz and the Islands, did you not? Under my Lord Essex and Sir Walter.”

  Essex and Raleigh: the two mighty men Cecil had deposed. As if to say, Who, then, is this Jack Donne to oppose my will? Jack replied with a little shrug, “We were at war with Spain. Lords Essex and Raleigh commanded the ships. I fought for England under their command.”

  “And all of England thanks you.” Another little nod. “But what think you of a treaty with Spain?”

  Jack spoke briskly: “We should have one, but we should sacrifice little for it—certainly not our independence. No alliance, merely peace. For Spain needs an end to the wars as much as do we.”

  Cecil pursed his lips and sat back in his chair. He eyed Jack for a moment before saying, “His Majesty favors an alliance with France.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “Yet your counsel runs counter to the will of your king.”

  “You asked where my counsel lay, my lord, not my allegiance.”

  “Well replied. The Lord Keeper asked your counsel many a time, and I can tell you he misses it now. But. . . .” Cecil let a little sigh escape. “His Majesty has his crotchets, and he favors Sir George More’s bluntness over the Lord Keeper’s equanimity.”

  So Cecil knew all: the King favored Anne’s father, and so Jack was to receive no employment at court.

  “The King,” Cecil went on, “is a great lover of bluntness.” He tipped his head to one side and asked, “But why Spain? Why not France? His Majesty’s grandmother Mary of Guise was French, and his mother the Queen of Scots might as well have been. He says an all
iance with France would isolate Spain, already poor with her wars, and the Anglo-French would rule the world together.”

  Jack would not take this bait. “His Majesty, begging your lordship’s pardon, is wrong. An alliance with France gains nothing. With it, our wars with Spain in the Low Countries continue, and the Spanish block our sea trade to the Mediterranean, to the East Indies, and to the West. The coffers of England are soon depleted, then those of Spain. The French are left to violate the alliance, as they have twice broken alliances with us before, and rule alone. A Spanish truce—but no alliance—ends the wars, opens the sea routes, and brings a market for good English cloth the world around. Our coffers wax full, and we remain independent of foreign powers.”

  Cecil raised one eyebrow, apparently in admiration. Without thinking, Jack leaned forward and pressed on: “And with our wealth we may in Christian charity aid all who suffer, like those who toil and slave in Bridewell a hundred yards to the south. Now, very now, we could do something for them.” Even had Cecil not twitched in his chair, the wave of dismay would have washed over Jack for going too fast and too far, and he would not have been able to hold back the heated flush that rose to his cheeks.

  “Well,” said Cecil crisply, “we may hope to help them, when the funds allow it. In Christian charity.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “My friend Sir Walter hates the Spanish with a passion you must know only too well, if you served under his command.”

  “He does, my lord. Hates is not too strong a word.”

  “Sir Walter favors, then, His Majesty’s policy for France and against the Spanish. And if Sir Walter were free to influence the King in this matter. . . .”

  Cecil paused and looked expectantly at Jack, who dutifully filled in the rest of the sentence: “It would spell the ruin of England.”

  “Yes. The ruin.” Both were quiet for a while, and a look of what appeared to be genuine sadness overtook Cecil. Even a tear gathered in the corner of an eye. “I hope to see Sir Walter walk free once the truce is signed.”

  Jack remained silent. He must use his head independent of his heart for a while—ever a hard thing for him—and he could not see what response Cecil wanted here. Perhaps none. Jack knew Cecil must have no intention of freeing as powerful an adversary as Raleigh. Perhaps Cecil wanted Jack to think that even Robertus Diabolus had a heart. Or perhaps he merely wanted to show that he had the power to imprison and free even the greatest men in the land. In any case there seemed no advantage in either supporting or opposing Raleigh’s freedom. Jack waited until Cecil moved on.

  “So the blunt Sir George was incensed when you married the pretty, nimble-witted Anne More.”

  Pretty, nimble-witted. So Cecil remembered Anne. Or he had taken the trouble to inquire about her. Jack said, “He was, my lord, in something of a rage when I revealed the union to him, although he liked me well enough before. It is true she could have made a better match, but she loved me, the choice was hers as much as mine, and as a member of Parliament and secretary to the Lord Keeper, my prospects for prosperity at court were excellent.”

  Cecil nodded, as if to say all this was true—as far it went. But it did not go far. “Sir George sued for an annulment, did he not?”

  “He did, and I won the suit. The marriage was held legal, but Sir George. . . .” Jack paused.

  After a moment Cecil said, “Yes. Your circumstances are straitened. I understand; you need not continue.” The little man shifted uneasily in his chair, and his voice both quieted and somehow sharpened. “But do you know why Sir George waxed so angry? Do you know why he sought the annulment?”

  Of course Jack wanted to know; had the question not played over his mind a thousand times? Had it not plagued him for three years? But what was Cecil’s device here? “I do not know the reason. Always I have wondered. Some poems I wrote, it may be, about other women, before I met her. Or her youth: she was seventeen. Yet she had the comprehension of a woman much older. Or . . . I know not what.”

  Cecil waved a hand to dismiss such ideas. “Many young men write poems, and Sir George knew she was full able to choose for herself.” He closed his eyes for a moment, bit his lower lip, and then said, “What I am about to break to you I have told no man, excepting Sir George, and so I rely upon your confidence.”

  “You have it.”

  “I ask you to repeat this thing to no man. Your wife you may tell, but only if you judge her able to hold all in like confidence.”

  What could this mean? What manner of thing could be meet for only Jack and Anne? “I pray your lordship proceed.”

  Cecil took a deep breath, then said, “My own dear wife Elizabeth died in the year of the raid on Cadiz.”

  “I remember, my Lord.” He would have added, All of England mourned, but it was not true. To the common Englishman the death of the wife of Robertus Diabolus caused little grief. But such a plain, quiet, devoted wife as Elizabeth Cecil deserved better. Jack said only, “She was a good woman.”

  “She was. None better. And I mourned her. And for a few years I tried in vain to fill the void she left, fill it with affairs of state. Each night I slept but two hours or three, and the rest of the time I worked, busying myself with the security of England. And then after a time it happened that I attended a banquet at Loseley, where Sir George’s daughter—your Anne—had come home from the Lord Keeper’s for a visit. Before, when I had seen her she had been but a girl. But now . . . I was. . . .” Here Cecil’s voice broke. “Charmed. Stricken.” He swallowed, regained his composure, and continued. “Upon hearing her speak, upon observing her motions. . . . When it came time to converse with her, my words stopped in my throat. I, who have talked with ease to the powers of the earth.”

  His confusion moving toward horror, Jack looked on as Cecil continued. “I loved her, Master Donne. None of this did I say, or even fully know that night, for I was taken by surprise. Never had I felt such things: never. Such a violent assault upon the heart!” He smiled crookedly. “For once I understood why young men—and I was no longer young—write their poems and sing their songs of love. I, the bunchbacked maker of kings, mover of armies, and master of spies, in love with a young maiden. You see why I beg your confidence.”

  “I do,” Jack said weakly. He felt himself drifting, lost at sea without even some passing piece of a spar to grasp and keep him afloat. Why was Cecil saying these things? Why unburden himself to Jack, of all people? Why now? What did he want?

  Cecil let his gaze drift, as though he no longer saw anything in the room. “For some days after that banquet at Loseley—days that seemed without end—I tried to master these new sensations, to calm them at least, or to transform them into something useful. But they would not be conquered or changed; their torment would not relent. And so I ventured back to Loseley, where Anne remained, and I broke with Sir George. I received his assurance that she was not yet affianced to any man, I adumbrated my intent to marry his daughter, and I extracted from him—with great difficulty, let me tell you, for his deep desire was to proceed with a wedding at once—his oath to do nothing and say nothing to her unless I gave him leave: unless, that is, I could be certain of her affection. For that to me was all in all: I would not brook this marriage if her heart spoke against it. I arranged to speak with her.”

  Jack tried to still the waters that swirled about him and within him. He must keep his wits. Had Anne ever spoken of such an interview with Cecil? Yes! Just hours before, she had told him Cecil had once exchanged some awkward words with her at Loseley. How had she put it? He seemed to have stumbled into the wrong room.

  Cecil went on: “She sat on a bench by the window in her father’s little library, her feet crossed and a book bound in calfskin open on her lap. As before, my words limped forth half-formed, broken, palsied. From the pieces, she gathered that I inquired what she read. ‘The Arcadia,’ she said. ‘Ah, S-S-Sidney,’ I stammered. She told me that no, this was not Sidney’s Arcadia— would that it were, she said, for Sir Philip’s was like honey on
the tongue (my knees went slack when she said those words)—but Lope de Vega’s, and she had found it a tiresome pastoral, unworthy of the great Lope’s talents. ‘You read Spanish,’ said I, stupidly stating the obvious. There followed a broken exchange about her languages, her likes (of all earthly things, she said, books alone did she covet), and her learning. When I inquired after the source of her education, she had much to say of you.” Here Cecil looked at Jack again, this time with a steady, moist, unreadable eye. “And although she did not say as much, it was clear by her countenance that she loved you.”

  Jack steeled himself against the assault; until he knew why he had been summoned here, what was there to do but maintain an unyielding gaze?

  Cecil let his own gaze drift again, and continued. “From this alone I did not lose heart, or not entirely. For young ladies will fall in love, and I knew that Anne More of Loseley—as she herself could not fail to be aware, even had she not been quickwitted—must be matched (begging your pardon, Master Donne) with someone of higher station than the son of an iron-monger.”

  Jack held his peace. He could protest that his mother’s family was ancient and noble, but if Cecil had searched so deeply as to find that his father, dead these twenty-five years and more, had been an ironmonger, then Jack knew better than to invoke his mother’s nobility. No, Cecil would not bait him into admitting that his mother and all her family—all but Jack himself—lived illegally, traitorously, as Catholics.