The Orpheus Books

by

Audrey Kemp

1
 FOREWORD

I won't take up too much time telling how I found this story.

I was on my farewell tour, well, the last of several farewell tours - I couldn't afford to give
them up, tax and alimony being what they are - and I found myself in Dublin. I'd had a
bust-up with my manager in some English dump or other and he had gotten his own back
by cancelling my hotel booking.

It had been a bitch of a gig - only a few bald-headed old faithfuls and their girl-friends and
a spatter of polite applause at the end. Sure, they were disappointed, as they had a right to
be - my guitar playing reduced to a few chords and my voice so husky that the mike could
hardly pick it up. The Irish whisky was meant to help but only gave me a worse case of the
shakes.

When I slunk out of the stage door, not bothering to change out of my sleazy gear, I was
alone - can't think when I last had a backing group to drink with. It was the last straw
when the hotel turned me down and, after that a string of boarding houses. At last, late as
it was, a door opened and, after being told that all rooms were full, I managed to pull a fat
enough wad of notes from my pants pocket to be led up the stairs, shown the john and told
the time of breakfast.

I couldn't wait to flop out on the bed and she didn't hang about once she had shown me the
room - very high and narrow, partitioned off I guess because the boarded up fireplace was
huge with a heavy, carved overmantel, out of style and proportion with the room. The bed
was rock hard but with no time to bother taking off my cowboy boots I was soon dead to
the world......

I woke with a start to pitch blackness! Hell, someone was shaking me roughly. Did they
have breakfast in Dublin in the middle of the night for Christ's sake? I turned over with my
fists up, ready to sock the intruder whoever it was. My blows met empty air and, when I
switched on the lamp, the room was empty. Shit! If that's what Irish whisky does to a guy,
I'd better stick to Scotch! I wrapped myself in the sheet and thin, old blankets and was
soon snoring.

Not again! Son of a bitch, that really hurt! I flipped on the light switch but, once more, the
room was empty and, hell, it was freezing! Before I could bend to see who was hiding
under the bed, no word of a lie, I was seized in an icy grip, pulled out of bed and propelled
towards the fireplace. Then some invisible THING took my left hand and ran it over the
carving of the mantelpiece. How the hell did IT know I was a southpaw? My blood ran
cold. This sure had the feeling of an acid trip and I'd given that up for whisky years back.

As my hand was moved, I thought I heard a sharp intake of breath, not mine. Part of the
overmantel swung open and my hand was pushed into a cavity behind the panelling until I
grazed my knuckles on something hard and rusty. The satisfied intake of breath again on
the back of my neck, ice cold and scary. This time my hands moved of their own accord
and I pulled out a metal box, just in time, before invisible hands clicked the carving back
into place.

2
I found myself trembling on the edge of the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This time I must have flipped my lid at last. I'd never had the shakes so bad. But, at least
the room was warm now. I couldn't believe they would switch on under floor heating in
the early hours of the morning in a dump like this. Still, I was glad of it and began to come
round, looking at the rusty box beside me, which felt solid enough not to be part of a
nightmare.

There was no key and I wrestled to open the lock with the sharp knife I kept down the side
of my boot. I'd been in some tight spots and it was a comfort to know it was there. It took
a while to get the lid open. On top of a parcel wrapped in a faded, rotting cloth, was a
letter, addressed simply to 'Rob D.' and sealed with a large blob of red wax. As I was
about to open it, a cold shiver ran down my spine and I left it alone.

After that, it took some courage to unwrap the cloth, but, as the warmth in the room
returned, I somehow felt this was O.K. On top was a small , beautifully jewelled frame
containing the portrait of a lovely girl. Unbelievably, the old University days I thought I
had wiped out came flooding back! Some girl had dragged me along to an exhibition of
Elizabethan miniaturists and, yes, I would bet my life that this was a genuine Nicholas
Hilliard - his style was unmistakable.

All that came before the days of drugs for all, when I fell for the message, 'Turn on, tune
in, drop out!' (I might have known anything so simple was a cop out. Kids in their twenties
now wear business suits, not flowers, beads and headbands.) Always an ideas man, what I
liked best was to turn tradition ass over tip and see how things looked from that angle,
which didn't please the old creeps who were guiding me on my way to a Doctorate in
sixteenth century History. Did I drop out of my own accord or was I pushed? Old Henry
Ford (even if he was a God-damn capitalist) got it right - 'History is the bunk.' In the days
that followed I answered to 'draft-dodger', 'hippie', 'yippie' - whatever badge they cared to
pin on me. By the time it got to 'yuppie' I was on the skids.

I turned to the rest of the package. Next came a book written in Spanish, which I had
almost forgotten and some kind of funny musical notation which I couldn't have read even
if it had been normal. Why should I learn to read music when there was always one of the
group proud to write down one of Bob Dee's songs in the days when I was among the great
names of the Sixties? There was a picture of a queer looking guy on one page of the book
that gave me the jumps - the face reminded me of the way I used to look without the
fungus and I didn't like to remember the time before LSD and protest songs took over.

Underneath was a pile of manuscript in strange writing that I couldn't decipher. Wait
though! I had seen this before my drop-out days. Strange that acid and booze didn't wipe
out the memories. As a student, I had been a sucker for any kind of puzzle and was a whiz
at making sense of old documents. These papers were written in the sixteenth century
secretary hand and I got the idea that the writer was either ill or drunk some of the time.

I sat on the hard bed, deciphering the first page with difficulty, first picking out dates and
then names, which is the easiest way. The room was still warm and - the darndest thing - I
felt round me a kind of glow of approval, something I only remember way back, when my
mom was alive, maybe. As I turned the yellowing pages, the thought came to me that, if I'd
come across this in my University days, I'd be a smart-ass, top-notch Professor by now,
instead of a broken-down has been with two divorces behind me and a pile of debts to keep
me on the road. The room suddenly went cold. What was it with this Irish heating?

3
Before I went down to a big breakfast I couldn't tackle, I replaced the contents of the box
and pushed it under the bed with my gig gear and my guitar on top. When I told Mrs.F.
that I wanted to keep the room for a while it knocked her out. Not till I paid her in
advance, did she answer my questions about the sixteenth century overmantel.

As the story came out bit by bit , I learned that the house had way back belonged to a
family of merchants. All the old panelling had been taken out and sold and, when the
house was converted for boarders, only the overmantel in my room was left for the reason
that no one would touch it. Some workmen said they got a kind of electric shock if they
went near it. Some said invisible hands pushed them away. There were tales that those
bold enough to try to prise it from the wall took a stroke or even died. In the end, the room
remained unused except in an emergency and no one slept there more than one night. She
surely thought I was out of my skull to want to stay. Maybe I was. To hell with the rest of
the tour! They'd never find me here. So I told Mrs. F. I was writing a book about ghost
hunting and went out to buy a typewriter.

The painful deciphering got easier with time but it was a tough assignment and I had never
worked so hard in all my life. You see, there was an invisible slave driver standing over
me and, whenever, I stopped, the room went icy. If I worked hard, he was warm and
friendly and when there was a difficult passage, I'll swear he put the right ideas in my head.
I called him J.D. Maybe my mind had gone at last and I was on a permanent high. I didn't
care. What I wanted was to get to the end of the story and find what it was all about.

One thing I knew for sure. It was never going to moulder in a University vault or be
destroyed by dried up academics whose theories it overturned. It sure was dynamite from
their point of view. And, what's more, I was certain by now it was J.D.'s gift to me to do
with as I thought best.

When I had finished the typing, done the final check and had copies made, I felt I had to go
down to the river. Remembering that J.D. had once wanted to drown his book, I stood
there, looking down at the water and, as if the yellowing document I held was no longer of
value, I tore it deliberately to shreds and sent them drifting down the Liffey to the sea.
Once more came the satisfied sigh over my shoulder and the warmth of approval now my
task was done. I knew now that I had permission to read the letter addressed to Rob. D. It
might have been written for me, as I found, and I felt pretty sick by the time I got to the
end.

What more can I say?. I told the truth for once when I rented that room in Dublin. I did
put together a book about ghost hunting. The question is, was J.D. the only ghost?

4
 CHAPTER ONE

March 27, 1625

Today the old King died. I suppose they will want me to turn out to play at the funeral..
They say Steenie tired of his silly old 'Dad’, so his witch of a mother helped James out of
this world with her nostrums to make room on the throne for her son and 'Baby Charles’.
Old and ill as I am, I can now afford to utter treasonable words - the rope might prove a
blessed release. Not that I can foresee my own end.

You never knew, Rob, that, as well as the gift of music, I have the two sights. We cannot
see for ourselves and seldom for those we love, but, I tell you, I have seen the new King,
Charles, with his head on the block, and you will do best, my Rob, to content yourself with
the small inheritance I have to pass to you - a humble place as lutenist in the new King's
consort, however long that lasts.....

1612

I had not been with Jamie's consort myself more than a few weeks when I played for a
sadder death, eighteen year old Prince Henry's. For Princess Elizabeth's wedding to the
Palsgrave, which followed with indecent haste, "the funeral bak’d meats did coldly furnish
forth the marriage table”. We played then for a Court performance of 'The Tempest’.
(Not the best of opening scenes for a bride about to cross the seas to Germany!)

Yes, Rob, you too saw King Jamie, who never washed his hands, but wiped them on a
silken cloth, watch stinking Caliban in the play, half man, half fish, staggering, drinking
and swearing like the King.....stinking Jamie, stinking Caliban.....stinking seven year old
Johnny of Dalkey.....

1570

My first memory was not the sound of my mother's voice - I never knew her - but the reek
of fish as I crept through the streets of Dublin, lugging the heavy basket from my Aunt
Johan's shop in Fish Lane, where I had been gutting since first light, crying my wares from
door to door. People would scuttle across the cobbles to avoid me, or vanish hastily round
corners, crossing themselves furtively. Yet, I had glimpsed myself in puddles and I was
not so ill-favoured. It must have been the stink.

.....Caliban...Cannibal...Spenser (that lesser Edmund) wrote of us Irish as savages. That

was in the war that began when I was born and whose end I cannot foresee. To think we
believed that the power of music would bring peace to the world! Today Europe is in a
turmoil that will last thirty years and poor peasants will turn cannibal again. You will be
old, like me, at its end.

I am getting drowsy and afraid, as often happens, to fall asleep. Old men repeat
themselves, I know, but I trot out words to keep the dread sound from my mind, to ward off
the ghostly tapping ...sca...sca...sca...sca...

1570

5
“Scalpeen!” laughed a voice as the window was thrown open. “Look, Edmund, an Irish
pickled mackerel that sings to heaven as high as he smells!”

I had lingered outside that window day after day, gladly risking a beating from aunt Johan,
drinking in their lute song. At first I had hummed to the music, but, that evening, my own
words burst forth to fit the tune.

Another face, shining with goodwill, appeared at the casement.

“If Irish fish can all sing like angels, Richard, we need a net like Saint Peter's to draw in a
whole choir. What's your name, boy, and who taught you to sing?”

I told him Johnny Dolan and I could as soon sing as breathe, but more than all the world I
would die to play that music.

“Rather say you'll live,“ smiled Edmund Campion, and, truly, a new life began for me that
day.

Richard, the Recorder's son, took a fancy to make a gift of me to his friend and former
tutor and he bought me from my father for more than he could earn in a year's fishing and
gave my aunt a consideration besides, so that I left the hovel in Dalkey for ever.

The Stanyhurst's groom flung a pail of freezing water over me (my baptism as an
Englishman) and rubbed me down roughly in the stable-yard, hissing as though I was one
of his horses, while I spluttered and begged for mercy. My comfortable, if fish stained,
Irish cloak was burned and myself trussed into strange, constricting livery.

I must tell you, Rob, that Master Campion had come to Dublin, hoping to teach at the
new University, but things move slowly in Ireland and, before the post was ready for him,
he was no longer ready for it. Meanwhile, for want of a better pupil, and to keep his hand
in, as he said, he tutored me and, from this lump of unpromising clay, hoped to fashion a
scholar-musician.

Everything that happened in those two short years I remember as clearly as if it took place
yesterday. More clearly. I spent most of yesterday searching for my pipe and there it was
all the time under my nose. It was Sir Walter taught me the consolation of the weed. I
wonder if they left him that enjoyment in the Tower? To smoke at James's Court meant
instant dismissal. To swear at Prince Henry's only meant a fine in the box.....Where was
I? Oh, yes, remembering.....

Who but Edmund Campion would have taught a street urchin like me to love his books and
his lute before I even learnt to read or play them? My fingers spotless, I might take down
any book I chose, stroke its leather cover, open it and turn its pages with the greatest care
until I came to a woodcut which my master would explain to me in a wonderful story so
that I longed to learn of my own accord. Later, he would read from the mysterious
symbols on the page. I had thought I would master their magic in a flash but was
dismayed to find it was to be an uphill task. Still, before the first year had passed, I could
read fluently in both English and Latin, translate from one to the other and back again.

Learning the lute , too, took its own unhurried way. First the handsome, red leather
case.....

6
“Sir, why is there a poor bear, muzzled and chained to a tree without branches? What has
he done to be punished so?”

“Perhaps he is a proud bear, Johnny, to be the badge of a great family. Can you read the
initials? Yes, “R.D." and they stand for Robert Dudley, who was my patron at Oxford and
promised me preferment. He is Earl of Leicester now and he and his brother, the Earl of
Warwick, are pleased to call themselves Ursa Minor and Major and hold the Ragged
Staff."

Thus I learned that the great Earl had given one of his own lutes to my master. And what a
lute! It was signed by Laux Maler, one of the great lute-makers. The ribs and the finger
board were of richly coloured maple and the back of fir from Cologne. (My master told
me that all the best lute wood came from Germany.) The rose was most exquisitely
carved, so that I could have gazed on it for hours, and the bridge and pegs were of finest
ebony. What a teacher was Master Campion to let me as much as touch that priceless
instrument, let alone practise on it! I, of course, in my ignorance, knew nothing of that, or
that I had to myself the most brilliant tutor Oxford had known in years.

Singing came so naturally to me that I was sure I only had to lift the lute for magical music
to obey the touch of my fingers. Alas! as with reading, the mastery of the lute was hard.
First I had to learn how to sit correctly, then to use only my right hand until I could control
the lute. It seemed an age before I could use both hands and bring some tuneful sounds
from the strings.....

But I am so far in the past that I have forgotten to whom I speak. You know all this, Rob,
from your lessons in Sir Thomas Monson's household - the bleeding finger tips, the cruel
nips from the strings, the raps on your knuckles from the sharp edged pegs. I cared little
for these rubs. A boy with fingers so nimble as to gut fish fast enough to keep out of Aunt
Johan's black books could ignore such cuts and scrapes.

I dare say you learned on a child sized lute. I learned on my master's best instrument and,
as my hand span was too small, he took an old lute string and wound it round the neck of
the lute between the fourth and fifth frets with a piece of wood to tighten it. As my hand
span grew (and how I exercised to make that happen!) the string was moved back a fret.
Master Campion had no idea of 'mine' and 'thine'- all was share and share alike with that
good man.

All things, great and small, held his interest and so my own. He told me , jokingly, that my
name meant 'Black Defiance' and his 'Champion' so that we were both fighters. I preferred
to think of that gentle soul as his namesake the wayside flower he told me was a sovereign
remedy against burning pains and kidney stone.....

Mary, Mother of God, that stab of pain brings me back to the present! Oh, for one of
Michael Maier's soothing draughts, but he is gone to his Maker these three years past!

My master's generosity was such that he took me with him on his visits to Kilkea, where
the Earl of Kildare had given him the run of his great Library. We would set out at first
light, take food with us in our pouches and eat it by the river, watching the fish jump in the
sparkling waters - it seemed always summer then - and ride on (I on the pony Master

7
Stanyhurst had as a boy) until we reached the great castle and were allowed to climb the
stairs to the turret room of the Wizard Earl.

I had thought that Master Campion owned many, many books but these shelves reared
themselves from floor to high ceiling and every one was packed with volumes. As long as
I was quiet as a mouse while the two great minds thrust and parried, I was allowed my
choice of authors. There was Iamblichus' translation of Pythagoras, Plato, Boethius,
Cicero, Virgil and Ovid, whom I liked best. I made of them what I could then and, later,
they became my constant companions.

On an early visit, while my Latin was still imperfect, I came across a volume that I felt
instinctively to be meant for me alone. It was a music book - I was just beginning to read
and copy tablature - but, at first, I took no notice of the songs. It was the picture inside the
covers that fascinated me so that, between visits, I would even see it in my dreams, night
and day, and try to interpret its meaning.

The central figure I knew to be a man because of his strong hands and arms, though he
wore a strange, short skirt. On his head was a garland of thorns which must have caused
him pain, yet he was smiling. More than that, he was dancing on the stony ground in shoes
that gave his feet little protection. He danced to his own music, which he played, not on a
lute, for, though his instrument had a rose and a long neck, its back was flat.

There were animals all around him, listening to his music and they too were smiling - a
rabbit, a dog, a stag and a blissful-looking lion. There were birds, too, in the trees, one an
owl, and a long-legged, crested winged creature also seemed to smile.

In the distance were hills and two burning castles and, coming from one of them (or was it
towards?) was a boat or barge, poled by a tall figure and he, like his passengers had horns
on his head. I wished above all things to understand the words that framed the picture but
they were in a language strange to me. The word under my dancing figure must be his
name -ORPHEO-. It looked as though it might be Latin but meant nothing to me.

On the way home, I ventured to ask my master. “It is indeed a strange name, Johnny,
neither entirely Greek or Latin and none knows its exact derivation. When we are home I
shall give you my Ovid and you will see what you can make of his Orpheus story.”

Now I had a name for my mysterious book, 'The Orpheus Book', and so it remained.

~
It was not until a month later, when we paid our next visit to Kilkea Castle, that I had made
some sense of the Latin Orpheus story, though I needed to see the picture again to be sure.
To my amazement, the Wizard Earl was waiting for us in his library, my precious book
open in his hand. My heart sank. Had I marked the book through careless use? None had
so much as spoken an angry word to me since I left Dalkey. Was I in for a beating now
that I had grown soft and trusting? I turned in frantic pleading to Master Campion.

“Never fear, my boy, “ said the Earl. “Tell me the story you have learned and I will grant
your wish and tell you the meaning of the Spanish words you cannot read.”

8
How could he read my thoughts? I began to stammer. I did not know how to address an
Earl.

“Oh, Sir.....” I began.

“Sir will do very well.” He read my thoughts again. “I was plain Master Fitzgerald at your
age and long after when my aunt escaped with me abroad and we went on our wanderings,
often without food and proper clothing. When Queen Mary restored me to my Earldom, I
was grateful but not proud. I cannot forget the days of poverty and exile.”

Completely disarmed, I asked if I might hold the book and study the picture. Then I told
the story as best I could.

“Orpheus was a great musician who charmed the birds and beasts by his playing so that
even the rocks and the woods would follow him. He loved a beautiful lady called Eurydice
but, before they could be married, she was bitten by a snake and died. (But, Sir, why could
he not charm the serpent like the other creatures?) She was taken to the nether kingdom
where the dead live. Orpheus followed her there and so delighted the Lord of the
Underworld and his Queen, Persephone, with his music that she was allowed to follow him
home, provided he did not turn and look back at her. That was cruel. If I could bring my
mother back from underground, I would look round to see that she did not stumble.
Orpheus turned and his love was lost to him for ever.

“I think in the picture Orpheus is happy because the boatman is coming across the River
Styx to take him to find Eurydice. He would not be dancing with joy if he had lost her.
And I think the burning castles represent Hell because it would have been too hard for the
limner to show the Underworld. Why does Orpheus wear those strange clothes and what is
the instrument he is playing?”

“One question at a time, “ interrupted the great Earl. “You have understood the Latin well
and now I will translate the Spanish for you. It says, 'The great Orpheus, the first inventor
for whom the vihuela appeared in the world. If he was the first, he was not without a
second, because he is of all men the creator of all things.' That is not easy to understand, I
know. I have already answered your last question. He is playing a vihuela. Look, “ and
from behind a curtain he brought out the very instrument.

“I will make a bargain with you, boy. You may take your 'Orpheus book' which, by the
way, is named 'El Maestro' and was composed by Don Luys Milan. If you can learn any
page of its music before you come again and play it for me on this vihuela, the book is
yours for ever.”

I was too overwhelmed to speak and sat studying the music, which did not seem easy,
while the two scholars embarked on their accustomed, learned discussion.

On the ride home I could not refrain from asking the answer to my other question.

“Orpheus is wearing Roman dress, Johnny, such as Caesar's soldiers wore. Perhaps
Orpheus was a soldier of God.”

I thought Orpheus looked too warm-hearted to cause the death of others, but, though I
often questioned my master, I never contradicted him.....

9
Bear with me, Rob. I am reliving my boyhood as I tell my story.

~
I worked on my Orpheus music with heart and soul to the neglect of my other studies until
it was time to return to Kilkea. When we arrived, my master decided to sit in the garden
for a while and enjoy the fine weather, telling me to go on in advance and reread the
tablature until I was very sure of it, although I knew it almost by heart.

As I sat in my chair with my back to the door, I felt a cold current of air and my spine
crawled as it does when some unknown stands behind you. Strong hands gripped my
upper arms, raising me to my feet, and swung me round to look into dark, deeply inquiring
eyes.

“I was right,“ said the Earl of Kildare, quietly, “when I recognised you the last time you
were here. You are what they call an old soul and we have known one another in past
times.”

Thoroughly bewildered and rather frightened, I was reassured by Master Campion's

familiar presence as he entered, apologising for his lateness. A servant brought a music
stand for the book and the Earl drew the curtain to bring out the vihuela, which he placed
in my unaccustomed hands.

“Now, play the song you have learned, “ said the Wizard Earl, “and, if successful, the
Orpheus book shall be your prize.”

Faltering at first, but gaining confidence with each strain, I played the music I had
rehearsed, missing the occasional note, but, boyishly, ending with a flourish.

“Not at all bad for a first attempt on an unknown instrument. Now, try again, “ said the
Earl, encouragingly.

This time I reached the close without mistakes. Above myself with my success, I cried,
“Now I am Orpheus, and because this is a vihuela and not a lute, I too can dance.”

And, feeling myself in every way (except dress) the man in the picture, I rose and played
and danced with such fire that ... how shall I put it, Rob?... my own light went out for a
moment and, in the darkness, I saw, dressed in garments of days gone by, the Earl and,
kneeling before him, myself, yet not myself. His hand was on my head. Was it perhaps in
blessing?

When my lids fluttered open, an old woman servant was holding a cup of cordial to my
lips. Master Campion looked concerned and the Earl quietly triumphant.

“Too much excitement, boy, “ he said. “Here is your prize, which you richly deserve.”

Struggling to my feet, I tried to bow deeply in gratitude, but staggered and almost fell.
Perhaps it was the cordial that made me feel sick. I longed to be home.

10
Riding on my master's horse, clutching my Orpheus book as firmly as he grasped me from
behind, my pony trotting quietly alongside, we made our way slowly back to Dublin in the
fading light.....

1625

Why do I write for you, Rob, perhaps to no avail? Words mean little once the sound is
gone, written notes of music even less. I who played with Luca Marenzio, find only a small
part of him in the tablature. Still, in our day, we have something of him to remember and
all is not lost, as with the unrecorded music of days long gone. Perhaps, as with myself,
only the more trivial strains are set down and the music of deep inspiration lasts for the
occasion only. I meant to write about my method but put the work aside. It should have
been attempted when I was young and knew it all. With age comes wisdom and
reticence...I am wearying you, Rob, and losing track of my thoughts......

Much of my life I have been solitary, even in a crowd, surrounded by adulation. Oh, yes, I
have had that and known its emptiness. You are the only one now left whom I would wish
to understand me. That is why I bid you farewell with my life story.

I am no writer and need to borrow words. Raleigh, whose marriage began in disaster and
ended in contentment, wrote a beautiful last letter to his wife. She was rightly proud and
passed his words to some of his friends so that I had a glimpse of the man in his last hours.
He wrote, 'My love I send you that you may keep it when I am dead, and my counsel, that
you may remember it when I am no more.' Maybe this story is my counsel to you, Rob,
perhaps my confession.....

It is good that they published the plays in time for me. I read them often and the voices
come back to me - Alleyn's and Burbage's and those of all the young gentlemen. But where
is the music? A few songs remain, but the rest? And it was so much a part of the plays.
Were the words written to the music or the music to the words? What remains is a sad
fragment.....

I want to tell you something about myself that only John Forster knew.

1571

After my strange experience at Kilkea, which I tried to put out of my mind, Master
Campion decided that I needed young companionship, so Master Stanyhurst looked among
his friends to find a boy of my own age who was inclined to study. He found me a friend
for life, John Forster, the son of rich merchants. He was a merry lad and infected me with
some of his carefree ways. We worked and played together.

For one afternoon in the week, John and I were allowed to run wild. I taught him to swim
and he taught me to guddle trout. Strange that I, who had gutted so many fish had to beg
him to finish them off with a sharp stone or 'priest'.

I still noticed that, as we walked through the streets of Dublin, folk avoided me. I could
not find a reason for it -I now washed every day, as my master was over nice as to
ablutions. John gave me the answer.

11
“It's the way you look at others, Johnny, as though you saw right through them. I too
found it frightening to be made invisible. I suppose they think you have the evil eye.”

We made a good game of it after that and found it worked as well from behind. If a
fisherman had a better place on the bank, I would creep up, fix my gaze steadfastly on the
back of his neck, whereupon, he would shudder, hastily collect his tackle and shamble off.
Sometimes we came upon a pack of bigger boys out for mischief who would turn and
pretend to walk away casually when they met my stare.

It was a useful gift in after life. I never carried a sword, or needed one. I could hold my
enemies to ransom with my basilisk gaze. I often thought that , if there were more of us
with that power, we could put an end to war. But conflicts begin and end in secret council
chambers, not on the battle field. Robert Cecil was the only one I found with a truly evil
power of his own who could resist me. A false friend to Essex and even more treacherous
to trusting Raleigh, he was sworn enemy to me and mine and I wish I had written every
one of the scurrilous rhymes published after his death. Some say Sir Walter wrote this
'epitaph' but he was never a man to bear a grudge. More likely it was penned by Cecil's
jealous cousin, Francis Bacon.

Here lies Hobinall, our pastor while ere,

That once in a Quarter our Fleeces did sheare.
To please us his Curre he kept under Clog,
And was ever after both shepherd and Dog.
For oblation to Pan his custom was thus,
He first gave a Trifle, then offer'd up Us:
And through his false worship such power he did gaine,
As kept him o' the Mountaine, and us on the plaine.
Where many a Horne-pipe he tun'd to his Phyllis
And sweetly sung Walsingham to's Amaryllis.
Till Atropos clapt him, a Pox on the Drab,
For (spight of his Tarbox) he died of the Scab.

The evil green of envy surrounded both cousins.....

Ah, I have come roundabout to what I meant to tell you about John Forster. He was the
first to discover what I called my 'colours'. I had never talked of them because I took it for
granted that every one saw them as I did.

One day I mentioned to John that as Tim, the groom, was a singularly good colour that
day, we might venture to ask if we could take the ponies out by ourselves, which he was
usually reluctant to allow.

“What do you mean, a good colour?” asked John. “He looks as pale and hangdog as ever.”

We went through a fair deal of misunderstanding before John realised that I was not
referring to Tim's complexion but to the haze of colour I saw surrounding him.

“When he is pleased, his brownish colour lightens and, when he is angry, it is shot through
with scarlet. I always know what to expect of folk through their colour. It is very useful to
be able to judge them at once. Why do you think the first time I saw you, I knew we

12
should be friends? Because your colours were right, of course. I'll tell you how I think it
works. The darker and dingier the colour, the uglier the passion contained in its frame.”

“What colour is Master Campion, then?”

“Ah, he is pure gold because goodness shines clear and only evil thoughts display
themselves in shadow.”

John looked thoughtful. “What is your colour then?”

“Don't be a fool. I can't see my own colour, not in a pool or a steel glass. Stop asking
questions, and we'll race the ponies.”

~
When I was young and roamed the streets of Dublin, I saw most folk as bordered in dirty
brown. Perhaps that is why I seemed to look through them, as there was nothing of interest
on which to fix my gaze. I shall speak little of my colours in these pages. Seeing them
was as natural to me as breathing, which it would be foolish to describe. Colours added
richness to music too.

When I first heard the play 'Hamlet' I thought the author must have the same gift, 'Good
Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off' did not seem to refer to his garb and 'The native hue of
resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought' described exactly my way of seeing.
But perhaps I am merely reading my own meaning into the poet's words. Rambling old
fool again.....

1572

The two short years of what I called my 'Golden Age' suddenly came to an end. I had
been copying pages of my master's 'History of Ireland when he had to flee, leaving it for
Richard Stanyhurst to complete. As a suspected Catholic (or so they said) after Queen
Elizabeth's excommunication and the scare of a threatened Spanish invasion of Ireland, his
life was at stake and, disguised in rough Irish garb, we sought shelter in friendly houses,
always only a step ahead of Burghley's pursuivants.

My master had now found his true cause to champion and planned to leave for Father
Allen's English College at Douai. It was a dark day for me when his ship left the little port
of Tredake. I begged him to take me with him, saying that I would serve him in any way I
could, but he told me I was Master Stanyhurst's helper (he was too kind to name a boy of
nine 'servant') and that my duty was to him. He left me his beautiful lute, signed by Laux
Maler, in remembrance of 'all we had learned together', gave me his blessing and the
assurance that we would meet again. As the little ship dropped over the horizon, so my
spirits fell, bereft of all that made life worth living.

To add to my woes, John Forster was now sent away to school and I would accept no
playmate to replace my friend. I would sit in my room, day after day, unwilling to emerge
for food and lessons, playing from my Orpheus book music that seemed to raise me above
my present loneliness and transport me to realms undreamed of.

13
Master Stanyhurst had promised his friend to continue my education along the lines laid
down by him, afterwards published as 'De Homine Academico', a portrait of the ideal
student. I was by no means that. With this new master, I was abstracted and no longer
soaked up knowledge as the sand does ink. All my efforts were absorbed in the difficult
task of interpreting the music of Don Luys Milan. I was obsessed and poor Master
Stanyhurst distracted with anxiety over the change in me.

He made me his amanuensis, copying for him his first attempts at a translation of Virgil's
'Aeneid'. My Latin now was of a high standard and we continued with elementary Greek,
which I disliked. Always Master Stanyhurst had to tempt me to work by telling me what
Master Campion would have wished. Sometimes he almost lost his temper with me and
told how boys even from noble families had their lessons beaten into them with tears and
tribulation. Then, regretting this lapse, he would remind me how, with Master Campion,
my learning had been made exciting and I would agree that each waking had been to fresh
adventures of the mind. However, these memories merely underlined the poverty of
Master Stanyhurst's teaching, animated only by his sense of duty. I escaped to my room
and my Orpheus book as often as possible.

My music won me a good reputation at the houses of Dublin merchants, but these were not
the noble houses and Master Richard explained that he was ambitious for me to attain
greater heights before my voice broke. That I would lose my angelic voice I refused to
believe and called him a silly old fool in my mind. Was that why he decided to place me
with the newly returned Lord Deputy, Sir Henry Sidney, 'Harry of the Big Beer' as I had
heard him named?

“You are going far in this life, Johnny, “ Master Stanyhurst told me, “and you will learn
more of the world's ways in a great house than you may with me. Perhaps Edmund and I
have not taught you enough of obedience and decorum, which is how to act a part suitable
to your station. Our dear Master Campion is above such things. To him all men are equal
under God.”

He gave me this instruction to read:

'Even the duke's son is the preferred page to the prince, the earl's second son attendant
upon the duke, the knight's second son the earl's servant, the squire's son wears the knight's
livery and the gentleman's son is the squire's serving man.

All this was new to me. “So what am I?” I thought but dared not ask. “What is the place
of a fisherman's son?”

14
 CHAPTER TWO

1576

When Master Stanyhurst and I presented ourselves at the gate of the former Priory of the
Hospitallers at Kilmainham, where Sir Henry Sidney held court, it was not an easy
entrance as I had been used to at Kilkea Castle. The gatekeeper questioned us closely
before having us taken to the steward. I thought this portly personage too short with
Master Stanyhurst. I had yet to learn that upper servants enjoyed the reflected glory of
their masters and that this one felt himself above a mere Irish Recorder's son. He had no
time to waste.

“Leave the boy here. Is this his property?” And he began to turn over disdainfully the
little pile of books, among them the music of Don Luys Milan.

“Wrap them in their cloth again and lay them in this press. You will have no need of
these.”

As he caught sight of my lute case, which I was attempting to hide behind my back lest it
should meet the same fate, his eyebrows shot up and his mouth gaped.

“How dare you come here with stolen property? This is the Earl of Leicester's own badge.
We must look into this. Meanwhile it is in my safe keeping.”

Master Stanyhurst hastily whispered in my ear that he would make all right in a letter to Sir
Henry Sidney. We had no time for goodbyes before I was hurried off by a lower servant to
the clerk of the kitchen and the steward returned to his wine.

The kitchen clerk was no more welcoming. “Why have you been sent to me? I have no
time for these interruptions!”

I tried to explain that I had been sent for to play and sing for Sir Henry but he seemed not
to hear.

“Why have you been sent to my office? All who come here must make themselves useful
to me.”

His dull surrounding colour was shot through with red. I thought it best to placate him in
some way. What could I do in a kitchen? My mind searched around desperately, rejecting
all my recent learning, until, suddenly, inspiration came to me. “Sir, I can gut fish.”

“Why didn't you say that at first? Wasting my time!” he grumbled.

~
In the swelter of the kitchens, Rob, I learned my place at last. The hierarchy did not end
with the gentleman's son. There was a pecking order below stairs and I was less than the
humble scullion detailed to have care of me.

15
Fish was not eaten every day, so I was given the added duties of wood and water carrier.
My good clothes were whisked away and I was handed a much worn and evil smelling
livery. All the servants' quarters in the garrets were full and I was shown a rough pallet
and told to bed down in a draughty passage. I soon learned not to complain.

“Cocksure little bastard! Who does he think he is, saying he can play the lute?” And I felt
the remembered weight of hands as horny as my father's and the boot in the rump which
kind treatment had caused me to forget. I began to wish that I had not been raised so high
by Master Campion, only to fall so low. With him my mind had been fully exercised.
Now it was, “Think? You are not here to think! Get to work! Who do you think you are?”

I who had soared as Ariel was Caliban once more. Without my Orpheus book and my lute,
condemned it seemed forever to a life of drudgery, a great dullness of spirit descended on
me.

Yet I remembered my teaching well enough to rise earlier than the rest and wash at the
pump in the yard and to risk a buffeting when I stole a little of the cook's perquisite, sheep
fat or even goose grease, to rub into my chapped hands. I found that a handful of
wormwood, pilfered when I was sent to gather herbs, kept my body and bed free of fleas. I
had kept my comb when they took my clothes and did my best to keep my thick, dark hair
free of lice. I determined not to lose my self respect, even though the stench of my second-
hand garb revolted me each time I put it on.

Yes, Rob, although my covering was thin, I slept in a naked bed, unlike the other scullions,
who wore their livery at all times like a second, filthy skin.

~
Skin...Skin? I must have nodded for a moment or two. Skin of my teeth? Oh, yes, a small
pad of clean cloth or a peeled stick... a singer must keep sweet breath. “I am escaped with
the skin of my teeth?” No, it begins, “My bone cleaveth to my skin and to my flesh...” Oh,
God, look at my old hands...I'm happier back with that boy again, young Johnny.....

I did escape by the skin of my teeth. Just as I thought I could bear it no longer and was
about to run away (but whither?) a message came, passed from a high servant to a lower,
that I was to be measured for a fine Sidney livery and come above stairs to wait on Masters
Philip and Robert Sidney, who had arrived on a visit to their father. Sir Henry had
received Master Stanyhurst's letter at last.

The kitchen clerk bit back his rancour. He had been reprimanded because of me and hated
me for it. I had been sent to him for a meal, not for work. Why had I misled him? He
hustled me on to the steward, who loftily handed me my lute case and books, almost as
though I should thank him for his care of my property.

I still had to sleep in a corridor, outside the young gentlemens' chamber, but I had a sheet
and blankets and the use of a cupboard where I could keep my books, safely hidden from
view in their cloth.

Master Philip could not keep his hands off my lute. “I don't believe it- it's signed by Laux
Maler! How came you by such a treasure?”

16
He did me the justice to believe my story. He had known Edmund Campion and his
generous nature in their Oxford days.

“I will ask my father to write an assurance that the lute belongs to you by right of gift, then
none can accuse you of theft. You must fix it securely inside the lid of the case. I think
we will change Dolan, though. The Irish have a bad reputation. What think you of
Dowland? The final 'd' gives it a more English ring.”

I would have changed my name to 'Dolesman' in that moment, so much did I feel myself
indebted to Master Philip. The brother, Master Robert, was a different matter. I was
ordered to help him with his lute playing and began with my earliest lessons which he
refused to accept.

“What nonsense! How can you dare to correct me? You are nothing but an Irish kern and
an uneducated savage, even if my brother has changed your name.” I bit my lip, with hard
learned restraint, and, once more, showed him the correct fingering.

We were of an age and Master Robert was not above playing truant and obliging me to
show him all the places where John Forster and I had enjoyed such carefree play. As I had
now learned to expect, I had the worst of it when our clothes were torn from climbing the
cliffs for sea birds' nests and, when our exploits were thus uncovered, I had the blame and
the beating.

“I don't know why you're snivelling. You're my whipping boy, just as my Lord father's
friend, McGillapatrick, Baron of Upper Ossory, was King Edward's.” And Master Robert
stalked away grandly.

I did not believe that a baron could be a whipping boy, but when we visited Ossory, myself
a humble member of Sir Henry's train, I found it was true, for the Lord Deputy embraced
his friend, calling him Barney Fitzpatrick and reminding him of the old days when they
were boys together at the school Queen Catherine Parr set up for Prince Edward. I thought
it over and came to the conclusion that if an English boy king had to have someone to bear
the punishment for his faults, it would naturally be an Irish boy, had he been an Earl's son.

~
I played and sang at dinner time for Sir Henry and his guests. The meal lasted from eleven
until three in the afternoon and I was hard pressed to vary my selection of songs and very
tired by the time the great ones rose from table and I could creep away in search of my own
food.

Sir Henry and Master Philip often threw me a kind look but some of the guests were oafish
and talked loudly all the way through my performance. I had been told in the servants'
quarters that we must show respect to all our 'betters', not only those who deserved it. Why
then, though they bowed and scraped to the 'great ones' in public, did they tear them to
pieces behind their backs? What I most hated below stairs was the miasma of bitterness
and gall. Revenge was taken for their condition of servitude in the most spiteful
scandalmongering expressed in foul language such as I had not heard since my Dalkey
days.....

17
Where was I, Rob? I am missing the point again. Ah, yes, I found a way to make the
dinner guests listen. I played music from my Orpheus book which had not been heard
before, I thought, outside the walls of my room at the Stanyhurst's. That reduced them to
silence as if by magic and it worked every time.

~
Master Philip came to me with a question. “How in the world did you learn that Spanish
music, Johnny? I found it in an old music book my mother, Lady Sidney, was given by a
grandee at Queen Mary and King Philip's court before I was born. You perhaps know that
King Philip of Spain is my godfather.” He was proud of that fact, I could see. I explained
that I had taught myself to play and had found it a hard task.

“I am sure of that, “ agreed Master Philip, “for I find the music impossible to master. I
envy you your skill in playing, Johnny. A lute belonging to my uncle, Leicester and 'El
Maestro' from the great Earl of Kildare! I wonder if you realise how fortunate you are?”

I murmured something about that not being my only good fortune and he seemed pleased.
Once, I had taken all good things that came my way for granted, but no longer since my
kitchen experiences had brought back the memories of my earliest days. Not an hour
passed now without thanks rendered in my mind to my benefactor, Master Campion, who
had been too modest to accept thanks when we had been together.

~
Trouble flared up in the West and the two sons accompanied their father to get a taste of
war. I was left behind and lay very low, lest I should be returned to my menial tasks. Soon
a diversion arrived. Kilmainham was suddenly abustle to welcome the Earl of Essex and
his retinue, fresh from England. Great dinners were held again in the hall and I was
allowed to play and sing, even though the Earl had brought with him his own musician,
John Hues. I was afraid at first that Hues might resent me and did all I could to wheedle
myself into his good books, as I had learned to do to ease my way below stairs. I need not
have troubled. He was far too good a fellow to bear any grudge; in fact, he was unstinting
in his praise.

“Does me good to be a listener for a change and to hear some new music. But watch out
for that lute. There are those who'll say you came by it dishonestly.”

I showed him the letter inside the lid and he told me to take great care of that. “Such a
beauty of a lute, “ he said dreamily, stroking the wood. “Do you know how best take care
of it?”

I said I knew how to restring my instrument and how to tune it, also that I put it carefully in
its case as soon as I had used it.

“That is good,” approved Hues, “because the chief thing is to keep your lute from getting
damp. Better than the case is a warm bed.” He could see from my face that I wanted to
laugh. “Oh, yes, as soon as you rise in the morning, place your lute between the two top
covers, not between the sheets for they are damp with sweat. Your lute is the best lady in

18
your bed, will sing more sweetly for it and cause you less heartache than the kind that trips
on two feet.”

I did laugh then, and told him his good advice was wasted at the moment as I had to sleep
on a pallet outside my masters' chamber and what would happen if some careless servant
dropped his burden on my bed and broke my beloved lute?

“Believe me, boy, you are not destined to sleep in corridors all your life. You will be a
great lutenist one day and have a servant of your own at your command. Now I will
explain to you what you might do to mend your lute should such an accident occur and
there is no good lutemaker at hand.”

Day after day, I listened carefully to his advice and it was of great help to me on my travels
though I have told you, Rob, to spend much time, as I did, watching a skilled lute repairer
at work before you take your lute to pieces.

We now noticed that Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, ate less and less at the dining table,
which he left hurriedly from time to time, returning with pallid cheeks and an exhausted
mien. I was not surprised when he took to his bed, for his fading colours told me he had
not long to live.

My friend, Hues, had no more time for me. He was needed in the sick-room, where all my
Lord wished for was hymn singing in which he joined with his failing voice. The doctors
bled and purged him, which further reduced his strength. Knocking timidly on the
chamber door one day to ask after the Earl's welfare and that of my friend, I was little
surprised when John peeped out, his face wet with tears. He came out, closing the door
carefully behind him.

“My master's dead,” he rasped, “poisoned, I'll be bound by that whoreson Leicester. They
say that slut, Lady Essex, for all she was spawned by the Puritan Knollys, has had two
bastards by Dudley already and now they're free to marry and get more of their kind. May
they all rot in hell and their bloody Doctor Julio, too.!” And he waved away the dish of
food I had brought him, continuing his invective in terms I did not then understand.

Indeed, there followed such a scandal that Sir Henry Sidney, who had come hurrying back
to Dublin, too late to bid his friend farewell, had to send the Council a report denying all
possibility of foul play, which failed to still the wagging tongues as to his brother-in-law's
involvement.

The Earl's death caused my life to take yet another turn. Master Philip wished me for his
own musician, so, when he and Master Robert accompanied the body to England for the
grand funeral, I, with John Hues, followed in their train. Miserably seasick, headed for an
unknown land, I longed, yet dreaded to arrive. How many troubled voyages have I known
since then, how many weary journeys, how many filthy foreign inns! Crossing the Irish
Sea was only the beginning of a long apprenticeship.....

~
Hark, hark! the rattlings!
'Tis hail.

19
 Make fast the tacklings.
Strike sail.
Make quick despatches;
Shut close the hatches;
Hold stern, cast anchor out,
This night we shall at random float.....

.....Well, that's cheerful, to wake up singing and an air of my own making! Maybe there'll
be less pain and I shall put down more of my story for you, Rob, while there's still time.

1577

We celebrated Christ's birthday at Penshurst, the first time I had spent Christmas with a
mother and her family, though Lady Mary Sidney was still sad at the loss of her daughter,
Ambrosia, and of pretty little Mary, swept off to Court by the Queen, for fear of her
catching the same illness.

One day, Lady Mary called me to her chamber. With the family, she did not use the mask
she always wore in public and I could detect no sign on her worn, yet still beautiful face, of
the smallpox she was supposed to have caught when she nursed the Queen.

“Play me some more of the Spanish music the young folk were dancing to the other night,”
she asked.

I have told you, Rob, I often played with my eyes closed, which helped me hear the music
better.

A sound came between me and the pavane I played and, looking up, I saw that Lady Mary
was weeping. Wiping her eyes, she asked, “How came you by that music?” And, later,
“Oh, I see. I know the Earl of Kildare and his great library and think he must have a copy
of every book in Europe. He thought well of you to make you such a fine gift.”

Reaching into a drawer, she brought out the fellow to my Orpheus book, only this one bore
a strange coat of arms.

“I will tell you the story of my music book. Those are the arms of Portugal. Don Luys
Milan dedicated his work to King John III; and his daughter, Maria, who was the same age
as my Mary is now, brought it with her to Spain when she married Prince Philip. Poor
young lady, she died in childbed within eleven months and the Prince remained a widower
for ten years until he came to England to marry our Queen Mary. He kept the book all that
time in memory of his little wife and had it beside him always until he did me the great
honour of presenting it to me at Master Philip's christening.”

“He must have thought very highly of you, my lady, “ I ventured. She ignored me and
continued, as if thinking aloud, “Sir Henry was of the party that went to Spain to escort the
bridegroom and I accompanied him with other ladies who spoke Spanish to welcome the
wives of the grandees in the Prince's train, who spoke no English.:

“Oh, my lady, you understand Spanish?” I exclaimed, unable to keep the envy from my
voice.

20
“There were three little girls, whose mothers were ladies in waiting when Catherine of
Aragon came to marry Prince Arthur and, later, became Queen to King Henry. One was
my mother, Jane Guildford, who became Duchess of Northumberland. They all learned
Spanish and spoke it with Princess Mary too. I learned Spanish also, to my joy and
sorrow. It was because my poor mother and I knew that language that my brothers were
released from the Tower. King Philip was a good lord to us and Queen Mary a good lady,
though my father and brothers had tried to keep her from the throne.....”

Lady Mary was silent, deep in her own thoughts. Then, “So you have taught yourself this
music without being able to read the instructions?”

I nodded and she went on, “Then you have great talent. If you will come to me each
morning and play the music of Don Luys Milan, I shall reward you by translating and
teaching you how to pronounce Spanish, which is an easy language to master.”

I stammered my thanks, which she brushed aside, saying she was a sick and lonely woman
and a fresh interest would be of benefit to her. In a week or so, I was able to read Don
Luys Milan's wise words and make some necessary corrections to my playing.

When I heard an insolent page boy, who had been reprimanded by Master Philip, mutter
behind his back that “Spanish byblows had better mind their words”, I had the first fight of
my life, and won. My famous stare was not enough to relieve my angry feelings at the
insult to my kind mistress.

~
One Saturday evening in January, when we were in London again, Master Philip called me
to him.

“Tomorrow, we must be up betimes and break our fast early. After that nothing but water
or wine must pass our lips for seven hours. See that you are well washed and that your lute
is in good order. You will help me dress tomorrow and, as soon as we leave the house,
hold your tongue, for we must refrain from speech as well as food.”

With these mystifying words, he dismissed me. It was obvious we were not going to
Sunday service and I lay awake half the night, wondering what was afoot. Very early next
morning, I put on my new Sidney livery, which had been my New Year's gift, and hurried
to Master Philip's chamber. A fine new suit of orange velvet lay ready on a chest. It took
me some time to dress my master, as that was usually a task for two servants, and I
fumbled over the points in tying on his huge, padded trunks and detachable sleeves. Last
of all, my master produced the most beautiful ring I had ever seen.

“My mother gave it to me, “ he said proudly. “My godfather, King Philip, meant it for me
as a christening gift and it has been kept safely ever since. I must have been a puny babe,
indeed a seven months' child, expected to grow up a weakling, as it fits only my little
finger. Still, it will serve. Now, these must be my last words to you until we arrive at our
destination.”

He said one word after that, “Mortlake”, thrown as an order to the boatman. It was misty
and the trees were shrouded. A chill wind cut right through me and I shivered, less with

21
cold than in anticipation of what might lie ahead. After what seemed an eternity of silence
broken only by the swish of the oars through the water and the hoarse coughing of the
boatman, we reached a landing stage. Tossing a coin in payment, Master Philip hurried me
up a long path to a house whose main door already stood open, framing a tall black-clad
figure, whose outline would have been hard to pick out in the early morning gloom were it
not for the golden surround which I now realised I alone could discern.

Feeling relieved that we were in the presence of a good man, I took my master's heavy
cloak as he stepped inside the house.

“Well met on the Sun's day, Master Philip, “ and, holding up his candle, our white-bearded
host added, “wearing the Sun's colour also.” And as my master stretched forth his hand in
greeting, this dignified personage approved in his mellow voice, “The gold and diamond
ring, just as it should be. And this is the young lutenist, looking very much in awe of me.
Obey me in all things, boy, as do my pupils and no harm will befall.” And he chuckled.

He gave us each a candle stick, and, lighting our candles from his own, preceded us down a
long, narrow passage. As he flung open the first door we reached, I saw it was a library
and schoolroom both and my swift intake of breath caused our guide to say, “Never seen as
many books as this, eh? There are four thousand volumes on these shelves.”

I ventured to reply that I had seen a great number of books in the Earl of Kildare's library at
Kilkea, but that he had only one copy of each work, whereas I noticed here there were
several of the same.

“Aha, an observant lad, Philip, who keeps good company. I think he will do very well for
us.”

My master spoke for the first time. “We must still measure our words, Johnny. Doctor
Dee has invited us here to carry out a great work and your music is a part of it.”

As we passed into the next room, my feelings of apprehension returned. The heat from the
glowing stove was overpowering, as were the many odours unrecognisable to me. Our
flickering candles revealed racks of tools hanging on the walls and containers of all shapes
and sizes covering the benches and the floor, some filled with mysterious liquids, some,
fat-bellied, narrow-necked glass vessels, whose use I could not imagine, seemed ready to
discharge their strange contents into deep bowls. Bellows of every size and shape lay
scattered among sieves, books, pots, brooms and brushes, I know not what else, as if work
carried out here moved at a furious pace and order was out of the question.

Master Philip seemed not a whit disturbed as we picked our way to the door at the end of
this outlandish room (or laboratory, as I supposed) above which were ranged skeletal
heads of rams and goats, which had a sinister aspect in these unfamiliar surroundings.

I was glad when the next door opened into a more harmonious sanctum. All was order
here but still it was strange. A great flaming sun occupied most of one wall and on another
was a huge sign that reminded me of nothing so much as the horned figures approaching
the Underworld in my Orpheus picture. Underneath, in clear lettering, I read the words,
'Monas Hieroglyphica'. On the third wall a sort of tree was depicted, labelled 'The Tree of
Life'. We could put down the candles now - this room was better lit and the walls were

22
partly draped in the same vivid orange as my master's doublet and hose. There was a spicy
smell of cinnamon and cloves, I thought, remembering my kitchen days.

Doctor Dee handed us each a bowl of orange-scented water in which to cleanse our hands
and gave us each a spotless cloth to dry them with. Then he solemnly anointed our
foreheads from a handsome pot, labelled 'Oleum Magicale'. It was like a religious
ceremony and yet unlike any I had known. Its strangeness caused my knees to knock, all
the more as I now saw, in the centre of the room, a great chalk circle left a little open.
Inside, stood an altar, covered with an orange cloth, facing east, where there had been
placed on the ground a sprig of mistletoe. To the west, still inside the circle, was a
curiously worked cup containing water into which Doctor Dee sprinkled a little salt. My
mouth was parched and it seemed an age since drink had passed my lips. To the south, one
of the candles had been placed and the north was marked by a clod of earth. I dared not
ask the meaning of these dispositions and trembled the more.

The altar bore an incense burner from which emanated the pleasant, spicy smell. A card
with a five-pointed star stood next to a small gavel and another candle cast light on a
miniature sword and a gold-tipped wand. A stool and a music stand completed the
furnishings of the magic circle and on the stand was the fellow of my Orpheus book.

Doctor Dee stepped inside the circle, beckoning us to follow. He then closed the circle,
saying, “We need fear no demons, but I counsel you both to remain within this bound until
I give you leave to go.” He motioned to Master Philip to kneel at the altar and waved me
to the stool, where I sat with my lute, facing the book, left open at the most solemn
fantasia. I knew it by heart and closed my eyes as was my wont to see the music in colour.

I heard Doctor Dee begin to chant, in Greek, I thought, and I wished I had paid more
attention to Master Stanyhurst's teaching. It seemed to be an invocation to Apollo from the
few words I managed to recognise. As I played, the colours began to swirl in brilliant
swathes of rainbow hue. The celebrant's words faded as the music became more potent,
lifting me, as always, out of my mortal frame to realms of bliss.

Sca..sca..sca..sca.. I fell into darkness with an unpleasant feeling, as though my head would
burst. In the distance, a little light shone and came nearer.....

I was standing at the top of a flight of wooden stairs, looking down at a sombrely clad man
with a kind, tired face. As he put his foot on the first tread, a man came out of a dark
archway at the side and fired a gun point-blank into the other's breast. The wounded man
fell back into the arms of a follower. I heard no sound, but, as the victim's colours faded, I
knew he was on the point of death.....

I came back with a click in my head, to find Doctor Dee supporting me on the stool,
holding a cup to my lips, and Master Philip standing over me in wonder and horror, the
blood drained from his face.

“My God, Johnny, “ he breathed, “I thought we had killed you!” I did indeed feel very
sick and my head ached unbearably.

Doctor Dee was impatient. “You saw, boy? Tell us what it was before the vision fades.” I
told them as best I could. “What did you hear?” Doctor Dee was insistent. I told him

23
nothing after the four taps and those, he said were the four taps of the gavel, which ended
the ceremony, which was when I ceased playing. Then I remembered one thing more.

“The wounded man wore round his neck a dark-coloured medal with a device of two hands
clasped in a wallet. As he fell, the medal turned over and, on the reverse. were words, in
Latin, I think. I only remember the first one, 'Fideles'. I know that is the Latin for
'faithful'.”

I felt so sick that I had to lie down on the floor until I felt well enough for the two men to
support me to the waiting boat in the bottom of which I straightway fell into a deep sleep.

That, Rob, was the strangest day of my young life, and it was some years before I realised
its full significance.

24
 CHAPTER THREE
My house tyrant, old Mall, will give me one of her scoldings. I have slept in my chair most
of the night and the smell of the burnt out candle will give the lie to my excuses. God, my
neck's stiff - more crippled than the rest of my creaking bones! When John Hues said I
would be a famous lutenist and have a servant, I'll wager he never imagined Mall - no
smart livery and “Yes sir, certainly sir,” for her! Ah, well, she brings me washing water,
food of a sort and empties my chamber pot. What more does an old man need?

I had a visit from my friend, Henry Peacham, yesterday, just as I was thinking of him.
There was a bird outside the window, sitting on a branch, and, in my head, I had just
begun to recite his poem:

Here Philomel, in silence sits alone,

In depth of winter, on the bared briar.....

thinking it was a long time since I had sounded anything like a nightingale and that it was
April now, not December, when his familiar knock came at the door.

Our friendship is an attraction of opposites. Henry can put down in a few lines a drawing
of what he observes. I hardly know what is happening around me, unless my attention is
caught by a flash of colour. All my seeing is in my head; his is of this world only. There
are few geniuses combining every talent as did Leonardo.

Today, Henry brought me a most useful gift. I had told him I was writing my story for you,
Rob, and he gave me great encouragement. Knowing that I am only at ease in my great
chair, he had a hinged board made to act as a writing desk. As he fixed it, he told me the
latest news. Buckingham is off to France to make the final arrangements for Baby
Charles's marriage and Inigo Jones (known to me in Denmark) has plans for a Triumphal
arch and I know not what else on his drawing board. Spenser and I had our differences
over poetry and music. Jones and Ben Jonson fight to the death over words and scenery.
The music is always drowned out by chattering courtiers now so is no longer worth a
quarrel.

~
I was glad to see Henry but felt exhausted when he went. I seem to have energy only for
my story, and almost resent any interruption.

I will tell you a strange thing. My head is as full of the old music as ever but now that my
skill on the lute is much diminished, voices from the past rise in my mind and I can hear
snatches of conversation I hardly knew I had been conscious of at the time. I suppose I
have translated them into the simple language in which I think. I was never a wordsmith,
except when deep feelings urged me. I believe we can all be poets when deeply moved
whether by bliss or misery. Most of the time, for me, plain language serves.....Where was I
with my story?

25
 February, 1577
After the visit to Doctor Dee, I felt wary of playing my Orpheus music and left my
precious book with Lady Mary Sidney for safe keeping while out of England, for I was to
join Master Philip's retinue in a few days time, when he set out for Europe on a great
Embassy of combined commiseration and congratulation to two new rulers.

We paid another swift visit to renew our farewells to Lady Sidney, who was not in the best
of health or spirits. I now regretted parting with my Orpheus book and, while the company
were at dinner, always a protracted meal, I pleaded a call of nature and slipped up to Lady
Mary's chamber for one last glimpse of my much loved picture. Hardly had I turned a
page, when a heavy tread sounded in the corridor and a man's and a woman's voice, fierce
in controlled anger. The heavy curtains were closed and I just managed to slip behind
them and make myself small on the window seat, clutching my book, when the door was
thrown open.

Lady Mary's tones were such as I had never heard from her - sharp and complaining.
“Why am I always the family scapegoat? 'Mary, escort Lady Jane to her place as Queen,'
which ended in her death and brother Guildford's. 'Mary, you speak Spanish, go and tell
lies about Elizabeth to Ambassador de Quadra.' Only I knew nothing of your deceit,
Robin, until the Queen flew at me tooth and nail. 'Mary, I have got the Queen with child,'
and here her voice rose almost to a scream. 'Pile lie upon lie, take the baby for my own,
learn to love her dearly, then just as I lose another daughter, snatch my Mary away to court
at the Queen's whim.....” And my dear lady fell into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

“Control yourself, woman. That is far in the past and what is done cannot be undone. All I
am asking now is that you should go to Lady Douglas Sheffield, explain that our marriage
was not legal and demand that she gives up our son to me.” The man's voice sounded
haughty and, at the same time, wilful.

“After four years, supposing herself to be your wife, Robin, is she to be cast aside, or,
perhaps, like poor Amy, fall conveniently to her death? Or is she to die in agony,
poisoned,like Walter, who stood between you and Lettice Knollys? What ill will you do to
me and mine if I refuse you this?”

“You may be sure that Philip will no longer be my heir if you persist in acting like a
hysterical fishwife. Who are you to put on such high and mighty airs when we know that
Henry was mistaken in his pride that 'the great King, Philip of Spain' was his long-awaited
son's gossip. You and I are tarred with the same brush, dear Sister Mary. 'Traitors for
three generations', Bess said of the Dudleys. Let her wait until my lawful marriage to
Lettice provides me with a true-born son, then she can eat her words.”

And the man I now knew to be the great Earl of Leicester, the patron of Master Campion
and the original owner of my lovely lute, stamped furiously from the room.

I dared not creep out to comfort Lady Mary. The angry conversation I had overheard
would prove my death warrant should my eavesdropping ever become known. Shivering
behind the curtain, I waited until my Lady's sobs had ceased and then until I heard her
close the door when the sound of her slippers tap-tapping down the landing told me that
the coast was clear and that I might replace the Orpheus book.

26
I had no glimpse of Robert Dudley's face. He had come on a secret errand and rode away
like a thief in the night. I knew now that Master Campion had come to Ireland to avoid the
machinations of an evil man. Back in the great hall, I watched Lady Mary next to her son
at the high table act the gracious hostess as though naught in the world had disturbed her
quietude.

That night, I pondered the overheard conversation. If, as Lady Mary had told me, her
knowledge of Spanish had helped release Robert Dudley and his brothers from the Tower,
I felt that he had every reason to be grateful to her. To make unfair demands on one who
had saved his life seemed to me overweening. I had not learned then as much as I now
know of man's ingratitude. I might say that I put the whole matter out of my mind,
unknowing that every last scrap is stored in that small but capacious organ, to be
unleashed, all unawares, at a later date.

~
Back in London, all was now hustle and bustle as final preparations for our journey were
put in train. I had not only my own affairs to worry about but was given the charge of a
younger boy, Henry Danvers, Master Philip's page.A most precocious lad, he set about
informing me of the private history of the adult members of our party, so that the sea-
crossing passed quickly enough, though too slowly for the bad sailors among us.

“Fulke Greville is Philip Sidney's best friend. They entered Shrewsbury School on the
same day. Old Sir Fulke comes from a line of rich sheep breeders, but he doesn't let you
forget that his wife is a Neville and their house is called Beauchamp Court. They're also
connected with the Willoughby de Brokes, so Fulke is as well born as Master Philip.” I
took little notice of this at the time, but understood in later life why Greville angled for
Warwick Castle and, before that, chose the title of Baron Brooke of Beauchamp Court
when Jamie was selling titles to augment his income.

Another time, my young mentor informed me that Sir Henry Lee, an experienced traveller
in the Netherlands and Germany, was Queen Elizabeth's brother, as he was the son of
Queen Anne Boleyn and Sir Thomas Wyatt. I had played and sung Wyatt, so that was of
some interest, though none of what I was now learning of the great ones agreed with
Master Campion's moral teaching. I was, however,able to add my titbit of gossip, that Sir
Henry's nephew, Thomas Lee, had come to Ireland with the Earl of Essex and that I had
seen him swaggering about Dublin, a ne'er do well from all I had heard.

“Edward Dyer is also a great friend of my master's but he has very little fortune. He
speaks many languages and has the reputation of being an alchemist. Certainly, he
introduced Master Philip and Fulke Greville to Doctor John Dee, the Queen's magician.”

I did not feel comfortable at this reminder of the happenings at Mortlake and quickly
changed the subject. “And how do you know so much, may I ask?”

“Oh, I keep my eyes and ears open,” said Henry, airily, and skipped off to watch the
preparations for our ship's landing.

27
No need to describe to you, Rob, the journeyings that followed - spavined jades, myself
always riding in their stinking wake; carts, shaking our bones over the cobbles; boats;
barges; inns full of fleas,the beds infested by bugs; courts and castles no better below
stairs than the most noisome pothouse. You knew it all when you yourself reached the
furthest bounds of Europe.

Where are you now? France? Italy? Any place where your lute will earn you a crust.
Even in England, I doubt that you would be by my side. What, you would be up and
hastening off about some business of your own before I had finished two sentences! That is
why I sit now in my chair and write, hoping that when I am dead, you will stay in one place
long enough to get to know John Dowland.

~
We went first to Brussels and found the streets crammed with Spanish soldiers and German
landsknechts. We soon moved on to Louvain to find the new Governor General, Don John
of Austria, who was laggard in his promise to clear the towns of occupying armies, instead,
holding court in the grandest manner. Henry Danvers and I went to see him shoot down
the popinjay with his longbow from a mast one hundred and fifteen feet tall and heard him
proclaimed 'King of the Year' and saw the Captain of the Guild place the golden popinjay
round his neck.

“You know, of course,” imparted the ever knowledgeable Henry Danvers, “that he is the
baseborn son of King Philip's father and was brought up with Philip's own son, Don
Carlos, who is mad.” I was no more interested in that than the talks Master Philip had with
the victor of Lepanto (another piece of information from Henry).

From time to time, I managed to escape from my garrulous charge and made friends with
one of the court lutenists with whom I conversed in a mixture of Spanish and Latin. He
told me of a strange old English musician, who was a good Catholic, living in exile in
Louvain, and he took me past the great University from which Erasmus had been expelled,
and through a maze of side turnings to the house of one John Heywood. Leaving me to
knock and gain entry, he was off and I was glad that there were still Spanish soldiers in the
streets of whom I might manage to ask the way back.

An old, bent woman answered my knock and, with great difficulty I made her understand
whom I had come to see. She opened a door on a scene of indescribable chaos. I had
thought Doctor Dee's laboratory untidy enough but that was the disorder of work in
progress. This was the derangement of inactivity. I am afraid that, even with Mall's
administrations, I shall come to it yet - every available space littered with old lutes, music
books, manuscripts, unwashed crockery, cast-off garments, a full chamber pot (though I
fear the fireplace had been used more often as a receptacle) and all the paraphernalia that
surrounds a life inevitably coming to its close.

It was some time before I could distinguish the black-clad figure hunched in a rickety chair
by too small a fire to give much light to the dusky room. When the eighty year old turned
his lined face to me, he spoke in Latin,asking me my name and telling me his own. When
he learned that I spoke English and was a lutenist, there was no holding the old fellow.

28
“Light a candle. Johnny Dowland, eh? Much too young to have heard of old John, who
was once the heart of King Henry's court. Merry John, he called me and many's the time
he rocked in his chair at my quips. Plays I wrote, as well as poems. After his death, I
served young Edward.....”

“Did you know Queen Mary and Prince Philip?” I asked, excitedly.

“I knew all at court and in those days young whipper-snappers had better manners than to
interrupt,” he replied, sharply. “ I wrote Princess Mary a poem, a false one, praising her
beauty. I was a courtier then and lied to royalty at the drop of a hat. Sweet Jesus, what an
ugly woman! And your Bess is no better with her sharp face. She drove me from my
home to end my days among strangers. I could tell tales of her.....I see you have brought
your lute.” He bent over it to see the better. “ Holy Virgin...signed by Laux Maler!” and he
stroked it lovingly, begging me to play to him. I began with one of the songs from my
Orpheus book which I knew by heart in Spanish.

“That takes me back to the days when grandees and their fine ladies filled the court. They
were shocked at our English custom of greeting with a kiss on the mouth but they soon
learned such habits in the privacy of their chambers. Little Jane Dormer married one of
them, the Count of Feria, and her cousin, Mary Sidney, aimed even higher...”

“Do not speak of that,” I interrupted, hot with anger. “ You calumniate a lady whom I
admire above all others.”

“Hoity toity,” said the old man, “I like to see some loyalty among the youth of today so I
will overlook your show of temper. Play me some more of the music of Don Luys Milan.”
~
While Master Philip stayed in Louvain, I visited Master Heywood every day, taking him
delicacies I saved from the remains of the banquets held at Don John's court. The old man
lapped up every drop of gossip from the outside world I could obtain for him and, while I
was talking, he allowed me to put his room to rights as best I could. He would not let me
touch the music manuscripts, saying he knew where each one had its place and he directed
me to find the copy of his 'Willow Song' which was later heard in the play 'Othello'. He
asked me to sing it for him and was kind enough to say that I performed almost as well as
he himself when young.

“Certainly better,” he said, “than the poor lutenist, Mark Smeaton, whom they said was
your Queen's father and was hanged for it. But there came a truly great lutenist to King
Henry's court, sent by French Francis. He was an Italian, named Alberto da Ripa, whom
the French called Albert de Rippe. The Frenchman, Marot, (not a bad poet for a Protestant)
wrote of him as Orpheus, and so he was indeed - his playing could have brought the dead
to life. Not poor Anne Boleyn, though.”

He then whispered in my ear a tale so shocking that I did my best to put it from my mind.
He claimed he had heard it from Sir Thomas More, and that his own wife, Joan Rastell,
was the daughter of that great man's brother-in-law. That dire secret was the reason Sir
Thomas perished on the sca- scaffold. I can hardly bring myself to write the word, even
now.

29
Master Heywood was generous to me, as the old often are when their need for possessions
is ended. As well as precious manuscripts of the music of Albert de Rippe, he gave me his
own half filled Album Amicorum, saying “Let me be the first to sign your book and may
there be many more friends to come.” He wrote in a shaking hand,'Johannes Heywode, ut
Orpheus alter, instrumentorum studiosus, musica et poeta, habebat in sua lingua gratiam.'

I bade farewell with tears in my eyes to that 'other Orpheus', thinking it better to be torn to
pieces like the first one, than to die neglected in a little room. Yet, that may be my fate,
Rob, and I was Orpheus in my turn.

~
We travelled to Cologne, where Master Dyer had old friends and I was able to visit a
lutemaker's workshop and have my beautiful lute refurbished. Then down the Rhine,
stopping at inns or castles on the way. I played a game with Henry of forecasting what
would be round the next bend in the river.

After a while he tired of this. “It's too easy. All the Rhine castles are much the same. Tell
me something of what we will see once we go inside.”

We made a detour at Mainz for Hanau, where the count was a friend of Master Philip from
his previous European journey. I surpassed myself by describing, unseen, an unusual and
valuable silver cup that had been in his family for generations. Master Philip disliked this
game when it was brought to his notice, but the other gentlemen found it great sport to
have their fortunes told. As they would take no denial, I found it easier to invent their
futures. When they believed me, I despised them for their credulity and, at the same time,
felt guilt for my deception.

Though I lacked respect for such masters, I knew only too well that I needed them. As a
masterless man in England, as Henry Danvers took pleasure in reminding me, I might be
branded and imprisoned as were beggars. What misfortunes might befall a homeless boy
in a foreign country kept my rebellious nature servile and sharpened my wits in learning
German. I began to dream that Master Sidney's train had saddled up early and ridden on
without me and I would start awake in a cold sweat of fear.

At every resting place, I sang till I was hoarse and played my fingers to the bone so that
they ached to match the rest of my body, bruised from the jolting of my master's worst nag.
Approaching Heidelberg, I almost fell asleep in the saddle and found myself saying,
“There is a great picture somewhere in the castle of the murder of Admiral Coligny.”

Master Sidney turned sharply in his saddle. “How could you possibly know that?”
Turning to his friends,he continued, “The late Elector Palatine was so angered when Henry
III of France visited him after the evil massacre of St. Bartholomew's Eve, which I myself
witnessed in Paris, that he set up a huge picture of the shameful deed and stood before it at
the head of his staircase as Henry arrived - not that a Valois can be shamed. I saw the
picture myself when I was last in Heidelberg.”

I began to feel alarmed. This was only a flash of 'seeing', less than when I 'saw' the Earl of
Kildare and myself and of no duration compared with the death on the stairs I 'saw' at
Doctor Dee's house. The two last were connected, I thought with the Orpheus music,

30
which I had been very careful to avoid playing since we left Louvain, as Spanish music
was unpopular at the Protestant courts we visited. Also I wished to experience no more of
the vertigo and sickness which seemed to follow a 'seeing'. I much regretted the game of
guessing and the pretence of fortune telling with which I had meant to ingratiate myself
with Henry Danvers and the rest.

My companions now looked at me strangely and Henry said in private, “I hope you cannot
read minds, Johnny. You would soon be in trouble then.” I hastily denied this ability,
saying that just occasionally I saw a picture in my mind's eye and surely there was no harm
in that, to which Henry replied, meaningly, with the one word 'Witchcraft', threatening to
have me ducked in the river Neckar.

Prince Casimir was at the court and condolences on his father's death were delivered to
him, but Prince Lewis was absent, so Master Philip arranged to return on our way home,
which pleased his friend.

We now journeyed on to Prague where, on Easter Monday, Queen Elizabeth's condolences

were offered to the new Emperor Rudolf.

“Master Philip should leave you with him,” said Henry Danvers, nastily, “for he is fond of
magicians and queer folk of every kind.”

~
I was still sulking next day when Master Philip called me to him. “I am going to the
University to talk with an old Oxford friend, Johnny, and you may attend me.”

My mind ran riot with hateful possibilities. Suppose he was going to leave me there with
my lute to be examined by learned doctors to see if I was possessed by spirits and must be
put to death as a wizard? I trudged up the great staircase as slowly as I could, keeping my
gaze on my feet, not noticing the marvellous book lined Library as we entered, though, at
any other time, I would have devoured it with my eyes. My morbid thoughts were
interrupted as I heard Master Philip exclaim, “Well met Edmund,or should I now say
Father Campion?”

Looking up in utter unbelief, my heart turned over in my breast as I saw my long lost
master. Rushing towards him, I remembered my manners at the last moment and, falling
to my knees, kissed his hand.

“Why, Johnny, what a joyful surprise! Nay, never weep,” and he raised me to my feet with
the gentle hands I remembered so well. “This is indeed a meeting of old friends,” he
explained, turning to Master Sidney, who, standing back, was gazing at us in an amused
fashion.

I played my best quietly, as background to their conversation, not the music of Don Luys
Milan, though I longed to show what I could do, but that of Albert de Rippe, my fears still
lingering. Eyes closed, I was savouring the tones of Father Campion's beloved voice, when
Master Philip's words roused me from my reverie.

31
“It is courteous of you to meet me here Edmund. I fear I would have been unwelcome at
the Jesuit College.”

“Rather say that my poor cell there would have been unfit for such a magnificent
ambassador,” responded Father Campion, (and more a true father to me than any I had
known.) Turning to me, my true master, as I shall now call him, said, “I can hear that you
have made good progress on the lute and have no more need of the restricting string. But
what of the Latin?” And he launched into a series of questions in that language to which I
replied as fluently as I could.

Observing Master Philip's raised eyebrows, I saw I was in for close questioning when we
left the library. He considerately gave me leave for a private talk with my friend for a short
while and retired to the other end of the vast room to examine the books.

“Well, Johnny, you find yourself in fine company,” smiled Father Campion. “Are you
happy?”

I wanted to say that I had never known true happiness since he left Ireland but held back. I
said that I had kind masters, was well fed and housed and felt myself lucky. After giving
him a hurried account of my adventures, I confessed that there was a matter that gave me
much concern and I told him about the true 'seeing' and the pretending.

My true master was silent for what seemed to me a long time. Finally he said, “All God's
gifts are good, my son, and we must strive to accept them and put them to the best possible
use. The gift of prescience belonged to the prophets of the Old Testament. If you hold it
in respect and use that talent wisely, you cannot accuse yourself of witchcraft. Also, if you
will use your great gift of music as did David with Saul,for the purpose of healing, and not
merely to give pleasure, you will repay in part for the power which has been bestowed on
you. Cultivate both your talents in all humility, obey your masters and promise me that
you will never 'pretend' again. I am under a vow of obedience and of poverty, which
makes us very much alike. Does not my rough, monkish robe remind you of your old,
Irish cloak?” And we ended by laughing together as we so often did in the past.

When the time came, all too soon, for us to part, Father Campion embraced me, saying,
“Use the gifts we have spoken of with great care so that you are never tempted to abuse
them. And, without incurring the sin of pride, remember that, in your country, a bard and
seer ranks as high as any noble born. You are a friend and pupil I shall never forget, John
Dowland. I look forward to our next meeting.”

But we were not to meet again in this world. After that I would not answer to Johnny. I
needed the man's name my true master had given me.

~
For the rest of the journey I felt my fifteen year life renewed. I carolled like an angel as we
rode. My masters composed poems and I set them to music so that, when we reached
Heidelberg again, I had a fresh collection of songs for Prince Casimir, who though more of
a soldier than a poet, enjoyed a good tune.

32
We went to Neustadt to track down Prince Lewis and, when the condolences and
congratulations were delivered to him, the embassy was officially at an end. However,
Master Philip did not wish to leave Europe without meeting the great Prince William of
Orange, so we journeyed on to Middelburg, where we found the Princess with her new
baby for whom, according to new instructions, he was to stand gossip on behalf of his
uncle.

The Prince was expected back next day from the Estates meeting so we English arranged a
welcome in song for him. We rehearsed his anthem, 'Wilhelmus van Nassouwe', twisting
our tongues round the strange words and mastering its triumphant rhythm. I was to sing
the first verse alone, my angelic voice soaring to the high rafters of the hall. The others
would then join in and the Prince would enter to a paeon of praise.

I was not at all nervous, as we had rehearsed so well under Master Philip's guidance. A
movement at the great door and the whispered instruction, “Now!” launched me into the
first verse, as a casual group of plainly dressed men sauntered into the hall. As I sang, I
searched their faces to see which of these very unremarkable men might be the Prince.....

My skin crept, my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and I stood in frozen silence as I
recognised the kind, tired face of the man of my Mortlake 'seeing', around his neck the
medal and, beside him this time the follower into whose arms he had collapsed, mortally
wounded.

My master's presence of mind quickly covered my lapse and his choir burst into song at the
point where I had failed..When he called me to him, I was shaking in my shoes and he was
white with anger. Wearing his orange suit in honour of the Prince, he reminded me more
than ever of the strange occurrence at Doctor Dee's house. I was glad to kneel before him
to still the trembling in my limbs which had not ceased since the real William of Orange
came to my view. Stammering, I gave the best explanation I could.

“Without a time and a place it is of no use as a warning,” mused my master, no longer

angry. “Are you sure you remember nothing further that might guide us?” I shook my
head miserably. “Then best we keep silent. Mind, not a word to a soul.” I was far from
wanting to spread the word that I was a wizard, even if Father Campion had used the word
'seer'. I promised gratefully.

That night, my sleep was sorely troubled. The next day, when I tried to sing, I found my
voice had deserted me.

33
 CHAPTER FOUR
“Hey day, master...” Thus my Mall, about to scold me for staying up all night again. I
close my ears to the rest. Little she knows that I was thinking kindly of her in the small
hours, found music paper and pen and composed a melody for her with 'Mall Sims' in
sprawling letters at the top of the page. It is long since I have written tablature and it is
somewhat crooked but you will be able to play it for her, Rob, when you return and
perhaps I shall still be here to see her lined face smile. If I am not, reward her and give my
thanks for her care of a crotchety, old man, though hardly older than herself. Women are
made of durable stuff.....

A beautiful young lady came up from the country to visit me today, one of my pupils,
Margaret Board, newly married and Mistress Borne now. She brought me news of my
grand daughter who sent a moss lined basket filled with my favourite flowers, violets and
primroses from Lindfield woods. My pupil is perfecting her French now, as that will be the
fashionable language when the new Queen arrives. We practised conversing in that
tongue, though mine is rusty, and she played and sang some of the old songs and gave me
news of Sussex neighbours. Bless her heart for bringing some sunshine into my day. Now
to my story...

June, 1577
I had thought myself under a spell and that my singing voice had gone for ever, but I
suppose it was only the shock of my 'seeing' coming true. In any case, it was time for my
voice to change and I went through the usual squeaking and growling until it settled, after
which I never had cause to boast of my singing again. I worked all the harder at my lute.
Master Philip had brought my Orpheus book back from Penshurst and I managed to
convince myself that the beloved music of Don Luys Milan had nothing to do with my
seeings. I practised industriously, improving all the time now that I had a good grasp of
the Spanish instructions.

We stayed at Leicester House. Luckily the Earl, whom I dreaded to meet, when not at
Court, dancing attendance on the Queen, spent much time at his new home of Wanstead,
where he was keeping Lady Essex, as she was still named, though the servants, who heard
everything, said behind their hands that a secret marriage ceremony had been performed.

Master Sidney was delighted to have the run of his uncle's great house and invited all his
friends there, Master Greville and Master Dyer especially, and all the talk was of language
and poetry. Sometimes admitted to the circle was a messenger and secretary to the Earl
who had not long come down from Cambridge. He was sickly looking and boasted that he
was kin to the Spensers of Althorp. He was over respectful to my masters and
overweening towards me. I did not like this Edmund Spenser.

Most happily, in this house, I had a cubby-hole of my own where I could practise and
compose my music. I would hide away at every opportunity and play my Orpheus music
until, in a cloud of rainbow colours, I would rise above this mortal world, where even those
who seemed most fortunate were deep in anger and deceit. It was always a rude shock
when a loud call brought me back to earth again. I began to resent more and more having
to play for an audience.

34
My place was to eat with the servants, and, when I chose to listen to their gossip, I kept in
touch with news that seldom came my master's way. He would have been disconcerted to
learn that, while the Earl of Leicester was taking the waters at Buxton that summer, he was
also arranging a marriage between two children - his base-born son, Robert, and the little
Lady Arbella Stuart, grand daughter of the richest woman in England, Bess of Hardwick.
Lady Arbella was the orphan child of Charles, brother of the ill-fated Henry Darnley and
had a good claim to be the next Queen of England, as, unlike James of Scotland, she was
English born. Leicester was not one to miss a trick and if a legitimate son was born, the
groundwork was already laid and the base-born Robert would quickly be replaced. I
remembered the angry conversation when he had shouted that Philip would no longer be
his heir. He was now keeping to his threat.

~
Queen Elizabeth held no public celebration on her birthday, but her self appointed
Protestant champion, Sir Henry Lee, exerted himself to make her Accession Day on
November l7th (the date Doctor Dee had chosen as the most propitious) a public spectacle
to outshine any Catholic feast and set Elizabeth up as a Virgin to outdo Mary. 'Vivat Eliza
for an Ave Mary' as he wrote and I set to music in my 'Second Book of Songs'. Master
Philip, Sir Henry, Masters Greville and Dyer laboured for weeks, choosing a theme for the
entertainment, writing the words and devising splendid and unusual costumes. I, naturally,
was in demand to compose the music.

When the day came, I saw Queen Elizabeth for the first time, seated on high, surrounded
by fawning courtiers, dressed in white and gold with flashing jewels, a huge red wig atop, a
great ruff and golden lace collar outlining her head like a halo, and paint so thick on her
face that her true features could hardly be distinguished. I recalled what Father Campion
had taught me of the Greek actors with their masks and buskins and realised this
exaggerated dress was necessary for the general sort who had paid their threepences to get
a good view of their monarch in the Whitehall Tiltyard. What the real Elizabeth was like I
had yet to learn.

Christmas was spent at Wilton, now the home of the sixteen year old bride of the old Earl
of Pembroke. She who had been the second Lady Mary Sidney was wild for company and
so regretted having missed the Tilts that Master Philip described them for her in a long-
running story, later published as 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia'. She was a sweet
lady to me, only a little older than myself, and she loved to dance to my music and sing my
songs in a small, true voice. I would have played for her until I dropped and, under her
influence, I came out of my shell and began to feel young rather than ageless.

We acted out a Court of Love. I was the humble troubadour, while Master Philip wrote
poems to Mira, Fulke Greville to Myra and Edward Dyer to Amaryllis. All was laughter,
joy and the vying of lively minds. Our charming hostess cast her spell over us all. I
brought a smile to her lips with my 'Frog Galliard', mocking the pock-marked Prince of
Anjou, who was courting the Queen.

Master Philip and I stayed on as long as we could, in spite of the old Earl's grumpiness, but
we were required back at Court for Twelfth Night. Though the Queen had shown Master
Sidney no favour since his return from Europe and wished to hear nothing from him of a
Protestant Alliance, neither could she bear any of her young men to desert her court.

35
Despite tears from the little Countess,and our own unwillingness, we were obliged to leave
her lonely.

The Earl of Leicester soon set his nephew the task of preparing another entertainment for
the Queen, who was to visit Wanstead on her Summer Progress. The play was to be called
'The Lady of the May' and no expense was spared of mind or money to make it an occasion
to bring Elizabeth pleasure and the Earl favour (his wife having been sent north to the
Essex home at Chartley.) I became closely involved with the rehearsals, never having seen
a play before, so much so that I soon had every role by heart.

May came and we repaired to Wanstead. The early summer weather was warm and
nothing marred the outdoor entertainment, where the Queen was pleased to interact with
the characters in the play. I was delighted that she did not choose the Leicester figure to
carry off the lady. His obsequious yet familiar manner disgusted me, knowing that he had
two wives and a child to conceal from his sovereign. She praised my music and seemed
genuinely happy in simple country surroundings. Her face was unpainted in the mornings
and her dress unaffected. I heard her say to Master Philip, as I sat at her feet on the grass,
quietly playing my lute,

“What a delight to cast off the trappings of state and be myself. I swear I could live
happily as a milkmaid, breathing this pure country air. How cruel is fate when an accident
of birth can change a life!”

She was a different person from the idol displayed at the Whitehall Tiltyard. Her little dog
yapped about her petticoats and she frolicked with him blithely, reminding me of none so
much as little Lady Pembroke. And, indeed, the resemblance was now striking. A sudden
thought came to me, 'Born in sorrow and violence and destined to live without love.' That
night the story told me by old Thomas Heywood, which I had thought forgotten, resolved
itself into a dream, or, rather, a repeated nightmare.

~
You know, Rob, it felt strange to feel pity for the Queen of England. To be a living icon
seemed a sad fate. To hold the Church of Rome at bay so that her advisers and new nobles
might keep their lands and houses, stolen, like Wilton, from the abbeys in Cromwell's time,
was much for a single, weak woman to maintain. No wonder, when she showed the
slightest sign of illness, the whole Council panicked and sent for her 'best friend',
Leicester, to sit up with her all night and give her strength to carry on. Robert Dudley, that
arch deceiver! I heard Master Philip say something about 'our safety hanging on so frail a
thread' and it was true enough. Only the Queen's life could stave off civil war. It must have
been bitter to realise that when she, the woman, looked for love, all she could find, as the
Queen, was greed and self interest. She cultivated her people and believed that, at least,
their love was genuine. When young Essex shattered that illusion, his death warrant was
early signed.

In June Master Greville went with Sir Francis Walsingham for discussions with William of
Orange. It was almost arranged that Master Philip should take troops to join his friend,
Prince Casimir, against Spain in the Netherlands and he travelled to Audley End,where the
Queen was on progress, hoping to receive his commission from her hands, but,as was her
wont, she changed her mind.

36
Wanstead, that September, saw a new secret wedding ceremony, as old Sir Francis Knollys
was determined that his daughter should be so firmly tied to Leicester that nothing should
undo this knot. The Earl of Pembroke was a witness and told his wife that the bride wore a
loose gown, eyeing her angrily because she, as yet, showed no sign of carrying a child.

The Queen now gave the court cause for worry with a raging toothache, and Master
Philip's uncle, the Earl of Sussex, who had been generous with money to enable him to
keep me, 'the poor stranger musician', in his employ, was heard to pray, “God, shortly give
her perfect health, for with her good estate we all breathe and live, and without her we all
stifle and perish,”which would indeed have been the case should Mary of Scotland have
escaped from her prison and been helped to the throne.

I had hardly been free from the John Heywood nightmare since I saw the Queen, so, when
I was sent to fetch Doctor Dee to court to advise about the toothache (but I think for a
meeting with my master and his friends), I determined to consult him on my own account.
I took care to leave my lute behind, as I was still not wholly convinced that it had played
no part in my painful 'seeing' of William of Orange.

The schoolroom into which I was shown, now in full daylight, displayed a range of what I
supposed to be navigational instruments - a strange globe made of metal rings,, a stone
miraculously floating on a large bowl of water, a sextant, an hourglass and innumerable
books, maps and charts. A splendid model ship, fully rigged, hung from the highest beam.

When I had delivered the summons to Doctor Dee, I dared put my case to him.

“I can give you what little time it takes my wife to put together the few things I shall need
at court. A recurring nightmare, you say. Tell me how it begins.”

“Sir, it is a most happy beginning and the contrast between that and the ending holds the
horror of the dream. A great concourse of richly dressed nobles, speaking English and
French, are dining in a magnificent hall whose walls are hung with cloth of gold, the seams
encrusted with precious stones, yet this is nothing to the splendid attire of the two kings
who sit carousing together at the head of the table. The tall, dark one with the devilish
look is clad in red velvet and cloth of gold, and the broad fair one with the open face wears
a coat smothered with gold braid, pearls and numerous gems. When the banquet is over, a
group of masquers enter, four in crimson, seven in gold with curious masks. Each English
lady dances with a French nobleman.....”

“I remember hearing tell of this scene. It was at Calais,” interrupted Doctor Dee, “but I
find nothing nightmarish here.”

“Sir, it will come..... The fair king snatches the mask from the face of one of the ladies,
who, among many finer jewels wears a pearl necklace with a jewelled letter B as a pendant.
She has a long, graceful neck and fine black eyes, yet I would not call her beautiful. The
dark king bows low over her hand and dances with her for the rest of the evening, while the
fair king sits back and drinks himself into a stupor. The dark pair retire to the window seat
from time to time and the lady appears to plead with her partner of the dance, who shakes
his head. Last of all, before the revels are over, that king leans forward and whispers
urgently in her ear.”

37
“Come, boy, we have not all the time in the world. I do not linger here to watch a masque
but to hear a nightmare.”

“The worst begins here, sir, out in the dark, cobbled streets with rain blowing in the wind.
Heads down, wrapped in dark cloaks, a man and a woman hurry as if the devil were at their
heels, little knowing he awaits them in a warm, firelit room. 'Oh, brother, I am afraid. Let
us return to our lodging.' But the man tells her there is too much at stake to falter now.

Their knock is quickly answered. They climb the stairs and are admitted to a bedchamber
where the dark king with the satyr's face sits, wrapped in his furred bed gown by the
crackling fire.

“We do not require your brother's presence,” pronounces the king, haughtily waving away
the young noble and the deeply obeisant attendant.

Stripped of her wet, black cloak, I see it is the dark lady of the dance. She flings herself at
the king's feet, begging him in impassioned tones to support her marriage. He replies that
to accede would put him in jeopardy with his enemies and this he may not risk.

“However,” he adds with a sinister smile, “we have thought of a sure way to expedite your
wedding.” And, as the lady looks up at him in anticipation and gratitude, he pushes her
violently, so that I hear her head crack on the floor. He tosses her golden skirt over her
face and, naked beneath his rich gown, he flings himself upon her, entering her fainting
body with the same battle lust as if he held a sword thirsty for blood.

Each word emphasising a vicious thrust, he rasps, “What your fat monarch has been
unable to achieve in seven years, we can accomplish in as many seconds. How like you
that?” And he leaves her, choking and fighting for breath on the crimson carpet. “Now,”
he continues, wrapping his furred gown around him, “it is for you to deceive your king into
thinking he is a father at last. Oh, yes, there will be a child.We have willed it. And pray to
your Lutheran god that it is not a girl.” And his diabolical countenance sets into lines of
evil mischief. Unmoved by her racking sobs, he gestures to her to resume her cloak and
remove herself from his presence. His triumphant laughter follows her as she blindly
stumbles down the stairway.....

“Sir,I have seen the animals mate, but, though they are urgent, they are not cruel. When
this desecration is acted out repeatedly in my dreams, I feel that I am defiled by witnessing
the evil in man. I struggle to wake before the end, I fight against sleep, but it is of no avail.
I beg you, help me rid myself of this curse.”

“Some other told you of these events?” asked Doctor Dee.

“A very old man in Louvain. But he did not describe it in detail. It must be of my own
invention. Yet it seems so real.”

“When did the dreams first trouble you?”

“It was after 'The Lady of the May' was performed at Wanstead. When I began to feel pity
for the Queen.....” And my voice trailed away miserably.

38
“If your head was full of acting, that is why your nightmare unfolds as a play. It is strange,
for to my own knowledge some parts of what you have told me are true. It is a most
dangerous story. That old man knew it and, wishing to unburden himself before he died,
passed it on to you. Now you, who are young and vulnerable, must pass it to me, for I
have much experience of good and evil and it will not damage me as it has hurt you.”

He pulled me round to face him and, holding both my hands in a firm grasp, gazed into my
eyes with such intensity that, as I felt a warm current course up my arms and through my
body, I seemed to float, as when playing my Orpheus music...I came to earth, feeling light
and free, to hear Doctor Dee's voice saying, “Now your dream has passed to me and, as
long as I live, it will torment you no more.”

(I knew the very day he died, Rob, because the dream returned, though it had no power to
distress me then, being, by that time, wise in the wicked ways of the world.)

On the river, having urged the boatman to make up for lost time, Doctor Dee said,
thoughtfully, “You have been mixing too little with young ones of your own age, lasses as
well as lads. We must remedy that lack.”

~
All the time the Queen was on progress, there was worry that the adventurer, Thomas
Stukeley, with whom Sir Henry Sidney had at one time been on good terms, was preparing
a Spanish fleet to attack Ireland. Fortunately, it came to nothing but the anxiety and lack of
trust shown by the Queen and Council were the last straw for Sir Henry, who retired as
Lord Deputy in a sad state of ill health and straitened circumstances.

Master Robert Sidney had come down from Oxford and it was his turn to embark on a
Grand Tour, by no means as extravagant as his brother's. Remembering my earlier
experience as his whipping boy, my feelings were mixed when I was instructed to
accompany him.

The Queen entertained Prince Casimir in January, 1579. He had come across from Ghent
to beg her help against Spain in the Netherlands. Master Hubert Languet, a great man for
the new religion, who had been Master Philip's mentor since his first visit to Europe, was
entertained at Penshurst and, in February, accompanied Master Robert and his small party
to Flushing. As he was extremely strict, we were glad soon to escape with a less vigilant
tutor.

You may imagine, Rob, how a pair of sixteen year olds, on a loose rein, drank and
wenched their way across Germany. I began to appreciate what Doctor Dee had meant
when he said I needed the company of lasses. Serving maids were always kind to me - I
spoke their language - but, though he boasted of his conquests, Master Robert wore a
sheepish look. He was very touchy, the more since his German was poor, and his hand
went to his sword too often for our safety. Luckily, I could still use my ability to stare
folks down and so avoid conflict. Also, I could calm an inn full of quarrellers through my
playing, which earned me many an extra tankard from the landlord.

Master Philip's letters to his brother were full of admonitions to economise. His own debts
were mounting and he had to go, cap in hand, to Lord Burghley and settle for one hundred

39
pounds a year in fines taken from Catholics, saying, 'Need obeys no laws and forgets
blushing', which was needless advice for young Robert, who never blushed to demand a
'loan' from his lutenist, who had means to earn a coin or two.

The 'Frog Prince' paid a secret visit to the Queen, his agent, Simier, having told her of
Leicester's marriage, which put Sweet Robin in great disfavour. Master Philip wrote a
frank letter advising against the French union and he too was dismissed the Court. He
wrote to his brother from Wilton 'as one that for myself have given over the delight in the
world.' We could not think what had caused his melancholy, as he was usually at his most
happy when in the Countess of Pembroke's company.

Master Robert tried my patience almost beyond bearing. Despite his airs, he continually
sought my company and it was hard to rid myself of him. Have you noticed, Rob, how
people you actively dislike seem to take to you, just as a cat will invade your lap,
delighting that you cannot bear its touch?

The last straw came when he confided, “Johnny, (he refused to change to John) you know
that ring with the Sidney crest my father gave me on parting? You refused a loan and the
ring had to settle a gambling debt, which I was honour bound to pay. My father is sure to
miss it, so I shall say you stole it. That's the best solution and it can't matter to you one
way or the other. It's a well known fact that all Irishmen are thieves.”

I was dumbstruck at this turn of events. Fixing on his proud back as he strutted away a
look I wished could kill or, at least, turn him to stone, I walked off to pack my bundle and
that was the last I saw of Master Robert for some time.

~
You will know, Rob, how I made my way back to London A lutenist has his passport at his
fingertips.

I could not go to Wilton in case news of my defection had gone before me. In any case, I
had no money to hire a horse and it was too far to walk. The late autumn weather was
unusually fine, so I slept rough for a while to the detriment of my already worn Sidney
livery. The days were spent playing in pot-houses and the nights entertaining the clients of
Paris Gardens where I saw many well known faces. As the nights got colder, one of the
girls would find me a corner to sleep, for which I was grateful. At Christmas, I longed for
Wilton but, though I had a little money now, I was ashamed to present myself like Lazarus
at Dives' gate.

So the new year of 1580 began. I managed to buy myself some less conspicuous clothes
and covered over the coat of arms on my lute case. My Orpheus book I wrapped in my old
livery which none was likely to purloin. The friendly wench in whose room I kept my
property was ever on the look out for a better place for me and one day she came smiling to
me with good news.

“I heard Master Henry Unton, one of my best gentlemen, tell a friend that he was to be
married soon but that his lutenist had been stolen from him, leaving him little time to find a
replacement to join his consort. Those were his very words. Don't he talk grand, Johnny?

40
What's a consort? Oh, never mind now. I'll take you along and tell him you are just the
man he is looking for.”

That is how I came to have my portrait painted and was part of the life story of Sir Henry
Unton which Lady Unton commissioned after his untimely death. Only I was not wearing
black at his wedding but a suit the bridegroom provided for me and I was not balding at
seventeen, as in the picture, though I admit to a high forehead, which Father Campion
once told me was a sign of intelligence. The ass of a dauber painted me as I was in my
thirties when I composed and played funeral music for a man who was one of the best of
my masters and whose loss I truly mourned.

A guest who wandered in late at the wedding feast shocked me by his untoward
appearance. Pale and thin with haunted eyes, I at first failed to recognise Master Philip,
who seemed the wraith of his former self. The guests crowded round to welcome him.

“Where have you been hiding yourself, Philip?” “Is it true your sister's with child at last?
Old Pembroke will be like a dog with two tails.” “Of course, you have a new cousin too,
so Leicester is cock-a-hoop, if not the Queen.” “What about the latest poem dedicated to
you, Philip? Who's this Immerito who wrote it? The whole Court, including the Queen, is
puzzling over the identity of the characters in 'The Shepherds' Calendar', it's quite the
fashionable new game.”

Master Philip held his hands to his ears and tried to smile but it was a half-hearted twitch
of the lips and his eyes retained their hopeless expression. Later, he noticed me and
expressed surprise. I thought it best to tell him the whole story. He answered me
abstractedly, “I have heard nothing of Robert for some time. I am sure he has thought
better of his threat. If not, I shall take steps to have the ring returned. We must allow
nothing to distress our parents, my father at Ludlow and my mother at Penshurst and both
in poor health.” And he brushed his thin hand across his eyes.

He took me with him to Leicester House, so that I no longer feared the heavy hand of a
catchpoll on my shoulder or the rough voice, charging me as a common vagrant. I put on
my Sidney livery again, Master Philip not noticing its worn state, but now that I felt myself
home once more, I would have gladly gone in rags and tatters.

It worried me to watch my master pushing his food away from him and to listen night after
night to his footsteps pacing the bedchamber floor. His friends gathered round him, Master
Dyer, Master Greville and Sir Henry Lee, sometimes even the hanger-on, Spenser. None
of them appeared to know what had caused the sad change in Master Philip's mien.

There seemed to be some mystery about 'The Shepherds' Calendar which Sir Henry Lee, at
fifty the senior member of the group, appeared to understand best. As so much curiosity
had been aroused about the identity of the characters in the poem, it was decided that
Edmund Spenser, who fancied himself as a poet, should admit authorship and that the
Sidney circle should take on the names of the other characters. The Countess of Pembroke
was the obvious choice for Rosalind and I was ordered to take on the role of Cuddie, which
none other would accept as it meant 'donkey'. It was Spenser who made the suggestion and
Master Philip could see that I was mortally offended. He mollified me by saying that it
was a word taken from the Irish 'cuid oidhche', meaning one who gives his lord an
evening's entertainment, which was exactly my case.

41
Apart from this annoyance, I took little notice of this affair. My mind was filled with plans
for returning Master Philip to health through my music. When I saw him most melancholy,
I played him the Orpheus music that lifted me out of this world, but now I concentrated on
keeping my feet on the ground and raising my master above his sorrows. In time, though
very gradually, I saw a real smile return to his countenance, the night time pacing grew less
and meals became more than a pretence at eating. The group of friends congratulated me
on my success.

Later, Master Philip wrote a private poem about me, for he swore I had saved him from
self murder, but there was a sting in its tail and, later, when Thomas Ravenscroft was
bothering me for a poem for his 'Pammelia', I gave it to him.

Now thanked be the great God Pan,

Which thus preserves my loved life,
And thanked be I that keep a man
Who endeth hath this bloody strife.
For if my man must praises have,
What then must I that keep the knave?

I did not care for the last couplet but I was glad that Master Philip's sense of humour was
returning with his improved health.

Once more, we were at Wilton, where the little Countess was slowly recovering from the
birth of her child. That spring, she too was melancholy as I had never seen her and for her
also I played with all my heart and soul to promote her well-being. An angry message
summoned us before long to Leicester House, where the Earl had found passages in 'The
Shepherds' Calendar', which he deemed insulting both to himself and his Countess. Spenser
was packed off in disgrace to Ireland, which, though I assured him it was the most
beautiful country in the world, he regarded as exile among savages.

I too was exiled, but most willingly, to France to be servant to the new Ambassador, Sir
Henry Cobham. I felt sure there would be much to learn of music there and I was not
afraid to leave Master Philip, now well on the way to recovery, continuing the 'Arcadia'
and working on an 'Apology for Poetry'. We all thought it pity that the Queen would give
him no opportunity to use his diplomatic talents and he still remained her mere Cup Bearer
at a salary of only thirty pounds a year.

~
Do not think that I ever forgot my true master, Edmund Campion. Each time I lifted the lid
of the red, leather case and took out my lute, gloating over the signature of Laux Maler, I
thought of his generosity. Whenever I opened my Orpheus book, I remembered it was
through him it had come into my possession. Father Campion had said in Prague that I
was a pupil he would not forget. Had I done enough in the eight years since we parted in
Ireland to make him proud of me? He had told me to obey my masters, as he himself did,
yet I had often taken my orders in a grudging spirit and had wished that I had not to be at
the beck and call of others.

I had worked hard at my music, but selfishly, for that was my greatest pleasure in the
world. But I had often let my reading go by the board. Why had I let slip the opportunity

42
of learning Greek? True, I had learned Spanish and picked up a useful amount of German
but that came easily. I made up my mind to apply myself to French and widen my musical
horizons by learning as much as I could of the Pleiade of whom I had heard Master Philip
and his friends speak with admiration.

My life so far had enabled me to mix with poets and thinkers and I had kept my ears open
in palaces and pothouses, where my playing made me equally welcome. My greatest good
fortune was the start in education I had received from my true master, so freely devoted to
the pursuit of perfection. I could never thank him enough for the love of learning he had
instilled in me. Religion was a subject on which I was still unclear. It was hard to
reconcile the old religion of my true master with the reformed beliefs of Philip Sidney and
his group. I regretted the division in the Church, which seemed certain to involve us all in
war, yet I was convinced that each man had the right to his own faith. If only all religions
might live together in harmony like the animals in the Orpheus picture. Suddenly, it came
to me. Orpheus had achieved that concord through his music. Was it too much to hope
that I one day might do the same? That was an ambition for the future of which my true
master would certainly approve.

~
Once in the English Embassy in Paris, this dream began to fade. I was constantly sent on
messages so that my most urgent need was to become fluent in French. The music most in
request was for dancing and I wrote galliards and pavanes for each new visitor with never
the chance to practise on my own. I had hoped too that in a Catholic governed country I
might find news of Father Campion. However, I learned that the English College had been
moved to Rheims, the stronghold of the Guise family, England's worst enemy, not counting
Spain, so I was hardly likely to be sent on an errand in that vicinity.

I did the next best thing and made friends with some Catholic musicians who had found
England too hot for them. They were able to inform me that my true master and another
Jesuit priest, Father Parsons, had left for England as missionaries. In Prague, his fellow
Jesuits had painted a wreath of roses and lilies above Father Campion's bed, as a sign of
martyrdom, they said, and the English Catholics found this a great matter for satisfaction. It
plunged me into despair to think of my true master in such danger.

I became acquainted with an English priest, Father Smith, who took me to mass in Notre
Dame Cathedral. The droning in Latin, the tinkling of bells and the wafts of incense
affected me little but I was truly fascinated by the magnificent rose window, as though the
lovely rose on my lute were magnified a thousand fold and illuminated with the rainbow
colours of my reveries.

Saint Paul's, where I had been to worship with Master Sidney, was drab by comparison,
and, as today, folks gathered there just for the exchange of news. They told me that the
great steeple had been struck by lightning the year before my birth and never replaced.
Indeed, it is only in the last year or so that the proper repair of the damage has been
discussed. I asked myself what kind of religion was it that could allow the house of God to
fall into such a state, far less smash and tear down all objects of beauty from the past.

As I travelled about the country, I saw signs of the wars of religion everywhere in the
uncultivated fields and ruined peasant dwellings. It was obvious that it was the poorest of

43
the poor who suffered most from civil war. It seemed to me that while their 'betters'
quarrelled over the correct way to worship God, the Devil had stepped in to hold sway. I
found myself hankering after the Greek Gods, each compact of good and evil, rather than
this fatal opposition of the Trinity and the Prince of Darkness. It was all a great puzzle.

~
My writing was interrupted by a visitor I hardly expected to see in my little room, the Dean
of Saint Paul's, no less. Strange that I was writing about Powles not long before his knock
came at my door. But I am used to these coincidences in life, if that is what they are.

I had known John Donne from 1589 when he was a boy of seventeen and none was more
surprised than I when old Jamie persuaded him into the Anglican church. John's mother
was the youngest daughter of John Heywood, and he started life as a Catholic in the
dangerous days. Indeed his poor young brother was sent to prison for sheltering a
Catholic priest and died there. Ah well, we all have to compromise in the end. Needs must
when the devil drives.

To round off the workings of chance, Doctor Donne (come on a sick visit to Doctor
Dowland) had been at Chelsea settling his family at Sir John Danvers' house and who
should he be but the brother of that little imp, Henry Danvers, now the grave Earl of
Danby. We recalled how Henry and his brother, Charles, had to take refuge in France
after killing Henry Long in some young men's quarrel. All forgotten now and poor Charles
executed for his part in the Essex rebellion. We might have reminisced longer but John
Donne had come up on Church business (his parish of Saint Dunstan's in the West
demands much care) and he had to leave me, promising a further visit. He had taken his
family to Chelsea to keep clear of the plague. As for me, whether the stone or the plague
take me, it is all one.

44
 CHAPTER FIVE
Between the denunciations of my masters at the Embassy, to whom Father Campion was a
traitor come to England to destroy the Queen, the safeguard of their property, and the
excitement and admiration of my 'Papist' friends, who described his fearless journeyings,
giving the comfort of confession and the Mass to those long denied them, always just
escaping the hounding of Burghley's and Walsingham's spies, I hardly knew what to
believe. Neither description fitted the man I knew. I was the more confused because I
heard Philip Sidney being praised by one party, denounced by the other for sitting on a
Parliamentary Committee for legalising the execution of Jesuits, which might lead to the
death of his friend and my true master.

All that summer of 1581, I was on tenterhooks as conflicting rumours spread. A document
they called 'Campion's Brag' was published. My true master a braggart? The Catholic hero
seemed to resemble him no more than the Catholic villain reviled at the Embassy. What
was truth if one man could contain two opposites? I closed my ears to both descriptions
and remembered only the good man I knew, who had transformed my life with his
benevolence. But still I held my tongue.

At last, came the dread news that Father Campion had been betrayed and captured. They
took him to London through jeering crowds, his elbows tied behind him, his hands in front,
his feet strapped under the belly of the nag that bore him. They placed a paper in his hat,
saying 'Campion, the seditious Jesuit' and all the way the people pelted him with refuse and
shouted maledictions.

While my true master was free, I had played my Orpheus music with the intention of
ensuring his safety, now my efforts were redoubled. At the Embassy there was rejoicing
that he had been confined in the worst cell in the Tower, 'Little Ease', where he crouched in
the dark for four days, deprived of food and water, unable to stand or lie full length. I
denied myself food and rest also, hoping that by sharing it I might lessen future torment. I
might not duplicate the agony of the rack, so cursed the rackmaster who threatened to add a
foot to the height of any 'Papist priest'. Crazed with anger and helplessness, even my vivid
imagination could not put me in Father Campion's shoes.

Now the worst for me came to pass. When I placed my trembling fingers on my lute, I
plucked only discord from its strings. For the first time in my life, just as my need was
greatest, my music failed me. I tried to pray but all my mind held was confusion. I found
myself cursing the God who had brought my true master to such a perilous state. Feeling
my brain about to burst with hopelessness, hardly knowing where my feet took me, I found
myself at the lodging of Father Smith. He took one look at me and put me into his own
bed where I fell into a high fever, tossing and turning, my head on fire, my lips parched,
every limb crying out in pain as if I had indeed been on the rack.

When, at last, consciousness failed, I could hear a strange, high voice, screeching out all
the filth about Leicester I had heard from John Hues and others; about Lady Sheffield's
child by Dudley; how he succeeded in poisoning her husband; how he attempted to
poison her. I pleaded with the voice to cease but it went inexorably on until, in a brilliant
explosion of light, followed by the sharp sound of tapping, 'sca, sca, sca, sca', I began to
'see' in a more dreadful way than ever before.

45
I do not know, Rob, if I can make you share my helpless isolation. I was held in mid air,
looking down on a great holiday crowd of folk, agog with excitement and expectation. But
why did a deadly pall of silence envelop the scene? It was as though the whole world had
slowed almost to a standstill and, to me even more harrowing, was the complete lack of
colour - all was grey and shadowy, adding to my foreboding.

I could pick out in the stands some of the great ones for whom I had played in the past.
The ghastly quiet still held. The last sound I had heard was the tapping (from the blood
pounding in my temples or from the workmen, by now noiselessly and at the last moment
strengthening the sca - scaffold, raised high above the eerily speechless throng, on it a
newly built gallows?)

A deeper stillness fell upon the phantom mob and all movement dragged to a less than
funeral pace. Into sight, and in endless time, or so it seemed, came a frightened horse,
whipped in slow silence by its rider, hauling behind, through the filth and mire, an inert
figure lashed to a hurdle. The dark robe and face were disfigured with smears of rotting
refuse and vile excrement and I sensed, rather than perceived, that it was the face and form
of my true master. The lips of the rider mouthed the words, 'Behold the traitor, Campion',
and the crowd took up the silent cry.

Men standing around a fire,not too near the scaffold or the stands, stirred it into high slow-
flickering flames. The sluggish throng moved back from the heat, craning their necks and
ever gaping their mouths in muted execrations.

Unpinioned, after its long martyrdom from Tower to Tyburn, Father Campion's broken
body lay motionless until they lifted him roughly, yet laggardly to his feet and, with leaden
tread, dragged him up the scaffold steps. He made a brave attempt to bless the hangman
but could not raise his stiffened arm. Three great ones stood at the steps in the vain hope
that my true master would perjure himself for a last minute pardon. They had a clear view
and so, alas, had I as, in a long drawn out movement, the hangman placed the noose over
my true master's head. The passive body fell..fell..fell, the deceleration of my vision
prolonging the agony, until, close to the scaffold, a merciful hand motioned the murderer
to pull on the victim's legs and end the protracted torment.

So Father Campion felt no shame as they stripped off his robe and was spared the intended
anguish as they slowly hacked off his manhood, slashed open his belly and tossed his
drawn entrails onto the soundless blaze. Little it mattered to him that they lingered over
quartering the remains from which the soul had fled. But, watching, unable to escape, my
coward's body cringed from his unfelt pain. He was beyond earthly cares and I, myself,
falling, falling into a black pit.....

~
How long I remained in Limbo I cannot tell. I had no wish to live but, having cursed God,
I must have been afraid to die. The ghostly tapping came once more to plague me. I
opened my unwilling eyes to find my chattering teeth knocking against a cup held to my
lips.

46
“Scamp that you are, John, to give us such a scare,” scolded the priest, Smith, though his
eyes were kind. “You have been raving in fever and then seemed to fall into a deathlike
trance. If we had money we would have sent for a doctor.”

I was too weak to thank him for not so doing. Father Campion had always advocated
natural medicines and mistrusted bleeding, purging and such severe remedies, which, he
said, only further enfeebled the patient. We used to go out into the country to gather herbs
- oh, the past tense, so final now! Why did he come to England? Why choose to die? I had
tormented myself because my Orpheus music, which I felt sure had helped Master Philip,
had done nothing for my true master. Was his desire for martyrdom greater than my desire
to save him? Was that why my lute became silent? Or had I suffered from the sin of pride
in thinking that a mere lad could alter God's will? Gradually, with Father Smith's help, I
convinced myself that what my true master would wish was for me to live my life to the
full and put aside my grief in the effort to make him proud of my achievements, as I had
vowed to do when he was alive.

After starving myself before and during my unconscious state, my stomach was sadly
disordered. Father Smith must have gone without himself to feed me broths and possets
and gradually tempt back my appetite with small amounts of nourishing food. I think his
physical administrations did me more good than his spiritual advice for I did not confess to
him my blasphemy. I was sadly confused between God and the Devil and hoped that it
was the latter I had cursed.

Another recusant friend, Thomas Morgan, was porter at the Embassy and, one day, brought
me my lute and my Orpheus book. It was as though I was beginning to learn to play all
over again, but, gradually, as I became stronger, my fingers regained their skill. Morris
saw that my illness came to the ears of the Ambassador's secretary and, when I was at last
able to present myself at my place of work, my haggard looks went some way to excuse
my disappearance and I was granted leave of absence until my health recovered. I had
some wages due me and Thomas Morris, a good musician, as rootless as I, decided to take
what the French call 'English leave' and join me on a pilgrimage to Rheims, where Father
Allen's English College was now housed.

~
We had an even more ambitious plan, intending to go on foot from the College to Rome, as
once did Father Campion. Indeed, we managed to limp from Paris to Rheims, by which
time I realised that I was not yet fit for such a journey and, when we called on Father
Allen, he was horrified at the idea and absolved us from our vow.

He had with him the Jesuit missionary, Jasper Heywood, who was pleased to hear of my
visits to his old father in Louvain but told me sadly of his death. Both gave me news of my
true master. Elizabeth and Leicester had interviewed him privately and promised him
preferment if he would attend only one Anglican service. Anjou, at tennis, had been
begged to intervene on his fellow religionist's behalf but had turned to his game with the
one word, “Play.” As I had 'seen', my true master might have been pardoned on the very
sca..scaffold, had he wished. Father Allen told us that his steadfastness would do more
than an army to advance the Catholic cause in England. He took it for granted that I was of
their religion.

47
Rheims was full of soldiers and I even heard Spanish spoken, as the Guises, whose
stronghold it was, had allied themselves with Philip 11. We only stayed there long enough
to obtain letters of safe conduct and a list of places where we might find a welcome en
route for Rome. When Thomas unthinkingly called me 'Dolman', a nickname my Catholic
friends had devised to bring a smile to my lips when I was in the dumps after my illness,
Father Allen's secretary took it down in all seriousness, wrote it on my letter of
introduction and also, I believe in the College Diary.

My skill on the lute was rapidly returning and Thomas had a singing voice which had
ensured him a place in the choir of the Queen's Chapel Royal, so we were both advised that
His Holiness the Pope (in England referred to as the Bishop of Rome) and the English
College would be glad to employ two such musicians. We were even given journey money
and plain serviceable suits of clothes to replace our Embassy livery, as well as horses
which, we were told, we might leave at the Roman College when our need was over. We
were advised by the Secretary to follow the trade route from Troyes to Lyons.

On my earlier travels alone I had learned to avoid thievish forests where beggars and
bandits might lurk. The late religious wars had left many freebooters and homeless folk
wandering the roads. Thomas and I both carried wicked looking knives bought to cut the
hard bread with which (as well as cheese and wine) we provided ourselves in case there
was no food for us at wayside inns. In daylight, I could use my 'evil eye', but, at night,
when we slept with all our belongings as a pillow, it was well to have a large knife to
flash, hoping its use would not prove necessary. Whenever possible, we joined a party of
merchants and were careful to work ourselves to the middle of the train. We tried to keep
to paved roads, though this was not good for the horses' hooves.

When we were lucky enough to find a farrier, I would remind Thomas of the story
Iamblichus told of Pythagoras in the blacksmith's forge, discovering, through the
hammering on the anvil, the science of harmony. As we rode along, we had many a
discussion on the theory of music, but it was not good to become deeply absorbed, since
we never knew what danger awaited us round a bend in the road or might pursue us as
daylight failed. Before long we left behind the Cathedral at Troyes, the University of
Dijon and soon reached Lyons, where, as usual, we played and sang for our suppers at the
most prosperous looking hostelry we could light upon.

A young fellow with a seafaring look eyed us curiously and, at last, addressed us. “You
English?” he asked, and when we denied this, saying proudly we were Welsh and Irish, his
dark eyes flashed with pleasure.

“By all that's holy, I'm a Cornishman, Digory Piper, at your service. As we're all Celts,
let's swear blood brotherhood and drink damnation to the English!”

In no time at all, we were fast friends. Digory was taking goods by horse-drawn barge
from Lyons to Avignon so offered us places for ourselves and our tired horses. We
accepted gratefully and spent the next twenty-four hours lounging, sleeping, eating,
drinking and exchanging tall tales of which Digory's were by far the best. Like all
Westcountrymen, he was something of a pirate, but this time he had a legitimate cargo of
finished goods for Genoa and intended to return with Italian silk to be made up in Lyons.

“However,” he confided, “I don't mind telling you that I have an extra cargo in mind. I
have instructions from old Dominus Factotum (that's the Earl of Leicester to you) to bring

48
back some Neapolitan horses to raise his stock with the Queen.” We laughed politely at
his play on words and asked how he proposed to get out of Spanish Naples with
contraband horses.

“Ask no questions,” he grinned, a finger beside his nose. “Sweet Robin knows the man for
the job and, when I pull it off, with my reward and the money I have laid by, I shall buy
my own ship and farewell to old tubs like the one that awaits us at Marseilles.”

It must have been a successful piece of smuggling, as the next time I heard of Digory Piper
he was captain of his own ship, the 'Sweepstake'. He was a good friend to us, for, when we
reached Marseilles, he offered us berths on his 'old tub'. First, we helped him round up his
crew, who had taken advantage of their captain's absence to have a high old time in a port
that knew well how to cater for the lowest tastes of sailors of all nations. We helped drag
the men on board, dowsed them with sea water, and Digory set about the most recalcitrant
with a rope's end.

“When they're thoroughly sobered up, you give them some sweet music to calm the beast
in them. Nothing keeps a ship's crew happier than a bit of song and dance. I'll be like
Francis Drake, who always has musicians on board, but we'll do without the psalms and
sermons, eh, lads? I don't suppose I'll sail round the world and make a fortune, though I
wish I'd had a penny or two to invest with him. Ah,well, it takes money to make money.”

Thus I wrote and played dance music for our new friend and his crew and Thomas sang sea
songs with the sailors and their captain joining less tunefully in the refrains. We had to
produce a clean bill of health to be allowed ashore at Genoa but Digory saw to that. His
business finished, we sailed along the Italian coast to Ostia, fortunately avoiding the
attentions of Barbary pirates.

“Sure you won't come with us to Naples?” he pleaded. “You're a useful pair of lads and I'll
be more than sorry to lose my new blood brothers.”

We parted with profuse thanks on both sides and he would accept no payment but a copy
of the galliard I had written for him. Bless his heart, we had saved money through his
hospitality and were able to stay at a decent inn on the way to Rome and even fit ourselves
out with new clothes to replace our travel stained gear. With our sun- and wind-burnt skin
we fancied we looked quite Italian.

On arrival at the English College, we thought it best to say nothing of our unorthodox
voyage, in case Digory's piratical intentions came to light. Our credentials underwent a
suspicious enough examination as it was. It seemed that an English hack, Anthony
Munday, had visited the College the previous year and had repaid the hospitality received
there by returning to England with material for anti-Catholic pamphlets, one of them a
scurrilous diatribe against Father Campion, which brought tears of anger and frustration to
my eyes.

I stayed with Thomas at the English College but not for long - there were too many rules
and regulations for me. His voice was just what they needed in the choir but the lute was
not regarded as a religious instrument and my chances of success there were less than my
friend's. Fortune smiled on me, however, when I was introduced to a short, dark man some
ten years my senior. This was Luca Marenzio (a name you know well) then Chapel Master

49
to the Cardinal d'Este of the family who protected Ariosto and Tasso. After hearing me
play, he soon invited me to share his lodging.

“Where did you learn to handle the lute in that way, Giovanni? Tell me the name of your
teacher.” I told him that Edmund Campion had taught me for two years but that my real
tutor on the lute was Don Luys Milan and I showed Luca my Orpheus book.

“Gesu,” he breathed, “do you mean to tell me you learned for yourself from a book? You
escaped having a teacher?! You are a natural lutenist! No wonder your playing is such as I
have never heard. And who is this Luys Milan? More likely he was Luigi da Milano and
Milan could not hold two such as Francesco and himself.”

I had already learned that Italians thought themselves the best musicians in the world with
some justification, so I merely asked who was Francesco?

“Dio mio, the ignorance of you English! You have been playing me the music of Alberto
da Ripa, who had to go abroad to find a patron (like your Don Luys, I expect) and you do
not know the great works of Francesco da Milano, who played for Isabella d'Este at the
court of Mantua. He was a true Orpheus and the notes of his lute could transform men
from beasts to gods. Alas, he died before my birth. But we will show them that not all the
great lutenists are dead, eh, Giovanni?”

Of course, we did not converse in English but in a mixture of Latin, French and, at first, a
sort of Spanish Italian. Whichever language came first to my tongue had to serve. But,
when we played together, we soared above mere words, in a golden cloud, our faces
glowing with the pleasure of shared power, as, fingers flying, heads nodding, we
exchanged conspiratorial glances of sheer delight. This musical companionship, never to
be experienced in later life, gave me an inspiration to be cherished constantly.

Luca was eager to learn all the details of my life and, nothing loath, I confided everything,
even telling him about 'The Shepherds' Calendar' and the role of Cuddie thrust upon me.
Describing the second eclogue where Cuddie is depicted as a forward boy trying to
outargue the wise old Thenot, I said I recognised a borrowing from Virgil and turned it
back into Latin for Luca:

Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse;

But Phyllis is mine for many dayes;
.............................
Such an one shepeheards would make full fain:
Such an one would make thee younge againe.

“This Spenser had no right to call you stupid, Giovanni, for if your character, Cuddie, may
keep Phyllis, then he has found the answer to the riddle of Menalcas, which scholars have
been seeking since Virgil's time. Tonight, I will take you to a house where they are still
arguing as to its meaning”, and he quoted the riddle, which I will translate:

Answer me this - and Phyllis shall be yours alone.

Where in the world do flowers grow
with kings' names written on them?

50
I had to confess that I was not at all sure as to the identity of Phyllis as, in the Eclogues of
Virgil, she seemed to take on different personae and I could not find her mentioned at all in
Ovid's 'Metamorphoses'.

“Aha, a scholar and a modest one,” exclaimed Luca. “Now dress yourself in your best,
brush that curling, dark hair of yours, make yourself handsome, if you can, and, above all,
do not forget your beautiful lute.”

I was somewhat puzzled, as I had supposed our destination to be the haunt of scholars, who
are not usually known for their fashionable appearance. When we arrived at an imposing
house in an exclusive quarter of Rome, Luca knocked in a mysterious fashion, we were
observed through a small opening, and finally admitted to a splendid room such as I had
never seen, except perhaps in a dream. The walls were hung with costly material, the
furnishings were exquisite in their taste and several choice ornaments were displayed. In
the centre of this imposing salon was a richly carved table covered with musical
instruments of every kind, music books and leather bound volumes in Latin and Italian
which would not have disgraced the great libraries I had seen. Round the walls were
seated gentlemen of fashion, making music, reading, conversing, all in an atmosphere of
perfect ease, as delicious perfumes wafted through the air.

A most beautiful lady of something less than middle age came forward to greet us and
Luca introduced me formally, explaining that tonight we had come only to entertain the
guests with our lute-playing and our exchange of views. We played duets and then solos
and were politely applauded. I noticed from time to time one of the well-dressed
gentlemen would slip from the room at the sound of a tinkling bell and I began to wonder
what kind of studious gathering was this.

When we joined in the conversation, Luca explained, “This youth is Giovanni Dolandi, as
you will gather from his name, of serious bent, who has a question for you all. He wishes
to know who is Phyllis. No, not the one we all know,” and he winked, “the Phyllis our
Virgil wrote of. And speak in Latin, por favore, the poor lad has little Italian as yet.”

I became hopelessly confused . Phyllis was a Thracian princess with a false lover, who,
after her death was turned into an almond tree; she was the goddess Isis of Philae (the two
words combined in one name); she was an invention of Theocritus, a shepherdess, as in
Virgil, though his pastoral folk disguised real Romans of his day; the island of Samos
where Pythagoras lived was called Phyllis, meaning 'leafy'. “What about Syphilis?” asked
some wag, who was hastily shouted down with cries of “Not here!”

“That will do for the time being, thank you , gentlemen,” said Luca and, bowing to the
company, we took our leave. I was almost ashamed to voice what was in my mind, “Luca,
surely that was not a ...bordello?”

His reply came sharply, “Heaven forbid, Giovanni, you should use that word. That house is
one of the few left in Rome, run by a lady of the highest culture to match the famous
courtesans of the past like the renowned Tullia d'Aragona, whose honour your Alberto da
Ripa was prepared to defend with his sword. It is a privilege to enter those portals and I
beg you never to desecrate that mansion with that gross word, bordello. If our gracious
hostess had heard that tipsy fool mention the title of Girolamo Frascatoro's poem, he would
have been excluded for ever.”

51
“I don't understand why they grinned at first at the mention of Phyllis.”

“You will, when you are better acquainted with the ladies of the house. They are all named
after girls in Virgil's 'Eclogues' - Phyllis, Amaryllis, Thestylis, Nysa, Galatea and so on - a
charming fancy.”

We revisited that house of culture often and our lutes made us ever welcome. For a wager,
I was able to satisfy Luca that, with my Orpheus music, I could match Francesco da
Milano in charming my listeners into silence and inactivity. When I knew the
'shepherdesses' better, they thanked me for allowing them a rest from their pleasant
exertions, while their 'shepherds' sat open-mouthed and transfixed as I played. My Italian
rapidly improved under female tuition, no less than other skills for which Luca and I
rewarded them with poems and music. His poems to Phyllis and Amaryllis were later
translated by Thomas Watson, and, though my voice met with pitiful success, I sang them
to Luca's settings at court and all over Europe. He even imitated Philip Sidney in singing
of Astrophel and Stella.

We also discussed with the 'shepherds' the riddle of Menalcas and found as many versions
as we did with the name Phyllis. The general consensus was that flowers with kings'
names written on them were the purple lilies that sprang up where the blood of Hyacinthus
was shed and that the lines on each petal signified, as Ovid had it, the AI, AI of Phoebus'
grief at his untimely death. Some thought the lines stood for Ajax, but Luca held out for
the AL of Alexander, the greatest king of all, in whose widespread empire the lilies grew.
How I enjoyed these leisurely, Roman discussions. I felt I should be able to set Spenser
down a peg or two should I have the ill fortune to encounter him again.

One night, as I was trying to follow the conversation, the name 'Unton', or something like
it, emerged from a farrago of Italian. I motioned to Luca to listen for me and his
expressive eyes told me to wait until we were outside to ask my questions.

“They were speaking of an Eduardo Unton, who is in the hands of the Spanish Inquisition
at Milan. Is he an English friend of yours?” I explained that his brother had been good to
me and had given me employment at his wedding when I was penniless.

“Then you must certainly repay his kindness,” urged Luca. “Much as I shall hate to lose
you, I think you should return to your Embassy and seek to obtain his release while there is
still time. We have reason to know that there is cruelty on both sides in these sad times of
religious strife. It is fortunate that I have a friend who is shortly returning to Florence and
you will be able to travel safely in his company.”

I went to the English College to bid farewell to Thomas Morris, by now permanently
established there, explaining that family troubles made it necessary for me to return home
without delay. The priests gave me letters to deliver in England (which came to spy-
master Walsingham's hands) and exacted a promise that I would return to Rome as soon as
my affairs were settled.

The hardest goodbyes were to Luca Marenzio, who had been such a friend to me. He
wrote a letter recommending me as a musician fit for any prince's court and added a last
instruction.

52
“However urgent your journey, Giovanni mio, you must pause at Bologna. First, I wish
you to buy a second lute (the best lutes in the world are made there) and it is to be a gift in
memory of our friendship.” Here he pressed a large sum of money into my unwilling
hand. “I will take no denial, for such a gift gives me pleasure and will dull the pain of our
parting. Second, you must not leave Bologna without visiting Alfonso Ferrabosco, who
used to play at the court of your Queen.” He introduced me to Signor Vincente Galilei,
who was to be my travelling companion, and embracing, Italian fashion, with tears in our
eyes, we parted, never realising that this was to be our last meeting.

Signor Galilei was a man of great learning,himself a lutenist, who had not long published a
'Dialogue between Ancient and Modern Music', which he described to me as we jogged
along. He was a member of a group called the Camerata, whose desire was to create
musical drama where poetry, music and singing were to be held in perfect balance to
recapture the effects of the Greeks, through which there might result a hoped for
renovation of the whole world. I attempted to tell him of my similar ambition in using my
Orpheus music, but, when he was in full flow, it was not easy to interrupt him in my
imperfect Italian. In any case, it was not my place to answer such a brilliant scholar.

At Bologna, Signor Galilei helped me to choose the best lute from the many on display
and, while I was about it, advised me to provide myself with a good selection of lute
strings for future use. He then departed on some errand of his own, after first directing me
to the house of Alfonso Ferrabosco.

I had made some copies of Alberto da Ripa's unpublished work, which old John Heywood
and given me, and these delighted my host. With his broken English and my imperfect
Italian, we managed to understand one another well enough.

“I was a mere boy when Alberto Musico died, but my father, Domenico, often spoke of
him. He was a legend in his lifetime and a hero to Italian musicians. His good fortune at
the French court encouraged many artists to try their luck outside Italy. In my early years I
was persuaded to leave my home and a fine place with Cardinal Farnese by that serpent,
the Earl of Leicester, who intrigued through those cursed Bruschetti...” Here I pricked up
my ears. Master Philip had travelled in Italy with Ludovico Bruschetto or Ludovic
Bryskett.

The old man continued, “Spies, all of them, and they turned me into an informer, too.
Never trust Queens and courtiers, they are too wicked and too clever for us all. My father
said it was a bad time to leave Italy with Rizzio, whose success at the Scottish court we had
all envied, murdered by Northern savages, but young men never listen. When he saw that I
had set my heart on England, my father gave me what he thought was good advice. He
told me to ask Queen Elizabeth for one hundred pounds a year for the whole of her lifetime
and her successor's. I was young and bound to outlive her. I was ignorant then that talk of
a successor to the Queen was as good as a death warrant, especially to one of my religion.
My request was granted and the Queen bided her time.

“I had been lutenist at the English Court for nine years, living happily with my wife and
young son, when the blow fell. I was involved in a fight where an Italian was killed. That
was what they had waited for. I found myself banished from the country, leaving my
family no better than hostages. Not only did the Queen save my salary but she gained a
free informer and, later, in my son, another lutenist. I came back to Bologna to find my
father four years dead. Now I live alone in the family house with only my lute and a few

53
pupils for company. I am an outcast in my own country for having served a heretic queen.
Stay in your birthplace, boy, it is safer.”

I tried to explain that my country was Ireland and that I had left it long since, but to all
Italians I was the 'Inglese' and nothing could convince the old fellow that I was not
English. I wish I could have done more for that sad man. He brightened when I played
him Luca's latest songs and gave him all the news of Rome, where he had once lived
happily, but I could not stay with him for long. On parting, he was kind enough to give me
a copy of one of his Fantasias.

Riding along once more with Signor Galilei, I learned much that was new to me. We
discussed song-writing; he told me how to use a pendulum bob for timing; how to set the
frets of my lute, which later made it hard for me to play duets with those who used the old
way, and he went into great detail over a new theory of Pythagoras and the Forge, which he
and his son, Galileo, had devised together. I would most willingly have stayed in Florence
to learn more, but, thanking my mentor heartily for all his advice and assistance, I had to
continue my way with all speed to Paris.

There I found a new Ambassador, Sir Edward Stafford, and, kicking his heels impatiently,
Master Henry Unton. My news was of such importance that nothing was said of my tardy
return to duty. It was impossible to conceal the fact that I had been in Italy, so, from that
moment, I was caught in the toils of Sir Francis Walsingham's spy service. How Master
Unton and I travelled to Lyons and, from there, managed to negotiate his brother's release
is too long a tale to tell in the short time left to me. Suffice it to say, it made me a good
friend in Master Henry Unton.

~
Now, Rob, I have some good news. The pain in my lower back and groin became so bad
that I could find solace in sitting no longer. I dressed with Mall's help and went for a walk
down Fetter Lane. Strange that I, who so much fear executions, should live in a street with
a gallows at either end. All the same, I dragged myself there and back and the result that
evening was agony in voiding three stones and some gravel so that I feel as weak as a
kitten but greatly relieved now it is all over.

Albert de Rippe died of the stone, you know, and Jean Dorat wrote a poem about how he
held off death for as long as he could by playing his lute, which softened his stones and
enabled him to void them more easily. A Frenchman can turn his hand to a poem on any
subject, but I had never thought of those as the stones which Orpheus could move! All the
same, it gives me reason to take up my lute again, which I have been too melancholy to
play of late.

To speak of Dorat, takes me back to those days in Paris, when I learned that he and other
members of the Pleiade had, with perhaps less success than the Italian Camerata, sought
to discover the true music of Ancient Greece.

54
 CHAPTER SIX
On my return to Paris, I was tormented once more with the nightmare of Father Campion's
death. I learned of a house of Charity in the Faubourg St. Marceau where there was a
medical laboratory providing herbal remedies, which I hoped would help me to regain
restful sleep. To my surprise, I found there a music school also and I formed the habit of
going there to play for the orphans who tended the apothecary's garden. In the Music
Pavilion, I made a new friend, Claude Le Jeune, a musician of de Baif's Academy of Poetry
and Music, situated not far away in the Faubourg St. Victoire.

“I envy you your Italian journey,” he pronounced in his solemn fashion, “though, as a
Huguenot, I should have felt unsafe in Rome. I am reminded daily of the Paris Massacre
when I see our children here in their scarlet-violet gowns, some crippled, all orphaned by
that evil mob. Yet here in Nicholas Houel's Maison de Charite we drive out by love all
anger and, as at the Academy, both religions work in harmony for enlightenment and
peace.”

When I questioned him about the Pleiade and the 'vers et musique mesures', which I had
heard Master Philip discuss with his friends, he explained the great difficulties in exactly
measuring the words of a song to its music, which alone would bring about the desired
result.

“We try to follow the teaching of Ficino, who discovered the ancient Greek Hymns to
Orpheus, since lost, alas. They combined words, music, colour and perfume to bring down
the influence of favourable stars on our unhappy earth. Our faltering efforts have met with
some success, for, since the dreadful events of St. Bartholomew's Eve, an uneasy peace has
reigned, which the King and his mother try to maintain.

“You were unlucky to miss what was in truth the last flowering of the Pleiade (so many of
the seven are now departed) - I mean the Magnificences at Court to celebrate the marriage
of the Duc de Joyeuse for which I myself wrote the music. Jean Dorat, who began it all,
outlasts his pupils and is active as ever, writing and designing for these great occasions.
Ronsard wrote some of the verses, though his health is now so poor, they may prove his
last.

“As you might guess, I hardly approve of the extravagance of the court, when so much dire
poverty is abroad in the land. It seems of late that King Henri is thinking in terms of
religious processions and the measured singing of the Psalms of David, himself an
Orpheus, for which I shall be happy to compose, rather than for masques and
tournaments.”

I did not give voice to my thoughts, knowing that the measured verse and music had been
used vainly to bring about the birth of an heir to the throne, just as my puny efforts had
failed to save Father Campion from his fate. I was fascinated, however, by the attempt to
recreate the music of Orpheus, for, though I called the compositions of Don Luys Milan
'my Orpheus music', I knew that for a childish fancy. Yet, I had taught myself those songs,
pavanes and fantasias with such loving pains that, for me, they held their magic too and
somehow had helped to cure Master Sidney of deep melancholy. I was unwilling to
surrender the belief that my own Orpheus music had unusual powers.

55
 ~
At the Embassy, I sat at table with the servants and found them all agog with the news that
the Ambassador's wife had been the mistress of the Earl of Leicester and gave him the
baseborn son he had betrothed to Arbella Stuart. Cast off by the man she had firmly
believed to be her husband, she had married Sir Edward Stafford and, by so doing had lost
her son, put by his father to a tutor in the country.

Little, hunchbacked Robert Cecil was in Paris with his cousin, Edward Hoby. So was that
handsome Scot, Patrick, Master of Gray, whom I glimpsed at the Embassy, where he
sought a travel permit to pass through England on the way to the Court of King James V1
with young Ludovic Stuart, the son of the king's former favourite. (You know Ludovic,
Rob, as the great Duke of Lennox and Richmond, but you surely have not heard of his
death only last year.) To return to Patrick Gray, later, when Cecil was no untried lad but at
the height of his power, he spread the story that they first met in the same brothel, a
dangerous jest, which he lived to regret. Cecil never forgot an injury, real or imagined. He
was an implacable adversary, as I had cause to know.

I renewed acquaintance with the Catholic emigres. Left to myself, I should have avoided
them, but my Italian adventure had made me Walsingham's spy and he pressed me for
information as to plots to place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England. I thought
how soon the warnings of Alfonso Ferrabosco had come to pass for me. Double dealing
went against all Father Campion's early teaching and troubled my conscience.

~
An absurd figure, dressed in the height of French fashion, strutted into the Embassy one
day, demanding Johnny Dowland. It was Master Robert Sidney, his padded trunks so
abbreviated that, when he sat, you could see more than the outline of his buttocks. He
wore the ring that had been the cause of our parting, so Master Philip had kept his word.
Robert was in trouble, else why should he seek me out? This time, surprisingly, he had
succeeded in getting a wench with child.

“What of that?” I asked, with hidden sarcasm. “A byblow never troubled you before.”

“Oh, well, my luck ran out,” explained Robert, reddening, “and this is a special case.”

“Tell me about it,” I urged, knowing full well I should not only hear the story but play
some part in it, willy-nilly.

“Naturally, not being a gentleman, you cannot be expected to understand such matters,”
pronounced Robert, as always, full of his own importance. “You know how mad these
Frogs are about ancient stuff - Eleusinian rites or some such nonsense. We were made to
fast and take a bath, even though I had had one this year already, and then they kept us
awake all night. I had had enough by then, I can tell you. But, no, next they blindfold you
and push you through what feels like a narrow passage and they do things to you, which I
won't describe.” Here he swallowed loudly.

“The language shouted and the filthy jokes! I was glad when I came out into the open and
they pulled off the blindfold. My eyes were dazzled with the sudden brightness and then I

56
saw, standing in front of me, the loveliest girl, naked as the day she was born, and so was I,
of course. I found out later that she's supposed to be a goddess and untouchable, except for
the priest, but, for the moment, I lost my head. God, Johnny, it was the best time I ever
had, the only good one, if you must know. Today they came to tell me that she's with child
and that she must have a husband which is a gentlemens' arrangement. Noblesse oblige, if
you know what I mean (though, of course, you don't.) What am I to do?”

“Well, you can't marry her,” I said with deliberate obtuseness, “you've got to marry money
and retrieve the family fortunes.” Another time he would have cuffed me for impertinence
but, apparently, this was too serious.

“Don't be such a dunderhead, Johnny, it's obvious,” Robert exclaimed, impatiently.

“You've got to do it. Philip would tell you the same, only he's too wrapped up with helping
Dyer and Walsingham and listening to that mad Italian, Giordano Bruno.”

With no more ado, the matter was settled. Marrying for colour they called it. All the old
goats provided for their byblows in the same way, which they thought very noble. Old
Lord Hunsdon married his Emilia to a musician, Lanier, and she spawned Cecil's lutenist,
that prideful Nicholas, well known to you, Rob. Will Shakespeare, as I later found, was
served in the same fashion and was obliged to marry Anne Hathaway, no chicken at the
time, whom some great lord had made fruitful, instead of Anne Whately, to whom he was
pledged. At least, I had no other bride in mind.

So it was that I and an unknown French bride found ourselves in the Embassy chapel with
Richard Hakluyt, who was chaplain at the time, to say the words over us. Someone had
provided the 'bride' with a loosebodied gown to hide her shame and I noticed that, even so,
she was comely enough. She stumbled over the vows, as English was new to her, not
believing them probably, being of the old religion, and I not meaning them either, since
marriage had never been part of my plans.

Master Robert's words about not being a gentleman had rankled. Oh, yes, only gentlemen
made plans and servants did as they were bid. The sin of pride reared its head. No matter
how they used me, I was a bard and a seer.

Robert seemed pleased at the idea of being a father and hung about the new Mistress
Dowland. As her name was Suzanne, he went around humming Orlando di Lassus'
'Suzanne un jour', which they were still singing that year. It was an annoying habit. I
came to like my 'wife'. She had been an unwanted child, left at the gate of a convent, so we
both lacked parents. The Mother Superior had made a pet of her because of her pleasing
looks and had her taught a little reading and music as well as skill with her needle. When
the old lady died, the jealous nuns had been unkind and,not realising the world outside the
convent walls could be more cruel, Suzanne had run away.

The child was born that October in London, where Master Robert had found a lodging for
them and, as she was a puny baby, he had her christened straightway at St. Martin in the
Fields. Little Susanna Dowland was to be of the reformed religion. We called her Annie
to avoid confusion.

57
Suzanne was still suckling the baby in the new year of 1584, so Master Robert, who
wanted to keep her in England (but not at his expense) found her a post as wet-nurse to Sir
Thomas Howard's new-born son, Theophilus. She had to wean Annie but they were kind
and let her keep the baby with her at the big house. Master Theophilus, who lost his
mother young, became most attached to his nurse and Suzanne stayed on in charge of the
sewing room, either at the Charterhouse or at Audley End.

It mattered little to me that I seldom saw my 'family', though I would have become fond of
baby Annie had not Robert been so proprietorial. Suzanne and I never lived together as
man and wife, though we became good friends. I was too proud to take another's leavings
and she seemed genuinely fond of her lover, looked forward to his visits and behaved in
quite a wifely fashion towards him. She boasted to me once that he had arrived at the
Howards in a rain-storm with his huge starched ruff hanging like a wet rag round his neck
and she had used her skills to restarch it blue to match his suit and with heated irons and
pins made such good work of it that he swore he would have her from the Howards any
time. Even when Robert snapped up the required heiress, Barbara Gamage, a poor thing,
not ready yet for marriage and even younger than Master Philip's sixteen year old bride,
Frances Walsingham, Suzanne seemed no whit disturbed.

Like most young mothers, she was preoccupied with trifling domestic matters of little
interest to me and, though I played lullabies for Annie, threw her chuckling into the air and
was chided for it, my true life was in France where I looked forward to my frequent
meetings with Claude Le Jeune and further discussion of Ficino and his Orphic Hymns. I
decided that to match words with music, I must write my own verses, starting with a few
lines at a time, like a child learning to walk. My efforts were stumbling indeed and I
showed my prentice work to none. Trying French, Spanish and Italian, as well as English,
I first sought to match the style of the country in my music, but, with the little time
available from my duties, it was long before I could reflect their spirit and I realised my
verses were but toys. Still, I was learning. The work of informer took up time that I
grudged, as did the travelling. Sir Philip, as he now was, became my spy-master too, for
he now lived under Sir Francis Walsingham's roof at Barn Elms. That alliance with the
daughter was a strange one for a gentleman who had been offered the sister of William of
Orange, but I supposed that it solved the worst of his money problems which were
pressing.

Sir Philip had long decided that my 'seeing' of the death of William the Silent had nothing
to commend it, but, when that summer I crossed the Channel with news for my masters, I
found the household in black. The leader of the Dutch people had been assassinated by
one Balthasar Gerard in exactly the way I had described. The old soldier, Captain Roger
Williams, had witnessed the scene and confirmed that the Prince was wearing the Beggars'
medal with the motto (not Latin as I had thought) 'Fideles au Roy jusqu'a la besace'. I felt
no satisfaction that my vision had been justified, only great sorrow and a creeping
sensation down my spine which filled me with dread. My Orpheus music most certainly
held awesome powers.

~
Back at the Faubourg St. Germain, we received news of another death, that of little Lord
Denbigh, the crooked son of Leicester and the wife he had stolen from Walter Devereux. I
wondered if Sir Philip had renewed hope of becoming his uncle's heir, which would give

58
him credit with the money-lenders, or if he realised that the base-born Robert would
resume the place his half-brother had usurped.

Yet another call to England came. It wasted my time and I could not ignore the fact that
the smell of the sea always caused me deep unease, something more than mere queasiness.
My heart sank further at the French Embassy, where my presence was required, when I
saw Sir Philip, wearing his unfashionable orange suit, the velvet now faded to a golden
shade. Another golden figure came through the archway and, to my amazement, I
recognised Patrick Gray, whom I could never have imagined the associate of the upright
Sidney. Taking my courage in both hands, I dared enquire the reason for my summons, as
I had been entrusted with no despatches.

“We thought to use your music for a special ceremony to take place at noon today, but, no
doubt, since you landed you have eaten and are not fit to take part in a Sun ritual such as,
you will remember, we celebrated with Doctor Dee. In any case, on this occasion, it is to
be an Egyptian rite for which your playing may not serve.”

Could he see from the relief on my face how glad I was to be excluded? The memory of
the seeing at Mortlake had often tormented me. I loathed and feared transportation to that
unknown place beyond the realms of brightness where my Orpheus music took me. Worse
still, was when I came round from my 'seeing', sick and shaken, as though I had barely
escaped the cold clutch of death. The thought of undergoing this horror to order was more
than I could bear.

Sir Philip continued, “One task you may perform. Stand at this window and, when you see
the sun reach its highest point, knock on this door when we will know it is the proper time
for the ceremony to commence.”

As he spoke, the door opened and an impressive figure, clothed in a robe of gold and
white, beckoned them in. I could smell burning frankincense as the door closed and
shuddered at the thought of the strange ceremony about to begin. The celebrant was
Giordano Bruno, whom I had once glimpsed at the French court and who had been pointed
out to me as a magician unafraid of summoning demons.

Through the well-made door, I could discern only faint murmuring. Bored with inactivity,
I went to the other end of the anteroom, took my lute from its case and began to play to
myself softly. It was long since I had the leisure to play my favourite Don Luys Milan
fantasia. I could not resist this rare opportunity and surely I was safe from harm if I took
no part in the ceremony. With my eyes closed, the blissful colours began to dance and
weave in my mind and I abandoned myself to the joy of my Orpheus music.

Sca..sca..sca..sca.....I found myself falling into blackness. It seemed that fire and ice at
once possessed me. How long I was out of the world I had no means of knowing. A
dream that seems to last for hours takes place in seconds and I had been in some domain
where time has its own meaning. Nor did I wish to return to my world, dreading the
faintness and the nausea that would take me.

A rough shaking brought me round and the stench of a burnt feather under my nose. It was
the Master of Gray, his face as white and scared as that of Sir Philip Sidney. Giordano
Bruno, like Doctor Dee, was only interested to learn what I had 'seen' before they emerged
to find me in a swoon. I was querulous and wished to forget but the magus berated me in

59
angry Italian. I began unwillingly to answer in that language, but, lost for words, soon
turned to English.

“It is very cold in a great hall crowded with noblemen, among whom I recognise the Earl
of Shrewsbury, tears coursing down his cheeks. The silence is uncanny. A slow
procession enters, headed by a cross-bearer. A tall lady of regal bearing paces after, her
black dress contrasting with the pallor of her face. She carries a crucifix and a prayer book
and round her waist are two rosaries. Hanging from her neck is a golden pomander and an
Agnus Dei. It must be a Catholic ceremony but why do the English lords attend what is
against the law?

“Oh dear God, now I see the black-draped block and the great axe. Why, oh, why are these
visions always of death?” I began to shiver uncontrollably and was racked with sobs. Sir
Philip put his arm about my shoulders, encouraging me to continue.

“The attendants remove the lady's white head-dress and long veil and I see her hair is red.
They respectfully remove her overdress, revealing a red petticoat to which they attach red
sleeves. The executioner strips her of her ornaments but allows her to keep the golden
rosary. All her servants are sobbing and praying and she tells them in French that she has
guaranteed their silence. Her eyes are bound and she places her head on the block.....I beg
you, no more...”

“Only a little and then it will be ended,” urged the Master of Gray.

“It takes three strokes of the axe to sever the head and when the executioner holds it aloft -
oh, Christ - it rolls away, leaving him with the red wig in his hand. When he retrieves the
bloodstained head, I see the hair is short and grey. Why could they not leave the lady
dignity in death? Her lap-dog creeps from its hiding place beneath her skirts, lifting its
paws daintily to avoid its mistress's blood.....” And turning aside, to my shame, I vomited
up the meal I should not have taken.

The gentlemen moved disdainfully to the other end of the hall but I heard their
conversation through my misery.

“The execution of a Catholic lady of regal bearing, the dress, the ornaments, the words in
French,” mused Patrick Gray. “I believe he has seen into the future.” And, turning to Sir
Philip, he added, “Walsingham's dream is to come true. From now on, James is our man.”

“It is true that John was correct in every detail when he foresaw the death of Prince
William. We have reason to believe him now.”

Giordano Bruno joined them and they moved into the inner room. A major domo entered
and berated me, as servants bustled in to clean the marble floor, but all I could grasp was
that the Orpheus music did indeed bring about my seeing without the aid of any magical
ceremony. All I had to do to prevent another such awesome experience was to give up the
beloved music of Don Luys Milan.

60
Soon after, Sir Philip was appointed Ambassador, this time to commiserate with the King
of France on the death of the Frog Prince, his brother, but also to bring about a treaty
between our two countries against Philip of Spain. I joined Sir Philip's train and we made
our way by water to Gravesend.

Seeking me out, Sir Philip said, “I wish to discuss your visions,John. I can see that you
dread them and that the experience must be fearsome indeed. I had thought them connected
with a magical ceremony but it seems this is not so.”

“I am sure it is the music of Don Luys Milan which is at fault and I have determined to
play it no more,” I ventured.

“It cannot be the music alone,” Sir Philip continued,"for when you played for the Countess
of Pembroke and myself, you succeeded in dispersing our melancholy without any of those
nightmare 'seeings' as you call them. You must not give up the music that saved me from
self murder. There must be some other cause that brings about what you find so painful.
Is there aught else but the music you hear?"

“I hear a strange tapping noise - sca, sca, sca, sca, before I fall into that deathlike
darkness.....”

“That must be it ,” interposed Sir Philip. “The ceremonies of both Doctor Dee and Signor
Bruno ended with a required number of taps of the wand.”

“And then begins the terror,” I concluded.

“Without that sound, therefore, your music should hold no fear and you may play it as
freely as you wish.”

“I have remembered another circumstance,” I told him. “When I played with the intention
of healing, I prevented myself from seeing my colours and set my whole mind to
dispersing your melancholy.” I went on to explain my musical colours and the magical
world to which they transported me. I promised I would attempt to eschew that pleasure
which only led to pain and fear.

“Yes,” murmured Sir Philip, “like the pleasures of love which are fleeting and followed by
a lifetime of regret.” He fell into a reverie which, after some time, I dared to interrupt by
asking him the purpose of the ceremonies at Mortlake and at the French Embassy. Still
abstractedly, he told me that the first was for the successful formation of a union of
Protestant rulers to ensure peace in Europe and the second was for a union of France and
England, which I had already surmised.

We arrived at Gravesend, only to find a dismissive message from the French king, saying
that,after two months, he had ceased court mourning for his brother and would receive no
embassy. Once more Elizabeth's procrastination led to failure and unnecessary expense for
Sir Philip, who made his way back to Barn Elms, while I took ship, then rode to the
Faubourg St.Germain and the English Embassy.

61
In late summer, a disquieting matter came to light. A pamphlet appeared, telling some
home truths about the Earl of Leicester, which the Queen and Sir Philip Sidney hastened to
refute. Entitled 'Leicester's Commonwealth', it was a Jesuit publication, supposedly written
by that Robert Parsons who escaped capture when Father Campion was taken.

Remembering that Father Smith, after he cared for me in my delirium, had said that I had
disclosed secrets about some 'great ones', I could not help wondering whether some of
Parsons' material came from my ravings. I cared nothing for Leicester, but I was desolated
to find Lady Stafford driven into deep melancholy by the untimely revelations of her
deception by him leading to the birth of their son, Robert.

Once more recalling what my true master had advised, I played my best to calm her but
how could I help that sweet lady if mine was the hand behind the blow which struck her
down? Strong feelings of guilt led me to make another excuse about the needs of my
family in England and I gave up my work at the Embassy and left for London.

A masterless man again, I was at first reluctant to apply to Sir Philip and then learned that
he had a new lutenist, a talented boy named Daniel Batchelor, whose indentures
Walsingham had bought as a gift to his daughter and son-in-law. So, hoping that he would
remember the favour I had done him and his brother, I put myself in Master Henry Unton's
way and he was kind enough to take me to Court whenever his handsome presence was
required by the Queen. She seemed now a different person, crabbed and hard to please.
Was it possible that she had been serious over her dalliance with the dead Anjou?
Certainly, her diplomacy (and, indeed, Bruno's magic) had failed to bring about a
rapprochement with France, though the gossip at the English Embassy had it that the
Ambassador had been working against this, in the pay of Spain.

The only one who never failed to 'undumpish' Elizabeth with his quips and antics was Dick
Tarleton, Leicester's fool, who did more for his master's policy than Chris Hatton and the
other substitutes he directed towards the Queen's bedchamber. The latest, Master Walter
Raleigh, who became her Oracle, proved recalcitrant and went his own way. More of him
anon.

At court, I met Master Henry Noel, of an age with Hatton and Raleigh and a year or so
senior to his cousin, Sir Philip Sidney. Though his only sure income was his stipend as
Gentleman Pensioner and his gambling losses often outweighed his gains, he took me on
and cared for me well so that my wages, though meagre, arrived on time. He was deeply
interested in music and became my friend, as well as my master. We passed some happy
days at court and the name of John Dowland became known again.

62
 CHAPTER SEVEN
You may notice, Rob, that I have ceased to complain of my health and have put off dying
for a while. The truth is, I am feeling better and can get about again, though no further
than St. Paul's. They say that the King's body still lies at Denmark House and that the
funeral is to be on May 7th. The players will rejoice that the reopening of the theatres will
not be long delayed. It is well that I am out of my chair, as I must be measured for my
blacks and practise the music for the ceremony.

~
A year later, I left Elizabeth's court. It was a wet November day that Sir Philip, his brother,
Robert, and the young Earl of Essex landed near Flushing, one of the ports the
Netherlanders put in pawn to the Queen in return for the task force she now grudgingly
sent to oppose their Spanish oppressors. Among the new Governor's train were his friends,
Henry Unton and Henry Noel, his new secretary, William Temple, and your humble
servant, doubling the role of Walsingham's intelligencer and lutenist to the party, Daniel
Batchelor remaining for the time being with Lady Frances Sidney. Our landing was typical
of the disasters to come. The wind was too high for us to disembark at Flushing itself and
we had to make port at Ramekins,trudging for three miles in mud up to our boot tops
before Sir Philip could make his undistinguished entry.

Of the six-hundred strong garrison, we found a third were sick in hospital. I went among
the stinking, close ranked pallets, playing any tunes requested and, for those too weak to
speak, my Orpheus music, commanded by Sir Philip, in the hope that it might give them
easy passage into the next world. Poor souls, we knew it was food and medicine they
needed more than music. The troops had been unpaid for months and the seven thousand
pounds Sir Philip brought over was soon used up in meeting the arrears. I crossed to
England time after time begging for money but Walsingham could do nothing to move the
Queen's parsimony.

The English captains were at sixes and sevens and many of their starving troops had
absconded and, to the indignation of the country folk, were living off the land. “Soldier”
was a swear word in every language I had learned. Things were even worse after
Leicester's long-awaited arrival in December. He went on a grand progress, not only
accepting Dutch hospitality, but the Governorship of the United Provinces, which the
Queen had expressly forbidden.

He did, however, obey her in pursuing a purely defensive policy so that the attack which
Sir Philip worked so unceasingly to prepare was long delayed. When his friend, the Master
of Gray, offered to bring over a body of troops, he replied, “I cannot, considering how
things stand over here, wish any friend of mine whom I love, as I have reason to love you,
to embark yourself in these matters until we are assured of better harbour.” (How did I
know the contents of the letter? All Walsingham's spies learned to break and replace a seal
without trace and my fingers were feater than most.)

We had some good nights, drinking, singing and dancing and the common soldiers joined
in, from a respectful distance,of course. Claude Le Jeune had written 'La Guerre' for the
idle French Court, but my 'Battle Galliard' had at least the merit of being hummed and
whistled by men who might be called upon at any moment to lay down their lives.

63
Master Robert still thought he had first claim to my services and often requested my
'Susanna Galliard' to which I added a joke ending for two to play upon one lute, a poor
attempt at a bawdy jest. He never knew we did not share my 'wife'. Sir Philip was sick
with impatience for the fighting to begin. He had been prevented by the Queen from
sailing with Drake to the West Indies, where there would have been a fine chance of
singeing the King of Spain's beard, and now it was spring, two years later, and nothing
done. He fell into one of his melancholy states and begged the aid of Orpheus music. Now
was no time for flights of fancy and rainbow colours and I played with solemn seriousness
for his betterment.

The prospect of action brought him to life as, at last, the Queen allowed the fighting to
begin. However, she blamed Sir Philip for every mishap and he was too loyal to place the
onus where it belonged - on his uncle, who still pranced about in fine clothes, attending
shows and banquets in his honour. To make things worse, news came of Sir Henry
Sidney's death, and Elizabeth, whose dislike of that family knew no bounds, refused
permission for his sons to attend the funeral, not even the youngest, Thomas, who had not
long left Shrewsbury School and had come over in Leicester's train.

Better news followed, in a letter from Doctor Dee in Leipzig, inviting Master Daniel
Rogers and myself to join him at Luneberg, where, to Sir Philip's delight, there was to be a
meeting of Protestant princes to discuss the union he had worked for so long. The Doctor
had been travelling all over Germany and was, no doubt, the moving spirit behind the
assembly. It was to take place in the thirteenth century Town Hall of Luneberg in the
province of the Duke of Brunswick, himself and other representatives of German states
about to gather there. When we arrived, we found also in the Furstensaal, with its wooden
carvings and fine stained glass windows, a Danish official and du Plessis Mornay on behalf
of the King of Navarre. I wondered what were Elizabeth's instructions to Sir Philip's
friend, Daniel Rogers.

When the talking was over, Doctor Dee found the time to speak to me. I had a small
package for him from Sir Philip, which he peeped into, nodding his head. Recalling our
last meeting, he asked if I was still free of my nightmare. I embarked on the story of my
doings since I saw him last. He was a man in whom one could confide.

“I have a question for you,” he said, after listening patiently to my tale. “When you play
what you call your 'Orpheus music' for yourself alone and are carried away by swirling
colours into another world (yes, I have heard of this from Philip) what colour is it that you
then perceive?” I told him that I saw no colour but a sort of white shiningness that meant
to me utter bliss. He nodded, seemingly satisfied and added, “What do you know of
Alchemy, John Dowland?”

I had to answer that I was ignorant of it but had recognised the laboratory at Mortlake with
its roaring stove as a centre of alchemy and that some of his books resembled those of the
Earl of Kildare, whom folks named the 'Wizard Earl'. Unfortunately, that remark reminded
Doctor Dee of the loss of much of his library at the hands of the mob which had ransacked
his abode when he set out on his European travels.

“Ignorance and fear were the cause of that,” he reflected sadly, shaking his white head.
“Precisely the subject I wish to address with you now. Though I would give the world to
possess your gift of prescience, I believe it to be a source of dread to you, is that not so? I

64
nodded miserably and Doctor Dee went on, “We are here today to remove that fear but,
first, we must talk of Alchemy, which is the oldest art, dating back to the Babylonians,
handed down to the Persians and Indians and, through them to Alexander the Great and to
Greece. Nor must we forget Egypt and, later, the Sufis in Alchemy, which is, indeed, an
Arab word. From them it passed to Spain, Southern Italy and thence to France. So you
see, it forms a brotherhood of all nations, but so much is the world in the power of evil that
the alchemical secrets have to be kept 'sub rosa'. In fact, the Rose is the symbol of
Alchemy, which the Roman church has sought to usurp.

“There are two sides to the great work, material and spiritual. The first consists in heating
base metals to a high degree and much skill is required as well as patience since the
undertaking often goes awry. With success, a black putrefaction occurs, which we call the
'nigredo'. From this, at the next stage of firing, all the many colours unfold in the 'cauda
pavonis', the peacock's tail. More work brings about the next transformation to the white
colour which contains all colours, the 'albedo'. This is the colour of the White Rose Queen,
the daybreak which has to be raised to the sunrise, the 'rubedo', formed by heating the fire
to its highest intensity, which brings into being the Red Rose King. When the King and
Queen are joined in the union of opposites called the Chemical Wedding, then pure gold is
formed. To give an example, the marriage of Henry V11, represented by the Red Rose of
Lancaster and Elizabeth of York, the White Rose, heralded the peaceful reign of the
Tudors, which many have called a new Golden Age. Lesser alchemists seek the mere metal
but we seek spiritual gold.”

“But what has this to do with my 'seeings'?” I demanded.

“Can you not understand the likeness to your colours? Say the nigredo represents that
melancholy to which all sensitive souls are prone. When you play your 'Orpheus music',
the blackness for you is transformed into rainbow colours, the cauda pavonis, then, as you
continue to play, the albedo. But if, as so often happens in the great work, the firing fails,
then, instead of attaining the rubedo, you regress into blackness and the painful 'seeing'
takes place such as you have learned to dread. I intend to use your prophetic power at the
stage of the albedo but without the music. Trust me.”

Doctor Dee opened the small packet sent by Sir Philip and withdrew the gold and diamond
ring worn at Mortlake. He placed it on the little finger of his right hand with the great
sparkling stone to the inside.

“You will see no nightmare scenes,” he assured me. “I shall ask a question and you will
reply with a number only. There will be no pain or terror. Gaze on the diamond.” As I
stared, he passed his palm to and fro before my eyes. I became drowsy but fixed my eyes
on the bright stone as long as I could. I heard the questions and also my answers which
came from my mouth sounding distant and strange.

“How many years will the Queen of England live?” “Seventeen.”

“The Duke of Brunswick?” “Three.”

“The King of Denmark?” “Two.”

“Henry of Navarre?” “Twenty-four.”

65
I woke fully and without discomfort as Doctor Dee snapped his fingers.

“That was a successful procedure, was it not? You have used your gift to give me useful
information which will greatly assist our future plans. If my helper, Edward Kelly, and I
are able through Abbot Trithemius's angel magic to obtain further guidance from above, all
will go well and so I pray. Say nothing to a soul of these happenings, which I assure you
mean no evil. Remember, if you wish to use your gift of prescience righteously, first gaze
on a sparkling object. I have a scrying glass for Edward's use. Would that I had the same
power but my mind is clouded by many years of study and I am unable to 'see'.”

He went on to tell me not to confuse my gifts. I was to use the Orpheus music for healing
and the power of 'seeing' for the benefit of others, remembering that evil seeks to disguise
itself as good and that even he, in spite of constant prayer, oftimes found it difficult to
distinguish one from the other. I knew that Doctor Dee's wise words were intended to free
me of fear but it was still a mystery to me that the alchemical process should explain the
terrors unleashed by the tapping sounds, although I had not told him of that. Best put it out
of my mind.

“One more admonition,” said Doctor Dee. “To achieve the rubedo, and that time will
come, you must go through material and spiritual fire.”

With this strange prophesy, he wrapped up Sir Philip's ring, wrote somewhat on the
package and bade me deliver it directly on my return to the Low Countries.

~
I rejoined the army at the end of July to find that Sir Philip had organised a successful
attack on Axel, where thirty or forty men had swum the moat and unlocked the city gates.
He had rewarded them out of his own pocket, as his father had so often done in Ireland.
Unfortunately, such success was fleeting. To add to his troubles the news came that Lady
Mary Sidney, who had lived apart from her husband in their last years, had been laid in his
grave with only the Countess of Pembroke as family mourner.

The troops were ready to mutiny for lack of pay, yet no appeal to the Treasury was
answered. Did the Queen and Burghley not realise that a Spanish invasion must be
hindered at all costs? I could have told Sir Philip of the rumour in the spy trade that those
two had their own ideas. While Leicester was at last planning to meet in the field the Duke
of Parma, Spain's able commander, desperate efforts for peace were made in England.
Lady Arbella Stuart (then twelve years of age, if I remember rightly) was to be dangled as
marriage bait for Parma's son, Rainutio Farnese, with the promise of the throne of England
one day, thus frustrating Leicester's plans for his base-born son.

Though ignorant of this, sweet Robin felt insecure away from court where intrigues against
him were certainly afoot. He needed victory in the field to end the war swiftly.
Disillusioned with the Dutch, as were they with him, he longed for home comforts. He
decided to mass his army at Arnhem and prevent Parma's advance down the Rhine. After
some manoeuvring, Leicester tried to draw off the Spanish by attacking the town and
fortress of Zutphen.

66
Every Englishman knows that fatal name and how Sir Philip Sidney threw off his leg
armour when he saw Sir William Pelham without his cuisses, was badly wounded in his
unprotected thigh, lodged at Arnhem, where Lady Frances joined him, at first improved,
then worsened and died.

I have a story to tell, known to none but myself, the dying man and one other, and it
appears in no history. One day in early October, Sir Philip raised his bed cover and smelt
the unmistakable stench of gangrene, which he knew, and seemed not to care, was his
death warrant. That same night, he dismissed all but myself from his bedchamber, telling
his wife and friends they were in sore need of sleep and that I would play to ensure his rest.
He was a pathetic figure, worn almost to skin and bone and his voice came as a whisper.

“I know you can play with closed eyes, John. Snuff out the candle. I wish none to look on
me. We are of the new religion, yet I long for the comfort of a confessor and I have chosen
you to give me relief before I die. I know you will not betray my trust as long as any in
this sad story live.

“You know that I was bidden by my masters to write to the Queen, hoping to dissuade her
from the French marriage. John Stubbes, who spoke against it in public, lost his hand.
Worse befell me...I lost my name...” The Queen summoned me in one of her furious
tempers in the course of which she screamed out that I was a bastard and a Spanish one at
that. I thought at first that, in her anger, this was mere bluster. I was wrong. "How do you
suppose your Dudley uncles escaped the block?" she asked and answered her own
question. "Your precious mother gave her body to Philip of Spain and he influenced my
besotted sister, Mary, to pardon them." ...I will not describe to you the rest of the interview.
All know what filth Elizabeth can give tongue to when a black mood takes her.

“Banished from court, I hid myself away to lick my wounds. In all the turmoil, I found my
pride was hurt most. On those two journeys to Europe when I felt myself worthy to be the
equal of princes, it was not for my own qualities they feted me, Languet and the rest. They
saw me as the base-born son of the King of Spain, nephew to the Earl of Leicester, fit to be
used as the 'Prince of Europe' and unite the two religions,wearing the gold and diamond
ring that was nothing more than a love token. How John of Austria must have smiled to
himself when we met, two royal bastards together, and I, like a child, kept in the dark as to
my origins. And now, like him, I am to die in this accursed country, all my hopes
unfulfilled. Held he, as do I, a hidden desire for death?.....” His voice trailed away and I
relit the candle to hold cordial to his parched lips.

“No more light. Worse is to come. I rode to Wilton to Mary, always my best comforter. I
told her all and, in her wisdom, she made me understand my mother's sacrifice and tried to
give me back feelings of self worth and dispel my misery, though she herself was deeply
unhappy with her cruel husband, no fit mate for her.

“What came about and took us by surprise was a true, pure love between us, more than that
of fond brother and sister. When consummated, it never seemed to us a sin, yet, when
Mary knew she was with child, she sent me away. We knew the world would mock us and
denigrate our love, but what has racked us with guilt unbearable and caused Mary to make
amends by giving her husband a second son is the knowledge that we have committed...”
here he took a deep and anguished breath, so that the word emerged as a whispered shout...
“ INCEST! How can I leave her to live with this burden? How can I die in peace with
such a sin on my conscience? How can I charge you, John, with this dark secret?”

67
I ceased my quiet playing and dared to take his wasted hand in mine. “The secret of your
birth I have known and kept in silence since the year you took me to Europe and I will
never divulge it knowingly. First I must confess a misdemeanour of my own. You
remember at that time we visited Penshurst to bid farewell? I had entrusted my Orpheus
book to Lady Mary, your mother, but had such a desire to view it once more that I crept to
her chamber in her absence and was trapped behind a curtain when she and your uncle,
Leicester entered and spoke together in anger. Lady Mary revealed that she whom you
thought your sister is by no means your sister in blood but the child of your uncle and
Queen Elizabeth, given to your mother and brought up as her own. The sin you dread most
you need not bear. The Countess of Pembroke is your cousin.”

Sir Philip had raised himself in the bed as he listened to my words and now fell back on the
pillow, more exhausted seemingly by my disclosure than by his own confession.

“Play your healing music once more and leave me to think awhile.” He lay silent for what
seemed an age. “Now, some light and bring me pen and paper. I must write of this to my...
to Lady Mary.”

I lifted my poor master as gently as I could and supported him as he wrote slowly and
painfully with many pauses for rest as his strength failed him. Yet his lips were curved in a
smile and the fading light around him now shone with the blue of the true poet, untouched
by the red of anger, as it had sometimes been in the past.

“Seal the letter for me, John, and, when the time comes, take it with the news of my death
to Wilton. Stay with Mary and comfort her with your music. She will thank you with all
her heart, as do I, for the service you have done this day.”

He fumbled under his pillow and withdrew a small bag, saying, “Do not think of this as a
reward. I have meant it for you since I read John Dee's message. Often and often I have
sought to cast it away but Mary made me understand that, given as a token of love,
however fleeting, it deserved respect as we would wish for my pledge to her, the 'Arcadia'.
My lasting regret has been that, though I have known my son, he must never hear of his
true father. Bastardy is too heavy a burden to bear.....” He took my hand, palm upwards,
and closed my fingers over the diamond ring that had played its part at Mortlake and at
Luneberg. “I shall sleep now with a clearer conscience. I thank you again for bringing me
peace.”

He wished me to go to my own rest but I stayed and kept vigil with him until the doctors
came bustling into the sick-room. They insisted to the end that Sir Philip would recover
but, though he wrote to his German doctor, John Weier, to come in haste, perhaps no
longer wishing for death, he seemed resigned, come what might. He made his will, naming
as his executors Walsingham and his brother, Robert, charging them to pay his debts. He
even had Daniel play his song 'La Cuisse Rompue' to show his young wife, now heavy
with their second child, that he was still in good spirits. Having made his peace with the
world and the God of the reformed religion, he died on October 17th, to our sorrow.

68
By November 2nd, I was at Wilton with the letter and the first news of Sir Philip's passing,
happy to inform the Countess that the last word on his lips was a whispered 'Mary'. While
she retired to read her letter, I played with her sons, William, aged six and Philip, two. (I
never saw you that young, Rob, to my regret.) I had brought the boys sweetmeats and it
was as if they had known me all their lives.

When the Countess reappeared, she was white faced but composed. She took my hand and
thanked me, saying that, as Sir Philip suggested, she would be grateful if I would stay as
her lutenist for a while. To have lost in a few short months those whom she had all her life
regarded as father, mother and brother were heavy blows for which her jealous, old
husband could provide small comfort. I was glad to give what solace I could by playing
the Don Luys Milan music, which she loved. As she listened, she followed the music in
the other Orpheus book, which Lady Sidney had bequeathed to her. I attempted to give her
Sir Philip's diamond ring but she insisted it was mine by his wish.

One day, she asked, “Tell me, Master Dowland, how came you by your own copy of 'El
Maestro'?” I could never tell a story except in detail, and, at last, she said, thoughtfully,
“Then it was the picture of Orpheus, even more than the music, which first held your
attention. When you played and danced and had your first flash of 'seeing', you held the
face of Orpheus in your mind?”

“More than that, madam. Foolish boy that I was, I felt I became Orpheus as I played.”

“Cast your mind back to that vision. You saw the Earl of Kildare in strange garments?”
“Which I now know were Greek draperies,” I interrupted. “And I was clothed in the same
way.”

“You say you saw yourself, yet not yourself, kneeling for a blessing. Was it not your own
face you saw?”

I made a mighty effort to recall and then, as though all my strength had gone into the
remembering, I whispered, “Mine was the pictured face of Orpheus.” And, with a strange
feeling of awe and misgiving, I buried my present face in my hands.

~
The next day, Lady Mary spoke to me again. “I know from my reading with Philip that
there was not one Orpheus, but many. As one bard and seer neared death, he passed his
title to his best pupil to whom he imparted his sacred musical knowledge. Many a false
Orpheus has been so named in flattery, but there are also those who, over the centuries,
have learned and kept the true secret, which is only revealed to the chosen one by word of
mouth or other means through the notes of the sacred strings.”

“The tablature, a recent invention, is now our only means of learning the music of the past
and it is capable of many interpretations. How may we learn the true sacred music?” I
asked. “I have learned in France and Italy of the attempts to rediscover the lost Greek
music, the very hymns of Orpheus, but, now the thread of oral transmission is broken, what
chance have they of success?”

69
“You have a gift which Doctor Dee envies,” urged Lady Mary. “You can transport
yourself into another age and 'see'.”

“Seeing is of no avail,” I replied angrily. “I must HEAR, and my visions have been silent
but for a word or two. Nor can I be certain whether it is the past or the future that I see. I
am not capable of controlling time!”

~
Have I scared you, Rob? We were on the verge of planning magic, which James called
'treason to the Prince' and punished by death. Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff. She
was unafraid of Doctor Dee's magic, and, when an image was found of her, pierced to the
heart to cause her death, she trusted to his stronger spells to counteract the threat. Yet, I
am convinced he had no evil in him, only an overwhelming curiosity as to the cause of
things and an absolute lack of fear in his own peculiar voyages of discovery. He helped
the explorers, Raleigh and the rest, find distant lands across unknown oceans, while
himself attempting to fly to the high heavens and back with his angel magic.

~
It was Sir Walter's half brother Master Adrian Gilbert, Lady Mary's alchemist and designer
of her beautiful gardens, who showed me the way. He had visited the house at Mortlake
many a time and knew Doctor Dee better than most.

“The old man has had a bee in his bonnet for years. How old are you, John? Well, he
obtained a manuscript in Louvain the year before your birth and has only now come to
understand it, which shows you what a tussle it has been. At first, he thought it was merely
a book of cryptography and that was hard enough to disentangle, but the third volume, he
says, treats of angel magic and so, he found, do the first two in an enciphered form. All
secret knowledge must be shadowed, you know. As Dante says, 'O, ye, who have sane
intellects, mark the doctrine, which conceals itself beneath the veil of the strange verses.'
However it seems to the world, and I myself often jest about it, my friend, John Dee, is a
man of the sanest intellect and can penetrate the most obscure writings.

“What is the work I speak of called, you ask? Abbot Trithemius' 'Steganographia', if you
can swallow that mouthful. And now Doctor Dee is wandering in foreign parts with that
villainous looking Edward Kelly, who has twisted our trusting John round his little finger
with tales of talking with the angel Gabriel and who knows what else. Do you know what
they actually believe? That if you stare hard enough at a picture, thinking deeply at the
same time, your question will reach the subject of the portrait and, within twenty-four
hours, an answer will be returned without the use of words, writing or messenger. Myself,
I deem that leaves too much room for deception and, if Kelly is that way inclined, I feel
sorry for my dear, old friend.”

~
The Countess of Pembroke resumed her translation of the Psalter, of which Sir Philip had
already Englished the first forty two Psalms. They believed, as many others had done, that
a great secret was hidden in the songs of King David.

70
“Philippe de Mornay said that David lived before the civilisation of the Greeks and was,
perhaps, the first Orpheus, combining the art of healing with that of prophecy. To bring his
words to life, we need the true music, lost, alas, like the music of the Greeks.”

“I know that in Paris Claude Le Jeune is composing 'musique mesuree' for a French
version of the Psalms. I dearly wish that I could confer with him, though we have lost
touch since I left the Embassy. Unless.....” A wild idea had entered my head and, with
some trepidation, I confided Adrian Gilbert's conversation to Lady Mary, who was
immediately fired with enthusiasm.

“Why we have the 'Steganographia' here in the library with Philip's commentary written in
his own hand. Come with me at once. I have never studied it and now is the time to
begin.”

We could make little ourselves of the cryptography, but Sir Philip's glosses gave us the
main part of the instructions. It seemed it was not needful to have an exact portrait of the
recipient, as long as it roughly resembled the person intended - the imagination of the
participants would make up for any defects in the execution. A short invocation (which I
may not quote in full) ending 'in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti' must be repeated
and the pictures of the recipient and the sender wrapped together and buried under a
threshold.

“It repeats what Master Gilbert told me, that the message will be returned within twenty-
four hours, without the use of words, writing or messenger, though it says nothing of
music,” I cried. “Oh, madam, let me make the attempt to exchange messages with Claude
Le Jeune and then, if music comes to me and it is the same as his own, we will have proof
that it is a true and harmless magic with no hateful 'seeings' and no ill after effects.”

Lady Mary's face lit up and she was eager to proceed. If nothing else, this gave her a fresh
interest and might help her to forget her mourning. “Have you a picture of your friend,
John, that we may begin straightway?”

When I admitted I had none and we realised that neither of us could draw a stroke, we were
nonplussed. Then Lady Mary tapped her head, “How foolish of me, we have the very man
we need under this roof - Abraham Fraunce, Philip's protege, who was at Shrewsbury
School the year my brother left for Oxford. He is an excellent limner and we shall begin by
asking him to make a portrait of you.”

It proved a fair likeness and the face that emerged on my description of Claude Le Jeune
was indeed recognisable. Wrapped in a cloth, we placed them beneath the carpet at the
door of my chamber. Lady Mary was gleeful.
“I can hardly wait for twenty-four hours to see if we have success. This venture gives me
a new lease of life and I am grateful to Adrian for suggesting it. To put you in the right
frame of mind, I think you should wear the ring and gaze into the diamond as you recite the
invocation. God speed the work, John,” and, after shaking my hand solemnly, she slipped
away.

I remained in my chamber with the lute Luca gave me (the one signed by Laux Maler,
however marvellous to play, had unhappy memories of 'seeing') and pen and music paper
ready to hand. Having recited the invocation and put my question in French, I propped my

71
eyes open, as it were, in case the message came and I not ready to record it. The hours
ticked slowly by, then, just as the last candle began to gutter and the sky lightened, music
came into my mind. I listened with bated breath, grateful for my power of instant recall,
and, as the light increased, played the psalm (I knew it for that) over and over until I could
see to record it on paper. I began to doze but kept waking to wonder if it had come to me
out of my own imagination and had nothing to do with Claude Le Jeune. By the time I met
Lady Mary, I was a prey to doubt and slow to accept her reassurances.

“We shall soon have proof,” she said. “You will send the tablature with a letter to your
friend in Paris and I will have it despatched with all speed through Sir Francis
Walsingham's good offices and the messenger shall be told to stay for the reply.”

Thus it was that, within the week, I received an amazed letter from Claude, asking by what
witchcraft I had invented the very same music he had composed some days previously and
he questioned, in jest, if I had stolen it from him in a dream. I had to reply that great minds
think alike and that he should keep my copy, which, in the circumstances, showed no great
generosity on my part. Lady Mary was gleeful at our success but I determined , much as I
was tempted, never again to question another living musician in this way , eschewing any
hint of plagiarism. My confederate in musical magic agreed.

“I wonder, though, if we could reach musicians from the past? Do let us try. What recent
'Orpheus' would you wish to hear?”

“I have those manuscripts of Albert de Rippe which John Heywood presented to me. It
would be wondrous to hear his touch on the lute and compare it with my own. But how
can Abraham make a drawing of a man we have never seen?”

“In the library there are lute books Philip brought home from his travels in Italy and I am
sure I have seen there a lutenist wearing the costume of that period. Abraham will copy the
picture and if we write the Italian name, Alberto da Ripa, very clearly and you think only
of him, I am sure you will have success.”

“And I will fast for the time of my vigil and take only wine or water, as was needful before
Doctor Dee chanted the hymn to Apollo. I must confess to a feeling of trepidation in
attempting to speak with the dead, though I know it is a marvel not to be missed.”

Without the enthusiastic assistance of the Countess of Pembroke, none of it could have
come about, but I assure you in truth that I did hear Alberto Musico perform his own work
so that I was able to change some points of my playing to match the master's. It was an
exhausting experience, however, and what was strange was that, though I could hear the
words of the songs with perfect clarity, speech came to my ear in so confused a fashion as
to be no clearer than the buzzing of a whole hive of bees. Still, the music was what I most
sought.

At Wilton, I heard also the magical touch and the singing of Don Luys Milan, but I could
exchange words with him no more than with Alberto. Thus, the magic was purely musical.
As well, perhaps, for had I been asked to summon up spirits as Doctor Dee attempted with
his angel magic I might have run mad. Though Lady Mary must have had a great desire to
receive messages from Sir Philip, she never put this burden on me, though what she
attempted in her own quiet hours was not for me to know.

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Our fruitful time was over all too soon. Without warning, I was summoned into the
presence of the Earl of Pembroke.

“I cannot imagine why the Countess spends so much of her time in your company,
Dowland, nor do I wish to know. You are dismissed her service from this moment.”

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 CHAPTER EIGHT

May 7th, 1625

I am just come from the old King's funeral, so exhausted I could have jumped on the bier
with his effigy. All through his reign public occasions have been marked by confusion and
disarray and this was no exception. Elizabeth would have turned in her grave. I was so
impatient of the waiting and the self satisfied smirk on Robert Johnson's face, I came near
to walking home in disgust until I remembered the miserable fee and the fact that I must
keep this place warm for you, Rob. They say the funeral cost more than fifty thousand
pounds and who will pay for it dear knows. Ever since Jamie came to his 'land of milk and
honey' he stripped it bare and was extravagant even in death. Blacks for nine thousand,
indeed! Well, mine will be the last I shall need.

~
Sir Philip Sidney's matched any royal funeral. Eight days after the execution of Mary of
Scotland (and none there to mark the truth of my prophecy) it was both Walsingham's
triumph and his downfall, for what with Sir Philip's debts, which Leicester refused to settle,
and the princely obsequies, my spy-master bankrupted himself and, when his own death
came, had to be buried hugger mugger at night to avoid his creditors.

Have you noticed that after the fine funeral orations, poisoned tongues begin to wag?
They hardly waited for the earth to be on Robert Cecil's coffin to blacken his name, if that
was possible. But I did not expect Sir Philip's friends to delay his praises. It was nine
years before Spenser published his 'Astrophel' and then, I think, at Raleigh's urging, and
Greville's “Life of Sidney' is not yet in print and, I wager, will be more about his paltry
doings than his hero's. James was prompt with his memorial poem, give him credit for
that, though the allowance Sir Philip sent him cost him more than a few words scribbled on
paper.

With the party of the Reformed Religion, it was a case of 'Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi' and
Sidney's successor was Robert Devereux, the young Earl of Essex, Leicester's stepson,
knighted by him at Zutphen, inheriting Sir Philip's sword and his cause. He was rather too
young at eighteen for the task of Protestant champion, but just the right age to bewitch the
fifty-three year old 'Virgin Queen', which Sidney had failed or scorned to do. May and
December became inseparable.

I might have returned to Court with Master Henry Noel, who never used the knighthood
bestowed by Leicester, but, to tell true, in the studious atmosphere of Wilton, my taste for
learning had come back to me. Moreover, I knew that there would be no chance at Court
for me to continue my musical forays into the past to which I was now addicted. Master
Adrian Gilbert had a last word for me before I left for London, advising me to apply to his
half brother, Sir Walter Raleigh for a post.

“Few know that he keeps a school at Durham House. His hero has always been my
brother, Sir Humphrey, who was the Queen's page when she was Princess Elizabeth.
Sixteen years past, Humphrey planned a new sort of Academy, not hidebound like the
Universities and the Inns of Court, but where all the new learning might be freely taught -

74
modern languages as well as classical, natural philosophy, mathematics, cosmography and
astronomy, not forgetting engineering, physic and chemistry...”

“I am surprised you do not mention music,” I interrupted.

“That will gain you entry,” Master Gilbert continued. “Humphrey did not see his plans
come to fruition but Walter has persuaded Elizabeth to make the Queen's Academy his
memorial. Three years ago, she gave him part lease of Durham House and commanded a
number of young nobles and Royal wards, who had hitherto been in Burghley's charge, to
accept Walter as their mentor. Old William even sent his precious son Robert to his care.”

I must tell you, Rob, that one of Cecil's greatest fears, when James came to the throne of
England, was that he might discover his attendance for a time at that 'school of magic and
atheism', as Raleigh's enemies dubbed it, which is, no doubt, one reason why he maligned
his old friend and former teacher in letters to Jamie and felt safer with Sir Walter in the
Tower, though the block would best have silenced his free tongue.

Master Gilbert wrote me a letter of recommendation, assuring me that,once in Durham

House, I should find the means not only of teaching but of attending classes in which I was
interested. Rather than apply to Sir Walter directly, I went to find my old master, Henry
Noel, who introduced me himself to Raleigh with a warm testimonial of his own, so that all
went well for me.

What's that I hear you say, Rob? You've never heard of Raleigh's Academy? Few knew it
then and fewer now it has been destroyed, though I heard that Prince Henry thought of
reviving it. After Sir Walter's execution (seven years ago already), although Lady Raleigh
pleaded to have her husband's library and papers, the Commissioners of the King's
Warrant confiscated them and they all disappeared, onto other folk's book-shelves, I
should guess, and, above all, those of Francis Bacon, in some of whose late writings, I
discern Sir Walter's hand.

You may find one reminder of the Academy's work in a volume printed two years ago and
dedicated to the Countess of Pembroke's sons, William and Philip Herbert - the plays the
young gentlemen and others wrote in keeping with the traditions of the schools and Inns of
Court. How Kit Marlowe would have crowed to see his pupils' work gathered together
(much of which he did not live to see staged) though it would have taken many pints of
good ale to wash the taste of Shakespeare's name out of his mouth. That was the second
time Will was used for colour and got the best of the bargain with a grand house at
Stratford, the name of gentleman and enough money to retire on.

Read the play 'Love's Labour's Lost', which I don't suppose will be staged again since the
time Southampton showed it off to James when he first came from Scotland - too many
cryptic allusions and downright schoolboy bawdy, going back thirty years - old and out of
date like me. It was written to mock Raleigh - his strict rules at the Academy against
philandering, his 'school of night', punning on his humble title. Some of the young nobles
thought a saucy, upstart knight should mind his place and not presume to teach his betters.
Southampton especially resented being put by the Queen to the Academy. He had obtained
his degree at sixteen by disputing for it, which was rare, and objected to learning subjects
like navigation and seamanship, which he felt were far beneath someone who had been an
earl since the age of eight.

75
He was only one of those who chafed at Sir Walter's habit of calling his pupils 'sirrah' as if
they were schoolboys and that word came into the play too, only it was put into the mouth
of the Braggart, an apt description of Giordano Bruno, who was asked to lecture to the
students on heliocentricity when he was in England. He held forth in Latin, pronouncing it
in the Italian way - 'chentrum, 'chirculus' and chircumferenchia', words which the students
imitated with glee, staggering around as if in their cups. So he is commemorated in the
play by the word 'chirrah', which he added to his meagre English vocabulary, together
with 'Tanchi maester', as he wrote in his 'Ash Wednesday Supper'.

One of Robert Parsons' pamphlets also had mention of Raleigh's 'school of atheism where
no small number of noble youths may mock at the old law of Moses and the new law of
Christ'. I promise you , Rob, it was not my tongue that wagged this time. I held Sir Walter
in some regard. Did you never wonder for whom 'Mr. Knight's Galliard' was written? Or
who was the knight in Barnfield's poem who loved Dowland and Spenser both?

You now know that Kit Marlowe taught poetry and playwriting. Thomas Hariot and
Thomas Digges, Doctor Dee's 'son in mathematics' taught that subject and astronomy.
John Florio taught modern languages and Francis Bacon, Raleigh's deputy, taught the
ancient ones. As the youngest son of the late Lord Keeper, he had inherited little and his
mother kept him short of money, hoping to keep a rein on his pederasty. A school for
young gentlemen was a happy hunting ground for him. Did you not know that our great
but now fallen Lord Chancellor was once a plain dominie? Or do you put all this down to
the maundering of an old man?

~
It was comfortable at Durham House, where I had a cubby-hole of my own in which to
practise matching words and music and to continue with my musical magic, though that
was seldom. A Catholic family, the Darcies, occupied the other half of the house. They
had a charming niece, Katharine, who inspired a galliard. I was much in demand to
compose and play for the entertainments held in her honour, which the Academy pupils
were eager to attend. Raleigh's duties as Captain of the Guard kept him at court, especially
after dark, and, as Bacon was needy and not above taking bribes, the monastic nature of the
school went by the board.

My ambition to study further was fulfilled. Most tutors welcomed me to sit in their class-
rooms, playing soothing music. If my interest was not completely held, it amused me
sometimes to change the pupils' mood with varying Greek modes to the discomfort of their
mentors. I never played such tricks on John Florio, who was fiery tempered and quick to
retaliate. Besides, I was far too set on improving my French and Italian , which I could
speak better than I could write.

Matthew Gwinne, Florio's friend (both of whom Giordano Bruno put in a book) taught
musical theory and we had some good discussions, joined sometimes by Tom Morley, who
came to London to court his Susan and would call to tell us how he was faring with an
introduction to practical music which he wrote in moments of leisure from his work as
choir master of Norwich Cathedral. Walsingham's underlings called him 'Morley the
singing man' to distinguish him from Kit, who always signed himself Morley, but was
called Marlowe, just as we called our little Susanna 'Annie' to avoid confusion with her
mother, Suzanne.

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My 'family' were also in London now, where Robert Sidney had brought them to his house
to have them near at hand, convenient for me, too, as he told me with a wink. He came to
court one day when I was there, playing for Master Henry Noel.

“Suzanne is teaching Lady Barbara French and helping her with embroidery and suchlike
fallals. My wife is easily bored and needs new interests. She spends time gossiping with
the servants and wastes my money on trifles. I don't see why you shouldn't give her some
lute lessons now you are a proper teacher. Raleigh won't mind.”

He failed, as ever, to mention the matter of remuneration, so I quickly dismissed the

thought of Lady Barbara from my mind. From what little I had seen of her, her
surrounding colour was as dingy as her husband's, who had been my least rewarding pupil.

~
Though I had pitiful success in making out the speech of musicians from the past, I held to
the ambition that, one day, I should speak to the first Orpheus and understand his answer
and, to that end, I worked painfully at Greek. Francis Bacon was a hard taskmaster, as his
scholarly mother had been to him from the earliest age. She was one of the Cooke sisters,
all brilliant classicists, such as are seldom found among ladies today, Of the two other
sisters, one married Lord Burghley and spawned crook-back Cecil and the other was wife
to Sir Thomas Hoby, whose translation of Castiglione's 'Courtier' was the Bible of
Raleigh's Academy, as it had been Sir Humphrey Gilbert's. The drawback with Bacon was
that, unlike the rest, he demanded payment for his tuition to help buy his scented boots and
compliant boys. Still, it was worth it. One day I would hear music played by the first
Orpheus and I readied myself to speak with him in his own tongue.

The Countess of Pembroke had not forgotten our musical magic and sent me an Italian
book, published in Venice in 1536, which contained, she alleged, a picture of a lute player,
none other than the great Francesco da Milano, himself whom Luca had praised.
Following the correct procedure, and keeping to my room for twenty-four hours with the
excuse that I was taking physic (no one interrupts when they know you are busy emptying
your bowels and belly) I was fortunate enough to hear in my mind the most exquisite
playing, more than justifying Luca's praise, which I transferred to paper, as before.

Now I had the idea of making an Orpheus book of my own, holding the annotated
manuscripts of Albert de Rippe, Don Luys Milan and the copy of the music played by
Francesco da Milano. Over the years, my collection of glorious music slowly grew, but,
though I could hear the words of the songs, I was not often quick enough to capture them
as well as the music and, for some reason, no 'Orpheus' answered me more than once, so
that what I missed the first time was gone for ever. Some freak made me loath to summon
up the recently dead, such as John Heywood or Alfonso Ferrabosco of Bologna and I kept
to my vow never again to summon the living. The lutenists of the past had a youthful style
and it lessened my fear of death to know that those who drank of the water of Lethe kept
the skill of their prime.

We had heard that Doctor Dee and Edward Kelly were still practising angel magic in
Bohemia, where they were staying with Count Rosenberg and most like had more frequent
opportunities than I who could not often shut myself away for the appointed time without

77
food, perhaps taking more wine than water, nerves highly strung, ears ever at the ready,
and, lacking sleep, appear fresh for my teaching when the magic was ended.

It was hard enough to keep the students to their work. Now that Mary of Scotland was
dead, Philip of Spain was ready to claim the throne of England and the news that he had a
great invasion fleet waiting at Lisbon brought the young nobles' excitement to fever pitch.
1588 was prophesied as a year of great portent. Selfishly, I rejoiced that Doctor Dee was
absent and Sir Philip Sidney no more, so there was none to demand a 'seeing' to foretell the
outcome of the expected battle.

In France, emboldened by King Philip's readiness for war, the Guises took Paris and King
Henri was forced to flee from the Louvre. All was in the balance, and Elizabeth as slow as
ever to arm. Sir Walter had the Ark Raleigh built to a new design and sold it to the Crown,
busying himself with paperwork as a member of the Council of War. At least, the navy
was armed and provisioned.

On July 8th, when the Armada was on its way, Tom Morley and I were called to Oxford to
receive our degrees in music, Walsingham's reward to us for our work as his intelligencers.
Not long before, Kit Marlowe had been awarded a Cambridge degree. The roads were
busy with cart-loads of men and provisions making their way to the coast. There was
excitement abroad but also great uncertainty, for King Philip had the advantage in numbers
of ships and the Duke of Parma, whose strength we well knew, was to meet the Spanish
fleet when it reached the Channel.

We were saved by the wind, as though by a miracle. All went awry for the unwieldy ships
of the Armada and the rendezvous with Parma failed. Before August ended, the beaten
enemy ships were running north and, now that it was safe, Leicester hastily prepared a
show at Tilbury where the Queen, on horseback and wearing armour, inspected the untried
troops to great acclaim. Those of the old religion, who had come out of hiding to greet the
Spaniards, had to go to ground again.

~
Sir Robert Sidney, in great haste and, as ever, full of his own importance, came to call on
Sir Walter, demanding my services. He was to lead an Embassy to King James of
Scotland, thanking him for not sheltering the fleeing Armada and promising help from the
Queen if he resisted the blandishments of the Pope. Sir Robert must have spent a deal of
his wife's money on making a splendid show, with me as lutenist in his train, on a good
horse, for a change. Arthur Throckmorton, whom we had come across in Germany, was
most impressed at the fine sight. I was also supposed to repay Walsingham for my degree
by bringing back fresh information about James, whom Sir Francis more or less supported
as Elizabeth's heir without altogether trusting him.

King James, at twenty, was no more prepossessing in youth than he was in old age,
fiddling with his codpiece and dribbling at the corners of his slack mouth. He was all over
Sir Robert, who, truth to tell, was not unhandsome then. It was not long since Jamie's ill-
fated cousin, Esme Stuart, had introduced him to the peculiar pleasures of the dissolute
French court. Robert tried not to recoil from the young King's slobbery advances but I
could see he was in fear for the velvet of his expensive, new cloak.

78
James launched into one of his long speeches - he ever loved the sound of his own voice.
“We much admired your late, noble brother, Sir Philip, and ourselves went so far as to
compose Latin verses in his memory. No doubt you have read them.”

Robert mumbled something suitable. He wrote bad English verse himself but was not fond
of the compositions of others.

James rambled on, “We realise that your late brother was instrumental in obtaining for us
an allowance from our royal sister, Elizabeth...”

“Most of it came out of his own pocket,” Robert could not resist adding but sufficiently
under his breath for James, now in full flood, to ignore.

“And,” continued the king, “there is the matter of back payments, which we must ask you
urgently to raise with her, especially since, after my mother's unfortunate demise, we are
indubitably heir to the throne of England.”

I could tell from Robert's expression, that he knew better than to risk having a royal
slipper, or worse, thrown at his head with practised aim should he dare mention to the
Queen the forbidden subject of the succession.

“We shall recall the Master of Gray and send him to negotiate a full recognition of our
rights.” Here James sniggered and went on with a knowing look, “He was a great friend to
Sir Philip and exceedingly popular with your Queen.”

James continued to discourse at length, boasting of his prowess at hunting, extolling his
'Essays of a Prentice in the Divine Art of Poetry' and some translations of the Psalms on
which he was engaged, so that it was some time before Sir Robert could deliver his
message and thankfully withdraw to find much needed refreshment. It seemed a dismal
court and such entertainment as we obtained was meagre. Remembering Patrick Gray
from Paris days, I wished he had been recalled from exile in time to give us a more lively
welcome.

Unexpectedly, the King summoned me to a private interview. There was one other
present, whom James introduced as Alexander Dickson, a pupil of Giordano Bruno, who
was instructing James in his master's famous Art of Memory.

“We have heard through Dickson, who was known to Sir Philip Sidney, that you are
capable of seeing the future. If there is a ceremony you would wish him to perform, this
may be arranged.”

Taken by surprise, I yet had no intention of undergoing one of my awesome 'seeings' for
this ungainly youth. Instead I said, “Your Grace, no ceremony is needed. I shall go
behind this curtain and, when I emerge, shall gaze into my palm and appear to sleep. I may
answer three questions only. When I have replied to you, I beg your Grace to clap your
hands, whereupon I shall come to myself again.”

It was with some trepidation, for I had not attempted Doctor Dee's 'seeing at the stage of
the albedo'on my own before, that, stepping behind the arras, I took the Spanish diamond
from the chain around my neck and placed it on my little finger with the stone to the inside.
As I gazed with fixed attention on its brilliance, I heard the three questions.

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“What will befall my cousin, the Duc de Guise? When will the present King of France
die? What will be my fate?” Then I heard my own voice, strange and high, give the
answers. “The Duc will die at an assassin's hand in December. The same fate will be the
King's in August of the year following. You, your Grace, will die in your own bed.”

I opened my eyes to the sound of the King's clap. Had I known him then as I did later, I
should not have trusted him. He was quite capable of holding back the clap merely to see
what might befall. I could tell that James believed me and, indeed, there was nothing false
about my prophecy, but he was not satisfied with my last answer, pressing me to be more
explicit and was much displeased when I told him that my powers were exhausted. You
know well, Rob, that he ever after slept surrounded by thick, padded bedding, just as his
daytime wear was grotesquely stuffed, for he never ceased to dread the assassin's blade.

I received no thanks and no reward but the King had somehow discovered that I carried
messages for Walsingham and promised me a small retainer if I would do the same service
for him, an offer I was not in a position to refuse. This part of the interview I was able to
divulge to satisfy Sir Robert's curiosity, and, as we were running short of money and
James's largesse was notable by its absence, he told the king regretfully that we must return
to England since he was expected to take up Sir Philip's post as Governor of Flushing and I
had to resume my service with Raleigh. The King was not satisfied and demanded to keep
me with him, but, when Sir Robert explained that I was often summoned to the English
Court and that Queen Elizabeth would be most angry at my absence, the King gave way,
ungraciously.

~
Hardly had we crossed the Border, than a messenger met us with news of the Earl of
Leicester's sudden death, so Sir Robert hurried off to consult with the lawyers and hear the
will read. Not long after, I went to visit Suzanne and Annie, taking them such poor gifts
from Scotland as I had been able to obtain. Because I disliked using the servants' door, I
risked leaving at the front and, awkwardly enough, almost collided with Sir Robert, scarlet
with anger and gobbling like a turkey cock.

“I am just returned from the reading of my uncle's will and must tell someone or I shall run
mad. All has gone awry since Philip's death and this is the worst blow. How could my
uncle behave so shabbily after all the Sidney family has done at his command in the past?
My Lord Essex and I are left mere tokens, so how I shall afford to keep up Penshurst I
cannot think. Aunt Lettice has only her jointure, Wanstead and Drayton Basset and the
Queen is forcing her to sell all the contents of Kenilworth to repay the loans she had made
to Uncle Robert. The rest goes to Uncle Ambrose, who won't live long, and then - you
won't believe this, Johnny, that young bastard, Robert Dudley, is to have the lot - the
money, Kenilworth and Warwick Castle.

“All we can hope for is that the little hound comes to a bad end before he is twenty, then,
according to the will, Essex and I can divide the spoils. But he looks as healthy as can be
and, before we know it, the whoreson upstart will be lording it at court with the Queen
saying how much he resembles his dear father...”

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Hardly pausing for breath, Sir Robert continued, reckless with fury, “It's enough to make
one think of slipping poison into his cup like.....Oh, well, you must have heard the story,
servants always do, how Uncle Robert discovered Lettice's carryings on with Chris Blount
(and he young enough to be her son) and had the poison all ready to finish her off, but she
was too clever for him, switched cups, and there he was, hoist with his own petard, as they
say. I shouldn't be surprised if some scribbler puts it into a play,” and he made a sick face.

Not long after Leicester's death, his fool, Dick Tarleton, passed on, leaving an old mother
and his little son, named after his godfather, Sir Philip Sidney. I had written a jig for him
once and later I composed 'Tarleton's Riserrectione', which commemorated him in the play
'Hamlet'. But I digress.

~
News came from Bohemia that Edward Kelly had succeeded at last in making gold, so
Master Edward Dyer, who was skilled in assaying metals, was sent post haste to Prague to
fetch him back. But Kelly had been made a knight by the Emperor, who, naturally enough,
would not part with him. Doctor Dee returned alone without the secret and, on his way,
visited the German states where Sir Philip had made friends earlier. He was rudely
received in England for having left Kelly behind and all he would vouchsafe was that
'Edward did injure me unkindly.' I am certain that crop-eared villain cheated my innocent
friend over the angel magic. He had his just reward, however, as his powers deserted him,
and he was killed attempting to escape from prison.

Sir Walter Raleigh was one of the few still loyal to Doctor Dee and said he would be proud
to have him lecture at the Academy. The students could make neither head nor tail of
Steganography, though Bacon was interested in the ciphers and boasted that he had
invented one of his own when he was in Paris. The Doctor took me to one side and said
that I had been right about the King of Denmark's death and that he was making plans for
the new child king, Christian. The old man had to return to Mortlake to supervise the
repair of his house, damaged by the ignorant mob, and I decided to keep the news of my
musical magic to myself till a more suitable time.

Meanwhile, Essex continued to see Raleigh as his chief rival at court. He escaped with Sir
Roger Williams to take part in Drake's expedition to Portugal, hoping to replace Don
Antonio on the throne usurped by Philip of Spain. The Queen failed to prevent this act of
disobedience and was mad with worry but, like a mother whose son has strayed, her anger
on his safe return soon dissolved and she was more besotted with her boy than ever. Sir
Walter, on the same principle that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder', took himself off
in turn to manage his estates in Ireland, leaving Essex triumphant. He was soon back,
however, bringing Edmund Spenser with a new poem of chivalry which made him a court
poet at last and gave him promise of a pension, though the Lord Treasurer, who for some
reason hated him, was slow to pay. Spenser was brought to Durham House to lecture. I
was so incensed by the uncalled for remarks he made about the Irish that I stalked from the
room, though I had wished to hear what he said on poetry writing and had tried my hand
more than once in the attempt to match words and music.

Kit Marlowe was not then at Durham House to be annoyed by the overweening Spenser.
To fill his place at various times we had Peele, Nashe (a most amusing fellow) and, later,
George Chapman. There was no trouble finding penniless University wits to come and

81
teach - they were ever on the look-out for rich young patrons. Not that all the students
were wealthy. There were some free places and that is how Thomas Campion and John
Donne came to be my pupils. I never asked Tom if he was kin to my true master though I
am sure it must have been so. He had to put up with enough gibes from the other students.
I was partial to him and he became my best pupil on the lute and made great strides at
composition. When the time came for him to move to the Inns of Court to learn the
necessary smattering of law, I feared for him, as Francis Bacon still had the use of his
father's chambers there and Gray's Inn was not known as the 'Inn of Glaucus' for nothing.
I hope your classical studies taught you, Rob, that Glaucus was devoured by horses for
spurning the charms of Venus.

Where was I? Oh yes, Kit hadn't quarrelled with Sir Walter.

Recently, our Principal had become very thick with Burghley and I believe he learned
from a mocking remark of the Lord Treasurer's of the agreement between Leicester and
rich, old Bess of Hardwick to marry his now only son, base-born Robert Dudley, to her
grand daughter , Lady Arbella Stuart. When Bess came to court with the young Arbella
and asked for a suitable tutor to take back to Hardwick for her young prodigy, Raleigh
recommended an unwilling Christopher Marlowe. I was only grateful that she was more
of an intellectual than a musician, or I might have been sent in his place. From the
grandmother's point of view, he was a better choice than I. Arbella's precious maidenhead
was safe with Kit, who only cared for boys and tobacco, which the old lady denied him.
Arbella had seen young Robert at court and liked him well, as he was a handsome youth.
Kit's task was to sing his praises and keep his memory bright. Our poor poet languished in
Derbyshire for three years, until he risked Sir Walter's wrath and ran away. All the same
he was there long enough to cement a liking on Arbella's part, which was intended, when
the time was ripe, to put a new young queen on the throne with Robert as her consort and
set an end to the ambitions of James of Scotland.

Meanwhile, the Admiral, Sir Charles Howard, Robert's guardian, sent him to the Academy,
where he was an outstanding pupil, especially in practical subjects like navigation and
engineering, which stood him in good stead in later life. He knew nothing of his father's
marriage plans and when the Earl of Warwick died and he inherited a fortune, used his
independence to marry where he liked, ignorant that the betrothal to Arbella took
precedence over any later union.

In my classes, I noticed that Robert Dudley resembled the scions of the old nobility, like
Cumberland and Northumberland (later to be another 'wizard earl') in being hail fellow
well met with all, whereas those whom the French court classed as 'Tudor upstarts' (Robert
Sidney, for instance) were by turns over familiar or condescending. Another such was
Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, who, with his girl's face, long hair and full
pockets never lacked hangers-on. I was surprised that Essex, whose manners were better,
took that mother's boy in tow, except that they had both suffered as Burghley's wards and
held their former guardian in equal detestation.

This hatred they now extended to Sir Walter Raleigh, whom, though he persuaded Hooker
to trace his ancestry back to a descendant of Henry 1, named D'Amarie de Clare, they
regarded as a parvenu of the first water. The Queen, indeed, with her fondness for
nicknames, called him 'Water', which he poeticised to 'Ocean'. I believe he was impervious
to the coarse gibes which staled the air of Durham House. For a wise and witty man he
was a great innocent and was slow to believe ill of others, though some said he was too

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proud to accept that he had enemies who might do him harm. He was magnanimous too.
When Thomas Howard set tongues wagging for abandoning Raleigh's cousin, Sir Richard
Grenville, to the Spaniards in the Azores, Sir Walter wrote in defence of the man he might
have castigated as a murderer. He always took the unexpected stand and, as folk distrust
the unpredictable, small wonder he was reckoned the most hated man in England.

~
You must forgive my awkward writing. Since the funeral I have had a set-back and am in
pain again. I cannot help thinking that James was the younger man. True,his heavy
drinking and unwholesome practices told against him, but my life of constant travelling,
infrequent meals and broken sleep has not been a recipe for long life either. When you see
your pupils die like Tom Campion, and members of your own family, which I am loath to
recall, you begin to wonder how soon your turn will come and whether you are ready for
it.

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 CHAPTER NINE
Essex and Southampton tried every way to bring Sir Walter down without success. With
Essex and those of the reformed religion, it was through political necessity - Raleigh was
too much an unknown quantity to have the Queen's ear. With Southampton, the hatred
came from pride and rebelliousness. It was not Essex's wise mentors , Sir Henry Lee and
Sir Edward Dyer who devised a way to ruin Sir Walter. In the end, I am sure it was that
tricky devil, Francis Bacon, who cared for nothing in the world but his own advancement.
It pained my eyes to gaze at his jumble of black-tinged colours representing disharmony
and evil. I doubt if he had an honest feeling to his name - self-gratification was the nearest
he ever came to love. It was enough that Raleigh was his employer for Frankie to plot his
downfall. This is the story.

The Queen, as is well known, could not bear her favourites or her Maids of Honour to
marry. Worst of all was to do so without her express permission. When, just as Elizabeth
had rewarded Essex with the rich Farm of Sweet Wines, he married Sir Philip's widow,
Frances, the Queen's wrath knew no bounds, until her great need of her young favourite
brought him back to court, but never his wife. Marriage, then was the first necessity for
Sir Walter's downfall, but how to bring it about, when he had many times averred that he
would live out his life alone. I have cause to remember that year, when I composed and
played my most memorable music to date for Sir Henry Lee's retirement from the
Accession Day Tilts. What praise I enjoyed then!

Memories, memories!

Back to the Queen, who could not abide the loss of a Maid of Honour. But there was one
of whose lifelong service she was certain - ill-favoured, penniless Bess Throckmorton, who
could never hope to catch a husband. Her brother, Arthur, had to spend money he could
ill afford to buy Bess her place in the Queen's Chamber. Heaven forfend she should ever
require a dowry from the poor inheritance left by Sir Nicholas, or, if the Queen should die,
become a charge in her brother's house, where he had a wife difficult to please. In the
hands of great lords like Essex and Southampton, Arthur Throckmorton was easy game.

Bess was sworn to secrecy and told that a great marriage would ensue if she obeyed
instructions to the letter. All she had to do on the appointed night was to strip to her shift,
wrap herself in a dark cloak and wait beneath a certain tree. Most like she thought there
was witchcraft in it.

The final part of the plot was the most tricky - how to embroil the misogynist, Sir Walter,
with a Maid of Honour, the breed against which he most strongly warned his charges?
The Southampton coterie invited their Principal to a feast and, though he never touched
strong drink, they persuaded him to take a little for a toast to the Queen, which he could
not avoid. That drink they laced with just a suspicion of Cantharides, Spanish Fly,
Leicester's well known aphrodisiac, that drove Mary of Scotland wild for the despicable
Darnley. It can kill, Rob, if the dose is too large but they gauged it carefully just so as to
make Sir Walter thoroughly and uncharacteristically lecherous.

Under the tree waited the inexperienced victim of his lasciviousness and Raleigh was led,
not as a lamb to the slaughter, but as a randy old tup to his ewe. Next day, scared and
shaken, Bess was even more ready to obey instructions and seek to cover her shame. And

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Sir Walter? He woke up next morning, remembering nothing, feeling worse than seasick
and vowing never to touch a drop in his life again.

How do I know all this? Do you think they could keep it to themselves? The tale spread
through the class-rooms of Durham House like wildfire, old 'Water's' prowess more
prurient with each telling. And Raleigh, his head in the clouds, knew nothing of it all.

You ask why I am sure that viper, Francis Bacon had a hand in this. Not content with
writing parts for plays, one of his chief enjoyments was inventing roles for others to play in
real life. He was an arch manipulator. He tried it with Essex, who was too open, so
blundered every time. Arthur Throckmorton was more easily managed. His diary was
produced to add veracity to the tale and, I'll wager, our Frankie dictated every word of it,
lawyer fashion. I can just see his snake's eyes gleaming and his quick tongue flickering.
They needed all the times and dates on paper, for, in spite of some agonising moments for
Bess, unluckily for them, she failed to find herself with child, which had been the whole
purpose of the game.

Nothing daunted, (I learned this later from Suzanne, who had it from Sir Robert) they
invented a birth at the brother's house with his wife in the secret. They even playacted a
christening with the Earl of Essex as gossip. The imaginary child received the mocking
name of Damerei after the supposed father's supposed ancestor. A sorry business it was
for gentlemen and 'men of honour'! Bess returned to court and none there suspected the
role she had played. If there had in truth been a child, it would have been put out to nurse,
in which circumstance, babes all too often died. There was no need for Raleigh ever to see
his 'son' - the circumstances were all there in black and white written in Arthur
Throckmorton's diary.

Sir Walter was away in Chatham, ignorant of these plots, collecting ships for his Panama
expedition, so was not lying when he told his prudish little friend, Robert Cecil, that he
knew nothing of a marriage, though the hunchback was quick to blame Raleigh's
'bestiality'. What was there in the Cooke women to make them bear devils like bossive
Robin and tricky Frankie?

When the victim was acquainted with the whole, wretched story, what could he do but offer
marriage to the lady? That was the end of the Academy and his relationship with the
deceived and furious Queen. To be supplanted by that hideous and stupid Bess
Throckmorton, whose father had dared criticise the young Elizabeth's behaviour with her
lover, who became the Earl of Leicester! It was the Tower for Raleigh and his unchosen
bride, and, after that, exile to Sherborne and loss to the unforgiving Queen of all the
riches his ships brought home. Years later, she learned the truth and did not absolve the
perpetrators or ever forgive Lady Raleigh. She tried to console Sir Walter with the
Earldom of Pembroke, when the old man died. Cecil told William Herbert he had put a
stop to that, but it was Raleigh himself who refused to rob Sir Philip Sidney's son of the
title he expected.

~
Kit Marlowe had returned to Durham House the year before Raleigh's downfall and
afterwards accompanied him to Sherborne.

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“What a milk and water miss was that Arbella; clever, I grant you when she used her Latin
to help me translate Ovid's 'Amores'. Oh yes, I kept her primed with love's young dream,
as instructed. I nearly finished another amorous work for her, this time my own, the story
of Hero and Leander. I hope that young Dudley lives up to my description of Leander. A
deal of my own love and longing went into that poem. Three years without a lovely boy
and my last one bearded and deep-voiced on my return! I shall never live long enough to
make up for what Raleigh has stolen from my love life.”

I showed him some of my poems. “Facile,” he opined. “A little love and longing would
put more life into them, I'll be bound.” I was chagrined at that. I had thought my poems
worthy of his praise.

Kit's reappearance at the Academy brought on another spate of playwriting. Nothing would
please the young gentlemen now but a performance of their work on the public stage
Twelfth Night at Whitehall or at the Inns of Court did not satisfy their appetite for
applause. And as the plays they wrote as part of their English course had to be fit for
professionals to act, they paid one of them, Will Shakespeare, to furbish them up for the
groundlings.

Marlowe, Peele and Nashe had a University friend, poor as a church mouse and as
dependent as they on his pen for a living. His name was Robert Greene and, naturally
enough, he took umbrage at wealthy young gentlemen taking the bread out of the mouths
of needy writers. He wrote a pamphlet, urging his three friends not to encourage these
amateurs to take on the mantle of professional playwrights with a living to earn and warned
them that their patrons would drop them like hot cakes when it suited.

The play whose popularity on the stage most incensed Master Greene was about Henry V1
and its author was that young Robert Dudley, whose name appears so often in my story.
Greene knew better than to refer to him by name, but went as near as he could by dubbing
the author 'Johannes Factotum'. All remembered his father, Leicester's nickname of
'Dominus Factotum', so it was easy to guess who was Jack to his King.

By the time Henry Chettle had printed Greene's diatribe, the author was no more, so it was
the publisher who had to bear the brunt of the anger aroused. Without daring to mention
the name of Robert Dudley, he printed an abject apology, which that cockscomb, Will
Shakespeare, took to be meant for him. As time went on,Will grew so proud you would
have thought he was the author of the plays instead of the mere refurbisher. We all
laughed at his pretensions. There were not enough hours in the working day for him to
have written those plays and the passages of exquisite poetry were quite beyond his
powers. Still, someone's name had to be used for colour, since gentlemen did not publish
plays and Will gained a coat of arms and made a small fortune out of it.

The playwriting part of Robert Dudley's life ended for the time when he married and
settled at Kenilworth. He revelled in the country life and was the first to train dogs to fetch
game. He often sent for me when he hosted some great entertainment for the
Warwickshire gentry and I wrote galliards and pavanes for the local dignitaries, their
wives, daughters and even servants. Oh, yes, my music was at the height of fashion then
and I wrote for all the rich and famous of the day.

My good master, Henry Noel, who honoured me with his friendship, brought me to court
often and, in the year of Sir Walter's disgrace, I joined the Queen's Summer Progress,

86
stopping at Bisham, where I composed a pavane for Bacon's aunt, Lady Russell; at
Rycote, commemorated by Mistress Norrishe's Delight, and so, playing and composing all
the way, to Sudeley Castle, where, in the Entertainment, I roundly told the Queen that I had
'played so long with my fingers that I had beaten out of play all my good fortune.'

I was a fool to suppose that the Queen would employ me when others would bear the cost
and she might enjoy my music with no expense to herself. I was also told that I must await
the death of one of the Queen's lutenists before applying for a post. I did not relish the
thought of waiting to fill a dead man's shoes, so gave up the hope of a permanent post at
court. There was no time for musical magic and, now the Academy was closed, I had no
room of my own in which to perform it. On progress, it was every man for himself and
even the loyal Sir Henry Lee gave up following the Queen as he could find nowhere to lay
his head. Unlike myself, however, he had a home to go to at Ditchley and a warm
bedmate, Anne Vavasour, I mean, that had a child by the Earl of Oxford. I was loath to
seek shelter in Robert Sidney's house. If I could not find a rich employer and a permanent
home, I would manage as best I might as a snapper up of unconsidered trifles in the way of
employment.

~
I have just enjoyed an idle hour with Henry Peacham, who heard I was sick again and
came to cheer me with his newsmongering. There is great delay over the new Queen's
arrival. Buckingham has returned to France, some say to expedite her coming, but the
general rumour is that he has business of his own with Anne of Austria and has taken a
great jewel to further his amours. Henry tells me the plague is worsening and he has plans
to spend time in Norfolk and hopes to avoid all danger. I told him that I shall remain in
Fetter Lane and look for your coming. May it be soon.

~
An unexpected summons came from Doctor Dee and I made my way to Mortlake. The
house still looked uncared for and the part that had been burnt by the mob was not yet fully
repaired. At my knock, the good doctor himself came to the door and led me into the
library, its shelves sadly depleted.

“It was as well” said my host, cheerfully, “that I had several copies of each volume (as I
remember you once remarked) and that I lent out so many to my friends and pupils, who
have now returned them to restock my shelves. You will wonder why you are here and I
shall not beat about the bush. I should be grateful if you would look into the future on a
matter which concerns me greatly.”Seeing my anxious look, he quickly added. “No, not a
'seeing'. We will proceed as we did previously. Have you the Spanish diamond?” I took
the ring from where it always hung round my neck and he placed it on his little finger.

“Now, two questions only. It will be over in a trice. Gaze on the stone.” As before, the
diamond flashed to and fro and I lost consciousness of the world around me, though I heard
both our voices from afar.

“What will be the fate of the Earl of Essex?” “The block.”

“In what year?” “February, 1601.”

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Doctor Dee snapped his fingers and I opened my eyes.

“You have confirmed my belief, John, that the young man will come to no good. How
much harm he will do if he gains real power is a cause for great concern. For the next eight
years he must be watched carefully.”

We talked for a while, then he said we were both ready for a meal and took me to the
kitchen, where Mistress Dee, young Arthur and Katherine were waiting at table.
Afterwards, in the doctor's study, I took the opportunity to confide in him about the
musical magic. He was immediately enthusiastic and questioned me searchingly,
afterwards urging me to conduct another experiment with himself present to keep vigil
with me. Explaining how long I had waited for the opportunity, I said it would be my pride
and pleasure if he would consent to assist me.

“But I have not brought my portrait, which I have used up to now. And how shall I find a
likeness of the great Marsilio Ficino, whose voice and music I most long to hear?”

“All can be arranged,” Doctor Dee replied, confidently. “My son has some talent at
drawing and will be pleased to attempt your likeness. As Abbot Trithemius explains, it
does not have to be perfect. The intention is all and you have the imagination required to
bring success.”

As I sat to the young artist, Doctor Dee spoke to me of Ficino, saying, “Philip greatly loved
Marsilio's translation of Plato' works. Do you know, Ficino learned Greek at the age you
are now, and, in those days, it was a language known to few. He always remained poor
and never sought favour, though Cosimo di Medici loved and honoured him. He believed,
as do I and as did Philip, that philosophy consists in the study of truth and wisdom,
properties of God alone, therefore, philosophy is religion, and true religion, genuine
philosophy. But you will have learned much of Ficino in your studies at the Academy.”

“Very little of his music,” I replied, “and that we must discover through musical magic.”
As I spoke, young Arthur handed me his finished sketch, rather too flattering, as I recall,
but still apt for the purpose.

“You are anxious now as to where we can find a likeness of Marsilio Ficino. It so happens
that I have on my shelves Philip's own copy of his Plato in which is the very portrait we
require. We will place your picture next to it inside the cover.” As we climbed the stairs
to his study, the doctor said, “A pity you do not wish to 'see'. Ficino played on a Lyra
Orphica decorated with pictures of Orpheus among the rocks and animals. That would be
worth the viewing.”

I refused to be drawn. “Ficino also said, if I remember correctly, that hearing has a greater
effect on the spirit than seeing, so I shall hold to that tenet, Doctor Dee, though I am not
sure that I can define his 'spiritus'.”

“He writes of it as the link between body and soul,” explained my mentor. “Music is the
most important food of the spirit because they are both living forms of air. He says that
musically moved air is actually alive like a disembodied spirit. Oh, that I too might
express myself in music and transcend mere words! You are truly blessed, John, in your
talent.”

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“As to words, I have never heard the speaking voice of any musician from the past. All I
hear is a confused humming, though the songs are clear. As you have had so much
experience with angel magic, Doctor Dee, you might be successful in obtaining from
Ficino an answer to your question.”

“Yes, yes, I am impatient to begin.” He watched as I wrapped the portraits and placed
them deep under the rushes at the threshold, then joined me in the opening invocation.
Once more, I used the diamond to help my concentration. When we became sleepy, we
each perused a work of Ficino as we paced about the chamber. After what seemed endless
waiting, the music came into my head. Snatching up pen and music manuscript paper, I
began to record the hymn, writing the tablature at the greatest speed of which I was
capable. I knew well that there was no second chance to repair omissions. Concentrating
with all my power, I took scant notice of Doctor Dee's movements, but as my playing
broke the silence, he was engaged in some magic of his own.....

“I recognised some of the Greek words, Doctor Dee, but was not quick enough to
memorise them, though I seem to recognise the invocation to Apollo used in this house
when I 'saw' the death of William of Orange.”

“Yes, that was an Orphic hymn. I have the words here. But, before Ficino returns to his
other world, ask him if he is certain that his was the genuine music of Orpheus.” Doctor
Dee's magic had effect. This time a clear voice emerged from the buzzing in my head.
The Italianised Latin, reminiscent of Bruno's, seemed impatient. “When I lived on earth, I
firmly believed in my Orphic hymns.” The humming resumed and I could distinguish no
more. When I transmitted the sentence to the Doctor, he was obviously disappointed but
eager to hear me sing the Orphic hymn.

“There is a difference,” I explained diffidently, “between hearing Ficino's singing and

reproducing it accurately. His tones were high and strange and I would wish to practise
carefully before chanting it for your approval.”

“What am I thinking of?” interposed Doctor Dee. “We both need food and sleep after our
long vigil. I often think I was too demanding with Edward and, in my enthusiasm, drove
him too hard.” And he shook his head, sadly.

The next day, the Doctor listened with awe to the Orphic hymn. “Do you, realise, John
Dowland, what a great discovery you have made, which will surely enable us to bring
about the longed-for and peaceful union of the religions? Keep this music in your mind
and heart until I have found the means to work on the German princes and convince them
that the hymn that preserved the great Cosimo di Medici, for which scholars have sought
since its sad loss, will give them the strength and inspiration to work unceasingly for
concord and tranquillity. We have the word of Ficino himself that, in this world, he
believed this Orphic hymn to be genuine. What more can be asked?”

~
Doctor Dee begged me to prolong my visit, and, in the course of conversation, I questioned
him on a matter which had long puzzled me, the significance of his Monas Hieroglyphica
sign. He explained to me that it includes the symbols of all the planets; how it absorbs

89
into itself the sign Aries, representing fire and, therefore, the alchemical processes; how
the cross below the symbols for sun and moon represents the elements of earth, water, air
and fire, and how different formations of the four lines of the cross can turn it into a sign of
both three and four, both triangle and square, thus solving a great mystery. He told me that
he had been privileged to give the same explanation to the Queen.

“Not as easy for my poor brain to grasp,” I said. “When I first saw that sign on your wall,
Doctor Dee, it frightened me. I must confess, I saw it as resembling one of the devils I saw
as a child in my Orpheus picture.”

“I am sure many older folk would consider it a diabolical omen as they did the
mathematical signs at one time, in their ignorance, destroying the books containing them.
Fear and superstition once more, alas!” His face suddenly brightened. “Let me tell you
this idea which has just come to me. I have been pondering an easy way to communicate
with my followers in Europe, who all know and can copy my Monas sign. Suppose, by
gazing on the symbol with intense concentration at an agreed time on an agreed day (say
Wednesday, the day of Mercury the messenger) I was able to send an intelligence to and
obtain an answer from one of my friends, commit it to paper, get it by heart and then
destroy the writing, we would have an instant and secret means of communication. No
spies could break our code and no courier could move with such speed. I shall begin my
experiments in Monas magic this day.”

~
Sometimes, during my stay, we spoke of less weighty matters.

“What will you do now, John? Will you return to Wilton or join Sir Walter at Sherborne?”
inquired my friend.

I told him that I was wearied with teaching and playing at the behest of others and that I
had thought of obtaining a quiet lodging where I might give myself up to composing and
musical magic. “I have saved a little money and I have patrons at court who may help me
if I find myself lacking the wherewithal to live.”

“Excuse me, John, if I seem to pry. I understand you have a wife and child. How is it that
you have no home with them?”

I quickly explained the circumstances. “But do not suppose that my love for Annie is less
than if I were her true father and I visit her often. Although Suzanne and I have never lived
together as man and wife, I love her as my best friend. We keep no secrets from each other
and I depend on her wise advice. There is one point, however, on which I insist, that she
bears no more children to Sir Robert and to this she agrees. I learned ways in Italy which
safely prevent conception and these she uses carefully. She knows that, if her lover tires, I
shall be solely responsible for her and the child and she is loath to add to my burdens. This
is as much her wish as mine.”

“I fear I am out of touch with such matters,” admitted the good Doctor. “How may she live
with a clear conscience as Sir Robert's mistress in the same house as his wife?”

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“Do you in your great wisdom, Doctor Dee, understand the distaff side? I have learned to
accept women without seeking to fathom their motives. Suzanne was convent bred and
perhaps thinks that her first love should be her last. Certainly she seems to hold Sir Robert
in true affection. At the same time, she tells me, as his wife's tiring woman, she has
become her chief confidante and loves her well. I can assure you that, in her simplicity,
she feels no guilt, believing that love excuses all.”

“I realise that guilt destroys, and should be eschewed, but still I find this hard to
comprehend. There was a shameful time in Bohemia when Edward insisted, that to
forward the angel magic we must exchange wives. This greatly distressed my own dear
helpmate, though even that sacrifice she made for the great work. All for little,” and he
shook his head sorrowfully before continuing. “I feel for you, John, it is sad for a young
man like you to live without true love.”

“Oh, I have seen enough of other men's loves to know they bring more sorrow than delight.
My lute must remain my mistress.”

~
I found my private room but continued to play at Court when commanded. On one of his
rare visits from Flushing, I met Sir Robert Sidney there. He was reproachful.

“I thought you promised to help Lady Barbara with her luteplaying, yet, she tells me,
though you visit your wife and child, you have never once paid your respects to her. If you
can play for that misbegotten Robert Dudley,” here his face darkened, “you can at least
repay the many favours the Sidneys have conferred by showing proper politeness to my
lady wife.”

Drawing in my breath sharply, I could manage no more than a nod of the head in
acknowledgement. What courtesy was he showing to his lady wife, when he spent the cold
December nights in the arms of her tiring woman? But perhaps Lady Barbara had another
lover and cared not a jot for Sir Robert. Christmas over, he had to return to his
Governorship - the Queen was ever loath to grant him long leave of absence. I took the
opportunity to visit Suzanne, who was perplexed by a problem she said I alone might
solve.

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 CHAPTER TEN
It seemed that Suzanne had confided to her lady, as she was brushing her hair, that she had
been abandoned by her parents and left as a babe at the convent gate. Much to her surprise,
her mistress had replied in tones of envy, wishing that she had been orphaned at birth or
never seen the light of day in this wicked world.

Little by little, in broken tones, there emerged a tale, shocking indeed to my innocent
Suzanne, who wept bitter tears as she disclosed it to me in the hope that I, who in her eyes,
cured all ills, might find a way to help her afflicted mistress. It appeared that old Gamage,
Lady Barbara's father, had, as was common practice when wives were with child, used his
young daughter, not as a wife, since in the marriage market her virginity must be preserved
at all costs, but in those vile ways which leave no outward mark, such as all but the basest
whores detest.

The child bride came to Robert Sidney 'virgo intacta' to all seeming but inwardly damaged
to an extent that his clumsy advances could only intensify. I imagine that he was a poor
enough lover at the best of times and that, as she lay stiff as a board in their marriage bed,
distancing herself as far as she could from his sweaty body, silent tears coursing down her
cheeks, he would feel his manhood shrivel and wonder, cursing, if he would ever get an
heir.

When he, at last, managed to rape his poor, young wife, the resulting child, William, cried
incessantly and would not be held. Worst of all, he was the image of her father, and Lady
Barbara could not bear to look on him. As he grew, it was clear he was a freakish child,
subject to strange fits and violent tantrums. He was kept at Penshurst with special
attendants, while his mother led an unhappy existence in the London house.

Full of pity for her young mistress, and believing my musical powers to be curative (had I
not played away many a migraine and soothed Annie to sleep in the worst of her childish
ills ?) Suzanne begged me to play for Lady Barbara. How could I refuse her?

I realised now that the dingy colour surrounding Lady Barbara's frail form had nothing in
common with her husband's earthiness, as I had supposed, but was the shadow of the
deepest despair. Her eyes were dull, as was her hair and her voice was toneless. My heart
went out to her and I determined to play as never before to cure her melancholy. The
music of Don Luys Milan had been successful with Sir Philip and the Countess of
Pembroke and in that I placed my trust.

As I played, Lady Barbara seemed to relax a little more each day and I noticed she ceased
twisting and untwisting her fingers as they lay idly in her lap. Suzanne remarked on the
improvement, but she was concerned that, now February had brought a strangely early
spring, her lady still refused to stir from her chamber, where she had made herself a
prisoner for many months.

“She seems truly afraid to leave the house, Jean,” (so Suzanne named me) “I persuade her
as far as the door of her chamber, but then she backs away, hugging the wall, until she has
regained the safety of her chair. She is pitifully anxious to please me but it seems that each
time she is overcome by dread. Surely, some evil spirit holds her in its power. I believe
she is punishing herself because of her son, blaming herself for his sad state.”

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The next day I persuaded Lady Barbara to sit in the window seat so that she had more light
for her embroidery, though, for the most part, it lay ignored in her lap. She moved
obediently, as if in a trance, and I sat at her feet, playing solarian music to disperse her sad
mood. Chancing to look up, I saw silent tears coursing down her pale cheeks, as she
looked through the leaded panes and watched Suzanne playing ball with Annie in the
courtyard below. Sorrow and envy blended in her face, as her lips formed the words, “Oh,
William, William.” Though I was touched with a sharp pang of pity, I realised that the ice
around her heart was melting and recovery was on the way.

Fearful to move too soon, I played on,then, “Lady,” I ventured, “the sun is shining. I spend
so much of my time in airless rooms, I crave the out of doors. Let us take our cloaks and
join Suzanne and Annie. The child so loves to play with me and I have little enough time
to give her.”

Lady Barbara's dull eyes widened in dismay, but such was her instinctive courtesy that she
nodded her head, gave me her hand, and, stumbling a little, allowed herself to be led into
the courtyard, where it was warm enough for us to sit and resume our musical cure.

“That was indeed a miracle,” exclaimed Suzanne afterwards. “Pray the fine weather
holds.”

It was as though my Orpheus music had brought the sunny days. I concentrated on singing
the most graceful songs, hoping Apollo would continue to smile on us. Each day I
persuaded Lady Barbara to take a little wine to nourish her spirit and, as it was too early for
roses , whose perfume would have helped her most, Suzanne obtained cakes flavoured with
cinnamon, which also had the Sun's properties.

Soon, our mistress was almost hastening down the steps into the courtyard and, one day, as
I followed with her cloak, Suzanne, in turning to greet us, missed the ball Annie threw to
her, which landed at Lady Barbara's feet.

“Toss it to me, toss it to me!” cried Annie excitedly, and, to our joy, my lady stooped for
the ball and threw it. We all joined in the game, panting and laughing like the children we
had never been. After that, as the weeks passed, under Annie's guidance, we reverted to
other childish pursuits, picking the earliest leaves and buds, garlanding our brows like old-
time shepherd folk. Annie would sing and we would all three accompany her on our lutes.
It was a joyous time.

“Listen, Suzanne,” smiled Lady Barbara, “my fingers are all thumbs no more. I shall soon
play almost as well as you.” Her voice rang like a bell in my ears and I saw that her aura ,
which had been growing clearer each day, now shone diamond bright, reminding me of
Doctor Dee's talk of the 'albedo'. The pinched expression had gone, her clear skin seemed
almost transparent, her hair full of golden lights and there was a spring in her step. She
was so unaffected, so charming in her delight, so free from the condescension I had found
in great ladies at Court (except for both my dear Lady Marys) that I felt myself drawn to
her as though we were equals.

Controlling my voice, I said, “Then now is the time for work and study, my lady, as Sir
Robert commanded. Playtime must be over.” She nodded, solemnly, “I shall learn all the
music that you heard in France and Suzanne shall correct my accent as I sing.” Her new

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found confidence delighted me. So must Pygmalion have felt when he beheld the living
Galatea. That evening as I walked back to my lodging, Suzanne's parting words echoed in
my mind. “Do you know, Jean, I think you are a little in love with Lady Barbara.”

After a wakeful night of tossing and turning, I had to admit to myself that I, whose dealings
with women, though pleasurable, had never touched my heart, had indeed come to love
Lady Barbara, who, in the eyes of the world, was beyond my reach.

~
I should have kept away and, indeed, tried to make my visits less frequent, but my lady
was so downcast at missing a lesson and so fearful of my displeasure, for my voice in
addressing her was gruff in the attempt to hide my feelings, that I gave in to my desire for
her dear company. At first, I had been Master Dowland but now she adopted Suzanne's
name for me.

“I am improving at my lute, Monsieur Jean, because you do not make me afraid. Until
now, I have been so full of fears but you and your music have swept them away as the
wind blows autumn leaves. You see,” she laughed, “You have made me quite a poet.”

Little she knew that, night after night, in my lodging, I wrote poems of my own to assuage
the burning torment of being so close to one to whom I might not confess my love. As
Lady Barbara's inner confusion dispersed in smiles and soft laughter, my own mental
turmoil increased so that she would frown and demand what ailed me, to which I had no
answer. The words to each new poem were branded on my mind, yet I might not voice
them. 'Touch not, proud hands, lest you her anger move' was no mere poetic fancy. I
ached, as I sat so close, yet dared not position her fingers on her lute.

As my lady blossomed each day from the sad, withdrawn creature she had been, so I, her
healer, became the suffering one and learned the truth of the maxim, 'Nec prosunt domino,
quae prosunt omnibus artes' ('the arts which help all mankind cannot help their master').
Small wonder it became the motto for my 'First Book of Songs'.

Sometimes, alone in my room, burning frustration found its way into such bad though
heartfelt verse as this:

Each hour amidst the deep of hell I fry;

Each hour I waste and wither where I sit;
But that sweet hour wherein I wish to die

(in union, Rob, with the beloved)

My hope, alas, may not enjoy it yet,

Whose hope is such, bereaved of the bliss
Which unto all save me allotted is.

Often, sensing that my mistress was now ready for love, I dared to hope that she might
choose me. Then I recalled, as with the unhappy lutenist, Mark Smeaton, that if I
expressed my love, even with a look, Lady Barbara Sidney, like Queen Anne Boleyn,
might say, “You may not look to have me speak to you as I should to a nobleman because

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you are an inferior person.” I could not think that I should humbly reply, “No, madam, a
look sufficed and so fare you well.” In my heart, I felt myself equal to any man, yet, I
knew that, in the eyes of the world, I could never aspire to union with a lady.

I was grateful to the Queen that her ungracious humour kept Robert Sidney in Flushing for
so long at a time. He had his informant, Rowland Whyte, who sent him all the news of the
court, town and family, but there was nothing for me to hide. My constant attendance on
his lady was merely what Sir Robert had repeatedly demanded.

~
On the evening of the last day of February, I stayed late at the Sidney house. Annie had a
slight fever, as did all the servants, and said that she could not sleep until I had played and
sung for her. Suzanne came down from settling her mistress to bed and she too was
feverish and admitted that she did not know how she had kept on her feet to perform the
last duties of the day.

“I cannot remember whether I dampened down Lady Barbara's fire before I left her
chamber,” she fretted. I reassured her, absent-mindedly, and, when she was abed, played
for her as I had done for Annie, my mind toying meanwhile with the words of a poem, just
come to me, of how the fire that burned in my heart might only be dampened by my
mistress's love. As soon as Suzanne slept, I crept from her room and was crossing the hall
to the front door, when I smelt smoke.

Bounding up the stairs to Lady Barbara's chamber, I threw open her door. Great flames
leapt up as I closed it quickly, by whose light I saw her, newly awakened, crouching
among the pillows. Snatching up a heavy cover from a nearby chest, I flung it over the
burning rushes and stamped out the flames, pulling another close-woven cover from the
bed to finish the work. A large pitcher of water made all sure and I flung open the window
to disperse the choking smoke.

Coughing and spluttering, I turned to the bed, where my lady, her eyes streaming, both
with the smoke and tears of fright, huddled clutching a blanket round her as she shivered in
the sudden draught. We spoke with one voice. “Are you harmed?” “Is all well with you?”
The candle lit, each saw the other's face and we fell to overwrought laughter. I was the
more smoke- blackened of the two and Lady Barbara bade me sit on the bed while she
wiped my sooty face with her hand kerchief. She was still trembling with cold but I was
shaking with emotion as I pulled away and went to close the window.

My lady beckoned me back and imprisoned my hand in hers. “I must thank you, Jean, for
my life. I sleep heavily these days and failed to wake until you flung open the door. Lit by
the red light of the flames, I did not recognise you at first, but then I knew it could be none
but you, who have been my saviour in all things.”

The words 'lit by the red light of the flames' struck a chord in my memory and I heard
Doctor Dee's voice saying, “To achieve the rubedo you must go through spiritual fire,
perhaps material fire also.”

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Lady Barbara continued, “You should go to your rest, but before then, I pray you, play to
me to bring me calm.” Taking my lute from its smoke besmirched case, I impulsively
played and sang words which were not my own but exactly expressed my need:

'Oh, Western wind, when wilt thou blow

That the small rain down can rain?
Christ that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.'

“You sing that for Suzanne?” came a questioning whisper. I spoke without thinking.
“Never, my lady. Suzanne is my friend, not my love, and we have never shared a bed.”
“And Annie?” It was more a statement than a question. After a silence, I nodded. From
that time, each read the other's mind. “I cannot be surprised, she is so lovely and he
lonely.”

Such generosity angered me. “I have long lived with loneliness.” “I, too,” she whispered,
and, taking the lute from me, she clasped both my hands. For the first time, our eyes met
and it was not long before our lips followed suit. The household slept on, undisturbed, and
before daybreak, the alchemy of love fused our two beings, as are the Red King and the
White Rose Queen in that magical union of opposites described by Doctor Dee - the
Chemical Wedding.

I awoke in the dawn, words of Ficino echoing in my mind: “Why is Love called a Magus?
Because all the force of Magic consists in Love. The work of Magic is a certain drawing
of one thing to another by natural similitude. The parts of this world, like members of one
animal, depend all on one love and are connected together by natural communion...This is
the true magic.”

Gazing at the still sleeping Barbara, it seemed right to me then very softly to play and sing
the Orphic Hymn to draw down on us the heavenly influences which would make our love
everlasting.

~
To tell you of that love would be unseemly, Rob. I hope one day you will know that
physical and spiritual blending and find your other half without whom you remain for ever
incomplete. It happens rarely. The song I wrote for Barbara, words and music coming
together magically, has been sung so often it is meaningless to the ruder sort. Now you
know what manner of love it celebrates, I hope it will come alive for you as you reread the
words.

Come away, come sweet love,

The golden morning breaks;
All the earth, all the air
Of love and pleasure speaks.
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet, rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss.
Eyes were meant for beauty's grace
Viewing, ruing lovelong pain,

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 Procured by beauty's rude disdain.

Come away, come sweet love,

The golden morning wastes,
While the sun from his sphere
His fiery arrows casts,
Making all the shadows fly;
Playing, staying in the grove
To entertain the stealth of love.
Thither, sweet love, let us hie,
Flying, dying in desire,
Winged with sweet hopes and heavenly fire

Come away, come, sweet love,

Do not in vain adorn
Beauty's grace, that should rise
Like to the naked morn.
Lilies on the river's side,
And fair, Cyprian flowers new blown,
Desire no beauties but their own ;
Ornament is nurse of pride,
Pleasure, measure love's delight.
Haste, then, sweet love, our wished flight.

The lilies and roses of martyrdom that had haunted me so long, were now transformed into
the emblems of bliss, banishing the nightmare of Father Campion's death.

To maintain 'the stealth of love' we accepted Suzanne's generously proffered aid. Never
hear the word 'bawd', Rob, without thinking it blasphemy to her, who was our truest friend.
Our happiness was free from care, for Suzanne had told her mistress of those measures in
which I had instructed her.

When I dared not touch her, I had wooed my love with music. Now she was mine, I laid
my lute aside. Our mutual desire made music transcending my most rainbow dreams. We
had a motto which meant we two were one. When Annie was learning to speak, she did
not say 'I am' but expressed a child's view of the wide world with her own version, 'I are',
laughingly translated by her mother as 'Je sommes'- a fine watchword for twin souls.

Barbara had the motto chased on a gold and ruby ring, which she made me swear never to
take from my neck or finger. I gave her in exchange the Spanish diamond, placing it on
her wedding finger, where it fitted exactly, as it must have done her husband's mother. My
love later presented me with a Nicholas Hilliard miniature of herself with our motto and
the date of our first union. I had only Arthur Dee's drawing to give her and she
commissioned Hilliard to copy that in an even more flattering likeness with a background
of flames. Nicholas had his own style and none but Barbara could put a name to that
idealised face.

The golden months of spring and early summer passed in a glow of supreme happiness,
each of us completely absorbed in the other, with no thought for the morrow. June, the
month of roses, which should have crowned our perfect joy, brought the first shadow.

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Suzanne came to tell me that her mistress was indisposed and must keep to her room for a
time and though I called to see my love day after day, Suzanne stood at the chamber door,
determined to bar the way, stoutly refusing my pleas to play for my lady's welfare. I was
distracted with concern and my thoughts ran riot. What type of illness could cause my
exclusion?. I would have risked the plague to be with Barbara, yet dare not compromise
her honour by forcing the door.

Came the day when I opened the door to Suzanne's and Annie's room, to find neither hide
nor hair of them. All their goods were gone, the bed stripped and a servant was sweeping
out the rushes, as though readying the room for fresh tenants. I ran to the steward in
dismay, who told me that Lady Barbara was awaiting me in her chamber. My spirits rose.
At last an end had come to my days of distress and Barbara would set all to rights. I flew
up the stairs, but, at their head, froze in my tracks.....

Who was this standing stiffly erect in the doorway and where was the diamond brightness
which hitherto surrounded her? My lady dwelt once more in shadow. As she answered my
anguished questioning, Barbara's voice was icy. “I have sent them ahead to Lincolnshire to
prepare for my arrival. I intend to pay Sir Thomas and Lady Monson a summer visit.”

I knew Sir Robert had met the Monsons at the last Parliament and that they would
welcome me as Lady Barbara's lutenist, for Sir Thomas was musical, but her next sentence
stunned me.

“Here are your wages, Master Dowland. I no longer require your services.” Stony-faced,
her knuckles white, Barbara turned on her heel, closing her chamber door firmly behind
her. The hireling had received his dismissal.

~
Outside the house, I gazed unbelievingly at the money still held in my frozen hand, then
hurled it into the teeming gutter, where a swarm of urchins splashed and scrabbled for it.
Back in my lodging, I gave myself up to the deepest despair. What false plot was here?
Why had Suzanne told me nothing? How could my loving Barbara have become by some
black magic that stone-faced traitress? I must be in the throes of one of my worst
nightmares. I longed for the relief of tears to disperse the bitter, burning lump in my
throat. They say that hearts break and the pain in my breast bore out the truth of that.
They say that brains break also and mine were shattered, as my whole world crashed
around my feet.

I clutched at straws. Perhaps Barbara had not yet left. Perhaps she was testing the
constancy of my love. I determined to plead my case with her. Once, when I sped to meet
her, I walked on air; now, as I trudged along, I felt on the verge of some hellish pit. At
last I reached the familiar door. The house had an empty, untenanted look. A servant
grinned at me mockingly, holding out a small package, seizing which I stumbled away.

I hardly dared unseal my prize. Would there be a loving letter of explanation or a further
cruel dismissal? I threw it on the table, summoning up courage to peruse its contents.....
There was no letter. I shook the packet impatiently and out fell the Spanish diamond,
confirming my utter rejection. Yet, it proved, as did the ruby ring I wore, that I had not
imagined our high joys. The sight of my ring stabbed me to the heart, but I had given my

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word to wear it always and I, at least, would not be forsworn. I hung both rings on the
chain round my throat, where the ache tormented me. Tears of exhaustion and self pity at
last eased the pain.

When I could weep no more, I left my lodging and wandered through a world as grey as
the first seeing of Father Campion's death, until I found myself, footsore and weary, at the
riverside. I might have continued my nightmare walking until the waters closed over my
head forever, had not a persistent waterman forced me into his wherry, as though I were his
only fare of the day. Still in a dream, I found myself at Whitehall steps, and, tossing the
boatman my purse in answer to his importuning, hardly knowing what urged me, I went to
find Henry Noel.

Just as my Paris friend once tended me, so did this kind master and friend care for and keep
me from self murder, for I had lost the will to live, worthless as I deemed myself now that
Lady Barbara had betrayed our love. Never, even in the most wretched moments of
despair, did I allow her name to pass my lips. Only once, at a later date and in another
place, did I compose music for 'La Mia Barbara', which none in England heard.

Master Noel sent to my lodging for my property and paid my reckoning, for I was
penniless. He fully realised my sorry state on finding that I had abandoned my lutes and
my books, including my Orpheus books, for which I cared not a jot in my bereavement.
He inquired for the Monsons' direction and sent a messenger with a letter for Suzanne,
answered briefly with no word of Lady Barbara. Master Noel supposed that my plight was
caused by the defection of my wife to another lover. It was well known in Court circles
that Sir Thomas Monson was unhappy with the ugly heiress he had taken to his bosom.

I would sit alone, twirling the ruby ring on its chain, gazing on the hollow mockery of 'Je
Sommes', heaving great sighs at Barbara's deceit and my utter folly in believing that she
could have shared the overwhelming passion of which I was now bereft. Bitterly, I could
only conclude that, having obtained her cure, on which our love-making had set the seal,
she, like her husband, had used me, as he had ever done from the time of our youth. They
might even now be together, laughing at my pretensions. I wrote poem after poem to ease
my growing resentment. Later, when the pain was less, yet the poison remained, they were
published in my First Book of Songs.

The weather matched my mood and at night fierce winds sent the branches of a nearby
aspen tree tapping against my casement. My nightmares of Father Campion's death
returned, which I had thought forever banished by Barbara's love. When I at last fell into a
brief, restless sleep, instead of the grey sombreness of my first seeing, the scene would be
coloured with the bright flashings that herald the onset of a migraine. The sound was
present now and the mob would bay like dogs. I struggled to awake but lay pinioned, as
though by bands of iron. The dreadful obscenity would unfold inexorably in brilliant
colour and, oh, the blood! Waking would bring the usual nausea and I would tremble like
the aspen leaves whipped by the wind. Each night I struggled to hold off the sleep so
needful for my recovery.

Master Noel tried his best to bring me back to the real world but all the news was ill.
Essex seemed to have run mad, for he arraigned and sent to the gallows the Queen's
physician, Doctor Lopez, who, like me had spied for Walsingham, now dead and unable to
speak for his informers. Tyrone had led a successful rising in Ulster and, worst of all, a
book was published under the name of Dolman, dealing with the forbidden subject of the

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succession. What hope was there for me, Irish, a former spy, who had Catholic friends and
had lived in Rome?

Suddenly, I remembered Patrick Gray's mischievous smile, last time he passed through
London, and his words, “You look mighty cheerful, Johnny, for a man who calls himself
Dolman.” How did he know the name I had used in Rome and what secrets were safe with
a handsome ruffler who had bought and sold as many lives as Leicester, including that of
his Scottish Queen?

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 CHAPTER ELEVEN
I find it hard to write of this time of my life, Rob. Read the words of my songs; all is there
with the deep felt love and longing urged by Kit Marlowe to bring my verse alive.
Possibly, it seems maudlin and sentimental to you and you may think I was merely
following the fashion for melancholy in my songs, just as Sidney's later followers turned
his great themes into contemptible 'Phyllising'. I wrote it all into the music of 'Lachrimae'
and even that was vulgarised by its popularity. It was not greed but need for money that
caused me to bare my soul to the common sort, who never recognised the true pain in the
words and music. I myself cheapened my sorrow with play on the words 'doleful',
'Dowland' and Dolandi' but I should be sorry if my then forlorn state means nothing to you
in your maturer years and sorrier still if it is my lack of skill with the pen that leaves you
ignorant of my past despair.

~
Master Noel persuaded me, much against my will, to apply for the post of Court Lutenist
now that John Johnson was dead, yet it was a further rejection when I was refused. My
master was undeterred and tried another tack.

“I deem it time you had a change of air, John. Here is an old acquaintance of yours from
Academy days, who is excused the Summer Progress, as his father needs him at Codnor
Castle. I am sure you will remember one of my fellow Gentlemen Pensioners, Master John
Zouch.”

I did indeed recall that tall young man, abler at the crossbow than the lute, full of kindness
and good humour. We shook hands, and, before I could object, my traps were packed and
loaded and we were riding North to Derbyshire.

“My father was Sir Walter's colonel in Ireland,” confided Master Zouch, and never ceased
to sing his praises. He put me to the Academy after I left Gray's Inn, so that I might get a
smattering of the new learning and glad am I that he insisted, though I thought, at the time,
I had my fill of schooling. I know that you have written music for Essex, but I have never
forgiven him and Southampton for traducing Raleigh to the Queen."

I murmured something about needs must when the devil drives. It was best to say no more.
A wrong word,even among friends, might lead to the gallows, as shown by Doctor
Lopez'fate. Having been one myself, I knew that the least suspected folk might be
informers. My own instability made me extra sensitive to this danger. If Barbara could
prove false, where was trust in the world? We turned to safer reminiscences of the Durham
House days.

Sir John Zouch gave me a good welcome and was delighted with a Galliard I composed in
his honour and, in spite of poor health, stood up with the prettiest young ladies of the
neighbourhood to dance to it. Such merry-making caused me mixed feelings though I was
happy to be able to repay my hosts with my lute. Master Zouch's help was much needed on
the estate and I rode out with him daily with benefit to my health and spirits.

A letter came from Master Noel, on progress with the Queen, saying that, when he had
spoken to her of me, she had named me an 'obstinate papist'. Before that false description

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turned to the dread word 'traitor', I deemed it time to quit the country. Sir John spoke so
angrily of Tyrone and the Irish rising that I had begun to feel out of place in his house and
realised that, if the land of my birth became known, I should be less than welcome there.

Making my excuses to my hosts with profuse thanks, I rode off to London, mentally
composing a letter to the Master of Gray, requesting his good offices to obtain me a post
abroad with King James's brother-in-law, the Duke of Brunswick. To my surprise, as
though by miracle, without any effort on my part, an invitation from the Duke awaited me,
enclosed with a letter for me to deliver to Doctor Dee. I was glad of an opportunity to visit
my old friend and lost no time in asking him how an invitation to visit Germany had
arrived in the very nick of time.

“Ah,” the magus replied, “my Monas magic is now in operation, though only at an
experimental stage. I realised you needed an escape route and that chimed with my other
plans. I told you communication would be swift, though sometimes, as in this case, the
written word is needed to confirm an arrangement. I see young Essex runs upon his fate.
Poor Doctor Lopez treated him for the French disease and we all know what madness
follows. That unnatural couple with whom he plots, Anthony and Francis Bacon, will do
him no good. You are wise to leave the country. How I run on! Let me look at you, John
Dowland. I see a new sadness in your eyes and there is somewhat adding to your
melancholy in which I perhaps may help you.”

I confessed only to the nightmare and added that I had no wish for him to take on the
burden, as with the John Heywood dream. The Doctor looked concerned. “I shall give
you a plentiful supply of a harmless medicine that should bring you sweet sleep. They say
that tobacco is a specific against all ills and I heard tell in Germany that a small spoonful of
aqua vitae before bed has a good effect. But you are going to the home of up-to-date
medicine and will hear much of the great Paracelsus and his cures which affront the dusty
doctors here. You will find much in common with the teachings of that peerless sage, who
prescribed the vibrations of music and colour as well as charms, herbs and divine elixirs.
Learn all you can of him while you are in Germany. Of this other matter, which you are
loath to confide, remember the saying 'Time is a great healer' though I can see it is of scant
comfort at this time. You have been through the fire, indeed. Now, I bid you heartily
farewell, and may your journey have a happy ending.”

It was of help to have my invitation from the Duke himself to show to Essex and Cecil,
who, at that time, were in joint control of the country's affairs and who both appended their
signatures to my licence to travel. Essex had a message for me to carry to his friend, Sir
Robert Sidney, and, though I was most unwilling to encounter him, I was in no position to
refuse. Master Noel was still on progress with the Queen , so that all I could do to thank
him was to send a letter, promising that I would write to him often from overseas. Alas, I
was never more to see that kind friend in this unhappy world.

It was August in the year 1594 when I disembarked at Flushing. Robert Sidney seemed
pleased to see me, but could not wait to break the seals of his correspondence. Life as
Governor there held no excitement for him, as was clear.

“Well, Johnny,” he exclaimed, waving one of his letters, “here's good news for one or other
of us. It seems that Suzanne is with child and will soon give birth. If it's a boy this time,
we'll call him Robert, for I'm pretty sure it's the result of my Christmas visit when, I must
say, Suzanne gave me a better welcome than my lady wife. If it's your child, I'll stand

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gossip, even if it has to be by proxy. Why, man, you look thunderstruck. Is it not good
news?” And he went bustling off on some business raised by another of his letters.

I was more furious than dumbfounded. Suzanne had sworn to me that there would be no
more bastards. Were all women deceivers? I had once thought her as true as the pole star.
Now I was twice befooled by women! It was all very well to be fobbed off with one of
Robert's byblows, though I had learned to love Annie as my own and she knew no other
father, but another child to keep? No wonder Suzanne had gone running off to the country
and sent only the briefest of replies to my letter.

I travelled on to the court of Brunswick without staying to look on Robert Sidney's hated
face more. One small satisfaction remained to cool my fury. To all appearance I was the
deceived husband, yet, this time, I had cuckolded Robert. Two hands to play on one lute
with a vengeance! I am too ashamed to tell you more of my poisoned thoughts as I
journeyed.

At Wolfenbuttel, I was given an excellent reception both by the Duke and Duchess and by
their musicians, who were amazed by what they thought my newfangled style of playing.
Such was my black humour (anger having replaced self-pity) that I chose to think they
mocked me and that the Duke's chief lutenist was jealous enough to wish me harm. When,
one September day, agonising stomach pains gripped me, I at once thought of poison.
There was strangely no purging or vomiting, but still the searing gripes continued until
next day, when they ceased as suddenly as they had arrived.

Since Barbara's rejection of me, days and weeks had passed uncounted in a turmoil of ill
humour. Now I reckoned up the time, and realised that Suzanne's labour should have
begun by now and, although I was not the father of the child, perhaps our close friendship
had caused me to share her pains. I had heard of such things. The Duke of Brunswick had
rewarded my playing with a rich gold chain, which I sent by safe messenger to Suzanne in
token of the renewed affection, which, unbeknown to her, she had so nearly lost.

In the welcoming air of the German court, my wounded self-esteem began to heal and I
tried to think more kindly of Barbara also. After all, what sort of future could await us?
Did I expect her to wander Europe with me, leading a life of poverty and disgrace?
Perhaps she was right to shatter the fools' paradise in which we had lived and stronger than
I to find the courage to do so. My music remained to me, but what had she to cling to if
she had truly loved me? I saw again, in my mind's eye, her white knuckles and stony face.
Could it have been not pride but pain which made her give me such short shrift? She had
shared each thought and feeling with me in the past as though we were one being. It would
be too, too cruel if now she shared my misery.

I banished my fears with day-dreams and began to imagine that Barbara had returned to me
and that we were happy again. I even wrote a song to that effect, though I knew such
optimism was born of craving only. I was glad of a letter from my former pupil, Tom
Campion, enclosing a poem he was about to publish in a book of Latin verse, celebrating
my playing in the most flattering terms. Master Noel wrote to me often with news of court
and town, but never a word of Lady Barbara. Sir Walter Raleigh had left for Guiana, but
Sir Robert Dudley had forestalled and humiliated him by first exploring the Orinoco River
(such outlandish names!) and discovering an island which he called Dudleiana. The worst
news was that Robert Southwell, a Jesuit, like my true master, had been tortured and

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executed even more cruelly. They called Ireland a land of savages. What then was
England?

Doctor Dee's letter to the Duke of Brunswick had confirmed the discovery of the Orphic
Hymn of Ficino and promised that I would sing and play it in his presence for the success
of the Protestant Alliance and peace in Europe. I postponed the ceremony as long as I
could, feeling myself unable as yet to attain to the spiritual state necessary for a favourable
issue, but the Duke was insistent and I played and sang to the best of my ability, though my
heart was not in it.

I set off on the next stage of my journey with twenty-three pounds in my purse and the
most splendid suit of clothes I had ever owned made of velvet satin and gold lace which
the Duke had given me that I might not disgrace his court. Having thrown myself into
rivalry with the court lutenist, Gregory Howet, I fear I was still sometimes scornful and
unfair to him. Yet he bore no grudge and accompanied me to the court of the Landgrave of
Hessen, bearing himself so cheerfully that I felt ashamed of my former, sick suspicions.

I came out of my shell at this new court. As the young Landgrave and I first set eyes on
each other, there was that immediate flash of recognition that meant, we thought, not only
that we were to be future friends, but that there had been a deep relationship between us in
a past life. Like all our best loved philosophers, he was a firm believer in reincarnation,
which, though the Christian church had long rejected it as heresy, I had been taught at the
Academy, where the would-be playwrights had made fun of Pythagoras' metempsychosis,
explained to them in all sincerity.

The Landgrave was a scholar of deep learning and I had to draw on all the knowledge I had
gained to keep pace with him in our discussions, which were a joy to me. Better even than
all our talk (and my friend's English was excellent) was our music-making together.
Landgrave Maurice was a most accomplished lutenist and composer of motets and church
music, playing the organ as well as other instruments. Much of what I had learned in
France and Italy came fresh to him and we debated theories of music endlessly.

Like Tom Campion, he did me the honour to name me the 'English Orpheus'. I answered
that was as yet a mere compliment, but that one day I hoped to hear the first Orpheus and
be privy to his secrets, though I knew that, before I made the attempt, I must purify myself
of human frailties. After explaining my musical magic, I went on to confess the
unhappiness that had brought black anger and jealousy, plunging me into deep melancholy,
which made me unfit to speak the invocation and question musicians of the past.

To disperse my dark moods, the Landgrave took me on hunting parties, where we galloped
our mounts so fiercely that our cheeks flamed with colour and the air tasted like wine.
After a hearty meal - I had never seen such eaters as the Germans- I would try to avoid the
drinking bouts, making my lute the excuse, for I found excess made me quarrelsome. To
drive away sadness, the Landgrave played me music from my Orpheus book, which
fascinated him, but my unhappiness remained.

“I find myself gazing on my lady's miniature with dissatisfaction. Her face seems stiff and
unlifelike and my mental image of her is slipping away. Oh, God, I long to see her, if only
once more.”

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“If you would steel yourself to undergo one of your magics, might it not be
accomplished?” suggested the Landgrave. “I will play the Fantasia of Don Luys Milan
while you gaze fixedly on the portrait of your loved one, holding her ring. Are you willing
to make the attempt?”

“I have never before been able to choose my subject. In truth, I have had no control soever
in my 'seeings'. In them, there is no sense of time, so I shall not know whether it is in the
past, present or future that I see my lady. But I care not, if only my longing be assuaged by
a sight of her.”

We retired to a turret room, far away from the noise of the court. At first, we played in
unison, then I laid down my lute, placed the ruby ring on my finger, took up Barbara's
portrait and gazed upon it, remembering our happiest moments together. Soon, as my
friend continued to play, I felt myself drift out of this world.....

.....I found myself standing in the corner of an unknown chamber. A woman (a lady, I
should say, from her rich dress) ugly of visage, gave orders to two servants, one of them
my Suzanne, as they bustled from fireplace and press, carrying bowls of steaming water
and cloths to the great bed on which lay a figure, writhing in agony, a cloth stuffed in her
mouth. I could see from her eyes, wide in pain and terror, that the gag was to muffle her
screams. Even as I recognised her, watching in utmost horror, my Barbara, in a final
convulsion, gave birth, assisted by Suzanne, and fell back against the pillows in a swoon.

The ill-favoured lady pushed forward when the cord was cut, snatched up the baby boy and
washed him herself gently, taking no notice of the poor mother. Now Suzanne had
removed the gag, I could better identify Barbara's exhausted features, grey against the
white pillows, ghastly as I had never seen them. As the second maid changed the
bloodstained sheets, Suzanne tenderly raised her mistress's insensible form. The lady, now
cradling the mewing, swaddled babe in possessive arms, hastened from the chamber
without a backward glance. I longed to take my suffering love in my arms, sweetly kiss
her damp forehead and smooth her tangled hair......

.....I came to myself, weeping bitterly, to see my friend's shocked face above me. Helping
me to my feet, he exclaimed, “Forgive me, John, I did not imagine it to be so painful an
experience as this. Tell me, at least, that your seeing brought you comfort.”

“Comfort!” I cried, in furious bitterness and despair. “I saw my lady giving birth to her
husband's child and I know not whether it caused her death.” And, inconsolable, I sped
down the winding stair and locked myself in my chamber.

~
Even as I sit here, Rob, enduring my own invading pain, I still feel that distant, shared
agony and the mourning that followed, not knowing whether my lady lived or died. I
remember still the selfish, shameful pangs that came later when I told myself again that
Robert Sidney had fathered Barbara's child. I thanked God that his hateful face had not
been part of my vision, triumphant as he beheld that tiny, yet perfect babe, who would have
been my own, had it not been my desire through Suzanne's advice to protect my lady. I
bitterly regretted the loss of the golden child who might have crowned our union. Yet, if it
had brought her death? It was easier to hate Sir Robert as her murderer.

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 ~
I kept to my room until my emotions were under control and I was fit once more for the
Landgrave's company. He was full of sympathy and regret that he had led me into such an
unhappy undertaking.

“Leave magic well alone until you are fully recovered in spirits, John. The playing of the
Orphic Hymn can wait awhile. The Duke has sent, demanding your return, complaining
that you have stayed too long. I will send Gregory back to him with a good will and,
though I am wishful to keep you with me, I dare not offend my kinsman. Perhaps the best
would be if you make the journey to Italy you have planned, and, on your return, the Duke
may have forgotten you and you can stay here at Cassel for as long as you are willing.”

It was agreed that a change of scene and a reunion with my close friend, Luca Marenzio,
with whom I had corresponded over the years, might work wonders and with a farewell
gift of a costly ring, which I dispatched to Suzanne, and a great standing gilt cup, which I
left until my return, keeping for my travels the coins it contained, the Landgrave and I said
our farewells.

At Cassel, I had given little thought either to the Protestant Union or my work as James of
Scotland's informant, although, since the birth of his son, Henry, he had been sounding out
the princes of Germany as to an alliance of his own. Essex had also charged me, when he
signed my travel permit, to send information from Italy as to any further planned sea attack
from Spain and the part the Pope might be expected to play.

I could only think, as I travelled, that journey's end would bring a meeting with Luca, who
would dispel all my sadness in a joyous, musical reunion. I knew that he too had
experienced love troubles, having left Rome for Poland, but was now returned, though not
on the best of terms with the Pope. I will spare you the description of my triumphs as I
travelled south, even the welcome I received at the magnificent court of Ferdinando, Grand
Duke of Tuscany. I achieved an ambition in meeting the members of the Camerata,
introduced to them by my former travelling companion, Vincente Galilei.

Yet all was naught when I perused a letter from Luca informing me that I must by no
means come to Rome, where I was remembered from my previous visit, when
correspondence with which the English College had entrusted me had gone astray. It
would have been as much as my life was worth to enter the stronghold of the Bishop of
Rome, where Luca himself was in such bad odour that to leave his post and meet me
elsewhere would put him in jeopardy. I had anticipated our reunion so keenly that this
disappointment was almost more than I could bear. I never saw Luca more, for, within
four years, he was dead.

I turned to my duties as an informer, anxious to leave Italy as soon as might be. In

Florence, I met with an English priest, John Scudamore, as had been previously arranged.
He too was a spy, playing a most dangerous game. He confirmed the instruction that I was
to go to Rome and, not knowing I had no intention of using it, wrote me a letter of safe
conduct. Now I was in all-round trouble and my fears for myself grew. Fears for Suzanne
and the children came to haunt me, for Scudamore told me that Spain was preparing once
more to attack England.

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The message he sent to Rome, telling of my arrival, resulted eventually in the appearance
at my door of a friar who brought a pressing invitation to the Holy City and promise of a
large pension from the Pope. I was immediately on my guard and temporised, saying I had
my wife and children to consider. To this he replied, that there were agents in England
who would arrange their safe transport to Rome and, if I or they were unwilling , he
suggested darkly , their lives might well be forfeit. Yourself, Annie and Suzanne were in
the gravest danger.

The Master of Gray was in Florence and entertained me to dinner with some English
gentlemen to whom I confided my alarm. They promised that, on their return, they would
seek out Suzanne and warn her that she must have no truck with strangers. I hesitated to
use the word 'kidnap'. Helpless to do more, I sent them all the money I could spare.
Making my way to Bologna, myself keeping a weather eye open for danger, I found that
Ferrabosco had died in Armada year. I bought a good lute as a gift for Landgrave Maurice
of Hessen, had my own lutes repaired, and bought a plentiful supply of strings.

On reaching Venice, I found more English gentlemen with news of home. There had been
a raid by Spanish forces based in Brittany on the coast of Cornwall. Mousehole, Newlyn
and Penzance, all places of which Digory Piper had spoken, had been put to the flames.
Spaniards on English soil as enemies for the first time! Born in the Pale under Elizabeth's
rule, I felt her loyal subject as never before, hating the Jesuits, who had sent my true master
knowingly to his death and who, with King Philip, were sworn to destroy peace and the
reformed religion.

I now learned that Robert Cecil was gaining more and more power and that Essex was less
concerned with government than with war. Safely over the border in Nuremberg, my
concern was to obtain safe passage to England before hostilities broke out. I had thoughts
of taking Suzanne and you children north of the Border and finding such safety as there
was at the court of Scotland. Essex had ordered me to Rome and I had disobeyed and
should get short shrift if I applied to him. There was no possibility of return to England
without a permit, so I determined to throw myself on Robert Cecil's mercy. With some
difficulty, I concocted a description of my travels, incorporating a number cipher used with
Walsingham, which I knew Cecil's agents would recognise. I made a clean breast of my
Catholic involvement, knowing that would make me his man, but what choice was there? I
was wild with worry for the safety of my family and took the best course I could to
facilitate my return.

Back at the Landgrave's court, the threat of the new Armada seemed less and newly arrived
Englishmen were reassuring. One brought me a letter from Master Noel, relating all the
court news. These words leapt from the page: 'Sir Robert Sidney is unbearable with the
news that his wife is with child when all thought she would bear no more after that last,
unfortunate boy. The birth is expected in December.....'

My heart leapt! My Barbara was still alive! Then misery returned tenfold. I had seen into
the future and the thought of her agony to come, perhaps her death, racked me once more.
When I had played in Italy, I had styled myself 'infoelice Inglese', now I adopted the motto
'Semper Dowland, semper dolens'. Fate had dealt me a double sorrow and there was
nothing but grief ahead. Yet I must think first of Barbara and my mourning must be for her
alone.

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 CHAPTER TWELVE
I realised too how much I had depended on Luca's help to put me back in frame as he had
done after my true master's death with his cheerful demeanour and his divine playing.
Even with the Landgrave Maurice, I had not known such delight in the communion of
music making. Now I had to crawl out of a slough of despond by my own efforts. The
understanding came to me with shocking force that, in my life, I had always thought first
of myself and my needs. Even when helping others, there was that edge of pride because I
had the power to cure them. And there was anger that my gift could not mend my own life.
I now knew that I had desecrated my love for Barbara with the poison of resentment,
instead of recalling with gratitude those brief months of bliss - more than was granted to
most in a lifetime.

The bitterest disappointment was that Ficino's Orphic hymn, which I had played with such
confidence to ensure our lifelong happiness, had failed. But what overweening arrogance to
think that I could direct the shape of our future and stretch out the days of sweet delight to
suit my own selfish ends. Perhaps that fleeting interlude was all that was ordained for us in
this life. Yet, all my good resolutions were as naught and jealousy engulfed me when I
remembered that Robert Sidney was to father the son that might have been mine.
Suzanne's child would be a poor substitute. My music suffered as it always did when evil
thoughts held me in thrall. At Cassel, I could not look on the Landgrave's two beautiful
children without a pang of envy. Otto was named for a kinsman but, secretly, perhaps for
the Kapellmeister, Georg Otto, held in high regard by his master. The new babe was to be
christened in honour of the English Queen they hoped would lend more than her name to
the alliance of German princes against the Hapsburgs and the Jesuits.

One day the Landgrave came to me in great excitement. “I have wonderful news. Doctor
Dee has at last perfected the means of exchange of ideas through the Monas Hieroglyphica
with myself, the Elector Palatine, the Margrave of Brandenburg and the Dukes of Saxony,
Wurttemburg and Brunswick, who was the first to learn this method. Though there have
been bitter disagreements in the past between Lutherans and Calvinists, we have sworn to
rise above them and, in united strength, dissuade the Catholics from breaking the peace.
Your part in this is to go from court to court and, by singing and playing the Orphic hymn,
call down on each prince the heavenly influences which will bring success to our
endeavours for a union of the religions and a Europe free from strife.”

“I do not yet feel myself worthy of this trust,” I began, only to be interrupted by the
Landgrave.

“You are the only one of us who has been privileged to hear the hymn and Doctor Dee has
confidence that you will perform it to good effect. If he and I, who are your friends, have
faith in you, how can you fail? Let mine be the honour of sharing in your first attempt.
We will begin at sundown this very day.”

Thus, in a room heavy with the scent of roses, the rays of the setting sun the only light in
the hushed apartment, the Landgrave knelt, as I sang in the best interpretation of Ficino my
power could achieve, the Orphic hymn to Apollo. None other attended us, yet, when I
came to the Greek words I will translate as, 'Hear me entreating for the human kind. Hear
and be present with benignant mind', I felt another presence in the chamber and, opening
my eyes to discover from my friend's expression whether he shared my perception, I

108
solemnly swear I saw golden rays descending on the head of the supplicant as he knelt in
the growing gloom.

Travelling Germany, intent on my new enterprise, I did not see this phenomenon repeated,
which added to my belief that the Landgrave of Hessen was the only prince whose motives
were truly disinterested and who would follow the cause to the end.

I realise, Rob, you will find this strange beyond all understanding now that Germany is
riven by war and all our best efforts seem to have been in vain, but in those days we were
upheld by the belief that we could, through love, bring about peace.

~
As I say, in August, 1596, I was journeying from court to court when Sir George Carey, as
the new Baron Hunsdon, arrived at Cassel to deliver, in his capacity as cousin to the
Queen, her congratulations on the birth of her namesake and godchild, Elizabeth of
Hessen. So it was that I missed the splendid display of fireworks which celebrated the
christening, though I was in time for the feasting and drinking which continued long after
my return.

Now that I had been given a useful purpose in life to keep me occupied, there was less
opportunity to mourn the past, though my spirits fell when, in December, a scrap of paper
as postscript to a letter from Henry Noel announced the birth of a son, Robert, to Lady
Barbara Sidney. However, the sense of relief that she had survived the ordeal upheld me
and I heartily wished her every happiness.

The main part of the letter contained the news that the Queen had been asking for me and
that I should be welcomed back at court. Though the threat of invasion had passed, I was
still wary of Essex and, as I had received no answer from Cecil and no permit to return, I
was glad to leave for England safely in Lord Hunsdon's train.

The Landgrave and I said our farewells with the utmost regret and he begged that I should
return to his court if ever need arose.

“Those poems you have been setting to music with which you have delighted us all must
certainly be brought to publication,” he urged, as we were about to leave. “Has it not
struck you that the lady for whom they were written might see them and her heart be
softened towards you?”

Turning to Lord Hunsdon, he requested, “ Be sure that Master Dowland does not neglect
this work. I shall eagerly await holding one of the first copies from the press in these
hands.” And he shook both of ours heartily. Lord and Lady Hunsdon did not fail to fulfil
this charge when we reached London and, from January, 1597, gave me shelter and
sustenance in their house at Blackfriars until the task was done.

It was a sad home-coming, for my dear friend and master, Henry Noel, was no longer there
to greet us with his beaming smile. We were told he had died of a calenture after a
vigorous ball game. All my mourning was expressed in the music of my 'Lamentatio
Henrici Noel'. Tom Morley dedicated a charming canzonet in his memory and Thomas
Weelkes a madrigal. To add to my grief, my other master, Sir Henry Unton, had died in

109
France. I commemorated his loss in a pavan. My heart was heavy indeed at their passing -
it seemed the end of an era.

As I sat at Blackfriars in yet another of my modest rooms, I pondered on what the future
might hold for him who had been in turn, Johnny Dolan, John Dowland, Suzanne and
Barbara's Jean, Luca's Giovanni and the German princes' Johann Doulandt, ('Doul' as I
signed myself in my despatches to James of Scotland.) Would I have yet another name
and, under all these disguises, I asked myself, did I remain my own man?

~
At long last, I obtained sure news of Suzanne. Lord Hunsdon's sisters, Lady Hoby and
Lady Scrope, were clients of the self styled 'Doctor' Simon Forman and at his house they
had encountered both Sir Thomas and Lady Monson on separate errands of consultation.
Suzanne was still with them in Lincolnshire as was her little son, Robert Dowland. ("You
sly dog," this from Lord Hunsdon, “you have never told us of this offspring.”) Lady
Monson had adopted the boy and was bringing him up as her own. Sir Thomas was
beginning his musical education, as, with such a father, he expected him to be a genius. I
thought sourly that any son of Robert Sidney was more likely to grow up a blundering ass.

I wrote at length to Suzanne, telling her of all my doings since we last met. A reply soon
arrived. It had not been a happy time, as she had been the unwilling victim of Sir Thomas's
attentions until her rebuffs turned his fancy to young Annie, now, unbelievably, fourteen
years old. Lady Monson had soon put a stop to this by sending Annie to the Howards to
act as personal maid to seven year old Frances, the child of Lord Thomas's second wife,
Katherine Knevett, also a member of Father Forman's family of the faithful. Suzanne felt
the miss of Annie greatly and three year old Robert was of no comfort, as he regarded her
as a mere servant, recognising only Lady Monson as his mother.

'Oh, Jean,' the letter ended, 'if only we might have a home of our own where we could live
together peacefully as the friends we have always been. I am so wearied, as I am sure you
must be also, of truckling in the houses of others, subject to their every whim, and ever in
fear of losing one's place.'

This reminder of the insecurity of our existence, determined me to work even harder at my
Book of Airs. I was the more anxious to place it in the hands of the printer quickly, as I
had returned to find that thieving William Barley had dared to publish some of my lute
solos, and in incorrect versions, too. That which made my blood boil even more was the
discovery that, in my absence abroad, Edmund Spenser had brought to the public a long,
sycophantic effusion called 'Colin Clout's Come Home Again' in which he celebrated every
lady at court in the most familiar terms (including my dear Lady Hunsdon) and re-
introduced that character, Cuddie, most unwillingly adopted by me to please Sir Philip
Sidney, making me out to be an Irish dolt in the most derisory fashion. I felt that in my
years away from court, all who remembered that pseudonym had been laughing at me
behind my back. Worst of all, Spenser coupled himself with Raleigh, as though he, too,
took me for a fool.

The sickly-looking poet was back in Ireland where I could not confront him, which
increased my hatred. He was in great favour now and taken up by Essex because of a
poem of chivalry, called 'The Faerie Queen' in honour of Elizabeth. It celebrated every

110
Protestant hero in England and was called the banner of the reformed religion. Spenser
now held a castle and estate at Kilcolman - an Irish landlord with a well born wife and
family - whereas what was I but a dependant in another's house, unable to support a family
and that not my own? The bitter bile of jealousy rose in my throat.

My thoughts returned to Suzanne's letter. I could not give her a castle but, perhaps, I might
find her a house. I recalled that Lord Hunsdon owned property in Blackfriars. I went to
him and described my problem, offering him Sir Philip's Spanish diamond as security for
future rent.

“I own a house in Fetter Lane, which is, at present, untenanted. You may certainly have
the lease of it,” he promised, waving away the proffered ring. “I trust you to pay me rent
when you can. The proper legal forms shall be drawn up and you shall have safe shelter
for your wife and family.” Indeed, on my lord's untimely death in the same year as the
Queen's, I found that he had left me the house in his will, which was more than I deserved.
I sent for Suzanne as soon as possible and she was delighted with our first home together.
It was a modest house and the money from my First Book of Airs helped to furnish it. We
lived there like brother and sister but, to my surprise, Suzanne did not appear to feel the
want of little Robert, with whom Lady Monson refused to part.

“He is better off with the Monsons,” she affirmed. “They will give him a gentleman's
education, which we could never afford.”

She felt the miss of Annie more, though, there again, she said she would do best with the
Howards, knowing that 'Good Thomas', as the Queen named him, would never pester the
child as had Sir Thomas Monson. When I broached the subject of Lady Barbara, Suzanne
was strangely uncommunicative, yet they had been so fond. Indeed, she was not the same
Suzanne and said that I also had changed. It seemed that our parting had estranged us.
Determined not to be a burden to me, she soon found that her skill with her needle could
earn her a living. Lady Hunsdon employed her and told her sisters and her friends at court
of the fine work my 'wife' had learned in her French convent. Suzanne became quite the
fashion.

Fetter Lane was the musicians' quarter and we had visits from such as Tom Morley and
Tom Campion, who now announced his intention to travel abroad and train as a doctor of
medicine.

“I wish to learn more of Paracelsus and his secret remedies, which restore celestial
harmony between the star within man and the heavenly star. That which you achieve
through music, John, he found through metals, tinctures and alcoholic extracts. But you
must know all this, as each of the German princes, I am told, has his own Paracelsan
alchemist and physician.”

“I have found the princes more interested in the alcoholic extracts than aught else,” I
jested. “Take care to avoid excess in Holland and Germany, for if you drink too much gin
or brandywine, you will be sleeping through your lectures.” But he only shook his head.

Doctor Dee came to Fetter Lane and at once posed a question. I was glad I still possessed
the Spanish diamond and could tell him that Christian of Denmark would outlive the other
Protestant princes.

111
“Could not be better,” and the magus rubbed his hands. “He has asked through his brother-
in-law, the Duke of Brunswick, that you come to Elsinore as his court lutenist. He offers a
salary equal to that of a Danish admiral such as you could never expect at our Queen's
frugal hands. You will serve the cause and your own best interests at the same time. From
a base in Denmark, you may travel again from court to court in Germany, strengthening
our allies' commitment with the Orphic hymn. Nothing could be more advantageous to us
all.”

I had not long received an invitation from the Landgrave Maurice and should have much
preferred the court at Cassel as my base, but Doctor Dee was adamant that I could do more
good at the court of the young Danish king, who had only recently escaped from the strict
tutelage of his Lutheran regents and was ripe for new ventures.

~
It was a blow to my hopes that, after the successful publication of my songs, I had no word
from Lady Barbara. I was certain, however, that her sister-in-law, the Countess of
Pembroke, would welcome me. The Earl, I had been told, was in poor health, so I did not
expect him on the doorstep of Wilton House to turn me away. Adrian Gilbert greeted me
in the grounds, where he was supervising the planting of new shrubs.

“Rose bay or rhododendron for Rosalind, our lovely rose,” he told me, as though ten years
or more had not passed since our last meeting. “You will find her in the laboratory with
some students.”

Time has no meaning with old friends and, as with Adrian, it was as though Lady Mary
and I had met but yesterday.

“Tell me everything that has happened since I spoke with you last,” she demanded in the
old, enthusiastic way. “And what of the musical magic?”

We went out into the beautiful grounds and sat under the trees by the lake. When all our
news was exhausted, Lady Mary congratulated me on my Book of Songs. “But some of
them are too, too sad. When Lady Barbara and I first heard them, she was moved to tears.
Unfortunately, she has become prey to melancholy again since the birth of little Robert and
he is now two years old. Pray God she does not fall into a worse state after the
confinement she is expecting, it often happens so after childbirth. What a pity you are
leaving for Denmark so soon. Your playing was of great help in ridding her of that strange
humour which held her in the first years of marriage but it seems that your magic does not
outlast your presence.”

Another pregnancy! It was clear that Lady Barbara was now a dutiful wife and that Lady
Mary knew nothing of our past. Yet my love had wept as she heard my songs. All feeling
could not be lost. I took the Spanish diamond from my neck.

“Pray, madam, tell Lady Barbara that if she will gaze on this stone, remembering the music
I used to play for her, the magic may yet work from afar.”

Looking puzzled, Lady Mary took the ring, promising to deliver it ostensibly as a gift from
herself with my message. I asked after her two sons and she told me that William was at

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court and a great favourite with the Maids of Honour, which gave her cause for concern.
Philip was noisy and only fond of games and sport. I also learned that Sir Robert Dudley,
whom she now knew to be her half-brother, had lost his first wife, Mary Cavendish, (for
whose cousin I had composed Captain Candish's Galliard) and had married Sir Thomas
Leigh's daughter, who seemed capable only of girl children. It seemed that Kit Marlowe's
tedious years at Hardwick had been love's labour lost indeed.

~
News of great portent awaited me on my return to London. The English army had been
annihilated in Ireland and the Queen was devastated also by the death of her faithful
servant, Lord Burghley, whose son, Robert Cecil, now took his place as Secretary. It was
high time I left the country. First, I had to settle Suzanne with a maid servant, a sturdy
young woman answering to the name of Mall Sims. Next, I had to write a letter of farewell
to Annie, as there was no time to visit. Lastly, I made my way to Cecil House in search of
my permit to cross the sea to Denmark. After a lengthy wait, I was ushered into Robert
Cecil's presence.

“Before you state your business,” he said in his cold, precise tones, “I have a letter to read
to you, though, first, I must remind you of one written by yourself and kept in my records
under the heading 'Doul to James V1, 7th September, 1596.'“

My heart sank as he waved the paper at me and I glimpsed the familiar hand. It was a
report I had sent from Germany, foolishly mocking Cecil, who never forgave an insult.

“Yes, Master Dowland, my men have been intercepting your letters since that time and, if
harmless, I have forwarded them to his Grace on your behalf. In truth, you had little of
interest to impart and, if he has paid you, his money has been ill spent. Now,” and he
paused significantly, “I will read a letter intercepted more recently, addressed to you at the
home of Lord Hunsdon in December of last year, just after the publication of your book of
Songs, I believe.”

I sensed danger and his next words, as he began to read in sneering tones, were as a sword
in my heart, for I knew the hand that penned the letter was not Suzanne's. “'My very dear
Jean, I could not hold back my tears as I heard your songs. Some of the words bring back
happy memories, some I am grieved to find so bitter, some my heart bleeds to find so
forlorn. I cannot help but think that a number of them were composed for others, more
beautiful and beguiling than I. Though I dismissed you so cruelly, I did it for the best and
have never ceased to love you.

'You see, I found I bore your child from the night we first came together and I could not
endanger your life by telling you. During those days I shut myself in my chamber, I tried
to find the courage to let you go. Suzanne and I formed a plan. Lady Monson was lonely
in Lincolnshire and had repeatedly invited me to spend time in her company. She was to
suppose Suzanne with child by you, her husband. More heavily padded month by month,
my maid's state would make my own less obvious. Suzanne was to find a village far from
the Monsons', where was a reliable midwife. When we left for home, we would stay there
until after the birth and then make our way to London. You were to suppose it Suzanne's
and Robert's child. He would be quite content and I would have our own child with me to
love as a constant reminder of you. It seemed to us the best plan possible.

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'I was seven months gone and we were already planning our departure, when, in my haste,
I tripped, fell down a stairway and began my labour. It was impossible to deceive Lady
Monson, who was present at the birth. She had three daughters and could bear no more
children. Jean, she snatched away our beautiful, perfect son. True, he might have died,
tiny and frail as he was, if she had not cared for him so well and obtained the best wet-
nurse she could find. I was delirious for days and, when, at last, she allowed me to see the
babe and hold him in my arms, she reproached me for a faithless wife and swore she would
tell Sir Robert all I had spoken in my ravings unless I gave up claim to the boy. I begged
on my knees to keep him with me but she was adamant and I had no strength to resist her,
even if the thought of your danger, Jean, had not deterred me. She promised to say no
word to Sir Thomas, who thought the babe Suzanne's and she sent her maid, who had
attended the birth, back to her home with a rich gift from me and held a threat over her
head if she broke silence. My only consolation was that Suzanne was to stay as the baby's
nurse and would send me news of him.

'I returned to the London house, and, when Sir Robert next came over from Flushing to
find that Suzanne had stayed in Lincolnshire with little Robert, his fury knew no bounds.
'Then I shall get a Robert of my own,' he shouted, and so it proved. Oh, Jean, I cannot love
his child as I should for my deep longing to have our own son with me. I know I may
never see you again but, after hearing your songs, I could deny you the truth no longer. All
I wish for is your safety and your happiness. Do nothing to risk your well-being. Ever your
Barbara.'

The hateful,derisive tones that desecrated the words of my love ceased. If ever looks could
kill it was in that moment but his baneful gaze outstared mine. I was in this monster's grip
and could do nothing but await my doom, sense bereft as a young rabbit in the eye of a
stoat. I felt the blood drain from my cheeks and hid my trembling hands behind me so that
he should not have the satisfaction of seeing my fear. My brain in turmoil, I could hardly
distinguish his next words.

“You know well, Master Dowland, in whose hands I shall place this letter if you disobey
me in the slightest degree. I leave you to imagine the consequences for those you 'love'.”
This last word came from his tongue perverted and envenomed by hatred and envy. Never
would I forgive him for filching from me what should have been my most precious
possession, for staining and distorting in my mind forever the discovery of my son and the
continued love of my Barbara. The odious voice continued.

“These are my orders. From this day forth you will act as secret messenger between
myself and King James of Scotland. You are aware of the penalty if you betray me to
Doctor Dee or to your German friends. I will sign your travel permit and expect to learn
from you all that passes between King Christian and the German princes.

“I know also of the magic you practise through your music. You are at once to make your
way to Scotland, and find that arch-villain, Patrick Gray, who will introduce you to King
James as one who can draw down on his head the heavenly influences. You will fall into a
seeming trance, then tell him that you have seen Robert Cecil placing the crown of
England on his royal head. Obey me to the letter and you may safely board your ship,
hoping that your 'mistress' and your 'wife' and child will come to no harm in your absence
overseas. Do you clearly understand me?”

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I could do nothing but nod dumbly. He tossed me my permit and I stumbled from his
presence.

~
From my disturbed thoughts of Barbara, who had wished only my safety, now herself in
jeopardy through unthinking words of my own, came one small comfort. In that painful
seeing at Cassel, it was the birth of my own son I had witnessed and, for the first time, my
vision was not of death, as before, but of new life.

Now, at last, Rob, you know your true parentage. You are not the son of Lady Monson, or
of Sir Robert Sidney, as you later suspected, but the child of true love between Lady
Barbara Sidney of Penshurst, Viscountess Lisle, Countess of Leicester (God rest her soul)
and plain John Dowland. I loved you, my son, before I ever saw you grown and that was
not to be for some time yet.

~
I wandered the streets until my mind had cleared somewhat and then, to my shame,
stormed into my house, accusing Suzanne wildly of deceit, when it was my fate to live
from then on as a trickster. Practical as ever, though her tears flowed, she packed my
clothes, my books and my lutes and busied herself preparing food for the journey. Thank
God, before she was finished, I came to my senses and made it up with her so that, by the
time Cecil's horses, one with an outrider, were at the door, we were good friends once
more.

As I rode unwillingly on my way north, the changing beat of the horses' hooves drummed
out my thoughts.....'She loves me still. She loves me still. I have a son. I have a son.
Hostages to hunchback Cecil. Hostages to hunchback Cecil'.....Then Father Campion's
voice sounded loud and clear, 'Obey your masters in all humility and promise me you will
never pretend again.'

He had meant good masters, surely, not a fiend like Cecil. He himself had escaped his evil
master, Leicester, rather than obey him, or so I surmised. Yet I was forced to conform to a
wicked command or put all those I loved best in dire jeopardy. I had made a faithful
promise not to pretend and now my orders were to deceive James through a false seeing.
What choice was there? No matter how I racked my brain, I saw no means of untangling
this coil. I must obey my 'master', Cecil, and be forsworn or keep faith with my one true
master, Father Campion, and cause untold harm to those who deserved only the best from
me.....By the time we rode through the narrow, cobbled streets of Edinburgh, my decision
was made.

I found the Master of Grey dicing with companions, as roaring drunk as he was stone cold
sober. He took me aside to hear Cecil's instructions, chuckling gleefully at the part he was
to play.

“At least I can vouch for the fact that your visions are true. Luckily, this one will give you
less pain than the seeing of Mary's beheading.”

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I knew what to do. I would not misuse the Orphic hymn, as, no doubt, Cecil intended.
That same evening, called into the King's presence, I asked for a music stand on which,
with great ceremony, I placed my first Orpheus book, open at the picture I had loved so
much as a boy. Patrick Gray fell to his knees with consummate grace and James followed
suit awkwardly, as I took my lute and, eyes closed, played the now less familiar fantasia of
Don Luys Milan, unheard since the seeing of my son's birth. The rainbow colours soon
came to be replaced by what I now called the albedo, and, as my trance began, I fell, not
into the dreaded blackness, but into a deep red glow from which emerged in quick
succession the figure of a young man on his death bed, a young queen, her crown roughly
snatched from her and, lastly, a slight but dignified, shirt-sleeved figure, laying his head
upon the block.

I gained consciousness without the usual faintness and, as my eyelids fluttered open, I
heard Patrick Gray say, with assumed awe, “Your Grace, I saw the heavenly rays
descending on your royal brow.” And he winked at me. Suddenly, my head cleared and I
recalled my part. James soon had it firmly in his mind that Cecil would help him to the
English throne. I saw him look greedily at the music stand and knew that I had yet a
sacrifice to make to atone for my deceit.

“Will your Grace do me the honour of accepting my Orpheus book?” I asked, the words
bursting out louder than I intended. It was a hard thing to do. I still had the record of much
music of earlier times in my second Orpheus book but I had always meant, when I felt
myself fit, to gaze on my beloved picture and summon up the words and music of the first
Orpheus. Now it would never be.

James snatched the book with his grubby hands and shambled off, no doubt, to find his
lutenist, a Yorkshireman of modest talent. I shuddered to think what he would make of the
divine music of Don Luys Milan. The Master of Gray led me to his chamber.

“After that performance, only our Highland usquebaugh will put you right - better far than
whatever witches' brew they gave you in Germany. First, a toast. 'To James 1 of England
and his chief adviser, by then, I expect, Lord Gray.' I must bow low to little Cecil until he
has shifted the crown and, then, goodbye Monsieur le Bossu! Now, 'To success for John
Dowland at the Danish Court.' He invented countless other toasts, some so ludicrous that
he had me giggling sottishly.

I was all but unconscious when he dragged me to my horse and put me on the road to
Leith. Soon the cold air sobered me enough for me to hear the hoof beat sound out the old
saying, 'Once forsworn, ever forlorn', which continued to echo in my mind as I lay tossing
in my hammock, queasier than I had ever been since I first crossed the Irish Sea.

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 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Memories of that shameful day renew my sadness, Rob, and I was glad when my writing
was interrupted by a visitor, that clever fellow, Hugh Holland. He, too, had travelled in
Italy, where his careless tongue had got him into trouble, but it was in reminiscing of the
old days that he brought to mind another matter much to my discredit, so his presence
comforted me little.

“D'you recall when Farnaby came to this house, proudly bearing the manuscript of his
Canzonets? You leafed through it rather disdainfully, I thought, and when he asked us
both to write poems of recommendation, I was sure you would refuse. It was just before
you left us all for Denmark and I thought you would make some excuse about time being
short, but you took a poem out of a drawer, furbished it up in a trice and handed it to
Giles, who was delighted. None of us understood the poem, but it was enough to have your
famous signature. What in the world did it mean?”

After some searching, I found the book and this was the poem;

THOU ONLY SHALT HAVE PHYLLIS,

Only thou fit (without all further gloses)
Crowned to be with everlasting Roses,
With Roses and with Lillies
And with Daffadowndillies,
But thy songs sweeter are (save in their closes)
Then are Lillies and Roses;
Like his that taught the woods sound Amaryllis.
GOLDINGS; you that have too, too dainty NOSES,
Avaunt, go feed you them elsewhere on ROSES.

It all came back to me. I had once written a poem for Luca to remind him of our
adventures with the Roman courtesans, also referring to a mistake in the last part of one of
his songs, which I never let him forget. The word 'gloses' referred to those 'explaining' the
'Shepherds' Calendar' ( set down more to mystify than make clear) and reminding Luca of
how Spenser had put his name falsely to the poem and then mocked me as the 'donkey',
Cuddie. I remembered now that to have Farnaby publish the poem was a means of
ensuring that Spenser would one day read my ridicule of him. I changed the envoi,
addressing it to Essex's party, the orange clad Marigolds. They could take it as a bit of
bawdy, such as Southampton liked, or could think that, like Apuleius' Ass, they needed to
eat roses to turn into proper men. I cared not what they read into it. I was off to foreign
parts to play for a king who recognised my merits and had promised to pay me well.

I altered the poem in a black mood, jealous of Edmund Spenser's success and I made sure
that almost every line ended with his initials so that he would be doubly sure for whom the
doggerel was intended. How could I guess that, within a year, he would be back in
England, his castle burned by rebels, his wife and children left behind, the youngest dead
and himself dying of a broken heart?..... I saw Hugh's reproachful expression and realised
I had spoken my thoughts aloud.

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“The word went round that you had cursed Spenser in that poem. They say it was Cecil
who first spoke of witchcraft and roused your few unfriends to blacken your name. Did
you not wonder when you first returned from Denmark that some looked at you askance?”

I had forgotten that. “It must have been the time I came over to buy instruments and
engage musicians for King Christian and found few willing to travel abroad with me. Do
you mean to say that they thought me one of the Devil's brood? I have sometimes been
accused of looking with an evil eye but it is merely that I am abstracted and unobservant.”

“It was all a long time ago,” murmured Hugh, “and there are not many left now to recall
the old days.” He soon took his leave, leaving me somewhat shaken. Two misdeeds for
which to atone, and another to confess in its turn!

~
1601 was the year Essex went to the block. February it was, while I was in Denmark.
Robert Sidney had turned his coat and came over from Flushing to join Sir Walter and
Robert Cecil (whom he still thought his friend) for the kill. After that, the Queen showed
favour to Sir Robert and went down to Penshurst to visit him and my Barbara with another
child, her namesake, clinging to her skirts.

My Second Book of Songs was selling well in London at that time. The proceeds were
intended for Suzanne's use but she let it go for only twenty pounds and the profit went to
the printer and publisher, who took to law over it in their greed. In my absence, Tom
Morley had by some underhand means obtained Byrd's music paper and printing monopoly
so that he and Chris Heybourne, his partner, got almost as much as we did. That did
nothing to improve my temper, I can tell you. Out of sight out of mind, even with so-
called 'friends'.

For fear of Cecil's spies, when I returned to England, I dared not go to Mortlake to look for
Doctor Dee, so called on Sir Edward Dyer at Winchester House and found the magus there.
The Monas link was swift and sure for transmitting brief messages, and their superior
speed could be used to circumvent our enemies, but there were times when a face to face
encounter was best. Doctor Dee asked me to explain to Sir Edward how Cecil had trapped
me.

“He has intercepted my letters to King James since 1596, no doubt adding lies of his own,
and his spies read all my personal correspondence. I write nothing of real moment to
James and Doctor Dee advises me how to lead them both astray without putting any of us
in jeopardy. Thank God we are always a jump or two ahead, thanks to the Monas magic. I
am sure you know that the hunchback blackmailed me into a false vision where I had to tell
King James that I saw Cecil placing the crown of England on his brow. To assuage my
guilt at this deception, I sacrificed my Orpheus book to him and, no doubt, he believes that
the heavenly rays, which Patrick Gray affirmed he saw descending on his head, shine down
on him each time his lutenist plays what he thinks is the true music of Orpheus.”

I forbore to add that, even had I played Ficino's Orphic hymn, there would have been no
descent of heavenly rays. Although I had played and sung it for all the German princes,
only the rapport between myself and Maurice of Hessen and his noble character had
brought about that magic. I blamed myself for failure more than any lack on the part of the

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princes. What atonement could compensate for the evil that lay in me, John Dowland? I
was ashamed to reveal my true feelings to these two good men.

“You have told me your chapter of accidents, and I will tell you mine, for, since Philip's
death, little has gone as we would have wished,” said Sir Edward, now sadly aged since the
days at Wilton, when he wrote poems for the sixteen year old bride. “I, too, have been
governed by the Cecils, father and son. I must tell you that, after my master, Walsingham's
death, old Burghley angled for the Secretaryship on young Robert's behalf and, when the
Queen showed signs of offering it to me, which would greatly have advanced our cause,
our great Lord Treasurer threatened to call in my debt to the crown - eleven thousand
pounds (and all my lands, such as they were, sold long before.) I dared not risk ruin, so
what could I do but withdraw my claim to the post? Now Robert lets me off my debt six
months at a time, so that the threat still hangs over me like the sword of Damocles.

“I was given the sop of a knighthood and made Chancellor of the Garter when Henry Lee
was installed, but that was only so that our votes might hold Essex in check, once his mad
pranks had begun. After Fulke Greville and myself had acted as bear leaders to him for all
those years, the 'great boy' turned against us. He regarded us as enemies, just as he did
Cecil and Raleigh, because we were loyal to the Queen.

“As you know, it all came to a bad end. Have you seen the play, 'Hamlet'? Essex wrote it
in the Tower with worse madness and the fear of death on him. He worked off his
bitterness against his mother's marriage to Leicester and other pent up rancour besides.
Now that we have no priests to hear our confession, to write it out in a play is no bad
means to absolve one's conscience. I admit to the attempt myself.

“Poor Anthony Bacon, who worshipped Essex, and was no traitor to him like his brother,
had just time to pass the play to Shakespeare for performance, before, heart-broken, he
followed his master to the grave. He was portrayed as Horatio and Greville and I disguised
as the royal spies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - the rosy wreath and the golden stars of
our belief mocked in their Danish names. I tell you both, I am weary of the whole game.
Thirty-six years since, I sold a manor and paid Leicester to get me to court and what have I
to show for it but debts, ill health and white hairs?”

“Say not so, Edward,” encouraged Doctor Dee. “You have been our chief stand-by all
these years, loyal to Sir Philip, to the Queen and to our cause. As Chancellor of the Garter,
you are in a position to draw in more German princes to the ideal of peace in Europe. You
made a good beginning with young Mompelgard, to whom Elizabeth has promised the
Garter. Continue to advocate the chivalry of Raymond Lull, who died in the cause of
uniting all religions, and who has always been our inspiration.”

“At my time of life,” rejoined Sir Edward, “I might do better to retire and follow Essex's
example and write out my bitterness for the groundlings, though all they understand is the
dumb show and the foolery.”

“That is what the German public enjoys also, but their princes grasp the deeper meaning. I
was in Cassel when Robert Browne's company played at the Landgrave's court. The play,
too, is a kind of magic for transmitting our beliefs,” I added.

“You know well, Edward,” Doctor Dee reminded him, “that Leicester sent his players all
over Europe and laid the foundations for our work, and so now does the Lord Admiral. If

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you are determined, as you say, to keep away from court, who better to write for us now,
for, as Philip averred, what greater poet have we in the whole of England?”

“Oh, I burned most of my poems long ago, so disgusted was I at that first pirating of
Philip's 'Arcadia', which was a most private work. But let us change the subject,” said Sir
Edward. “John, what of Denmark and Christian, whom I have not seen since he came to
the throne as a boy?”

“Another language to master and a rough tongue at that. Yet another spelling of my name.
Much hatred from the Lutheran nobles, who think my music devilish and harmful to the
King. I play the Orphic hymn for him in private and he allows me to travel all over
Germany to do the same for the other princes. He pays me well, though his Treasurer, like
Burghley in his day, is loath to open the purse-strings.”

“Now to another subject, John, which brings us nearer home,” pronounced the Doctor
significantly. “You will receive a message presently from one who will gaze into the
Spanish diamond and transmit secret words to which you may reply by looking on your
ruby ring. I know you will listen eagerly for this. Now, Edward, go to the door with John
so that, to a watcher, it will seem that his visit was to you alone. I will leave under cover
of darkness. Shall we never be free of the curse of deceit and fear?” He shook my hand
heartily, saying that I should hear from him soon by our private means.

~
I hastened to Fetter Lane, where I shut myself in my room, trembling with excitement at
the thought of hearing Barbara's voice at last. Very early next morning, there came into
my mind's ear her reproachful tones. “Jean, my letter.... Why have you not replied to my
letter?”

Not wishing to cause her alarm, I told her as little as possible of Robert Cecil's
machinations. I explained that it was long ere her letter reached me and what heavenly
bliss it was to know that she still loved me and that we had made a son together. I assured
her that I had never so much as looked on another woman but had lived only on the
memory of our brief happiness and would do do ever.

My dear one interrupted me. “Oh, Jean, I can hardly concentrate on the diamond, such is
my trembling. While there is time, I must tell you that Sir Thomas Monson is in town for
the Parliament and I beg you to plead with him for the return to you of our Robert. Now
that Suzanne is no longer with him, I can discover nothing of his welfare.”

I promised and said that I would try to find some safe way of visiting her at Penshurst.

“Sir Robert is to spend a month in Rutlandshire with Sir John Harington and other lords, so
I shall be alone with the children.....” Her voice faded before we could even renew our
vows of love. I too had found difficulty in gazing with fixed purpose on the ruby ring
when my heart was pounding. Indeed, as Barbara's words were lost, my eyes were blinded
with tears.

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Sir Thomas Monson's London home discovered, I wrote, asking to see him and was soon
granted an interview.

“It must be about the boy.” He looked the sort of man to go straight to the point. “If it
were left to me, you should have him back straightway, for Lady Monson is over-indulgent
with the lad, who runs to her skirts as soon as he is corrected. Little good comes of his
music or any other of his lessons. He would be far better with his own parents yet, I fear,
my wife will never part with him. She is so besotted she would not even accompany me to
London lest he pine for her. The truth is, it is she who cannot bear him out of her sight. I
am afraid that your request is a hopeless one. But tell me your lodging and I promise to
inform you if circumstances should change.”

As I left the house, my heart sank. What was I to tell Barbara? Suzanne was full of
sympathy and we sat down to devise a means of entering Penshurst Place without arousing
the suspicions of Cecil's spies or Sir Robert's servants. Suzanne was the first to break the
silence.

“It is December already and, in Lincolnshire, at Christmastide, mummers come to each

house and sing and act a play. Men and women exchange garments..... Ah, now I have it,
Jean, that is how we will leave London, disguised in each other's clothing! Now I am glad
to be more than common tall, which makes us much of a size. Mall will go with you to
market, two women together, and I will change into my male attire at a friend's house and
we will meet at the stables and hire ourselves horses. Through your magic means ask Lady
Barbara if they have mummers in Kent and, if so, that is how we shall safely cross her
threshold.”

First, I told my love through the rings not to lose hope of seeing our Robert, as Sir Thomas
was less intransigent than his wife. Barbara explained that the local custom was called
Hodening and how we might meet the farm horsemen, or Hodeners, and join their party,
thus gaining entry to her house without arousing suspicion. Sir Robert, she told me, had
already left on his visit.

Suzanne and I spent a night or two at the village inn, she taking well to her disguise,
myself robbed of my beard, and my white-streaked hair partly hidden by a kerchief. Ale
flowed, money changed hands, there was talk of a wager and before long, the rustics
agreed to bring forward their festivity to a time that best suited us. So we found ourselves,
the week before Christmas, surrounded by a merry throng, myself in old woman's blacks,
as the Mollie, a long, mop-like grey wig obscuring my face, a besom in my hand, next to
me a hideous Hooden Horse with iron nails for teeth and a lantern inside its horse's skull,
made with hinged jaws which snapped open and shut.

Rough country music and loud knocking announced our arrival and, as the Hooden Horse
pushed its way in, crouching and snapping, I played my part, which was to attack the
servant's feet with my besom. The noisy party erupted into the great Baron's Hall, Suzanne
swaggering among them. Two long trestle tables were laden with food and drink, and
before the huge fireplace, Lady Barbara and her children stood to welcome us, little
Barbara hiding her face in her mother's wide skirts at the wild incursion and the boy,
Robert Sidney, almost mad with delight at the Hodeners' antics. Then, as arranged, while
all partook of cakes and ale, the Horse neighed out that old Mollie was a fortune teller of
high renown and wished to tell the future for the lady of the house.

121
Barbara was prepared for this and, entrusting her daughter to her nurse, led the way into a
side room. No sooner was the door closed than I set down my broom, flung off the wig
and the voluminous black cloak and faced her, resembling to some extent at least the old
Jean. As she held out her hands to me, her beauty seemed undiminished by the years and
our grasp was so passionate I thought our fingers would remain entwined for ever.

None in the noisy hall might overhear, but our first words came out in broken murmurings
of renewed love, whisperings so soft that they might have come from the distant past when
we two were one. What exchanges were made as the minutes sped by, I cannot now
repeat. We allowed ourselves only the time a fortune telling would consume and it was
woefully brief. One embrace and I had to resume my ridiculous disguise, promising as I
did so to bring her our Robert soon.

“I have a message from Lady Mary,” were my love's last words. “She expects you at
Wilton shortly where she is at the Dower House. Now leave me and do not turn your head
as you go to join the rest. No goodbyes. We shall be together always through the rings.”

Once again in the hall, I was swept away with the merry, clamorous throng, and Suzanne
slipped a comforting hand into mine.

~
We decided to ride straight on to Wilton. Barbara had sent a trusted servant after us with a
purse of money, so that we were able to rest and refresh ourselves on the way. Suzanne
had taken well to her disguise, riding like a man and strutting like a boy actor. I was less at
ease in my skirts and had to play the hoyden, as I could by no means mince like a lady.
Once safely at the Dower House, we were able to resume our own attire and glad I was of
that when I found Sir Robert Dudley one of the company, as I had no desire to play the
fool before one who had been my pupil.

“We are expecting Edward Dyer at any moment,”explained Lady Mary, as we settled
ourselves with cups of mulled ale before a roaring fire. “ We are to have quiet festivities
while William and Philip make merry in their own way at the great house. My eldest son
swears it will take much carousing to wash the taste of the Fleet prison from his mouth,
and Robert, here, was a jailbird too, as he was foolish enough to join with Essex.” And,
smiling, she shook her head at him.

Suzanne slipped away to rest after her exhausting journey and Sir Edward Dyer was not
long in joining us. As he sipped his ale and stretched out his booted legs to the blaze, he
appeared even more weary than when I saw him in London.

“The last time we met, I told John here that I was weary of great affairs. Doctor Dee has
persuaded me to change my mind. I must ask you all three to swear to disclose nothing of
what I am about to divulge and never to use my name in this connection. As you will
realise, this secret imposes a most dangerous risk on all involved.

“You know that I was a faithful servant to my Lord Leicester until his death and privy to
his most confidential affairs. Thus I am aware of your actual relationship to him, Lady
Mary, and how close you are, therefore, to Sir Robert, who is the Earl's true-born son. Yes,
I was a witness at your mother's wedding, Robert, which meant that the Earl's marriage to

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Lady Essex was bigamous. This I may pledge on my honour, though I dare not affirm it
openly. Sir Thomas Drury is brave enough to promise that he will act as your informant
and will swear in court that you are the Earl's legitimate son and will produce other
witnesses to the same.

“My silence has not deprived you of material wealth, which you inherited, Robert, as your
father's 'base-born son', a status with which, to your credit, you had long come to terms.
Yet now there is a necessity to bring all into the open. These days we must realise that the
Queen is not immortal. Cecil and his henchman, Henry Howard, are already in
communication with James of Scotland and intend to offer him the crown of England. As
Chancellor of the Garter, I am honour bound to remain loyal to the monarch, yet it would
go sadly against the grain to serve James.....”

“Who else is there,” broke in Sir Robert, his voice shaken by Sir Edward's revelation, “but
Isabella of Spain or Arbella Stuart? England needs a man, not another ruler in petticoats.”
(This was dangerous talk, indeed, I thought.)

“Exactly,” rejoined Sir Edward. “You will soon see how my argument is tending. Your
father, Robert, was proud to trace his ancestry back to Henry III. I have here a copy of the
family tree. The Earl's father, who became Duke of Northumberland, intended to give your
uncle, Guildford, a double right to the throne of England through marriage to Lady Jane
Grey. When that failed, my Lord of Leicester hoped for years to marry Elizabeth and
himself become King but her wish to retain the throne unchallenged was greater than her
undoubted love for him and his hopes came to naught. He then made plans, of which you
knew nothing, Robert, for his son to rule England in his stead. His untimely death
prevented him from taking you into his confidence. The truth is that, since the age of four,
you have, by the agreement of the Earl of Leicester and Bess of Hardwick, the lady's
grandmother, been betrothed to Arbella Stuart, who, being English born, has a better claim
to our throne than James of Scotland. Mary Queen of Scots learned this when Bess was
her jailer and I believe Queen Elizabeth is not ignorant of this binding troth.”

The news came as no shock to me, but Lady Mary and Sir Robert were severely shaken.
He was deathly pale as he spoke.

“I hardly know how to contend with such revelations, Sir Edward. It seems that all my life
others have been privy to secrets of which I know nothing. I must have time to think. I
have a wife and daughters. What can Arbella Stuart be to me?”

“Her betrothal to you as a child renders all subsequent marriages null and void. She can be
your Queen,” replied Sir Edward, solemnly, “but, first, you must prove your legitimacy in
a court of law.” To this, Sir Robert made no answer, but soon excused himself. He now
had a heavy burden to carry which he had by no means expected.

The next day the two knights were closeted together for the whole morning. I was then
summoned to perform the Orphic hymn and, I must confess, that I did so with my eyes
tight shut. I longed, yet hesitated to believe that Sir Robert's venture would be crowned
with success and, in my mind, I did my best to imagine the golden rays descending, which
would confound the plans of the hated Cecil and his master, James.

Sir Edward remained at Wilton for the Christmas season, and, as she bade us farewell,
Lady Mary said, shaking our hands warmly, “I shall not be here, John, when you next

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return from Denmark. The house I am building in Bedfordshire is near completion. You
will be most welcome there.”

Disguised as before, we followed Sir Robert to Kenilworth, where we were able to resume
our rightful roles. At the castle there assembled many I had played for in the past. Some
were young men who had plotted with Essex, one of them, Robert Catesby, married to Sir
Robert's sister-in-law, Catherine. Two brothers, Robert and Thomas Winter were former
guests and I recalled that I had written Mistress Winter's Jumpe for Robert's wife,
Gertrude. In truth, all the old music was requested and it would have been quite like the
old days, had not serious conversations taken place among the gentlemen, which
confirmed my belief that Sir Robert had not faltered in his determination to fall in with Sir
Edward's scheme.

For the most part, wherever I was, it was my task to receive the Monas dispatches, since I
could memorise and reproduce the longest messages without the need to write them down.
The waiting was tedious, but I could fix my gaze on the symbol as I practised my lute, and
I picked up the transmission immediately, whereas others, less accustomed, were slow and
clumsy. Thus it was, I was the first to hear Doctor Dee's familiar tones.

“I have had some talk with Sir Walter Raleigh and he, too, approves our plan, which he has
had in his mind for some years. Now we must pray that the Queen lives for another twelve
month. We already know that 1603 will be her last, and from Joachim of Fiore's ancient
prophesy, in that year the New Age will be born.

“However, we need time, for legal processes are tardy and Sir Robert's legitimacy must be
fully proved before he can accede to the throne. We must also work for the support of the
old nobility. The Howards are his close relatives and, with the exception of Lord Henry,
should give their fullest aid. Shrewsbury and Northumberland at least are sure and will
work for the unity of the two religions. I am less happy about Sir Robert's hot-headed
young friends but we must use whatever help affords. I pray daily that it will be a peaceful
undertaking.”

~
All these high matters did not prevent Suzanne and myself from seeking means to bring
you from the Monsons before my return to Denmark. We decided to ask Sir Robert's
friends for help. They were enthusiastic at the prospect of a new pastime.

“A kidnapping!” exclaimed Francis Tresham. “What a way to see in the New Year!” His
companions chimed in with suggestions. Sir Robert provided a coach. On New Year's
Eve, the whole party were to disguise themselves as mummers and sing on the Monsons'
doorstep, while Suzanne, in her male attire, gained entry as the First Footer and whispered
in Sir Thomas's ear that she was come with her husband to spirit away their lawful son.
The mummers would crowd into the hall, perform their play and, in the general hubbub
following, cover you, Rob, with their cloaks and sweep you outside to the waiting coach,
escorting us back to Fetter Lane and repeating the process to gain us safe entry to our
house.

We had a set-back at first. The servant who opened the door told us there must be no noise
as the lady of the house was very ill but Sir Thomas, red-faced and far gone in drink, came

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to the door himself and said there must be New Year cheer or worse luck would ensue.
When he recognised Suzanne, he pulled off her tall, wide brimmed hat and let her lovely
hair fall over her shoulders.

“A fair haired First Foot brings the best luck in the world,” he cried, embracing her in a
maudlin fashion. (But the servants muttered that it should never be a woman who first
entered the house as that would bring misfortune in its train.).

Sir Thomas was perfectly agreeable to our plan, though he was unwilling to part with
Suzanne, and all went well. You were overexcited at being brought from your bed, Rob,
and what with the late hour, the mummers and the cakes and ale, you soon fell asleep in the
coach with your head in Suzanne's lap. We galloped through the night and you did not even
wake as we carried you into the house at Fetter Lane. I could not take my eyes from your
face, which was the very image of my own.

It was a different matter when you woke in a strange bed, as you surely remember. We
were deafened by your screams and cries of “Mother!” It was Mall Sims who produced
sweetmeats and calmed you. She stood us both before a mirror.

“Now tell me Master Dowland is not your father. You're as alike as two peas in a pod.
Mistress Dowland is your father's wife and here she stands, so what mean you by calling
for your mother?” And your cries turned to quiet, obstinate sobs.

You complained that the house was too small and that your bed was too hard and narrow.
“Where were the rest of the servants?” you asked and demanded a personal lackey to dress
you. We told you that you would soon be living in a house much grander even than the
Monsons' where you would enjoy every luxury and act as page to the most beautiful lady
in all England.

“Mistress Dowland will take you there,” explained Mall, (for you would have nothing to
do with me) “and I shall stay to serve your father in this house, which is plenty large
enough for our needs.” We had met with success so far and, as Sir Robert Sidney might by
now have returned from his junketing, I dared not myself visit Penshurst again, loath to
endanger Barbara, though I yearned for another sight of her. You, my son, hardly threw
me a glance as you left.

When Barbara communicated with me on the night of your arrival, she could hardly speak
for tears of joy. You had run straight to her and buried your face in her lap. “Your face,
Jean,” she sobbed. “It is almost as if you were with me, each time I gaze on our Rob. I
shall call him that from this day forward. Thank you, thank you, for sending him to me.”

Sir Robert was delighted to welcome Suzanne back into his household and made no bones
about his wife's new page, who, he said, could be a companion for their own Robert. He
soon returned to Flushing and I to Elsinore.

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 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In Denmark, the tedium of my existence was lightened by the joy of exchanging messages
with my Barbara, whose continued delight in the presence of our son knew no bounds. We
found it best to 'ring' each other, as we termed it, during the night for Barbara was never
free of company by day. We fixed on a time for our meetings and it was as though we
shared a dream world together so that we could never be lonely again. My real life took
place in my mind and, no doubt, I appeared to others more abstracted than ever.

I learned from those magical exchanges and from Suzanne's letters that my 'wife' had come
to London for Annie's wedding. It came about thus. Theophilus Howard, with whom she
had been brought up in their earliest days,when home from University had made advances
to the girl and she proved ripe to fall in love with him, which would not do. Lady Howard,
his stepmother, had not been slow, with the help of her trusted Simon Forman, to find
Annie a respectable husband, a friend of his, much older than his bride, but well able to
provide her with material comforts.

What gave us cause for alarm was that the new Mistress Doctor Turner became over
friendly with the wizard, Forman, and was allowed by her doting husband to visit him at
will and assist him in his laboratory. Suzanne, therefore, stayed at Fetter Lane to keep an
eye on Annie, who, when the Howards were in London, often returned to the Charterhouse
to act as young Frances Howard's companion, also taking messages to Forman from her
mother, who had depended on his love potions in her younger days, perhaps still, for she
was a wicked woman.

Doctor Dee kept in touch through the Monas magic and, as he had feared, there were
countless delays over Sir Robert Dudley's legitimisation. Sir Edward Dyer had thought it
best to work through the ecclesiastical courts and avoid the London lawyers, not least,
because, many years earlier, Leicester (before he even won that title) had given help as
Prince of the Purpoole to the Inner Temple, whose members had sworn in all perpetuity
never to give aid in any action against him and his heirs. They were certain to decide that
Lettice Knollys and Robert Sidney were the rightful heirs and would oppose Robert
Dudley, clearly named in the will as the 'base-born son'. Our hoped-for king was risking
the inheritance he held already in his attempt to gain legitimacy.

Doctor Dee did his best to be mindful at all times of the Queen's health for it was obvious
she was failing and she was obdurate in her refusal to take greater care. Her life meant all
to us at this juncture for she would have been only too pleased to see her cousin the 'she
wolf's' marriage to Leicester declared bigamous and her support would bring Robert
Dudley success. We tried to circumvent Cecil's plans for James by sending him less than
correct information though I could not help but remember that Burghley had known about
young Robert's childhood betrothal to Arbella Stuart and that what his father knew would
certainly be a part of Robert Cecil's strategy. Doctor Dee never faltered but, I must
confess, doubt as to the success of our plans crept ever deeper in my mind.

I chafed at my absence in Denmark. Drinking, hunting and bickering among themselves

occupied the minds of the German princes, except for my friend, the Landgrave of Hessen,
and I was seldom allowed to visit his court, for he did not need constant encouragement
and reinforcement, as did the more wavering princes. True, we kept in touch through the
Monas symbol, but that was lonely work. Receiving and transmitting messages day after

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day left me with highly strung nerves and I longed to find myself face to face with a friend.
The nightly talks with Barbara were a boon, but still I longed for physical contact so that
there was sadness in it too. My bones ached with the constant journeys on horseback and
the distance between the German courts seemed to grow as time went on and the repeated
demands for the Orphic hymn made its performance a travesty. All in all, I deemed life a
hell, lit by brief glimpses of heaven.

I whiled away my hours of waiting at Elsinore or while travelling by translating a book Sir
Walter had rescued in 1596 from the spoil at Cadiz. It was a treatise on singing by the
German, Ornithoparcus. It exercised my Latin and gave me an excuse to keep to my room
away from the heavy drinking. I must say here that King Christian was a generous master,
but he was more interested in practical than spiritual matters. Building was his pastime
and he had a new castle called Rosenberg, named after Rozmberk, where Doctor Dee had
stayed in Bohemia. The rose of Alchemy was celebrated far and wide. In Prague, the
Emperor Rudolph, whom Sir Philip had travelled to congratulate long ago, still employed
men of all religions at his court and Duke Henry Julius of Brunswick put great faith in his
support of our cause. The hardest thing to induce Christian and the other princes to believe
was that religious unity, not faction, was our need.

~
By Christmas, I heard that all Sir Robert Dudley's witnesses had been gathered together.
Then Arbella Stuart, who had been kept in the dark as to our plans, gave us all a shock.
Weary, at the age of twenty-seven, of being treated like a child by her grandmother, who
made her sleep in the same bedchamber, our hoped-for Queen proposed herself by
messenger to the Earl of Hertford's grandson, who himself had a claim to the throne. Old
Hertford, terrified of losing favour with the Queen, hastened to inform Cecil, who had
enough to do with his final arrangements to place James on the throne. Arbella then
became terrified of what she had done and seemed to retreat into madness, real or feigned.
She was now kept under house arrest. We all prayed that no worse punishment might
befall. It augured badly.

The Queen passed the festive season merrily with dancing, bear-baiting and plays, so that
we were hopeful she would last out until the end of 1603. To make all sure, Doctor Dee
advised her to move from the damp of Whitehall to the warmer palace of Richmond.
Unfortunately, there came a change in the weather. A freezing north-east wind
accompanied the removal, and January saw the sharpest season known. The Queen
insisted on keeping to light, summer clothing and when, in February, her best friend died,
she succumbed to melancholy and fell sick of a cold and fever.

I was hastily summoned to England and, at Mortlake, Doctor Dee and I performed a Sun
ceremony for the improved health of the Queen and the success of Sir Robert Dudley's
undertakings. Had my singing of the Orphic hymn with too much repetition lost its
potency? I knew my faith in its strong magic wavered but Doctor Dee was firm as a rock
in his belief.

While in London, I took the opportunity of registering my Third Book of Songs, dedicated
to John Zouch without a thought of reward. I optimistically named it my last, hoping that
never again would I have to publish for money. On my good days I felt the Golden Age
about to begin in which I would hold a position of trust under our King Robert. I was not

127
so sanguine as to believe that even then Barbara and I would have a life together with our
son. We had long decided that 'love not in the blood but in the spirit doth lie.' The
happiness of sharing our thoughts through the rings, free from the fear and deceit physical
entanglement might bring, seemed to us best. That Christmas meeting would be our last.

~
The proceedings at the ecclesiastical courts moved at a snail's pace, yet we were
unprepared for the sudden failure of our plans when magic seemed of no avail. On March
24th, the Queen, who had been failing for days, passed away and Cecil's eager messenger
galloped full speed north to inform James that he was now King of England. Hardly was
she cold in her bed when Elizabeth's death was made public and James's accession
proclaimed. Cecil's plans went as smooth as silk whilst ours were at a standstill. By April
5th, James was on his way to his Promised Land, leaving the amazed Master of Gray,
victim of the hunchback's sure revenge, at the Border.

Never had we suspected that the transfer could be made so swiftly. Horses, coaches and
their toadying occupants jostled their way north to pay court to the new monarch. Even
Northumberland was there. Only Raleigh kept out of the race and he was well punished,
firstly, by losing his place as Captain of the Guard to a Scot, then by eviction at short
notice from his London home, so that Cecil's friend, the Bishop of Durham, could reclaim
it. Worse was to follow.

James lingered on his way to London, relishing the entertainment his new subjects
provided, scattering right and left a largesse of knighthoods, even honouring a Sir Loin of
beef whose succulence was much to his liking after a diet of half starved sheep. He failed
to arrive for the Queen's funeral and Arbella Stuart, who should have been chief mourner
refused to attend. James freed her from house arrest and took her to court, in fact as a
hostage, though treated as a member of the family and Cecil arranged that she had a
generous allowance.

Now that Lady Arbella was in safe hands, Cecil saw to it that Raleigh went to the Tower
with his talkative friend, Cobham, accused of planning with Spain to place Arbella on the
throne, which Sir Walter stoutly denied. Never a word did he say of Sir Robert's plans
which received a greater set-back when the Plague, which delayed the Coronation, claimed
as its victim the chief witness to the legality of his mother's marriage. It was not long
before the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was not unsympathetic to Sir Robert's cause,
also succumbed. Set-back followed set-back.

Now Sir Robert's foolhardy friends, Robert Catesby, Thomas Percy (related to
Northumberland) and William Parker (later Lord Mounteagle) took it upon themselves to
plan a mission to Madrid. Thomas Winter went as their emissary, first to Flanders, then to
Spain; Christopher Wright and Guido Fawkes (the only professional soldier among them)
followed in the hope of convincing the King of Spain that an invasion attempt would have
ample support in England. We found later that they had been careless so that Cecil, who
strongly suspected their activities, increased his efforts to bring about a peace pact between
England and Spain.

Meanwhile, the legitimacy proceedings dragged on and when, in October, I went to visit
Queen Anne in Winchester, where the court had retired for safety, with messages from her

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brother, King Christian, the case proper had only then begun in the Consistory Court of
Lichfield, in whose diocese lay Kenilworth, the domain of Robert Dudley. Before I could
enter the Queen's presence, I was informed that I must first apply to her Chamberlain, the
newly made Baron Sidney of Penshurst.

In the nine years since I had last seen him, Robert Sidney had become portlier and even
more pompous.

“Ah, Dowland,” he condescended, “back from Denmark with a message from your
master.....” He interrupted his sentence as he caught sight of an equally resplendent
courtier and, waving me to one side, he took the arm of Sir William Knollys, brother of
Lettice; Comptroller of the Household and member of the Privy Council - that clown who
had made a fool of himself over young Pembroke's mistress, Mall Fitton, and had been
lampooned as Malvolio in the play.

“I am not long back from Lichfield,” Sidney confided gloatingly, “ where I have had the
pleasure of putting a spoke in the wheel of that misbegotten upstart, Robert Dudley.
Thanks to you, uncle, and to Robert Cecil, I was able to produce the Privy Council's
mandate that his ridiculous legitimacy proceedings be quashed and taken to a Higher Court
where he will have to state his case anew from the beginning. That will give Aunt Lettice
time to file a bill for conspiracy and defamation. We have him this time! It will be the
Star Chamber for him now.”

They walked on, deep in conversation, and I could eavesdrop no more. It was some while
before Lord Robert deigned to recall my waiting self and, with much ceremony, usher me
into the presence of Queen Anne. To his fury, her Majesty granted me a private interview
and was gracious enough to permit me to dedicate to her my latest work 'Lachrimae'. She
also paid me the compliment of requesting me to write songs for the masque with which
she wished to greet her young son, Henry, when he arrived in Winchester.

As soon as I left her presence, I sent urgent messages to Doctor Dee and Sir Edward Dyer
about this further set-back to our plans. Sir Robert Dudley was down-hearted but the
doctor would never countenance the thought of defeat. Truly, once having started, there
was no going back. In London, we met at Sir Edward's home where we held a solemn
magical ceremony both for Sir Robert's success and for the life of Sir Walter Raleigh, on
trial at Winchester. Our prayers for him were answered, when in a most cruel cat and
mouse performance on the scaffold, with the noose almost around their necks, James 'in his
great clemency' released the other conspirators and, later, Raleigh, from death to life
imprisonment in the Tower.

We had hoped that all the Howards, with the exception of the evil Henry, now raised on
high by James, would support Robert Dudley's claim. However they were too busy
feathering their own nests and wished to avoid trouble. 'Good' Thomas Howard was now
Chamberlain and the old Admiral, who had long been Earl of Nottingham, had taken to
wife a young relative of the King and was thinking only of his wedding night prowess. We
later discovered that others on whom we had counted were in Cecil's pay. All the while
that good Doctor Dee's hopes were high, Robin the Devil was working behind our backs,
waiting, the misshapen beast, for the right moment to pounce.

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At home, in Fetter Lane, Suzanne met me with happier tidings. Our dear Annie had given
birth to a son.

“Imagine me a grandmother,” crowed Suzanne, “though I had often thought Doctor Turner
too old to give Annie children. Perhaps his friend, Simon Forman has helped him with
potions.”

Plague was now more rife than ever in London and I persuaded my 'wife' to take advantage
of an invitation from Barbara to return to Penshurst at least for a time. Hardly had the
Christmas holiday begun when, to my surprise, you, Rob, looking defiant, arrived at my
door with Suzanne, obviously plucking up courage to impart ill news.

“Lady Barbara had told us nothing of this but Rob has been in trouble for some time. He
and Master Robert have been up to all sorts of naughty tricks and, as he is older, Rob gets
the blame. In spite of Lady Barbara's pleas, Lord Robert had given him one last chance
before dismissing him and sending him back to us. Yesterday, Lord Robert invited the
parson in to take some Christmas cheer and what should meet their eyes as they peeped
into the schoolroom but the tutor, snoring in his chair, his black gown trimmed short and
ragged by those wicked boys and his birch, dressed of all things as a baby, lying on his
knees. “Blasphemy!" cries the parson, and, indeed, being an aged man, it must have
seemed to him a travesty of the Nativity. Rob was not penitent and accused Master Robert
in violent terms with the result that Lord Robert stripped the birch and laid about Rob
unmercifully. Beg as she might, Lady Barbara could not prevent us being packed off, bag
and baggage, at a moment's notice, with Lord Robert threatening the most terrible
consequences should he ever set eyes on Rob again."

I am sure you remember the serious talks that followed. What was to become of you?
Kidnapped from Sir Thomas Monson, dismissed in ignominy by Lord Robert Sidney, who
was there now to speak for you? You might only make use of my then famous name and
enter some lesser house as lutenist. To cheer us all and bring some Christmas spirit into
our heavy hearts, Suzanne and I played and sang. Then it was your turn.....I could not
believe my eyes and ears! You held your lute awkwardly, your fingers clearly unused to
the instrument, and, as for your voice, the breathing was uncontrolled and the sound reedy.
What in the world had happened to your lessons at the Monsons, where Sir Thomas had a
reputation for training the best young musicians?

“Oh,” you answered casually, “Lady Monson let me off my lessons if I wished and Robert
and I preferred to go riding rather than practise our silly lutes.” It was clear to me now
why Sir Thomas had made no bones about handing you back to us.

The rest of the holiday season was taken up by music lessons - agony for us both - and I
tutored you in Latin, too, for you would not be accepted in school without more than a
smattering. I could by no means understand your slowness. I had always had a page off
by heart at a glance - I could see it in my mind's eye and hear it in my mind's ear. I thought
that all shared this ability of instant recall and were able as I was to repeat a poem, a
conversation or a piece of music at a single hearing. Small wonder folks blamed me for
my impatience and thought me overbearing. I remembered now what Master Stanyhurst
had said about lessons being beaten into boys and I lambasted you sorely as there was so
little time to make you learn. You hated me then.

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“You are not my father!” you screamed. “The servants at Penshurst told me about your
wife and Lord Robert. I am his son, not yours and one day, when he accepts the truth, I
shall return to my rightful place in the world.”

This time, it would have been of no avail to stand us both before a glass. My greying hair,
pale face and furrowed brow in no way resembled the angry, red-cheeked visage and black,
curly hair of you, my son. It was Mall Sims who managed you best and, in the end,
persuaded you to name us Mother and Father, though you did so with a bad grace.
Through good friends, a place was found for you at Westminster School and the torture of
our nightly lessons continued, as you will recall, until, with the excuse of bad weather, I
returned late to my post in Denmark and had to endure the black looks of the Lutheran
Comptroller when I went to collect my wages.

~
Doctor Dee sent a message informing me that the Parliament had passed a new Act
condemning to death any person remarrying while their first wife was still alive. That
meant if Sir Robert Dudley claimed betrothal to Lady Arbella, he was a bigamist and must
die by the law. Damn Cecil to hell, who controlled James's Parliament as he had
Elizabeth's. In June, Sir Edward Coke, the hateful Attorney General, who had insulted
Raleigh so cruelly at the Winchester trial, insisted on going to Sudeley himself to interview
Sir Robert's mother, the better to hear her story and prepare a case against it. Lady Stafford
wrote to her brother, the old Admiral, asking him for his confirmation of her marriage to
Leicester but he made no reply.

The trial opened in the dread Star Chamber, Doctor Dee told me, with all the members of
the Privy Council present, none sympathetic to Sir Robert, who was now the accused,
charged by his stepmother, Lettice Knollys, with conspiracy to defame her. Only those of
his own age group stood by him in court - his second cousin, Lord Dudley, his half brother,
Edmund Sheffield and his cousin, Lord Effingham, son of the old Admiral, and they were
publicly reviled for it. After the first day, the court was adjourned, leaving all in doubt. At
the end of the year, the old Admiral began to plan a diplomatic journey to Spain and was
prepared to take Sir Robert with him but Coke soon put a stop to that. Cecil was afraid his
prize would escape and spoil his plans.

I chafed at my absence in Denmark but King Christian would by no means give me up.
With the help of my music, as he thought, he saw visions of Christ telling him he was to be
God's leader in Europe and must prepare himself to go to war with the Church of Rome.
Even Doctor Dee began to despair that the peaceful unification of the religions would come
to pass.

Certain letters from Suzanne added to my concern. You had spoken of strangers who
intercepted you on your way to and from school, asking you questions about your father
and whom you had seen visiting the house. I knew we could not rely on your discretion,
Rob. What could you know of the need for secrecy? I had nightmares of you in the Tower
undergoing the torture of the rack, and pondered long and carefully on how best to
proceed. I wrote to my boyhood friend, John Forster of Dublin and to William Temple,
Provost of Trinity College, who had been Sir Philip Sidney's secretary in the Netherlands
and, like me, had attended his death bed.

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In May, 1605, I was given special leave by King Christian to take you to Dublin, carrying a
letter of protection. There you were enrolled at the College where Master Edmund
Campion had once hoped to teach. Kind John Forster, as you remember, welcomed you
into his family, saying you resembled exactly the boy he had once known. I shall not
easily forget your face, my son, as I left you with strangers in a foreign land. Can you
imagine how your true mother felt at this time? The voice I heard in my mind, night after
night, was broken with sobs and I could find no words to console her. London was far
enough from Kent but Ireland was on the edge of the world and a wild and dangerous
place, as was well known.

We were on our way to Dublin as Sir Robert Dudley's trial was opening in London.
Doctor Dee described it each evening and told me that, when the court reassembled, Lord
Robert Sidney strutted in, bursting with pride at his new title of Viscount Lisle, Robert
Dudley's rightful inheritance should his legitimacy be proved. It was obvious that the King
had pre-judged the case. And there on the Bench perched Cecil, newly made Earl of
Salisbury. The word went the rounds that Lady Arbella Stuart was to marry the Queen's
brother, Duke Ulric of Holstein. They had it all well timed.

There were few great ones still living to attest the legality of the Earl of Leicester's
marriage to Douglas Sheffield, now lady Stafford; and Coke, in his blustering fashion,
denounced all the working people who gave evidence as 'rogues and liars', called their
testimony 'damned' and demanded that they should be debarred for ever from testifying in
any court, deserving drastic punishment for their part in this trial. Sir William Leighton,
who had supported Sir Robert at Lichfield, was heavily fined and, three years later, sued
for debt, outlawed and imprisoned. I did what I could to help by writing music and a
commendatory poem for the second edition of his 'Lamentations of a Sorrowful Soul.' Sir
Robert and his mother were acquitted but all the depositions were sealed up until the King
should order the enclosures to be broken. Thus the evidence for a further case was
suppressed never to be reopened. The judgement ignored altogether the legitimacy claim.
A nice legal trap snapped shut.

Who was to say that all the ceremonies performed for Sir Robert's success and happiness
had been in vain? The gods move in a mysterious way. He fell deeply in love with his half
cousin, Elizabeth Southwell, and two months after the trial,( the lady dressed as a boy)
eloped to France, leaving wife, daughters, land and wealth, taking only three servants, four
horses, eighty pounds in money and, I dare say, as many jewels as they could carry. The
Pope later gave them dispensation to marry, Sir Robert claiming that, as he had first been
betrothed to Frances Vavasour (now conveniently dead these two months) his two previous
marriages were invalid. He would not endanger Arbella Stuart's good name any more than
Sir Walter Raleigh had done at his trial. As Sir Robert and the new Lady Dudley refused
to return to England (and his certain death) James was happy to sequester all Dudley's
estates to the Crown. Sir Robert used the knowledge gained at Raleigh's Academy to make
himself useful to the Duke of Tuscany and he and his lady lived in Florence happily and
prosperously to a ripe old age with boys as well as girls to bless them.

~
The Warwickshire plotters were busy at the time of Sir Robert's trial. They leased a house
next the Parliament with the intention of mining there and blowing up King, princes, lords
and government so as to make a fresh start in England. When Sir Robert's legitimacy

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claim came to naught they still continued and perhaps hoped he would return from Europe
to claim the throne. Doctor Dee was horrified by these rash proceedings,for violence was
anathema to him. Cecil could not have been ignorant of this foolhardy plot but bided his
time till he had all heads in a noose. Even in Ireland, Rob, you must have heard of the
Gunpowder Plot, which ended with more torturing and deaths like my true master's and
renewed nightmares for me away in Denmark, though kept in close touch with all events.

I see my writing becomes less and less legible but I must not cease my story, feeling, as I
do, that time is short and there is much still to relate. I have ordered Mall to open my door
to none. I cannot waste my precious days in idle chatter.....

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 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Doctor Dee continued to send me orders for my work with King Christian and the German
princes. In the end I confessed to him how I was weary of the task and feared my Orphic
singing had become so mechanical that it served no useful purpose. He agreed that the
desired effect was not achieved unless the hymn was sung with heart and soul and fresh
attention paid each time to the meaning of the words.

“Yet I am certain you sang with true intent for Robert Dudley,”he said. “I can still see the
rapt expression on your face and your eyes closed in concentration. Alas, he would have
made a great king.” He agreed that my work in Europe must for the time come to a close
and advised me to come home if that was my wish. “Although life in England is not as it
was now that Sir Walter and the Earl of Northumberland are in the Tower and Sir Edward
Dyer in poor health. I myself have no means of support, as King James will not permit me
to clear my name of witchcraft for which the penalty is death. Even a small recompense
from those whose lost property I discover through my powers is no longer possible, as the
present penalty is imprisonment for a year and six hours per quarter in the pillory after that.
Daughter Katherine does her best to keep a table though money is hard to come by now the
remains of my library is sold. Not long ago, I accepted a dinner at a merchant's house.
That rogue, Simon Forman was there and refused to exchange his copy of my beloved
Raymond Lull for my last remaining alchemical work, turning his back on me like the rest.
He is a black wizard and I a true magus, yet he prospers. The world is topsy turvy, John.”

It was news of Simon Forman in Suzanne's letters that increased my urge to return home.
He was a great friend of Annie's old husband, Doctor Turner, who allowed her every wish -
money, clothes, servants and this freak of hers, to act as assistant to the wizard. In spite of
being with child again, she also spent much of her time with Lady Frances Howard, who
was soon to marry the young Earl of Essex, a match made by James, who fancied himself
as the Peacemaker uniting two formerly opposing families.

The confidences that followed the announcement of the forthcoming birth gave us much
cause for alarm. Annie told her mother that the birth of her first child, John, owed all to
the aid of Forman, who had found her weeping over her supposed barren state and told her
the remedy. At his house, he gave her a potion to drink and, in the heavy sleep that
followed, she dreamed. She stood unclothed, surrounded by light, and many naked gods
passed before her, until, with one such, she enjoyed for the first time the bliss of perfect
union. When she came to herself, Simon told her to return to her husband and repeat with
him the actions of the dream.

“Oh, Jean,” wrote Suzanne, “that evil man is using her for the same purpose to which I was
subjected in Paris. I swear she is as innocent as I was then but, if this continues, his
wicked spells will be her downfall. I shudder to think what lies ahead.”

I begged King Christian even more vehemently for my release, saying that my worn out
voice was no longer fit for singing the Orphic hymn to good effect. He agreed reluctantly
and gave me a boy pupil to train, Hans Borckratz, a singer from his Chapel. I was paid
additional salary to perfect his luteplaying and teach him enough Greek to perform the
Orphic hymn.

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He was an apt enough pupil but, as I persevered with him, I thought of you, Rob, and how
much more you needed my tuition.

After a few months, I judged him ready enough and would have left for England long
before, had not Christian put obstacles in my way. At last, the King went off on a visit to
the Duke of Brunswick and I made good my escape. The Comptroller, who had always
hated me, was only too pleased to settle accounts and see me on my way.

No sooner was I at home, however, than angry messages from King Christian arrived at
court, soon followed by his royal person on a planned visit to the King and Queen. I was
obliged to go into hiding, which I had by no means expected. First, though, I went to
Annie's house but found Doctor Turner adamant in the defence of his old friend, Forman,
and all I did was to cause a breach between our two families and deprive poor Suzanne of
all contact with her daughter and grandchildren.

Leaving her with all the money I could afford, I thanked the gods that the house was ours
and no rent to pay. Mall insisted on remaining, wages or no wages - she was a member of
the family now, she said. Although most of Suzanne's former sewing work had come
through Annie's connection with the Howards, she still hoped to make a small living.
There was no possibility of continuing to pay your University fees, Rob, and, indeed, the
latest reports on your progress showed it would have been good money thrown after bad.

I earned my passage to Ireland with my lute and from Dublin, where John Forster, as you
remember, took us in, I wrote to Sir John Zouch and he readily invited us to Codnor where
he was now master. No need to ask if you recall the day long training I put you to there.
You had to learn in weeks what it had taken Hans months to master. Luckily, your voice
had not yet broken and you were a good enough mimic to pick up the Greek words with a
fair accent, though they were so much mumbo jumbo to you. My severity made sure you
sang the Orphic hymn with hatred in your heart. The plan I had devised meant a secure
home for you and sure revenge on my enemy. How did I justify this sacrilege? It was my
only weapon against Robert Cecil, who, apart from his injuries to me and to my Barbara,
had ruined Sir Robert Dudley, destroyed the Warwickshire plotters and brought my dear
old friend, Doctor John Dee, to disgrace and penury.

Sir John Zouch was travelling to London and made safe your journey to Fetter Lane. His
servant kept an eye on you after that, though you knew nothing of it. I went on my travels
again in the country, playing the old dance tunes and singing the old songs, hoping against
hope that you would act well the part I had drummed into you. There was reason to be
proud when I learned that you had been picked up in the street by Cecil's spies and taken
to his house where (as I later learned) you managed to convince him, with well affected
reluctance, that I had taught you the Orphic hymn, so valued by King Christian of
Denmark, who sought John Dowland yet. That was your passport to a place among Cecil's
famed young musicians. You were once more in a great house where Barbara might even
glimpse you on visits from time to time and be happy. Your knowledge of the Orphic hymn
was your security, yet the mood in which you sang it would augur ill for its avid listener.

King Christian returned to Denmark, taking Arbella Stuart's lutenist, Thomas Cutting, who
was, however, soon back home again. Meanwhile, as I skulked about in the country, my
First Book of Airs had its fourth printing, but, as ever, it made profit only for the
publishers. Though my songs were on every lip, I felt the pinch and it was hard to think
without jealousy of my former pupil, Thomas Campion, making money hand over fist at

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court with his masques for the Queen. I had to console myself with the knowledge that
you were living in comfort, Rob, and that your mother was happy for that.

Money was now in such short supply that I had to ask Barbara's permission to sell the ruby
ring. She begged me not to part with it and, in its place, sent me the Spanish diamond,
saying that, though it was not so simply done, we could still communicate through the
miniatures. I was then able to pay Suzanne's household expenses and the arrears of Mall
Sim's wages. I also sent help to Doctor Dee and his daughter, for I could not bear to think
of them in want.

Sir Edward Dyer also was living in straitened circumstances. As long as he lay low, Cecil
did not call in all his debts and Sir Edward had worked as Chancellor of the Garter to
install the Duke of Wurttemberg, Ludovic Stuart, the nine year old Prince Henry and, later,
King Christian and his brother. Most of Elizabeth's Garter knights were no more -
Cumberland, Mountjoy, Oxford, Hunsdon and Northumberland, who languished in the
Tower. Only old Sir Henry Lee outlasted them all and had high hopes of Prince Henry,
with whom he often spoke when the court went hunting at Woodstock. He found him
interested in the Tilts of the old Queen's day and encouraged him to follow Sir Philip
Sidney's practice of the chivalry of Raymond Lull. Even from the Tower, Sir Walter
Raleigh, too, influenced the young prince for whom he began the great task of setting down
a History of the World. Sir Robert Dudley also wrote with advice from Italy and Patrick
Gray from Scotland. Hopes began to centre on Prince Henry, not only as the heir to the
throne, but as the new Prince of Europe.

Yet our Magus, Doctor John Dee, dwindled away in dire poverty and neglect and I, the
Orphic singer, valued by Kings and princes, was now a wandering minstrel, barely living
from hand to mouth.

~
Apart from conversations by magical means, I received letters from a new friend, Master
Henry Peacham. When I first arrived back at Fetter Lane, after my flight from Denmark,
Suzanne told me that a young man had called several times asking for me and had left me a
letter. It was couched in the most flattering terms. Since the publication of my First Book
of Songs, he said, he had been my fervent admirer. He had not long returned from Italy,
where he had been studying music in Modena with Orazio Vecchi and where he had found
my name famous both for my compositions, my playing and for my friendship with the
best known musicians of the day.

I wrote explaining that, in my changed circumstances, it was impossible for us to meet, as

my abode was uncertain. We arranged that he should address his letters to Codnor Castle,
fully understanding that they might be opened by informers, even though the cover was in
the name of Sir John Zouch. Those letters were of great comfort to me. In a world where
my fame seemed to have vanished like smoke on the wind, his warm admiration was balm
to my bruised spirit. He knew me first only through my music and, later, when I opened
my heart to him and told him troubles which I spared my Barbara, his ready sympathy
ensured a lasting friendship.

Sir Edward Dyer had been absent when Cecil was made a Knight of the Garter for his part
in discovering the Gunpowder Plot. I had thought it a diplomatic illness for it demeaned

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the honour of the Order to bestow it on such an unworthy recipient. Yet it was true, for,
the following year, he died and ,in 1608, Doctor Dee followed him. The Monas messages
ended and to some degree my bondage to Cecil, since my use as an informer was gone.

The Dowager Lady Pembroke now invited me to her new home, Houghton Lodge, near
Ampthill in Bedfordshire, where she had re-created Basilius' house from the 'Arcadia'.
Once more, our last meeting was as yesterday and we exchanged news avidly.

“I now know your story from Barbara,” she said sympathetically. “I much admire you for
giving up your post as a great King's lutenist to come home and see to the welfare of your
boy.” She interrupted my hasty disclaimer and went on, “Now that King Christian no
longer pursues you, I am sure you could give up this wandering existence and return to
London. I would ask William or Philip to give you employment but the life they now lead
at James's court is, I am sorry to say, a profligate one and their tastes are for noisier and
more vulgar music than you could approve. The Howards are all powerful at court and
Cecil fears them, so, though they are my sons' enemies, they could best protect you. Why
do you not make up that family quarrel with your daughter and use her influence to find
you a place? By the way, I hear that, just as Prince Henry has made our Provincial roses
fashionable by wearing them on his shoes, your Annie has learned to dye ruffs and cuffs in
the Howard yellow, which is all the rage at court. You see, even in this backwater, I am
not entirely out of touch.”

This was good advice, and, returning to London, I put my pride in my pocket and went
with Suzanne to visit Annie, who was delighted to see us and to show us her babies.

“I have so missed my Papa and Maman and wish that silly quarrel had never taken place. I
am sure Doctor Turner has forgotten it. His memory is not what it was and he seldom
leaves his room now and receives few visitors. I shall certainly speak to Lady Essex, as
my lady Frances is now. My lord is still on his Grand Tour, you know, as they are both too
young to live together as husband and wife. I am sure she will speak to her brother,
Theophilus, who has a soft spot for me and cannot fail to remember that Maman was his
foster mother. He will certainly give you employment.”

So it was that I found myself installed, through no effort of mine, in a grand house where I
lived in luxury with a room of my own in which I could gaze on Barbara's miniature and
speak with her whenever she had leisure to look on mine. I was within easy walking
distance of Suzanne and could now keep her in comfort, so that she could give up her
sewing, except for garments for her darling grandchildren.

Annie told her mother of the strangest thing. At court, she had seen the man of her dreams
and discovered that he was Sir Arthur Mainwaring, Prince Henry's Carver. Poor little fool,
she could not get over the extraordinary coincidence. I wonder if he recognised her
straightway, as she did him, when fully clothed? She cultivated his acquaintance and even
took him home, where her husband proved complaisant. Sir Arthur was the father of her
children as he perfectly well knew. How could Suzanne and I chide her? Our lives had
ever been ruled by love out of wedlock.

My Lachrimae was still played everywhere. I suppose it added to my reputation but I had
rather it brought coins to chink in my purse. Ferrabosco of Greenwich was now all the rage
among the younger sort. He had taught Prince Henry, who frequently chose Robert
Johnson to write the music for his masques. While I was out of England, working for the

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good of Europe, they had been ready, on James's arrival, to fill all the court posts, which
was where the rich pickings lay. In 1607, Queen Anne had even brought in an Italian as
her musician and paid him one hundred pounds a year! I complained to Henry Peacham
that all my life I had been in the wrong place at the right time. 'Semper Dowland, semper
dolens' indeed.

~
Barbara and I grew concerned that we had news of you so seldom, Rob. What had
happened to the second part of my plan? We now learned from court gossip, much to our
dismay, that, far from making friends with one of Cecil's clerks and using our bribery
money to cozen him into finding and purloining Barbara's fatal letter, you had preferred to
mix with my lord's noble wards and (supreme madness) had helped one such rich prize to
escape the Wardmaster's clutches. We learned that you were under close arrest in Cecil's
cellars and that he was frothing with rage, seeking to do you harm.

Your mother wrote a pleading letter, begging for the release of her former page. It was
ignored. I hoped that your knowledge of the Orphic hymn might save you from the most
severe punishment. We were not then aware that your voice had broken and, worse still,
you had become careless and garbled some of the Greek words, which Cecil readily
detected. As his health worsened, he was no doubt beginning to lose faith in the hymn
(rightly, since my plan was to do him ill.) The King both overworked and mocked him and
his beloved son, Will, had found himself a mignon, as was the fashion at Whitehall. James,
too, had a beautiful new Scottish favourite, Robin Carr, who was taken up by the party
opposed to Cecil's power. Sir Walter had made excuses for one he had always thought his
friend, saying that Cecil had never been the same since his young wife's death but I hated
him worse than ever and eagerly awaited his downfall.

I thrashed around in my mind for some means of moving that heart of stone and securing
your release. It came to me that if any man had the ear of Robert the Devil it might be his
old friend, Michael Hickes, once Lord Burghley's secretary and the young Robert's partner
in many an underhand deal. For years past, they had been thick as thieves. Hickes came
from a family of money lenders and there were few great ones who had not been in his debt
at one time or another. I knew it meant a rich bribe, so I gathered together what money I
could and presented myself humbly before Sir Michael, as he now was.

“I would wish to help you,” smiled the old man, “for your music has given me much
pleasure, but I regret that I have little influence with Robert now. He has gone up so high
in the world that he has quite forgotten the ten year old lad who used to run to Michael for
comfort whenever he felt that the whole world conspired against him. For six or seven
years he has ignored me quite and made it clear that my use to him is ended, though, once,
I could always work on him on others' behalf. I am too old to wait for days in his crowded
anterooms and then risk rebuff but I will write to him and only take your money if we have
success. I will mark the cover with our urgent sign, the gallows, which we borrowed from
Walsingham. That should ensure that the letter is brought to my Lord's notice early.”
When, after an anxious time of waiting, Sir Michael summoned me, his usually laughing
face was clouded.

“What do you make of this reply ?” he grated. “'To conclude, therefore, sir, I hate the fact
so much to steal away any man's child, as I am sorry it is not death by the law, seeing that

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he who cuts my purse with fourteen pence shall be hanged. I am Master of Wards, I am a
Councillor of State and in my private conscience opposite to all fraud....'“

Here the old man's indignation overcame him. He went purple in the face and could read
no more. When his breath returned, he shouted, “Private conscience indeed, for I have
seen no single scruple in his dealings in all our years together! The double-dyed
hypocrite! What has he been doing as Master of the Wards but steal children from their
families, leaving their widowed mothers broken-hearted, marrying their offspring where
the most profit lay for him without a thought of their true welfare. This duplicity makes me
glad that your son has managed to release one of Robert's noble prisoners and I will do all
I can to give him aid. I admit that my hands have been none too clean in the world of
affairs and, as I look back, there is much to regret but I have never pretended to be better
than I am. Conscience, forsooth! We must take my erstwhile little friend down a peg or
two and I know how to go about it.”

It seemed that he had known and helped the now all-powerful Lord Henry Howard in his
poverty stricken days when he was a mere tutor at Cambridge and hoped to use his present
rivalry with Cecil to our advantage, aware of a secret Lord Henry held over his former
pupil's head.

“No such enmity as when thieves fall out,” chuckled Sir Michael, his customary good
humour regained. “I will ask our Lord Privy Seal to have a word with the King which will
guarantee your son's release, though you will both have to walk carefully as Robert Cecil,
Lord Salisbury I must remember to call him, will not forgo revenge and will see that your
son lacks employment from now on. No, keep your fee for his maintenance. It is pleasure
enough to see that cozener outwitted.”

You will remember your return to Fetter Lane, tail between your legs. The fine that Cecil
imposed on you cost me Barbara's ruby ring, for which Sir Michael gave me a fair price,
but, though I lost that precious possession, its motto, 'Je sommes' was still mine for ever.
The next year, my translation of Ornithoparcus was at last published. I dedicated it to
Cecil most fulsomely, more in sarcasm than than hope that his enmity to our family would
be turned aside.

Annie, meanwhile, had given birth to another child by Mainwaring, still a welcome guest
in her cuckolded husband's home. She was more interested in the affairs of Lady Frances
than those of her family and gave Suzanne regular reports of the doings at court, which
were relayed to me, though you, Rob, took little interest in them. We learned that, in her
young husband's absence, Lady Frances was the belle at all King James's grand festivities.
None was more charming, none so light-footed in the dance and even the staid Prince
Henry was beguiled by her beauty. She, in turn, encouraged by her cat-faced uncle Henry,
fell head over heels in love with the heir to the throne.

Annie still worked with Simon Forman at Lambeth, where, in the Archbishop's domain, he
was safe from the law. No doubt, her artless chatter provided him with good material for
his fortune telling. She had met the now widowed Sir Thomas Monson there and he had
made friendly advances, asking her to act as hostess at his London supper parties.

“She is such an innocent,”said Suzanne, “in spite of her three children, and Simon Forman,
whatever my fears, does not seem to have harmed her. You yourself, Jean, have foreseen
the future from time to time so it cannot be thought entirely wrong.”

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I could not take matters so lightly but I had other anxieties to fill my mind, not least your
future, Rob. There was nothing for it but to begin lessons again and I moved back to
Fetter Lane so that I could make up for lost time. I had to accept the fact that you would
never become a brilliant lutenist, but, at least, I could make you a competent one.
Memories of my own recalcitrant youth with the Catholic emigres in Paris now returned to
haunt me, for you spent all your spare time with Cecil's young musicians, who quite took
you up as a martyr and a hero. Taverns and brothels were your meeting places and you
were always lacking in money.

Though we said nothing to you at the time, Suzanne and I found small sums missing which
must have found their way into your purse. Worse still, when we had hidden our money
more carefully, I found one night, as I was readying myself to speak with Barbara, that her
miniature had disappeared. You had borrowed sums from Michael Hickes, who was not so
friendly as to forgo repayment, and you had finally settled your debts with the stolen
miniature, more on account of its valuable setting than the portrait itself.

Sir Michael had bought my ruby ring with the motto 'Je sommes'. He now had the same
motto on a dated portrait to which he could put a name. You never knew my agonising
fears of blackmail or my despair that Barbara looked each night on my miniature and
spoke to me while I could by no means answer. It was not easy to keep my patience with
you, but you were my loved son to whom I had a duty for Barbara's sake as well as my
own. The lessons continued but it was a thankless task. You and your cronies despised my
'old fashioned' music, saying my style of fingering was outworn and my singing pitiful. The
vogue now was for loud music. You even quoted Francis Bacon to me, as an older man
who could move with the times. 'Voices should be strong and manly (a base and tenor; no
treble) and the ditty high and tragical; not nice or dainty. Let the songs be loud and
cheerful and not chirpings or pulings, let the music likewise be sharp and loud and well
placed.' What did that thrice cursed sodomite know of music? And how did my son come
to learn his views?

I decided that to make your name known, you must publish, even if it meant you composing
music of which I thoroughly disapproved. But, after much unwilling labour, the mountain
gave birth to a laughable mouse, trash that could never be allowed to appear under the
name of Dowland. Time was short and I had to fob off the public with a collection of pieces
by my own and other hands, supposedly garnered by you, Rob, and dedicated to Sir
Thomas Monson, who, as a member of the Howard party, was in high favour at court. You
took little notice that I also wrote the Epistle to the Readers and included my own
translation of Besardus' 'Necessary Observations Belonging to the Lute.' We named the
book 'A Variety of Lute Lessons' by Robert Dowland. You relished the sight of your name
in print.

When this had begun to sell, we followed it up speedily with “A Musical Banquet” by
Robert Dowland, borrowing part of the title from a work by that traitor, Anthony Munday,
to repay him for the theft of one of my galliards. The new book contained some of my
compositions from the old days - settings of Sir Philip Sidney, Essex and Sir Henry Lee,
who were now the idols of Prince Henry. If you could gain his favour, you were made.

The songs by 'l'incerto' were, of course, mine and in one I reminded Barbara of our 'mute
language', now, alas, no longer possible. I wrote the dedication to the many-titled Robert
Sidney, and the Epistle to the Reader ended with a reminder of one of Sir Philip's favourite

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sayings. Not that I supposed that a glimpse of the old days would bring back warmer
feelings on Robert's part for the Dowlands. As with Cecil, you had burned your boats
there. However, you accepted congratulations on both works as though they were indeed
your own. Perhaps the theatre would best have suited you.

My consolation was that Barbara would be proud of her son, so like his father in talent,
and would maybe fathom the secret messages in the words of the songs.

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 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henry Peacham had lately been busy with a work of his own, intended to bring him favour
in court circles, especially Prince Henry's.

“It is an emblem book called 'Minerva Britanna' and it is almost ready for the press. When
I next visit you I will bring the proofs for your inspection. Now, never mind feathering
your son's nest; you have done more than enough for him. The name of John Dowland
must once more come before the public eye. If you can prepare a work to appear at the
same time as my Minerva, I am sure of its success.”

When I saw Henry's excellent drawings, I longed to ask him if he had seen my Barbara at
court and would put her face on paper for me, but I could not bring myself to endanger her
name. I feared that Sir Michael Hickes held our secret and, though nothing had been heard
from that quarter, the dread remained. My scruples owed much to my past life as an
informer when I had learned never to trust even a friend.

One of the emblems was dedicated to myself and said (I will translate) 'There will be other
rewards. To his friend, John Dowland, the most expert in musical compositions.' And in a
clever anagram of my Latin name, he wrote, 'I have exhausted my years in playing.' Did
you ever read those words, Rob? And did you ever thank Henry for the Latin poem he
wrote commending the 'Musical Banquet?

“There is a hidden emblem for you also, my friend,” said Henry. “You always name
yourself 'the Sorrowful one' but I have drawn you as 'the Sanguine one' (though your lips
are turned down at the corners where they should be smiling) for that is what you are to be
in the future, successful as Orpheus once more.”

Perhaps I was to be successful again and thanks to the exiled Robert Dudley, who also
remembered old friends. Dudley, to whom the Pope had given the title of Warwick (though
James gave Fulke Greville the Castle) had been corresponding with Prince Henry since he
was made Prince of Wales in 1610, not only giving him excellent advice about the Navy but
also sending him comedies, thrown off in an idle moment, for his company of players -
'Cymbeline', 'A Winter's Tale' and now 'The Tempest', which I am sure he wrote as a
tribute to Doctor Dee. He sent these through his former tutor, Thomas Chaloner, the
Prince's Lord Chamberlain, who interceded so well on his behalf that young Henry
persuaded his father to give him Kenilworth, which he intended to present later to Robert
Dudley when he succeeded in obtaining a full pardon for his return.

I digress. The good news for me was that the author had stipulated that I alone should
compose the music for his latest play. There were a number of songs and magical
background music. It was a joy to do the work and gave me great hope that, through this
contact, we might introduce you, Rob, into the Prince's household, where Cecil held no
sway.

You will remember some of the events of the year 1612, though your recall will not be as
mine. Henry's 'Minerva Britanna' appeared just before my 'Pilgrim's Solace', dedicated to
Theophilus Howard. Both met with success and I am grateful that my friend's kind praise
aided the acceptance of my work. I dedicated a song to William Jewell, but it was also

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meant to remind my own jewel, Barbara, of our days of love together. My songs were now,
as in the past, the only means by which I might reach her.

All the talk, that year, was of royal marriages. My old friend's son, Prince Otto of Hessen,
had come to pay court to Princess Elizabeth but was not grand enough for King James.
Prince Henry was anxious that his favourite cousin, Frederic Ulric of Brunswick, should
marry his sister, but in the end the most politic choice fell on Frederick, Elector Palatine of
the Rhine. Prince Henry's bride was not yet decided upon, though he was determined it
should not be a Catholic princess.

Annie told us that the young Countess of Essex was still madly in love with him and,
through devices and potions obtained from Simon Forman, had managed to hold off the
attentions of her lawful husband and keep herself virgin for the Prince, who, however, had
ceased his courtship on her husband's return from his Grand Tour.

“Poor Lady Frances was in despair,” confided Annie to her mother, “until I reminded her
that, when Doctor Turner died, two years ago, in spite of his expressed wish that I should
remarry, Sir Arthur ceased his visits, until one of Simon Forman's sure potions brought him
galloping to my side one dark night through wind and rain. Now he loves me more than
ever and I easily persuaded him, as Prince Henry's Carver, to add Simon's powder to the
Prince's food, bringing him back to Lady Frances' side with more ardour than before. Her
great uncle Henry says there is every possibility of marriage with the Prince, as my lady
can easily obtain a divorce on the grounds of nullity. Just think, my dear young mistress
may one day be our Queen!”

“But Simon Forman died at the end of last year,”objected Suzanne. “How do you obtain
the powder now?”

“Oh, I went to his house after his death and collected a good supply. Remember, I have
helped him with his work for years now.”

Suzanne told me that Annie soon got up to leave and she had a strange presentiment that all
was not well. I resolved that, on her next visit, I would warn her of the dangers of
meddling in great affairs and with love potions of any kind, but it was months before she
visited us again.

~
A cloud was lifted from our heads with Cecil's death in May. Shortly after, Sir Michael
Hickes came to see me at Fetter Lane, a package in his hand. He looked old and tired. My
gift of colours warned me that he was not long for this world.

“I did this once before,” he said, “When Robert's father, Lord Burghley, died. I examined
his records, which none knew better than I, and gave Robert Sidney all the papers
concerning Sir Henry Sidney, which were dangerous indeed, so that, naturally, I exacted a
good price. Now I have done the same for Lady Barbara, this time as an act of charity,
hoping that a good deed will redeem my soul.It was not hard to find her record, once more
under the name Sidney. I had the ruby ring and the miniature of Lady Barbara, both with
the same French motto. I put two and two together and guessed, if there were some secret,

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Robert would have ferreted it out and I was proved right when I found this letter. Take it
with the miniature and the ring. Not a word more. I refuse any reward.”

And, not waiting even for thanks, putting for a moment his wasted hand in my firm grasp,
he was gone. How I regretted my unworthy suspicions of blackmail! Once more, I held
two of my most precious possessions in my hands; the third, Barbara's letter, I had never
held and my eyes devoured it now. Mine, after fourteen years in the hateful Cecil's grasp!
I could hardly wait to send a message at last to Barbara, whom I found in the night, gazing
on my portrait for comfort and bewailing the death of her strange, unloved son, William.
She could hardly believe the consoling words heard, after years of separation, in her mind's
ear, or that we were now safe after prolonged disquiet. I never enlightened her, Rob, as to
how her portrait fell into other hands. Your mother never had cause to think ill of you and
loved you well until her last hour.

Now we were complete again as in our motto, 'Je sommes'. There was much to say that
first night and we had little sleep. Without the clumsy time-wasting use of lips and tongue,
however, we could,from now on,cram more into our moments together than any amount of
meetings and letters exchanged and so felt ourselves most blessed.

I began once more to add to my second Orpheus book. I was able to record the music of
Boethius and others of the past but I could never again hear clear speech as that single time
when Doctor Dee helped me to reach Ficino. Having made the sacrifice of my Orpheus
picture to King James, I no longer hoped to fathom the source of all music and, in any case,
felt myself unworthy since the sacrilege of the Orphic hymn to obtain revenge on Cecil.

In my life, pride has often got the better of me, but I fought it when the post of lutenist to
King James fell vacant and Cecil could no longer stand in my way. Such posts were often
hereditary and, if I held on to it, there would be some security for you, whatever might
befall. When I had an engagement, and more came my way since the publication of my
'Pilgrim's Solace', you will remember that I dragged you along with me and we played
together, still hoping you would catch Prince Henry's eye.

The Prince had ever been an active youth, unlike poor Baby Charles, but now he became
wild for every form of exercise, swimming great lengths of the Thames, playing long
games of tennis and practising at the barriers for hours at a time. Lady Frances had found a
new way of enslaving him by looking kindly on the King's catamite, Robin Carr, whom the
Prince hated.

Carr's best friend, Thomas Overbury, encouraged him to believe himself in love with Lady
Frances, even to the extent of composing billets-doux for the illiterate Scot, for he and his
party wished a Protestant princess for Henry and wanted the Howard girl out of the way.
This Overbury was said to be more proud than Raleigh himself (whom the Prince had
begged his father to release from the Tower that coming Christmas) and was as apt as
Robert Cecil had been at uncovering secrets and using them to his own advantage. James
made Carr a Privy Councillor at twenty-five, intending him to take Cecil's place, but it was
not the King's instructions that the new Viscount Rochester, Knight of the Garter, followed
but those of his ambitious friend, Thomas Overbury.

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In spite of my happy reunion with Barbara through the miniatures, I could feel a dark cloud
hanging over me. It was connected in my mind with the sacrifice of my first Orpheus book
to James at the time of the false seeing. Now I remembered. There had been a true seeing
also and at first I had seen the death of a young man. I racked my brains to remember
more and gradually it came back to me. It had been a strange scene, the bed surrounded by
black clad doctors and divines, the poor patient lying pale and exhausted, his head shaven
and small, dead birds applied to it, their still warm blood trickling over his pain furrowed
brow. I did not recognise that waxen, bloodstained visage, hazy as it appeared in my
memory, yet I was filled with a heavy sense of foreboding.

I was not officially appointed King's lutenist until October 28th, too late for me to play at
the ceremony of greeting for Frederick of the Palatinate, as he came to meet his future
bride at Whitehall. It was a surprise when Queen Anne summoned me to Denmark House.
She had her own musicians and I did not think she would have forgiven my defection from
her brother's service. I had not seen her close since that interview at Winchester and was
shocked at her worn and wrinkled countenance. She looked as if she had spent sleepless
nights of late.

“Prince Henry is desperately ill, Dowland,” she breathed. “I have sent to the Tower for
Raleigh's Great Cordial, which did me so much good, but the doctors delay in
administering it. I wish you to go to Richmond straightway and play the Orphic hymn for
my son's recovery - that music which meant so much to King Christian. They cannot
refuse me that.” Almost in tears, she quickly wrote me means to obtain entry to the sick-
room and I made all speed to the Prince's palace.

The passage outside his room was lined with solemn, often weeping courtiers; even
servants, aprons flung over their heads, lurked in the background, waiting for the latest
news. The smell of burning lavender did little to conceal the stench of vomit and of
excrement in the airless, darkened room. The doctors gave place to me, drawing their black
gowns about them, as though my touch might contaminate. I could just make out the
contorted figure on the bed, the face waxen and stained with blood, the prominent nose
pinched at the nostrils. There was little doubt in my mind that this was the dying man of
my Scottish vision.

I saw at once that there was no hope of his recovery, yet played the Orphic hymn, singing
as best I could, with the fixed intention of making his passage from this world to the next
as calm as possible. The Prince's eyes remained closed and only the smoothing of his
furrowed brow told me that he had heard the hymn. As I withdrew, the waiting attendants
drew back from me and I heard whispers along the passage. “Raleigh says his cordial will
not work in a case of poison.” “Who sent for the luteplayer to perform his devil's rites?”

On the stairs, the Archbishop of Canterbury swept past me, bound on his own errand of
mercy. Outside, the bells changed their peal of rejoicing for the failure of the Gunpowder
Plot, which they played each November 5th, and began to ring solemn changes, as the
Archbishop commanded prayers for Prince Henry.

King James was away hunting at Theobalds next day when Prince Henry's death was
announced. He feared infection almost as much as the assassin's blade. Moreover, he had
sensed that there were those who would have put Henry on the throne in his place and he
could not fail to be somewhat relieved at his son's death.

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You, Rob, took the news calmly. “Ah, well, another hope dashed. I shall have to try
Princess Elizabeth and her Palsgrave.”

~
At Fetter Lane, I found Annie in floods of tears and quite incoherent. Her hair was wild,
her dress torn and her face bruised and scratched.

“What in the world has happened here?” I asked Suzanne. I thought some villain had
attempted rape.

“Lady Frances seems to have run mad and set upon Annie. Each time she tries to explain,
she breaks down in worse sobs so that I cannot get a word of sense out of her.”

I put some brandy to the poor girl's lips. She choked on that, then, as Suzanne rocked her
in her arms and I played soothing music, the storm of tears began to subside and, little by
little, the story emerged.

They had been administering Simon Forman's love powder to Prince Henry for some time
with great success, as they thought. He had begun to make violent love to Frances Howard
in a way that frightened her, though she had fallen in with his desires. Soon, he became
lethargic and seemed to tire of her.

“Lady Frances said the effect of the powder was wearing off and that we should give the
Prince larger doses,” wept Annie. “I told her that Simon had warned me never to increase
the dosage but she is headstrong and would have her way. Now she says the blame is all
mine and that I have murdered the one she loved best in all the world and destroyed all her
fine chances of becoming Queen. She flew at me, tearing and scratching and pulling out
my hair, screaming at me to get from her sight, she wished never to look on me more.....”
The tears flowed fast again but there was yet a question I could not avoid.

“What was the powder called?”

“I think it is pronounced Cantharides. Simon sometimes called it Spanish Fly.”

Her mother dressed Annie's bruises and put her to bed, while I went to fetch the children,
telling the servants to take good care of the house while their mistress and family spent a
day or so with us at Fetter Lane. Mall was in her element and, as soon as they were in at
the door, swept the children off to the kitchen to make sweetmeats.

Suzanne crept down the stair, much shaken. “What can it all mean and what are we to
do?” she faltered.

“Best do nothing and wait and see what the doctors find. The King will countenance no
talk of poison in case it reflects on him. Perhaps it will all blow over,” I replied, wishing
that I believed my consoling words. But, when Annie and the children had been settled for
the night and Suzanne persuaded to bed, anxious thoughts went whirling in my mind. If
Lady Frances confided in any member of her family it would be that arch plotter, her great
uncle Henry. He would know best how to protect her and, with luck, Annie, too. When

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you returned from your revels, Rob, asking why I was up so late, I told you nothing of
Annie's plight. The fewer in this dark secret the better.

Still I could not rest for thinking. There was more to it than the danger of a trial for
murder. The whole of Protestant Europe, after the death of the French king, who I first
knew as Henry of Navarre, depended on Prince Henry's support against the Hapsburg
threat. True, it might have led to war, which Doctor Dee and I had sought to avoid, but
war came in any case. Those two silly girls had unwittingly overturned the plans for the
betterment of Europe of men of the religion in our country and abroad. They had also
destroyed the hopes of Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Robert Dudley of reinstatement and
return to their rightful homes, now that their sole champion at court was no more.

Those wasted years in Denmark and Germany, the exhausting journeys from court to court,
the filthy inns and fouler food; those interminable periods when I could not play for
myself, much less compose and all for what? Anger and despair boiled up in my brain.
Every sacrifice of my talent gone for naught! I felt that my head would burst with
bafflement for my own case, with terror for Annie's fate.....A red mist dimmed my sight
and I felt a sharp, searing pain in the nearside of my head as I fell into blackness.....

Suzanne was alarmed when Mall called her to say that I had slept all night long among the
rushes, without a brandy taint upon my breath. I explained that I had stumbled and
knocked myself insensible on the edge of the table. Indeed, the throbbing in my head
justified my excuse. But I recalled the truth of the matter. It had been like a gun shot
exploding in my brain. I had been victim to strange sensations in the past but the feeling of
doom that held me now o'ertopped the worst.

~
Our uncertainty was relieved for the time when the doctors said no word of poison but
ascribed the Prince's death to the common ague. What more could we do but hope for the
best, though our doubts lingered. Prince Henry lay in state until December 7th, when his
funeral procession of ten thousand mourners took place. Suzanne stood in the bitter cold
for four hours, watching for Sir Arthur Mainwaring among the Prince's household. He was
there, solemn and pale as befitted a mourner, and I was told that he was also present on the
last day of the year at St. James's Palace when the household was formally dissolved and
many ambitions thwarted. After that, I imagine, Henry Howard's money took him abroad,
for he was never seen in England again, abandoning his children to their mother's care.
When recovered, she took them home again and, after a while Lady Frances, then living
with her parents, sent for Annie once more and the foolish girl was glad to return to court
circles.

Prince Henry had laboured long to make the arrangements for his sister's marriage
festivities and, though curtailed, they went ahead. His death, however, augured ill for this
new Chemical Wedding. The court came out of mourning at Christmas and 'The Tempest'
was performed on December 27th, the day that Princess Elizabeth and the Palsgrave
formally plighted their troth in the King's presence. I sat with the consort and played my
music with a heavy heart and a blinding migraine. I wished none to recognise me as the
composer and had in fact allowed Robert Johnson to claim the songs. What should have
been a joyous occasion was as dust and ashes in my mouth.

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Do you remember, Rob, how the scene was set with my song 'Up merry mates' which I had
published in 'A Pilgrim's Solace'? As the words died away, the uproar of a fearful storm
was heard to James's delight, for, above all things, he revelled in loud noises so long as
they did not threaten him. The mock thunder made my head ache the more but what
matter? I had the music off by heart.

The King flattered himself that he was Prospero in the play, the father of Miranda, who
enfigured Princess Elizabeth, in love with Ferdinand, otherwise Prince Frederick. But the
Magus was Doctor Dee and James, 'God's representative on earth', was the sottish butler,
Stephano, of whom the beast, Caliban, truly said;

'What a thrice, double ass was I

To take this drunkard for a god,
And worship this dull fool.'

Yet, not even a wry smile came to my lips at these words. The pain was now so acute, I
could hardly keep to my place. No sooner had I set eyes on Princess Elizabeth, so gay and
full of delight, as she sat, hand in hand with her bridegroom, than I had known her for the
second figure of my Scottish vision - the Queen from whom her crown was snatched. The
brilliant scene in the Banqueting Hall held only bitter irony for me and, as soon as I could,
I dragged myself home to Fetter Lane where I locked myself in my room with a bottle of
brandy for company.

Before I touched the brandy, I resolved to work out my sorrow and frustration in a
lamentation for all my good friends gone - Father Campion; Sir Henry and Lady Sidney;
their son, Sir Philip; Master Henry Noel; Sir Henry Unton; Captain Digory Piper; the
divine Luca Marenzio; Doctor John Dee and Sir Edward Dyer; Sir Walter Raleigh
languishing in the Tower; Sir Robert Dudley, his friends cruelly executed and himself
exiled for ever; Prince Henry dead and by my daughter's hand, for Annie was as much to
me as if I had truly begotten her. I would write a masterpiece of sorrow compared to
which Lachrimae would be a mere nothing.

Full of good intentions, though my temples pounded, I lit two candles, fetched pen, ink and
music manuscript paper and pulled up a chair to the table. I wrote the title and my name,
prepared for my swift brain to run ahead of my hardly less nimble
hand.....NOTHING.....my usually teeming mind was a blank - a gaping void! Panic
stricken, I sought to calm my fears with a glass of brandy but my trembling hand spilt the
liquid on the empty page before me. I took a draught from the bottle - the terror mounted.
I must fill the page by some means. Echoes of the evening's playing sounded in my mind.
I would write that down.

My pen moved in a scrawl down the paper.....I could no longer form the tablature! I
scrabbled through a pile of manuscript. Yes, I could read it as well as ever, and on picking
up my lute, I found I could still play from the page. Yet, try as I might, by some malign
fate, I could not then compose music, and, should I have done so, I could by no means
record it.....

I sat for an hour with my head in my hands but nothing changed. Was this gelded mind my
punishment for a life of nothing but failure and loss? Prospero had drowned his book. Best
I should drown myself if doomed never to compose again.....I awoke next morning, the
empty bottle beside me and, in the grate, the charred remains of my second Orpheus book.

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A poor sacrifice, as I found it still locked in my head, though I might never commit it to
paper. I felt sick with shame that I had proved too craven or too drunken to end my life. I
could not bring myself to confess, even to Barbara, that I was now a half-man, a crippled
musician, whose best talent had vanished in a flash of red smoke, like the devil and Faustus
in Kit Marlowe's play.

~
1625
After a night of bad dreams, Mall came to me this morning with news of a visitor at the
door. I shouted at her that my house was barred to all visitors as she well knew but she
said the fellow would not take 'No' for an answer. It was a man I thoroughly dislike who
pushed his way past her into the room.

“Robert Johnson,” I grumbled. “I saw and heard enough of you at old Jamie's funeral.
Has someone else died?”

“A far happier occasion, Doctor Dowland,” he smirked, giving me my proper title, I was
glad to hear. “Our new Queen will be arriving from France, after long delay, and we must
practise the music for her welcome. We have been trying to get in touch with you for
weeks past.”

I suppose you thought I was in my coffin," I replied sourly. “Well, I am sorry to disappoint
you. I intend to wait until my son, Robert, returns from his successful tour of the
Continent. What newfangled, foreign rubbish am I to play for my two pounds and ten
shillings this time?”

I went on being as rude as I could until he took his leave. The sight of the man took me
back to the royal wedding and Chapman's Masque of the Middle Temple where that paltry
amount was my fee compared to his forty-five pounds for the songs and music. You
yourself were paid two pounds, Rob.

1613
For weeks I could not pass a gallows without shuddering, thinking of Annie's narrow
escape. As for my own case, I never ceased to be deeply shocked and amazed at my
inability to compose. I became secretive, certain that my lack was as visible to all as if I
had lost a limb. None must uncover my loss; none must pity me. I could never bring
myself to confide even in Barbara, still less in my friend, Henry Peacham, who so much
admired me as a bard.

St. Valentine's Day came and I had to play for the second of three masques in honour of the
Princess and the Palsgrave. The masquers were dressed as knights of Virginia - a bitter
reminder of the imprisoned Raleigh. We musicians attended them as priests of the Sun,
garbed, like our torchbearers, as Indians in feathered costumes, designed by the Welshman,
Inigo Jones. Later, we priests sang a paraphrase of the Orphic hymn. What a travesty!
Robert Johnson never thought of asking me what was the true music, nor would I have
enlightened him.

149
What an indignity, to be made ridiculous in a disguise of feathers and forced to play
Johnson's contemptible inventions and hear his self-satisfied voice braying out his
ludicrous version of the words. I closed my eyes to avoid the humiliation of seeing my
Barbara in the audience,though she well knew it was for your sake I would do anything to
keep my place. The true Orphic hymn echoed in my mind and I was back at Prince
Henry's deathbed. All this nonsense was an insult to the young prince who had planned the
festivity and who had died before his time.....I would not think how.....

At the end of April, Rob, you were off to seek your fortune at Heidelberg, where, now that
James had joined the Protestant Alliance, for the time, all was roses. None of us knew how
long your absence would be and Barbara fretted that news of you arrived so infrequently.

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 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The two opposing parties at court, the Howards and Carr versus Pembroke, Ellesmere and
the Archbishop were now united for once in planning the downfall of Sir Thomas
Overbury, who knew too much and was too clever for his own good. He was bitterly
opposed to a marriage between Carr and Frances Essex, which old Henry Howard now
sought as the next best thing to a royal union. The Protestant party took a longer view and
wished the marriage to take place as a means of bringing the King's favourite down,
together with the Howard party, yet, they too, required the removal of Overbury. Our
family, though we did not know it then, stood betwixt and between, ready to be crushed as
if by two mill stones.

The joint plan was as cold-blooded as if Cecil were still at work. Pembroke and Ellesmere
went to Overbury with an offer from the King of an Embassy abroad, which they knew he
would refuse, since to be away from court was to be out of the world. He dared to gainsay
the King for he was certain that his friend Carr (or Rochester, as he now was) would stand
by him, which proved not to be the case for the Scot was set on marrying Frances and,
indeed, thought himself in love with her. On a second refusal, Overbury, to his horror, was
sent to the Tower for contempt.

To make easy the machinations of the Howard party, Cecil's old ally, the strict Wade, was
removed from his place as Lieutenant of the Tower. You will remember that Lady Arbella
Stuart was imprisoned there for her foolishness in trying to elope, and there was some
trumped up charge of Wade stealing her jewels. His replacement was Sir Gervase Elwes, a
friend of Sir Thomas Monson; a good man,but weak, who trusted to Thomas Campion two
thousand pounds as the price of the place. Elwes was much in awe of the great Henry
Howard, who twisted him round his little finger.

Now our poor Annie returns to the story. Her husband had employed as bailiff one
Richard Weston, who, in her reduced circumstances, she kept as general handyman. He
had served as a messenger between Carr and Frances Howard when Annie's house had
been used for their assignations. Silly girl, Annie was no bawd, as they later tried to make
out, simply blinded by the idea of true love, as she had been in the affair with Prince
Henry, and, moreover, flattered to be taken into the confidences of great ones. When it
was suggested that Weston should live in the Tower and be Overbury's keeper, she was
only too glad to save his wages and obtain him a better position.

Overbury was still pitifully certain that his Scottish friend (maybe his catamite) would help
him escape from the Tower. He had a plan in which he was sure Rochester would join
him. They were both to take vomits and in this way so sadly reduce their health that the
King would restore the prisoner to his pining friend. Overbury dosed himself faithfully but
Rochester did not keep to his part of the bargain for long. The Essex divorce was in train
and nothing must prevent its success.

Here Annie was involved again. Through her work with Forman she was well acquainted
with the London apothecaries and some less reputable than they and was the very person to
obtain the vomits and deliver them to Weston. Sir Gervase Elwes, however, became
suspicious, so ill did Overbury appear, and, having thoughts of poison, intercepted the
emetics, though he allowed letters and the dishes of food in which they were hidden to be
brought to the prisoner. In despair that his plan was not working, Overbury wrote to

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Rochester, saying, “Drive me not to extremities, lest I should say something that you and I
repent.”

When Lady Frances heard of this threat, she was certain, I am sure, that Overbury knew the
circumstances of Prince Henry's death and, believing all was lost, hastened for advice to
her great uncle Henry, from which time Overbury's life was forfeit. Old Henry's kitchens
provided poisoned dainties supposed to be a kind gift from Overbury's false friend but sent
in by Lady Frances. But, Sir Gervase continued his good offices in saving his prisoner
from harm, which led to his own downfall. In the end it was a poisoned clyster that
ensured Lady Frances' safety, as she thought.

There was still a difficulty in that lady's way. To nullify her marriage to Essex, she must
be proved virgin and this she was not since the Spanish Fly had stirred Prince Henry's
blood. Annie was called in to dress one of Sir Thomas Monson's ill-favoured daughters in
her mistress's attire, hiding her hair and face 'for modesty' with a thick veil, so that a panel
of matrons passed 'Lady Frances' as undefiled.

~
One day at court, to my great surprise, Robert Sidney, Lord Lisle, sought me out.

“A word with you, Dowland,” he said haughtily. “It was bad enough when your son dared
to dedicate a trifling work to me without permission, presuming upon the fact that, long
ago, my proxy stood gossip to him. Now it has come to my notice that he is spreading a
rumour abroad to the effect that I am more than his father in God, which is not to be borne.
Tell him that if he wishes to keep his ears, he had best stay in Heidelberg. Your daughter,
Susanna, I see is flaunting herself at court as a purveyor of fallals and I advise her also to
keep her lips sealed, if she knows what is good for her.”

I hastened to assure him that Annie had always regarded me as her true father.

“Nevertheless,” he threatened, “ill will befall you if any word is ever spoken again of a
connection between my family and yours. I believe you have grandchildren and would not
wish them to come to harm.” He turned on his heel and walked heavily away.

My first thought was that he knew about Barbara and myself and was going round about to
promise ill to us. Gazing on my portrait, my love might have been seen - it was a more
dangerous form of communication than the easily concealed ring. Yet, I would have been
the victim of his unconcealed rage if that were so. Annie's adherence to the Howard party
was the danger. Lord Robert was a member of the opposing faction and dared have no
connection with the enemy. We were apprehensive for a while. A quick knife thrust in a
dark alley happened every day.

We said nothing to Annie, who seemed to be avoiding us, which grieved Suzanne for she
now seldom saw her grandchildren. We supposed Annie was busy with the arrangements
for the forthcoming wedding of Frances Howard and Rochester, now promoted to the
Earldom of Somerset to make him equal in rank to his bride. Not badly done for the
younger son of a Border laird, his brogue as thick as the day he left Scotland! I, too, was
busy rehearsing the wedding music, though all the practice I needed was to accommodate
myself to the out-of-time playing of the rest of the consort.

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The great event took place on December 26th, on the selfsame day, eight years later, that
the lady had married Essex. The guests were agog to see how the bride wore her hair.
(There had been much prurient gossip over the nullity suit.) She duly appeared as a virgin
with her fair tresses hanging almost to her feet - not the first bride to feign innocence.
There was a sulky look on her lovely face. It must have irked her to be wedded to this oaf
when, not much more than a year ago, her hopes had been so high.

All was brilliance (at the King's expense) except for the Archbishop, who sat like a
skeleton at the feast, and Sir Ralph Winwood, garbed entirely in expensive black, as if, I
later thought, in mourning for the prospects of the Howard faction. He was certainly not in
funeral weeds for Overbury, who had prevented his appointment as Secretary. His present
of plate and a splendid pair of matched horses went some way to ensuring the bridegroom's
support, or so he hoped.

The wedding night masque was, of course, by Thomas Campion. We were now on polite
speaking terms but the admiring friendship was now a thing of the past. His involvement
with Monson and the Howards was grander than mine had ever been. It was a bitter irony
that I, who, out of love for the name he bore, had guided his first, faltering steps in
composition was now the hopeless cripple.

The usual practice of the King when he lost a bedmate to a new wife was for his affection
to dwindle into a kind of friendship, as with Montgomery (the Countess of Pembroke's
younger son, Philip) whose boorishness James cherished for a while. However, Somerset
remained in high favour and, when Henry Howard died, the King turned to him even more.
Old Henry's death was as revolting as his life. A swelling that was lanced turned
gangrenous and the surgeon, infected by the poisonous almost died also. The pity was that
Howard's death was rapid - he should have lingered in prolonged torment. As it was he
was fortunate to die when he did.

~
Somerset's continued power was a thorn in the flesh of the Protestant party, until they
found his successor in the person of another penniless younger son, George Villiers, or
Steenie, as the King nicknamed his beautiful new possession. The former favourite,
instead of dwindling gracefully, put up a fight and, in his jealous rage, behaved so badly to
his master that he hastened his own downfall.

The Howards were a hopeless crew without that arch-plotter, Henry, and their enemies
could choose their moment to strike. Two years after the death of Overbury, the tale came
to light that a young apothecary's apprentice in Brussels had made a deathbed confession
that he had obtained poison for the Countess of Somerset which was administered to the
prisoner in the Tower as a clyster. This led to an investigation whose whole purpose was
to trap and bring down Robert Carr through his wife.

If Lord Robert Sidney had known of the plan when first conceived, small wonder he
wished to cut all ties with Annie whose doom was now sealed. In cases of this sort, the
small fry took the punishment and the great ones escaped lightly. Barbara confirmed our
misgivings. “Tell Annie to beware,” she warned in one of our magical meetings. “My
husband's party has evidence against the Somersets and means to bring them down.”

153
I decided to visit Annie's house after dark to give her Barbara's warning, though I had been
very careful previously to avoid an open meeting. The streets seemed empty but I had the
feeling of a presence at my back, though, when I turned, there was none to be seen. I
reached the house safely, when, just as I raised my hand to the knocker, I felt my arms
pinioned from behind and the sharp prick of a knife at my throat.

“This is your last warning,” growled a voice. “You are never more to come to this house
or speak with its owner or it will be the worse for you and your family.”

I was bundled along the street from which I had come for some long way, until a blow on
the back of my head caused me to know no more until the watch discovered me, taking me
for a late reveller. A large bribe persuaded them to set me on my way home, where an
anxious Suzanne awaited me.

“Robert Sidney will stop at nothing to keep us apart from Annie, but there is a way.” And
Suzanne ran to fetch a portrait of her daughter as a child, which she had always treasured.
I objected at first, saying that, without preparation, hearing my voice in her head, the poor
girl might think she had run mad.

“If you communicate by night, she will think it a warning dream. What else may we do to
help the child?”

So I persisted, night after night, first trying to gain Annie's confidence, then sending
Barbara's warning, begging her to hold her tongue and keep away from Lady Frances and
her associates. I asked her to smuggle the children out of the house and send them to Fetter
Lane. When one day, after dusk, they arrived with a servant, our joy knew no bounds for,
at last, we knew our messages had been understood.

How to keep the children safe? My thoughts turned to Henry Peacham, who, after Prince
Henry's death, had gone to Sussex to act as tutor to the sons of Lord Arundel while he was
travelling in Italy. I wrote asking him if there was a small cottage on the estate where
Suzanne and the children might live until it was safe to bring them home. Before we
thought it possible, Henry arrived in a coach with the Arundel arms displayed to ensure a
safe passage. The children climbed in, full of excitement at the adventure, but their
grandmother shed many tears and my own eyes were wet as I promised to send her news of
Annie.

Barbara's generosity gave me fresh hope, when she sent me this message. “One known by
me to be safe will call on Annie in the guise of a pedlar and he will sing to her from one of
your songs. The line 'My trifles come as treasures from my mind' will be the password, as
you will advise her. With her small purchases he will pass to her a packet containing your
miniature which I have hung on a chain so that she may wear it at all times inside her
bodice. You will describe to her how she may now answer your nightly messages. I shall
still keep in touch with you through Arthur Dee's drawing which I have kept hidden away.
I pray that all goes well with Annie but fear that you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

To hear Annie's voice in my mind was a great solace. Even the worst tidings are better
than to live in ignorance. She told me that the King had now commanded enquiries to be
made into Overbury's death of which she swore to me she was innocent. However, at the
behest of her lady, she had gone against my express wishes, left the house and met her

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former servant, Weston, to charge him that he must say nothing to involve Lady Frances.
Of course, she was followed and later paid for her indiscretion.

That beast, Edward Coke, was appointed to lead the investigation. As Lord Chief Justice,
he was not too proud to undertake nearly three hundred examinations of suspects in what
he called 'The Great Oyer of Poisoning'. Such a bully could get what he liked out of his
victims, then use their ramblings as evidence against them. Moreover, he belonged to the
party pledged to destroy Somerset by proving that he and his lady had murdered Overbury.
Little people would be trampled underfoot until that aim was accomplished and among
them, our Annie.

~
Coke began with Annie's former servant, Weston, the only one who could in law be
charged with having administered poison to Overbury, having had opportunity as his
keeper. At first, he denied all but, the next day, admitted that Elwes' tale of poisoned
cordials was true. Later, he gave more details, implicating Annie and the Countess of
Somerset but he would admit nothing against her lord.

Although ignorant of Weston's confession at the time, Annie was reduced to hysteria as the
day of her examination approached. I attempted to calm her fears with the assurance that
the King would never permit the Countess to be convicted and that she would never allow
harm to come to her sweet Turner. Annie was to repeat that she had been falsely and
injuriously accused and stand by that. However much Coke bullied her, she was to think
of her family's love for her and hold onto the miniature which proved that she need never
feel alone. Poor girl, after two years, she was not yet recovered from the horror of Prince
Henry's death and the defection of her lover and was in no fit state to withstand Coke's
barrage of accusations. At Winchester, I had heard his insulting attacks on Raleigh, who
had the wit to turn his accuser's words against him, though that had not saved him from a
death sentence. Oh, Christ, let me not foresee Annie's doom! I kept my letters to her
mother as brief and cheerful as possible, leaving it to Henry Peacham to give what support
he could. I needed all my strength for our poor prisoner.

The night after her examination, I could hear from Annie's dejected tones that she was fast
losing hope.

“They have the letters, Papa. After Prince Henry's death, I went to collect them from
Simon Forman's house and Lady Frances found some were missing. I recently sent my
maid to search again (Oh, Annie, Annie!) but she found nothing. Mistress Forman was
always willing to do me ill and must have kept them. What shall we do? Oh, what shall
we do?”

I could only advise her to keep calm. Coke's story might be a lie to trap her - he was quite
capable of manufacturing evidence. What did Annie's life count for when the prize was
the fall of Somerset and the Howards and the triumph of the Protestant party led by the son
of Sir Philip Sidney and his supposed sister, my dear Lady Mary. Nothing in this life was
clear, nothing was just - only music brought comfort. I played for Annie until I could hear
from her quiet breathing that she slept.

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The following night, Annie was incoherent. At last, I made out that the Earl and Countess
had tried to send her a message, or so her jailer said, but it had been intercepted and, for
their pains, they were now under separate house arrest.

“How may they help me now?” sobbed Annie. “And Lady Frances with child and I not
there to serve her.”

Even in her own extremity, she thought of that wretched woman, who had brought her to
this pass. If the worst came to the worst, Lady Frances could plead her belly until James
took pity on her, but who would speak for Annie? I longed to harm these great ones, to
shout that Pembroke was a bastard and had no right to his title; that the great Lord Lisle
was Annie's father; that, in his hot lust, he had begotten one who would soon stand trial for
murder! A conversation with Barbara calmed me but added to my fears.

“They know how Prince Henry died and are determined on revenge for that. As his death
was pronounced natural, they dare reveal nothing to the King, who is riddled with guilt
because his son's demise was to his advantage. Annie and Lady Francs are to be punished
for Overbury's murder instead, though the chief intention is to involve Somerset and
dispose of him for ever.”

We took for granted that there was little hope for Annie. Once under arrest, you were as
good as dead. How would Annie stand up at her trial against the railings of Sir Edward
Coke? Even a lawyer, had such defence been allowed, would have stuttered and
stammered, quite put out of countenance by that great bully, and done her no good at all.
The next night was even more of a torment.

“Weston has betrayed us all! Oh, Papa, I am too young to die! Yet I know in my heart it is
a just punishment. Oh, poor Prince Henry!”

“Keep that name from your mind,” I urged. “Refuse to admit any crime and say nothing of
Somerset. The worst may not befall.”

In truth, there was better news and I began to hope again. Weston, at his trial, took back all
former confessions and refused to plead to the indictment of murder. Some clever lawyer,
employed by the Howards, advised him to say neither Yea or Nay when charged but refer
himself to God and stand mute. The law held that if the principal would not stand trial, the
accessories might not be accused. Coke argued for an hour but the prisoner stood firm.
Even the threat of being left naked near the prison with weights of increasing heaviness
crushing his body did not move the sixty year old Weston, who stood silent while the
prosecutors attacked the 'Machiavellian' accessories, (Annie and the Earl and Countess of
Somerset) who were safe as long as he refused to plead.

They brought in the men of religion in the end to break Weston as they had done Robin
Devereux, Earl of Essex, in his day. After arguing for hours that it would be for the good
of his soul to hang, rather than be crushed to death, he submitted, saying he hoped they
would not make a net for the little birds and let the great ones go. Alas! our little bird
would not now escape.

The trial was heard again and the earlier evidence in which Weston had refused to involve
Somerset was suppressed. It was said that he had taken money for iniquitous purposes and
had received poisons from Annie which had come from the Countess. There was no proof

156
that he had administered them. Nevertheless, he had to be found guilty in order for the
trials of the accessories to proceed.

~
Henry Peacham came up from Arundel with messages from the children and from
Suzanne, who, knowing little of Annie's plight, had made her a new gown with the yellow-
dyed ruff and cuffs which had been her trade-mark at court. Henry returned to Sussex with
instructions not to tell her mother of Annie's imprisonment. Luckily, news travelled
slowly. Had Lord Arundel been at the Castle it might have been a different matter but he
was settled for the time at Greenwich.

Weston was kept alive for five weeks after his trial and still did not confess or incriminate
Somerset, going to the gallows with the words 'I die not unworthily' on his lips. Now it
was Annie's turn. Her questioning by the Lord Chief Justice went on relentlessly day after
day and, night after night, I heard her tearful confidences, giving her what comfort I might.
She still proclaimed her innocence and would say nothing of the Earl and Countess.

I disguised myself in order to attend her trial, shaving off my beard, darkening my pale
skin and dyeing my hair black to match the clergyman's garb which I assumed. I crept
from my house after dark and lurked about until early morning when they began to admit
spectators into court. The place was later crowded with great ones and their ladies who
had come to enjoy the show at King's Bench, Westminster, and had paid handsomely for
their seats.

Annie had dressed her hair becomingly and wore her new gown. Coke told her rudely to
remove her hat, she was not in church, which disconcerted her. She begged for a speedy
trial, not knowing how long she could put a good face on her troubles, to which Coke
sarcastically agreed. What followed was not so much a trial, since evidence of crime was
lacking, but a most cruel defamation of character.

The two lost letters from Lady Frances were read out, one addressed to Annie as 'Sweet
Turner' and one to Simon Forman, calling him 'Sweet Father'. Annie was visibly shaken,
since these were the letters for which she had searched in vain, in which Lady Frances told
of refusing to sleep with her husband, Essex, and asked Forman to send the galls. Next, the
tricks of the magician's trade, provided by his wife, were displayed - pictures, dolls and
spells. In craning forward to feast their eyes on these enchanted exhibits, the crowd shifted
their weight and the wood of the scaffolding let out a resounding crack. You could smell
the rank fear of the onlookers, who thought that the Devil had come among them to
demand why his secrets were there unveiled.

I had kept my eyes fixed on Annie and I could see that, with each passing moment, her
courage failed her, yet there was nothing I could do to help her, except to repeat in my
mind the words, 'Courage, it will soon be over.'Now, Mistress Forman, a youngish woman,
witnessed how Annie had been to her house and had burnt some papers concerning the
Somersets. The examinations of Weston and other prisoners were read out so that Annie
could have no doubt in what danger she stood. As she trembled and was silent, Coke first
attacked the Somersets, then the poor girl herself, shouting that she had the seven deadly
sins, being a whore, a bawd, a sorcerer, a witch, a Papist, a felon and a murderer, the
daughter of the devil, Forman. This unexpected onslaught was too much and Annie burst

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into a passion of sobs, begging the Lord Chief Justice to be kind to her as she knew not that
there was poison in any of the things sent to Sir Thomas Overbury. In a state of collapse,
she heard the jury bring in the verdict, 'Guilty'.

Now it was the turn of the divines to threaten her with the torments of hell. “But I have
told them nothing, Papa,” she affirmed, “and if they say I have, it is all lies. I never knew
the wickedness of this world till now. The lawyers twist the truth and the courtiers, who
were my clients and, I thought, my friends came only to make sport of me. I am none of
those evil things of which Sir Edward Coke accused me. What I have done for Lady
Frances felt right to me because I loved and wished to serve her. Is loyalty a sin? Soon I
shall meet with God who will judge me more kindly than all the courts of this world.”

Our nightly talks ended with music until sleep came to poor Annie but I could take no rest.
What was I to tell Suzanne and the children when the time came? My only comfort was to
hear Barbara's voice, though the tidings she gave me were disheartening.

“I must tell you this, Jean, though it breaks my heart to do so. When the end comes, they
will not let you take Annie's body. My husband has paid one Norton to claim he is her
brother and he will see to her burial, which will not be a Catholic one, as Suzanne would
have wished. If you attempt to interfere, it will be your death, as Lord Robert will stop at
nothing to conceal the fact that Annie is his daughter. He is so distraught he even confides
in me, which has happened seldom in our years together. If I can do aught to help with the
future of his grandchildren, I shall be most happy to do so. Pray God our Rob knows
nothing of this tragedy and that we shall have news of him soon.”

Annie was now at the end of her tether. The clergymen's questions and exhortations were
driving her out of her mind. Instead of giving her peace so that she might prepare to make
a good death, they harassed her to such an extent that, in the end, she whispered, “If you
will have me say so, I will.” But she only said of Somerset that his Scottish accent was so
marked, she had never been able to understand his speech.

~
As the day of Annie's execution approached, what snatches of sleep I had were bedevilled
by nightmares of Father Campion's journey to the gallows. All at once I knew what I must
do. Gathering together all the small coins I could find, I put them in a bag and presented
myself in disguise at the prison gate. My hope was that a large bribe to the turnkey would
bring the money into Annie's hands. That night, I told her that she must be careful to
placate the crowd as she was taken to Tyburn.

“Smile all the time and wave to them, even bow from side to side and, above all, throw a
coin or two as you go. Make yourself as fine as you can so that they gape at you in
admiration and, above all, show no fear. When you reach the scaffold...” and, at that dread
word I had to swallow hard, “smile at the hangman and give him your rings and the
miniature so that...he will be kind to you. Think all the way of those who love you and
who are with you in spirit.”

My hands were shaking, as I took up my lute. Music brought the most comfort and the
song that Annie loved best brought me solace also.

158
 Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast...?

You know the rest, Rob. I played to Annie for the last time until she slept.

Mall insisted on accompanying me that chill November day to witness Annie's end. As we
trudged our way to Tyburn, she guided me, for I kept my eyes on the child's picture,
concentrating on my daughter's journey from Newgate, endeavouring to give her courage
and reminding her of how she must act to escape the savagery of the mob.

On arrival, we edged our way as near to the scaffold as possible, our feet crunching on nut
shells and slipping on apple cores, for the onlookers had assembled early. My clergyman's
disguise stood me in good stead so that the crowd parted to let us pass. I averted my eyes
from the gaily dressed courtiers, gathered for a morning's amusement, and closed my ears
to the cries of the broadsheet hawkers, come to profit by poor Annie's tragedy.

At long last, there was a lull in the chatter of the crowd, and the rumbling of the cart told us
the prisoner was near. Thankfully, I saw that she stood erect, smiling, waving with one
hand while the other clasped the miniature. White knuckles were the only sign of strain.
Never taking my eyes from her face, and concentrating as hard as I could, her thoughts
came into my mind.

“A steep step down. Be careful not to stumble. Walk firmly to the scaffold and show no
sign of fear. See, Papa, now the time has come, I know how to be brave. I will not look at
the hangman as I take off my rings. No, not the miniature yet, I would keep that to the end.
Now I must repeat the speech they taught me. Wait for silence. Now begin.”

Her voice was so low I could not hear all the words - somewhat of how not to rejoice at her
fall but to take example by her.... I averted my eyes as Mall's tight grasp on my arm warned
me that the hangman held the noose. I inhaled deeply, then, from the depths of my being,
issued a strong, high voice, surely not my own, and the words of the Orphic hymn soared,
bearing away brave Annie's spirit.

Shaking uncontrollably, I opened my eyes to see her body swaying in the autumn wind - a
black-clad puppet merely. I fixed my gaze on her small feet and, turning to Mall, my eyes
asked her a question, to which in answer she nodded solemnly. For the first time, I dared
look at the hangman. He was swinging the chain of the miniature and round his wrists and
neck he wore huge, yellow cuffs and an enormous ruff of the same hue, in mockery of the
Howard family for whom Annie had died in silence.

As I gazed, his face became apelike and, when I stumbled off and the superstitious mob
drew back from the weird singer, I saw each one headed as an ape..... The darkness came
down as Mall led me away, whither I knew not.

159
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Two days later, Sir Gervase Elwes was arraigned for 'the malicious aiding, comforting and
abetting Weston in the poisoning and murder of Overbury', further proving the Law's
travesty of justice. I knew nothing of that at the time, or of his execution on Tower Hill.
Not even Barbara could reach me and the walnut stain had faded from my face and the
black dye from my white hair before my nightmares ended and I opened my eyes to see
Thomas Campion's anxious face bending over me. I thought I was still dreaming as he felt
my pulse and held cordial to my lips.

“Thank Mistress Sims here for your life,” he said. “You have been out of your mind and
she has had to wrestle with you to put food and drink between your lips and keep you from
self harm. Fortunately, I called with messages of condolence from Sir Thomas Monson,
now confined to the Tower and himself a sick man. I am ashamed that it took his urgings
to bring me here.”

“Doctor Campion has come these many days to care for you,” interrupted Mall. “What I
should have done without his calming draughts which gave you more peaceful sleep I do
not know. I am a strong woman but, before he took over your care, I was finding it ever
harder to hold you as you thrashed around.”

“What of Suzanne?” I tried to sit up but fell back on the pillow.

“Master Peacham came to see you,” replied Mall, “but you did not know him. Madam and
the children are well but asking for Mistress Turner, and Master Peacham does not know
how much longer he can keep the truth from them.”

~
In the end, with the help of Barbara and other kind friends, the children were able to stay in
Sussex and found homes and employment there. Suzanne never returned to Fetter Lane. I
went to Arundel, where I told her as kindly as possible of her daughter's death. It
distressed her greatly that Annie was buried in an unmarked grave but what wounded her
more was that Robert Sidney had, with others, connived at the death of their child. The
spark of love that had remained for him all those years was finally snuffed out and her will
to live vanished. She remained a shadowy presence until the youngest grandchild no
longer needed her care and then my patient companion slipped from this world. Barbara's
messages consoled me for the loss of my dear friend, and Mall, in her rough way, was
comforting.

I did not write to tell you this sad news for I had given up hope that you would ever read
my letters, which I still addressed to Heidelberg. Perhaps you were on your travels and
they failed to reach you. Will you ever peruse my story?

~
Now my little bird was flown, Prince Henry's caged bird, Raleigh, was released from the
Tower and his place taken by the great ones for whom death was not the penalty. Lady
Frances wept and prayed not to be put in the room where Overbury died, so the one
vacated by Sir Walter was readied for her.

160
“I hope they manage to control the damp,” he said, when he did me the honour of coming
to Fetter Lane on his round of visits to friends from the old days. “Otherwise, when she is
freed, she will find her dancing days over and herself limping, like me, with diseased
joints. Northumberland feels the benefit of her company, as it is long since he had a pretty
woman with whom to exchange compliments. She is doing him a mischief behind his
back, however, and encouraging his daughter's amour with that Scot they call Doncaster.
Somerset is not on speaking terms with her over this ploy. But I must drop the habit of idle
prison gossip and apologise for speaking names that surely distress you. My tongue is
forever running away with me.”

I questioned him as to his forthcoming voyage to discover gold in Eldorado and he was full
of that. He had seen Francis Bacon, cock-a-hoop on his promotion to Lord Keeper, and
asked whether he should obtain a pardon before sailing, as he had not been absolved from
the treason charge which had kept him in the Tower all these years. Tricky Frankie told
him that there was no need and it was on that same charge that Sir Walter was convicted
when he returned empty handed from the fateful voyage of the 'Destiny'.

I wished to warn him but he still knew nothing of Bacon's part in his first visit to the Tower
with his wife, Elizabeth, which I had only surmised, and who was I to bring up what was
over and done with? He was like a boy in prospect of his new adventure. I felt uneasy in
his presence - the one great man from the past who stood against Spain and the Hapsburgs.
I was consumed by guilt that, in my rancour against Cecil, I had taught you the Orphic
hymn in a spirit of hate, which now, for all I knew, you might be peddling to Protestant
princes who trusted you as my son. It was time I took a hand.

~
I had not used the Monas symbol since the death of Doctor Dee in 1608. Now, ten years
later, I drew it large and gazed on it with fixed concentration at the day and hour the Magus
had decreed, hoping that one of the German princes would reply so that I could warn him
in some way without endangering you, my son. Many weeks passed without success until,
just as I was about to give up all hope, I heard in my mind the once familiar voice of
Landgrave Maurice of Hessen.

“It cannot be you, John Dowland, after all these years!” (No word of reproach that I had
deserted their cause.) “How did you bring this about?”

When I explained, he told me that, by pure chance he had been leafing through a book,
newly published at Cassel, called 'The Chemical Wedding' and had come across a Monas
sign drawn in the margin.

“But it is more like a dancing devil than the true sign. Do you remember telling me that,
when you first saw Doctor Dee's symbol, it reminded you of the horned devils in your
Orpheus picture? Well, that is what it became for my fellow princes and, after Doctor
Dee's death, they refused to use it, replacing the sun and the moon signs above the cross by
a rose, such as Luther used for his badge, which is also the sign of the Virgin and of
Alchemy, thus uniting all parties. After the marriage of your Princess Elizabeth to
Frederick of the Palatinate, it became the double rose of York and Lancaster, which you
call the Tudor rose - the symbol of the Chemical Wedding and the coming of the Golden

161
Age. It was fate that my eyes rested on Doctor Dee's disfigured sign and my thoughts
turned to the old days, just as you were trying to reach me. I have never forgotten you,
John. I thought I saw your ghost once at Heidelberg.....”

“That must have been my son,” I interrupted. “The last I heard of him, he was there.
Inigo Jones accompanied the Earl and Countess of Arundel to Heidelberg and heard Robert
play at the new Elizabethan Bau.”

I told the Landgrave your full story and he promised to search out news of you. Over the
months, it emerged that you were indeed singing the false Orphic hymn to Elizabeth and
Frederick. I remembered my Scottish vision of her loss of a crown and prayed that seeing
would prove to be as counterfeit as your song. Yet my gift, if such it was, had not been
false in the past.

In the summer of 1617, James decided to visit Scotland and I had a reprieve from court
playing, saying my health made me unfit to travel. I could now enjoy my own kind of
music, though my efforts at composition and transcription still met with no success. There
was sad news from the Landgrave whose son, Otto, had recently died.

“One of your versifiers wrote of the five young princes of the religion,” he told me. “Now
there are only three - Frederick Ulric, the Duke of Brunswick, the Margrave of
Brandenburg and his brother-in-law, Frederick of the Palatinate, on whom all our hopes are
pinned. Alas, for the sad loss of Prince Henry, and now my Otto's life also is cruelly
nipped in the bud.”

I could not bring myself to tell my old friend that my daughter was hanged to pay for
Prince Henry's death and that, even now, my son was playing a false Orphic hymn to the
doom of Frederick and Elizabeth. Guilt for these mischiefs brought me physical pain and I
racked my brains, seeking some way to make amends before Europe's uneasy peace
toppled over the brink into religious war.

Misery increased when Sir Walter Raleigh, that fearless adventurer, chose to return to his
certain death. I did not witness his gallant end, such was my terror of executions, but I
went afterwards to pay my respects to Lady Raleigh, comforted by her second son, Carew.
The elder, Wat, had died in a mad prank which caused the failure of his father's expedition
and the sacrifice of his life to Spain. What atonement might I make to thwart the country
and the religion that had destroyed Sir Walter?

I thought an opportunity presented itself when there was talk of a great Embassy to Europe,
headed by Viscount Doncaster. John Donne was to accompany him as chaplain, having
been ordained at James's behest some years earlier. One night, when my duties were done,
I approached John and begged him to intercede for me so that I might join the party and
play for the German princes. Doncaster was willing, but James hummed and hawed.

The death of Queen Anne delayed the Embassy and, as the money for her funeral took ten
weeks to scrape together, the party did not leave until May, when James became very ill
and it looked as though there would be another funeral at which to play. That was my hope
gone of seeing you and of putting right some of the harm done. It would have been better
if the king had died then. The war that soon followed would have been over quickly had it
not been for his shilly-shallying.

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I was at least able to entrust John Donne with a letter for you. I was told you received it at
Heidelberg amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for Elizabeth and Frederick to leave
for Bohemia, where they were to be crowned King and Queen. Your reply came by word
of mouth and nothing was said of my injunction never more to play the Orphic hymn. You
would not return to England until you heard that your great enemy was dead, which moved
me to wish Robert Sidney ill. Yet, I would avoid that temptation, for it had shaken me to
realise that some had supposed my illwishing to have brought Edmund Spenser to his
grave. Perhaps Cecil's decline had been due less to the false Orphic hymn than to my own
evil thoughts.

I confessed all my wickedness to Barbara, quite prepared for her to cast me off. She
forgave and comforted me, leaving me more determined than ever to make amends.

~
James was mightily angry that Frederick had accepted the throne of Bohemia without first
consulting him, and, when, in May, 1620, the German Protestant leaders wrote to him,
asking for support against the Emperor, to their dismay and horror (for they depended upon
him) he utterly refused. He was becoming old and silly before his time but still held onto
his self-appointed role as the great Peacemaker. He let himself be fooled with false
promises of a Spanish marriage for Baby Charles and Gondomar wrote to Madrid that it
would now be safe for Spain to seize the Palatinate.

Now was the time if ever there was one for me to travel to Germany and play the Orphic
hymn for at least two of the surviving young princes. In July, Sir Horace Vere crossed to
Europe with two thousand men to oppose five times that number and I played truant to
travel with this private army. The ruby ring that Michael Hickes had returned to me went
for good this time to finance my journey to Wolfenbuttel, where I sang the Orphic hymn
for the young Duke. He begged me to return, first helping me on my way to Brandenburg,
where I sang for the new Elector, George William. So far, he intends to remain neutral in
the war and thus save his people much harm.

All that summer, I supposed you happy and successful in Prague, though the thought still
nagged at the back of my mind that I had seen Elizabeth of Bohemia robbed of her crown.
Returning to the court of Frederick Ulric at Wolfenbuttel, I met with a daunting request.

“My father told me that you have the reputation of being a seer,” said my young host. “He
said there was a magus called Johann Dee, I believe, for whom you read the future. In
these troubled times, I long to know what is in store for my family.”

I had no diamond on which to gaze. This time, it would have to be my old Orpheus music,
Paradise, then, perhaps, dark horror and a scene of death. I quailed at the thought. I
explained to the Duke that I never knew whether my vision would be of the past, present or
future and that, after a long lapse of time, it was possible that my powers had left me. He
begged me to make the attempt.

Preceding me to a quiet chamber, he settled himself at some distance from me, yet within
view. I took my lute and, closing my eyes, began to play the fantasia of Don Luys Milan.
The rainbow colours came and I was transported into another world of greater beauty than
ever before. I heard a voice, at first far away, then coming close.

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“Tell the Duke that a descendant of his will share the throne of England......” The voice
faded. It had been Barbara's. I came to myself in a haze of happiness.

“I have heard your message,” said the Duke, “though I can hardly believe it and, strangest
of all, it was a woman's voice that came from your lips.”

Now my bliss turned to alarm. What was amiss that, as never before, Barbara's voice
should issue from my lips? Whence did it come? I knew the answer almost before the
thought was formed. Through my Orpheus music, as always, I had been transported to
Paradise and Barbara had gone before me to that realm. I should have been happy for her
for I knew only too well of her troubled life in this world of sorrow but, I must confess, all
I felt at first was the shock of bereavement. The union of our minds had been a solace to
us both. Was that now to end and myself left inconsolable? If so, I longed to join her.

I knew from my musical magic that the dead never spoke with me - only in the single case
of that brief answer from Ficino, obtained with the help of Doctor Dee. I was certain also,
not believing in the simple concepts of Heaven and Hell, that if I lingered long in this
world before shedding my fleshly garment, she might be promoted to higher realms out of
my reach. We had spoken of rebirth to this earthly life but had always supposed that we
should meet again and, this time, live united in happiness. Yet, if we did not cross to the
other world together, might not a lapse of time keep us apart for ever?

Such disordered thoughts led me to wish to plunge a knife into my breast, yet self murder
might separate me from my love more than if I continued my life alone. I remembered
you, Rob, and the grandchildren and knew that I must stand fast.

Nevertheless, I made a fruitless attempt to communicate with Barbara through her

miniature, unwilling still to accept that the consolation of trouble sharing was over. I spent
the hours of waiting reading and rereading her precious letter, though I had it by heart. The
sight of her handwriting brought back her much loved voice and Cecil's hateful tones were
expunged from my mind for ever.

Two days later, my eyes hollow with my vigil, I stood in the great hall of the University at
Helmstedt and received my Doctorate of Music, in the place where Giordano Bruno, in the
old Duke's time, gave an anti-papal oration. The honour was kindly meant but I was, at that
moment, past wishing for the tributes of this world.

~
It was not possible to leave Germany that November without a visit to Cassel, where the
Landgrave greeted me with open arms, though his face was autumnal.

“The news is bad. Frederick has been defeated in battle at the White Mountain and he and
his family are in flight. He has been put to the ban of the Empire and no court will dare to
shelter him for long. It seems he placed his entire trust in your son's Orphic hymn and even
left the battle field that night to be with his wife.”

I knew not where you might now be, Rob, whether with King Frederick's court in rout or
whether escaped from Prague by your own means. The Landgrave promised to make

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every effort to discover your whereabouts, though all was confusion and it would be far
from easy.

“Let me look at you closely, John,” said my friend, “Your hair is now white and I can see
deep lines of pain on your face that were never there before. I must introduce you to my
Court Physician, a truly great man, in fact, a second Doctor John Dee.”

I submitted to an examination by Michael Maier, who was the first to tell me that the sharp
pains in my groin and thigh, sometimes in my male member, were caused by the stone that
they thought would have carried off Jamie in 1618.

“The travelling on horseback has aggravated your condition,” he advised. “I will give you
a draught to kill the worst of the pain. You must avoid alcohol and drink plenty of an
infusion of wild campion which I have here. You would do better in your own home, living
quietly, and I recommend you to return to England while it is still possible.”

I had seen the effects of civil war in my young days in France and knew that his advice was
sound but that did not prevent my fears for you, Rob, giving me pause. However, in spite
of anxiety and some pain, happy days followed.

“I was in Prague in 1588,” Maier reminisced, “hoping for a post at the Emperor Rudolph's
court, where Doctor Dee's name was on every lip. He and Edward Kelly had discovered
the secret of making gold, or so it was said. It was at that time I first read his 'Monas
Hieroglyphica'. Did you know that it was first presented to the Emperor Maximilian by the
then Spanish Ambassador, who claimed descent from the Herr Doktor's mentor, the
illustrious Raymond Lull? How sad he would be now to see all his dreams (and ours) of
religious unity brought to this present pass.”

“I saw him myself,” recalled the Landgrave, “in the following year, as a boy of nine, when,
passing through Hessen, he presented my father with some fine Hungarian horses. He had
been recalled to England, I believe, to make gold for your Queen Elizabeth.”

“All these great rulers are the same, yourself excepted, Landgrave,” I exclaimed. “They
are greedy for the precious metal, never realising that what Doctor Dee sought was
spiritual gold. I met him on his return from Europe and he was a disappointed man, for
Kelly had betrayed him. The Doctor thought the Emperor above worldly greed and had
pinned his hopes on him as the leader who would unite the old and the new religions and
bring us peace.”

“As did we all,” agreed the Landgrave, “until his family declared him mad and replaced
him by Matthias, the compromiser. After that, we were so sure that King James would
give full support to his daughter and son-in-law, that we placed all our hopes on Frederick,
though he took Christian of Anhalt's advice, rather than ours, when he accepted the throne
of Bohemia. It is tragic, when we have always worked for peace to be on the brink of a
disastrous war.”

“It may not come to full scale conflict,” added Maier, “I was in England after Prince
Henry's death and your King impressed me as a peacemaker.”

“I am sorry to disillusion you,” I interposed, “but he is not so much anxious for a just peace
in Europe as for peace and quiet for himself so that he can follow his favourite pursuits of

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talking, drinking, hunting and dallying with Buckingham. That same George Villiers holds
all the power now and he is for war in Europe as are many of the nobles and Parliament,
too.”

“It was as well then that we did not entrust to your king the secret of the Rose-cross as we
did to his son, Henry,” said Maurice of Hessen. “What we did after the Prince's death was
to send Michael to your Court with a message of Christmas greeting to King James set out
in the form of a huge rose, its petals outlined and filled in with Latin compliments. The
card was so large, we hoped he might display it in a place where it would meet his eye
often. We knew he liked ingenious puzzles and in Latin, above all. We hoped to be able to
send him messages through the rose and, if he replied, all would be well; after all, he had
joined our evangelical union. However, we were cautious, for Prince Henry had warned us
how fickle his father could be and Queen Anne had confided the same to her brother, King
Christian.”

“And he failed to reply,” I surmised. “He would have read the Latin in no time at all and
tossed your rose aside. Even if he had heard your messages, he would have put it down to
drunken dreaming. Worse still, he might have thought it witchcraft, an abomination to
him.”

“He was gracious to me,” insisted Michael Maier, “and invited me to court to see a play
called, if I remember aright 'The Tempest'.”

“I wrote and played the music on that occasion,” I recalled, “but you would not have
noticed me among the consort of musicians.”

“Oh, my dear John,” exclaimed the Landgrave. “Has it come to that now?” And he quoted
from a kind letter he had once sent me about 'some particular illhap that many times
follows men of virtue.' I shook my head and went on to describe to him the subject of the
play.

“The Magus who drowned his book was Doctor Dee, though James took it upon himself.
My dear old friend's last book was offered to a black magician in return for a volume of
Raymond Lull which he denied him. All Doctor Dee's great Library was sold to pay for
food and fuel until there was nothing left. James threatened him as a wizard, for which the
penalty is death, and would not let him clear his name. A king who could take away the
livelihood of a good man and who could escape his son's deathbed to go hunting is no fit
ally for your cause.”

~
That night, Barbara came to me in a dream, beautiful as when we first loved. She told me
to go home and that she would watch over you. The Landgrave confirmed this decision.

“You will do little good searching for your son all over Germany like a needle in a
haystack. As soon as I learn of his whereabouts, we will communicate, and for old times
sake and in memory of our magus, we will use the Monas symbol. Give me the pleasure to
accept one of my carriages to take you to the coast and there board ship for England.” He
insisted on supplying me with journey money and I was equally determined that he accept

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my lute signed by Laux Maler, saying that his touch would bring forth more beautiful
music than mine, whose skill was much diminished.

“I can refute that statement by quoting du Bartas,” he smiled.

..An old, rude, rotten, tuneless kit,

If famous Dowland deign to finger it
Makes sweeter music than the choicest Lute
In the gross handling of a clownish Brute.

“I will accept this sacrifice, until I meet your son, and, if he can play on your lute only half
as well as his father, I shall return to him his inheritance.”

I was packed into the carriage, an extra bundle of new books from Michael Maier - the
'Fama', the 'Confessio', 'The Chemical Wedding' and copies of all his own works, together
with a supply of medicines for my malady, more than filling the place of my second lute.

Added to these generous gifts, those two friends had returned to me my self esteem, so
badly shaken by the neglect at Jamie's court. What matter that I had lost my powers of
composition. I could read, I could learn, I had friends with whom I could exchange ideas
as in the old days. The poisonous atmosphere of Whitehall might be ignored since I now
felt myself again.

As I travelled north, through countryside the war had not yet reached, I asked for you at
every staging post but there was no news, either there, or later from the Landgrave. As the
months went by, it seemed that you had vanished from the face of the earth.

~
Back in London, I found that Mall had held the fort and, from behind closed doors, had put
out the message that I had some illness of unknown origin. None but Thomas Campion
would have dared to visit me and I found that he had died during my absence in Germany.
When I returned to court, I was shunned more than ever but my place as lutenist to the king
had to be held for me until my death for which I was not yet ready.

I went to Sussex to visit the grandchildren and found John a young man already, in charge
of the village school, where his brother and sister had spent happy years. Young Arthur
thought of nothing but the sea and hoped to be taken on as cabin boy on the next voyage of
the Virginia Company. Susanna, so like her mother and grandmother, had also inherited
their skills as a needlewoman and had for some time lived comfortably at Lindfield as
companion to Mistress Margaret Board. I gave them both lute lessons and stayed on to
teach other young ladies of the neighbourhood, keeping my patience remarkably well for
none of them had real talent.

The days at Lindfield proved happy and carefree in a way that was, at first, quite foreign to
me. I was bewildered by the kindness of my young ladies, their swift, birdlike movements
and their soft chatter. Life was a pleasant game for them, and the blissful days when
Barbara, Suzanne and Annie played together in the courtyard and sang to the
accompaniment of my lute returned to me, not in bitterness, but in joy as I watched their
movements. Over the next few years, I returned to Lindfield as often as I could borrow a

167
carriage, where, well cushioned, I bore the rattling over the rutted roads, feeling the
discomfort well worth the peace that awaited me.

In that quietude a miracle was granted to me. Mistress Margaret was setting down some
exercise in her music book as I watched closely. She made an error and I, forgetting my
disability (which I had not tested for years past) snatched the pen from her and made a
necessary correction. She thought nothing of it, for it was by now a habit to conceal my
affliction. Yet for me, it was a wonder indeed. I practised my new found skill in secret and,
little by little, composition returned, feebly it is true, but the time came when I invented
some lines for my young Mistress's music book. It was as if a withered limb gradually
came to life. My great ambitions were long gone - it was enough no longer to feel a
cripple.

But I must return to that first winter back in England, made bleaker by the news of the
death of the Dowager Countess of Pembroke. She was only a year older than myself and,
when the pains came, I felt a hundred. Lady Mary proved a generous friend to the end. I
came home one day after playing at court to find a package in Mall's hands.

“A fine gentleman in livery delivered this but he had no time to wait for you. He said
somewhat I did not quite catch - about a bequest, I think.” With age, Mall has become
rather deaf, which does not make life easier for a man of little patience.

Unwrapping the package, I found to my amazement and delight the fellow to my lost
Orpheus book, which I had thought never to see again! This work with the arms of
Portugal on its cover I had thought a family heirloom and that Lady Mary should
remember me in her will after these many years brought tears to my eyes. I had read much
of Orpheus and, in Italy, seen him depicted by the greatest artists but none moved me so
much as my lost picture. With trembling fingers, I turned the pages reverently until I came
to the simple line drawing.

How strange - I no longer saw Orpheus as a dancing figure but seated on a rock as he
played. Alas for my lost youth, now I saw him with the eyes of an old man! He had the
same smile, compact of all knowledge, sorrow as well as joy, that I had seen on lips
painted by Leonardo, which they said was the self-portrait of the artist himself. As a child,
I had seen on the face of Orpheus a smile of pure happiness because the boat was coming
to fetch him to regain Eurydice. Now I knew he had been to the Underworld and lost his
love and the boat was returning to the realms of Pluto and Persephone. Yet he could still
retain a wry smile, still play for the trees, rocks and beasts and I, too, must play to the end
for the stony minds of the brutish pleasure seekers at the court of King James.

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 CHAPTER NINETEEN
As time went by, the visits to Lindfield lengthened. It was not only the enjoyment of
teaching my young ladies that kept me, but, I was ashamed to admit, the pain of the return
journey that caused my delay. Kind Ninian Board divined my problem and offered me a
permanent place in his household which I was sorely tempted to accept. However, I had to
return to London, and this for the last time, to keep open your home in Fetter Lane and
your place in the King's consort. For, at last, a rumour came that you were at the court of
the Duke of Wolgast in far Pomerania, where you were working with a company of
English actors. The war had not yet reached northern Germany so that I had good hopes of
your safety. I sent letters to the Landgrave of Hessen, begging his good offices to transmit
them safely to you but each time I was disappointed of a reply.

I had thoroughly enjoyed teaching my young ladies, achieving some success, but always I
remembered that, since the day I knew you were my son, I had hoped to make you my
Orphic pupil. Yet all had gone awry and through my hatred of Cecil and the use of you as
the instrument of that enmity I fear I destroyed you as well as my adversary. Now I felt
that, even if you returned to me at the age of near thirty and were able and willing to learn,
it would be too late for success. 'Too late!' Day after day, those words echoed in my mind.
I must find an heir to my knowledge while I still lived.

I had not even begun my search when the matter was taken out of my hands. A knock
came at the door and, before I could shout my habitual refusal, Mall had admitted a dapper
young man, whose 'colours', for once, did not jar on my sensibilities.

“I have a letter for you, Doctor Dowland, “ he smiled, “from my master, Baron Brooke of
Warwick Castle. I am William Davenant, at your service.” And he gave me a courtly
bow. I took the letter with some surprise and, excusing myself, read it through.

'To Doctor John Dowland at Fetter Lane give these - My messenger, a lad of humble origin
in whom I take an interest, has some talent as a singer and lutenist. I am at present
engaged in the important task of writing the life of my friend, Sir Philip Sidney, and,
remembering how you prospered under his patronage, now propose that for the payment of
(and here he mentioned a paltry sum) you give tuition, particularly in composition, to the
bearer for one day in the week when I find it convenient to spare him. Davenant will
return your immediate reply to me,

Fulke Greville, Baron Brooke of Warwick Castle.

I must confess that my temper boiled up at this haughty request. “Not a tactful letter, I
surmise, “ said my visitor. “I almost left it in my pouch and spoke to you first myself. I
am so wishful to become your pupil that I could not bear it if my master's manner stood in
my way. Did he tell you of his dream?” My face told him I knew nothing of that and he
continued. “One night, he had a vision of the late Dowager Countess of Pembroke, who
appeared to him as the young girl he once knew. She said that I was a youth of such talent
that I deserved the best teacher and that, if he recalled the happy days at Wilton, he would
know to whom she referred. He was so shaken by this dream that he forgot his usual
reserve and confided it to me on waking. I could see that he once had a great fondness for
the lady and was willing to obey her command.”

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This information gave me pause for thought and, while I was turning the offer over in my
mind, I asked Master Davenant to tell me about himself. Nothing loath, he began. “I was
page to the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, the 'Duchess cut upon Duchess, as they call
her.....”

I remembered her, the poor orphan Howard girl, who worked her way up in the world, first
by marrying a rich merchant, Pranell, then by entrapping the old Earl of Hertford and
immediately on his death, taking on the King's cousin, Ludovic Stuart, so that, when her
namesake, Frances Howard, was fallen from grace, she triumphed as first lady at the court
of King James.

All this flashed through my mind as young Davenant continued, “What scenes she made
after waking to find the Duke dead in bed beside her, cutting off her hair and screeching
blasphemies. It was the loss of her position at court, not grief for her husband that moved
her.”

“And now you are in Fulke Greville's service. Satisfy my curiosity by telling me why he
took the title of Baron Brooke? I am sure he felt entitled to be Earl of Warwick. I was
once told that his mother was a Neville, descended from Warwick the Kingmaker.”

“Oh, he had spent twenty thousand pounds of the fortune his father left him turning the
castle into the most wonderful dwelling you could hope to see and I expect Lord Rich
offered the King a better price for the earldom. I must say, it soured my master's temper
and he has become very mean. What is the use of a fine home and a title when he has no
family of his own and it will all have to go to his cousin, Robert? They say that, at one
time, he courted Lady Hatton for her fortune but Sir Edward Coke forestalled him, only to
find her with child, so my master might have got himself a ready made heir not his own!
'What, ' said Sir Edward, 'flesh in the pot?' 'Yes, ' replied his bride, 'or I would not have
married a Cook!' I wonder who the father was?”

William had such an infectious laugh that I was loath to chide him. I even enjoyed the oft
told joke against my old enemy who now had his just deserts, tormented by a termagant.
However, I reminded William that his master would not pay me to indulge in talk and
commanded him to take his lute so that I might judge his worth. Clever lad, he chose a
merry song of my own and quite won me round. I was in need of cheer.

I must have smiled, for he at once said, his eyes shining, “Does that mean you have
decided to take me as a pupil? Please say it is so.” I replied that I supposed I had made up
my mind but that it would not suit me if he only came on days when his master could spare
him. There was much to learn and no time must be lost.

“Oh, pay no heed to that. We will fix on a day and a time to suit your convenience, Doctor
Dowland, and I shall not keep you waiting. I shall regard lessons from such a master as the
greatest privilege of my life.”

We parted on friendly terms already. I felt that such a lively and willing pupil would
brighten my dull days, particularly as I had for long known myself rejected by the youth of
the court.

170
When Master Davenant had gone, I remained in my chair, fatigued by the conversation,
however pleasant, drowsily remembering the past. Of the three friends, Sidney, Dyer and
Greville, I had liked the last named least, though Sir Philip saw them as 'one mind in
bodies three'. Now I recalled other verses from that poem which I had long ago set to
music:

Ye hymns and singing skill

Of God Apollo's giving,
Be prest our reeds to fill,
With sounds of music living.

Sweet Orpheus' Harp, whose sound

The steadfast mountains moved,
Let here thy skill abound,
To join sweet friends beloved.'

At our next meeting, I sang the whole song to William in my cracked voice.

“My master of one mind with the poet who wrote those words! I can hardly believe that, “
cried my new pupil. “In his household, the only reading permitted is from the Prayer book
and King James's Authorised Version of the Bible.”

“Can he have forgotten the days when Sir Philip and the Countess of Pembroke delighted
in the treasure house of the Bible and used their gift of tongues to translate the Psalms, for
King David was their Orpheus whose secrets they sought to fathom. King James's bible is
a prison house where each word may only hold one approved meaning, thus losing all life.
Yes, I realise, my boy, that you belong to the generation who has had to learn a passage
from the book each day in school, but, I tell you, that bible will be his son's downfall
before your life is ended.”

William gazed at me open-mouthed. I felt embarrassed at my fervour though I hastened to

pursue the subject. “That poem reminds me that, whenever I speak or sing of the Lord, it is
great Apollo's name that fills my mind. His votary, Orpheus, has been my hero for over
half a century. Indeed, long ago, I was named the 'English Orpheus' though the title was
undeserved.”

Now I had confronted my pupil with my true beliefs I knew the die was cast . I showed
him my Orpheus picture, wondering how he would respond.

“Why, Doctor Dowland, his is your face as I see it when you smile.” And he questioned
me searchingly as to the rest of the picture. I must say that he knew his Ovid.

“That is surely not the Greek Underworld, “ he decided. “That is a Christian Hell and the
devils in the boat seem to be sounding the last trump, though I had thought it should have
been angels. 'For the trumpet shall sound and the dead arise incorruptible and we shall be
changed' said Saint Paul, as I got by heart in school. Yet I remember that, when the parson
told us that on the Day of Judgement all should arise from their graves, I used to ask
myself what of the martyrs whose bodies were burned to ashes and what of the soldiers
blown to bits in battle? And now I ask, what of Orpheus, torn to pieces by the Thracian
women?”

171
“Like all of us, when he abandoned his fleshly garment, his soul attained real life in
another world, for this earthly life is as a living death from which we are released only with
our last breath. Some spirits rise to more exalted levels and need only return to life if they
choose to aid earthly sufferers. Most are bound to return and begin a new life here, where
they may either atone for earlier sins or sink further into the mire until they learn better
ways.”

“All that is new to me and entirely opposed to what I have been taught, “ said William,
thoughtfully. “I have learned to fear death and the eternal fire as punishment for
wrongdoing and have certainly come to believe that there is only one life on earth. I shall
have to turn my ideas topsy-turvy to come to terms with all this.”

When William was gone, I knew that I had not been frank with him. I was not ready to tell
him of my visions which transported me to Paradise, then often into a fearful realm of
darkness before a picture of death came to me. The terror of that blackness still lingered
deep in my mind, even after that last happy occasion, when Barbara's voice issued from my
lips. When I was tired or in pain, the nightmare of Father Campion's or of Annie's death
came to haunt me. Others could gape at an execution without dread, could pass the rotting,
swaying bodies on the gallows as if they were nothing but bare trees where rags blown in
the wind had caught. I, who knew in my mind that I should rejoice at the escape of the
soul from those poor bodies, still felt sorrow and distress. Nay, admit it, it was the terror of
death itself that moved me. Should I never be whole, always a divided person? I was unfit
to teach my beliefs.

~
Nevertheless, I gained much pleasure from my work with William who was a quick pupil
and a joy to teach. Perhaps I had grown more understanding in my old age than I was with
you, Rob. William had found his education at school and University tedious and
restrictive. When he found that I would answer his questions, there was no stopping him.

“Tell me of Don Luys Milan, Doctor Dowland.” To which I replied that I knew little,
except that he was born in 1536, was self-taught and was a writer as well as a musician.

“Like Raymond Lull (of whom you will hear much later) he was a courtier in Spain and
wrote a Book of the Courtier like the one Sir Thomas Hoby translated from the Italian,
which I have given you to study. He likened 'El Maestro', which from a boy I have named
my 'Orpheus Book', to a precious stone which would lose its value were he to keep it. He
sent it to Portugal to enter 'the sea of music'.”

“I have a Biblical quotation for that,” said William, “'Cast thy bread upon the waters: for
thou shalt find it after many days.' Tell me, how came you by your Orpheus Book?” I told
him how the first one I owned came to me through my true master, Edmund Campion.

“I know that name,” cried my pupil in horror, “he was a traitor and a Jesuit!”

“He was the best man I ever knew,” I replied, rising above my anger, “the most generous
and the least self-seeking. He loved teaching for its own sake or why would he have
adopted an ignorant fisher boy like myself? You must learn that there are good men

172
among those you have been taught to despise and that even those of your faction may do
evil.”

William looked dubious and was quick to change the subject. We often read in Latin and
Greek together and I gave him some understanding of the other languages I had learned in
my travels. When he complimented me, I replied that, to my sorrow, I knew little of my
own language, which puzzled him.

“Did you not know that I am Irish?” I asked. (How many times earlier in life had I not
sought to conceal this fact and that of my humble birth?)

William's reply was not unexpected. “Now I know you are jesting, Doctor Dowland. The
Irish are savages, as is well known.”

I told him I would have remained a savage had not Father Campion become my teacher
and that if he himself had been born a beggar boy and not the son of an innkeeper he might
by now be a Caliban instead of an Ariel. It was all an accident of birth and I had heard a
queen say that.

“None other speaks with me as you do, sir, “ said William thoughtfully. “I am more glad
than ever to have you as a tutor.”

Truly, I taught him much beside music and described my life as I have done to you, Rob,
except for the seeings and the magic. With his Protestant upbringing, he would have found
such revelations too much for him. Later, perhaps, when we had progressed a deal further.
With music and in imagination I took him to Germany, France, Italy and Denmark. I told
him of the Pleiade and of the Camerata. Henry Peacham, who had visited Italy more
recently than I, had told me of Peri's 'Euridice' performed at Florence and Caccini's 'Il
Rapimento di Cefalo' which were based on the theories I had heard discussed with them
and with Vincente Galilei. They sought a divine union of words and music and called their
works 'opera' as did a composer in Mantua, one Monteverdi, whose 'La Favola d'Orfeo'
was inspired by Poliziano's play written long ago. How I longed to hear this new Orpheus
music, which, one day, William might have the good fortune to know.

Meanwhile, we played and sang music from Don Luys Milan to Doctor Thomas Campion.
We had great games and much laughter setting poems to music in the styles of different
composers. William set two of John Donne's early poems in the style of John Dowland
and it was featly done. He wrote an aubade of his own beginning 'The lark now leaves his
wat'ry nest' and set it to music. The time passed quickly and I was happy as I had never
thought to be.

William was fascinated by the Orpheus picture and returned to it time after time.

“There is one part of the story I cannot understand. Why did he lose Eurydice? Why do
you suppose he turned around?” I replied that the question had often puzzled me and told
him to seek his own answer.

“I suppose he turned his head to see if she was still following for fear some ill had befallen
her.”

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“Now you have said the word that is the key to your mystery. I, too, can quote the Bible to
you. 'There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.' Even though Orpheus was
the epitome of love, he was human and, on that occasion, though he had been so
courageous in harrowing Hell, he still felt a stab of fear for one moment and lost his love.
My old friend, Doctor John Dee, explained all evil as being caused by ignorance and fear. I
would add guilt to make three enemies of love.”

~
I should tell you, Rob, that, as I worked with William, I did not forget you, my son.
Telling him of my life made me determined to complete my story in full for you, as I have
done in every spare moment this past year. After my last conversation with William, I
turned to the beginning of my writings and, reliving my earliest days, fell into a kind of
waking dream.

I am rocking in a boat out in the bay, terrified of the dark grey sea slapping its sides. Two
small, dark men, my father and my uncle, pull at a great net and spill a shoal of sparkling
fish over the boards, so beautiful that I forget my fear. The fish struggle, twist and turn,
their silver scales fade, their glittering eyes dull. I am very young and have not yet learned
that questions are dangerous. “Why do they struggle and then lie still?”

“Because they are dead you little fool. Every simpleton knows that, “ growls my father.
And to emphasise the word 'dead', he picks up a weighted stick and 'sca, sca, sca, sca!'
strikes some fish that are still thrashing about on the bottom of the boat till they lie still,
their blood staining my bare feet. The boat gives a great lurch and I spew up my guts over
the dead fish. My uncle gives me such a buffet that I knock my head against the side and
the world goes black.

When I come to myself again, I am lying on a pile of rags and my aunt Johan's face looms
over me, larger than life, as when one is waking from a bad dream. “Sweet Jesus be
praised, “ she cries, “we all thought you were dead!”

So that was death - a blackness from which I was lucky to wake. I remembered now that
when I asked for my mother, I was told, 'Dead and buried in the churchyard.' I pitied her
greatly - her light gone out and her dull body beneath the earth.

I was in the present now, recalling that the men despised me and refused to have me in the
boat with them of which I was glad. Now I saw myself in the past, standing stained to the
elbows in scummy blood and scales, my unskilled hands wielding the sharp knife to chop
the fish head then remove the guts with a sharp pull. The smell of fish was ever linked in
my mind with the terror of death. From first waking till exhausted sleep, I lived in the
miasma of decay.

When Master Campion and his friend Richard Stanyhurst took me in and my fishy cloak
was burned, I truly came from death into life and when, after two happy years, Master
Campion was lost to me, I learned to live in a world of my own - the realm of 'Orpheus
music', though, often enough, when I was reminded of my father's blows - 'sca, sca, sca,
sca'(which later became the sound heralding the thought of the dreaded scaffold) the
rainbow Paradise gave way to darkness and death as I have described.

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I had defined for William Orpheus' loss through fear and now I had found the source of my
own terror. What a fool was Saint Paul with his 'when I became a man I put away childish
things." A memory from my childhood had, to my shame, dogged my whole existence.
Perhaps all men and women carried their past life around with them as a source of torment.

Now I at last knew the reason for my cowardice, that was not to say that my fears
miraculously ceased. It was an uphill task to cleanse my mind of such deep seated panic.
To face my demon was merely the first stage in a long battle.. Nevertheless, the day came
when I realised my nightmares were a thing of the past and only the pain of the stone
troubled my sleep.

From that time, I felt more honest in my discussions with William, which gave me so much
pleasure, for I had been starved of conversation since Henry Peacham left London. I
continued to avoid the subject of magic and began to think of the dangers of this chronicle
I am writing for you, Rob. My greatest hope is that you will return before long and that,
when you have read my story, we may sit together, tear the pages into shreds and consign
them to the safety of the fire. The last thing I wish is that a selfish desire of mine should
put your life in jeopardy. Mall guards my door and I keep my manuscript hidden for even
the ramblings of a mad old man (if they choose to think it so) may lead to prison and the
rack.

I feel a strong obligation that you should know of my gift, which, they say, returns in the
second generation. I could not die happy, thinking that a son of your own might inherit the
two sights unless I urged you to the sympathetic understanding of the perplexities that
beset a young seer. How long-winded I am in my old age now there is little time to correct
my wanderings. Yet I can speak now with ease of 'dying happy' which I will do gladly
when this confession has come safely into your hands.

Some weeks since (time means little to me now) I called in a notary to draft my will. I
could not venture forth myself, the most I can do these days is to take a few paces in my
room, bent almost double when the pain takes me. I have made small bequests to the
grandchildren and to Mall who is to have this house and the furnishings in trust against
your return and is afterwards to have a home here for the rest of her days. My
manuscripts are for William Davenant; my small library for Henry Peacham and for you
Rob, as I have already said, the post of King's lutenist. You are also to have my lute, my
Orpheus book, from which your son may learn to play as I have done, my story and my
most precious possession, the miniature of your mother. How these secrets are to be
transferred to you I have not yet decided. I do not wish to contemplate the thought that I
may not be able to give them into your hands myself. Your mother's letter, now almost in
shreds, I wish to be buried with me. You will know its contents when you read this story
and it is too private for other eyes.....

Since Fulke Greville took William away from me, the long days are dreary. Did I not tell
you how it happened? My pupil set some of Sir Philip Sidney's poems to music and played
them pridefully to his master, who thought the lessons had shown so much benefit that
there was no further need to waste money on them.

William came one last time to bid me farewell. “It is really because when he sent to ask
you the future of Warwick Castle, you refused. I did not know that you told fortunes.
Please, Doctor Dowland, tell me what my future will be.”

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“That was a boyish trick, “ I said, dismissing the notion. And then I thought that I myself
would wish to know of William's future life. I told him to play the fantasia of Don Luys
Milan, sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. In perfect peace, Apollo be praised, the
pictures came. I saw a young man gravely ill and I saw him recovered, his beauty lost. I
saw him scribbling at his desk and then I saw royal masques he had written performed to
great applause with Baby Charles, a dignified figure now, and his young French wife
acting and dancing in them. I saw an older William wearing Ben Jonson's wreath of laurels
on his brow and then I saw him as a soldier, knighted on the field of battle. I saw him a
prisoner in the Tower.....then the vision faded and I woke to see William's enquiring eyes.

To his questions I gave only the happiest answers. Why burden him with troubles to
come? I was delighted to know that he would have the success at the English court that
had been denied to me. Perhaps even in the Tower, he might, like Sir Walter Raleigh,
compose a great work. I felt he would achieve more as a poet than as a musician, enjoying
great worldly success. Would he become an Orpheus in name only, as my flatterers had
once given me that title? Time had run out for me to achieve more with my pupil, as in my
own case.

“I will make you a promise, Doctor Dowland, “ said William. “When I achieve fame at
court, I shall see to it that 'The Tempest' is revived with your songs and your music so that
you may receive your due at last. Also I will do all I can to learn of the Italian opera of
which you have told me and I will make the most of the talents you have nourished so that
I may do you credit.” I had not told him of the war I foresaw, which would change his life
and thought that he might have to forgo his promises. Never mind, it was enough for me
that he cared to make them and they assuaged to some degree my grief at our parting.

Yet fate had saved one last gift for you, Rob. You, not William, are to be with me to hear
the music of the first Orpheus for which I had waited so long. Only come soon, come
soon.....

~
I have written nothing for several days. I begin to feel weak. When I see you, Rob, I shall
exact your promise that you will never more play the false Orphic hymn. I have foreseen
King Charles's dreadful end which I believe could have been avoided but for the precedent
of Mary Queen of Scots cruel execution. However I would feel a great burden of guilt if I
thought your playing of the false hymn for Charles might have some part in his
misfortunes.

Would that I might read your future but, as I have told you, we cannot 'see' for those we
love and, whatever you may think, I have not ceased to love you, though, all in all, our time
together has been short. To have made a son with Barbara has been the crown of my life. I
know she is now your guardian angel and watches over you and in that I must be content.

~
No strength to hold the pen for some days, yet I have thought the more on how this story
may come safely to your hands. As if he knew my need, Henry Peacham has come to visit
me and together we have made a plan. I now realise that I may not be able to wait for
your coming much as I long to see you once more in this world. Henry knows somewhat of

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the content of these pages and agrees that they are dangerous indeed. As with John
Heywood, an old man's selfishness seeks to impose on a younger one his secrets before
death takes him. Yet I am certain that you and your son to come (or is he with you now?)
will benefit from reading the life of old John Dowland whatever risks to you it contains.

~
This is the plan. With my lute, I will leave a message with old Mall that you must not delay
to visit our old friend in Dublin. You will know that John Forster is the friend I mean. On
my death, Henry will cross the Irish Sea carrying the rest of your inheritance - this
manuscript, the Orpheus book and your dear mother's miniature. John has a safe place I
know where he hides his most secret papers and, as a good friend, he will keep your
inheritance safe until you come for it. I shall be eternally grateful to Henry for promising
to undertake this dangerous task.

Now he and Mall, one on each side of the bed, tell me I must sleep and tire myself no more
with writing.....

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 POSTSCRIPT
Letter to Rob. D. from Henry Peacham, Dublin, February, 1626.

You will set eyes on this missive only when you have obeyed your father's last behest,
passed to you by Mistress Sims, to travel to Dublin to the house of John Forster, whose
name Doctor Dowland would not commit to paper in a message for fear of placing his
friend in jeopardy.

Mine has been the task, gladly undertaken, of bringing the rest of your inheritance to your
father's old friend for safe keeping. You do not know me except perhaps by sight and we
shall have no opportunity to meet in the future for, truth to tell, I have no wish to better our
acquaintance and shall make it my business to avoid your company.

Though my dear friend, Doctor Dowland, has not once complained to me of your
behaviour, from what I know of you as his son (and good Master Forster has told me
much) your father had little comfort from you in his lifetime.

I speak as a schoolmaster and, as if you were my pupil, let me hold up a mirror in which
you may see your true self.

From birth, you had the opportunity of the best musical education possible (save that of
receiving it from your father's hands) and it bore no fruit. Next, you were enabled to live in
the rich household of your true mother, whose happiness was blighted when your
thoughtless behaviour took you from her. You wasted your time when you were given
places at school and University, which cost your father dear, and, later, you fell into a
profligate way of life, sinking so low as to steal from your parents, as I learned from your
father's faithful servant, who also told me how he had to buy your freedom from arrest,
giving up a prized possession to do so. He sacrificed his career for you and, at a time when
he was sick with worry, you took yourself abroad, not answering one of his many letters
over the years. There you traded on his name and fame and wrought much harm.

Yet your father still longed to see you and to share with you the divine experience to fulfil
which had been his life's ambition. It was a bitter disappointment to him when he realised
that his strength would not hold out until your coming and he then did me the great honour
of inviting me to be with him when he looked at last on the picture of Orpheus and,
through his magic, heard the true music of his revered hero. To the end, he thought of you
and was prepared to spend his last strength for his son in committing to tablature the music
he heard, though his poor fingers were so weak he had to entrust his lute to me for the
opening ceremony.

I helped him from his bed to the great chair where I had seen him ensconced so often, the
writing board I made him bearing music manuscript paper and the precious book, which he
has willed to you, open at the picture of great Orpheus himself. Your father pronounced
the invocation in an almost inaudible voice, then begged me to play softly the Fantasia of
Don Luys Milan, which I had heard from him so often that I had it by heart. Whether
through weakness or intent, his head drooped to the page so that his face and that of the
pictured Orpheus lay side by side.

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Now we prepared ourselves to share the long vigil. By this time, it grew dark and I sat on
a stool beside my dear friend, listening to his breathing.....

The next thing I knew, dawn was lightening the sky...... To my shame, I had slept. I
listened hard, but the breathing had ceased and I knew I was alone in the room. Gently, I
raised your father's head, his eyes closed as they always were when he listened to music. I
held a mirror to his lips though I knew well that it was too late for that. Through my
weakness, I had betrayed his trust when my task was to be ready with pen and inkhorn as
soon as he was wishful to record.

I then leaned back his head against a pillow, surveying his face for the last time. As if by a
miracle, all the deep-etched lines had been smoothed from his brow and in every respect he
seemed to resemble the pictured Orpheus but that his lips were parted in a smile of
ineffable wonder and delight. I knew then that he had fallen asleep hearing the music of
the first Orpheus and that his life, so full of disappointments in this world, had come to a
peaceful ending with divine strains kept for his ears alone...

I can bring myself to write no more, so end with my signature,

Henry Peacham,

proud to have been a friend to the revered Doctor John Dowland.

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