27. David

D AVID Willingale Spain, Essex, 9th June 1613

P HOEBE WESTAWAY KNEW. HE was certain of that. She was clever, she'd figured it out on their third morning there. She had found Esther's book of his poems – the one he had published two years ago, and she'd been reading the sonnets. The fifth one, in particular, had captured her attention. Curled into her chair, she'd read the lines aloud, from when he'd written of his need to tell his ‘soul's felt-pain unto my fairest-fair', until the couplet that did end the poem, wistfully berating his reluctant tongue that could not speak the words he wished to say but had instead betrayed him one more time: ‘Beat back with sighs, yet it returned again, but spake of pleasure when it should of pain.'

And Phoebe lay one hand against her heart as though it pained her, as she raised her head and looked at David. ‘This is very sad.'

‘I was a young man when I wrote it. My emotions ruled my reason.'

‘But she broke your heart, this Celia.'

Esther's husband had been washing the face of their middle son, a boy who might be six or seven years of age and who had taken a great liking to Hector, and could rarely be persuaded to stray too far from the pallet bed in case his new friend should need something while he was healing, or in case the doctor, while on that day's visit, should want something fetched.

With a smile at Phoebe, Esther's husband had remarked, ‘If David ever tells you who she was, you must inform me. I did think I had it figured out once, but I've been reliably informed that I was wrong.'

Phoebe had looked startled. ‘Was her name not truly Celia?'

Esther's husband shook his head. ‘That is only a device. Every poet has his Celia. It is how he masks his true love's name, and guards his private life from prying eyes.'

David had, in that small moment, done something unwise. He'd looked at Esther. She'd been looking at him, too. Their eyes had briefly met, and held, and glanced away.

Her husband had not noticed. Had not seen.

But Phoebe had.

So now she knew.

If she had asked him outright, he'd have told her: Yes, I've only ever loved one woman in my life, and that is Esther Inglis. Yes, I lied and called her Celia in my tales because I feared your father's writings would expose her to great danger from the king. And yes, I love her still.

But Phoebe did not ask.

She let him guard his private life, for which David was grateful. Not that he'd had any private life to guard, of late. He had been fully occupied the first few days with Hector, till the lad's fever had broken and the doctor had allowed that he would live. Hector had each day seemed stronger then, and eaten more, and talked more brightly, leaving David more relaxed and more able to breathe.

The danger was, though, that left space for other feelings.

Which was why he'd come today to stand alone within the quiet church, where no one else could see him. Logan didn't seem to mind it any longer when they weren't in the same room. Perhaps some part of Logan wished that David would forget his oath and seek escape, so Logan would be spared the burden of conveying him to London. But they both knew such a wish would be impossible.

Impossible , Prince Henry's voice said in his mind. He's asking the impossible. I'll not be bought and sold.

His presence seemed so close that David felt for certain if he turned, he'd see the prince within the wide arch of the Norman doorway, striding forwards with that confidence that he'd been gaining daily…

But the doorway remained empty.

David closed his eyes, and filled the emptiness with moving figures. And remembered.

Whitehall, London, Twelfth Night, 6th January 1612

‘He is in love.' Ben Jonson, standing next to David in the semi-darkness of the banqueting hall, watched the prince with knowing eyes. ‘You see the way he looks at her.'

‘Aye,' David said. ‘But it will never be allowed, because the girl is not of royal blood and brings no money to the table, nothing of value to the king.'

The pressure had been growing as the prince approached his eighteenth birthday. Italy, Savoy and France, and others, all had daughters whom they wished to marry to this prince who would, one day, be king of Britain, and King James was keen to turn that fact to his advantage, playing every suitor off against the other in a test to see who would produce the greatest prize.

But Prince Henry had looked keenly at his parents' marriage, with its clouds and arguments, and at the marriage of his young friend Essex, which had foundered on the rocks of infidelity and seemed now past recovery.

‘I'll not be rushed,' he'd said to David. ‘I will take a bride, but she must be of my own choosing. Not a Catholic, either, for the people never will accept her. I will choose a woman I do love – a British woman, for then I'll not have to take a mistress.'

David knew Sir Walter Raleigh had advised the prince to keep his own path for a while, because the world was changing and the prince and his young friends would be the rulers of it one day. Raleigh also told the prince his eighteenth year would be momentous, and there were few people whom the prince admired as much as he did Raleigh.

But before the prince had spoken with his father, he'd asked David, ‘What do you think of the matches they propose?'

‘Honestly?'

‘We're always honest.'

‘I don't think that any of them,' David said, ‘will make you happy.'

With a flash of his broad smile, the prince had thrown his arm round David's shoulders in a quick embrace, and passed into the presence chamber of the king.

The interview had not gone well. Prince Henry had emerged a half hour later with a fierce expression, muttering, ‘Impossible. He's asking the impossible. I'll not be bought and sold.'

That had been midway through December.

Now, as David stood beside Ben Jonson, waiting for the masque to start, he watched the prince's face and felt a surge of nerves.

This masque was, in all ways, not normal. It had been composed at the last minute, on a paltry budget. Inigo Jones had not been hired to make the costumes, nor was there elaborate scenery. And the only actors were the King's Men, with support from a few members of the court. Prince Henry was himself not taking part.

Instead, the prince sat watching in the audience, near to his father.

David felt the tension settle deeply in between them.

He asked, ‘Ben, what did you write?'

‘What he did ask me to. No more.'

The masque had started, then, and there was nothing David could do to prevent it. He watched Cupid take the stage to make complaints about the frivolous and fleeting pleasures of such things as masques. At least, the audience was meant to think that it was Cupid, until another actor entered and, after a lively exchange, revealed him to be an imposter.

‘Does any take this for Cupid? The Love in court?' the audience was asked, and they were then assured that he was not – that it was only Plutus, god of money, who had stolen Love's place. The actor explained how tyrannical Plutus held Cupid confined in the cold while performing the functions that Love had once done in the world, such as friendships. And marriages.

David watched the prince, who was steadfastly looking at his father. And the king was furious. They all could see it.

‘Come, follow me,' the actor said. ‘I'll bring you where you shall find Love.'

And Cupid – the true Cupid this time – entered in his chariot, and sang a song of triumph to show he'd regained his power.

‘Ben,' said David, ‘this was a mistake.'

‘Away with that cold cloud, that dims my light!' sang Cupid loudly.

Ben was looking at Prince Henry, too. ‘You may be right,' he murmured.

As the song built to its final lines, the king's head slowly turned. His eyes held steady on the prince's, but Prince Henry did not look away as Cupid sang, ‘Thou hast too long usurp'd my rites, I am now lord of my own nights.'

If they had both been holding swords, the challenge of that moment could not be more clear.

Prince Henry's nosebleeds had begun not long after that night.

David noticed through the last part of that summer, that the prince's headaches and his faintness seemed to worsen after he'd dined with his father and the Viscount Rochester, but David pushed those dark suspicions back, and put his faith and hope into the prince's doctors, who were seeking different remedies.

In mid-September, Esther sent the prince a special copy of the Psalms of David as a gift to cheer him, in her own fine hand that was admired greatly by Prince Henry's mother.

‘She has such great talent,' said the queen, as she leafed through the pages of the book, ‘and I approve this dedication, for I do agree you are admired by the whole universe, and shine more brightly than all other princes of the Christian world.'

The king had frowned. ‘Is that what she has written? Give it here.' He'd grabbed the book, and read the dedication for himself, and snorted, before handing it back to the queen. And then he had looked darkly at Prince Henry. ‘Will ye bury me, I wonder?'

David hadn't liked the jealous tone in which he'd said that, but again he'd pushed his apprehensions to the side, because the king was yet his king.

And still Prince Henry sickened. Three weeks later, he'd been struck with his last illness.

David never would forget. It had been swift. It had been terrible. It had been hard to watch. And in the end, it stole from him the only son he'd ever known.

He'd done all that Henry asked him, at the last, and all the things that Henry could no longer ask. He'd burned the papers Henry wanted burned. He'd sent the necessary updates to the queen, who broken-hearted, had removed to her own residence to wait for the sad word she knew would come. He'd sat in silence for those final hours with Henry's head against his heart. He'd closed the eyes that had not ceased to hold his own from that first night at Stirling.

But he never would forgive them. And he'd not forget.

The little church at Willingale was ancient, and its nave was straight and plain. It had no aisles, no chapels, and no sheltered corner where a man could kneel and pray in private.

‘David?'

Turning, he saw Esther standing in the open doorway. There was light behind her, and her shadow stretched towards him.

‘David? Are you well?'

He nearly told her that he was. He'd got through these past months that way – by lying, telling everybody he was fine, that he was coping with the loss, that he was learning to get on with life. That it was God's will, after all.

Instead he said, ‘My lad is gone.'

He felt the quick and sudden rush of warmth within his eyes, and then the tears spilled over and he could no longer see her clearly anymore.

‘They killed my lad,' he said. ‘My lad is gone.'

She'd reached him, then. Her arms came round him, giving comfort, and he took it, and his head came down to rest against her hair as he surrendered to the sorrow that had sought him for so long.

David couldn't remember the name of the small lad now standing with Esther – they all had names out of the Bible, it seemed like. This one had come out of the house a few minutes ago and was watching the sun set now over the fields.

It was late for a lad of his age to be out. Esther told him so, but he was stubbornly waiting to see the colours of the sunset. He found it disappointing.

Esther smiled. ‘But wait. For when the sun has disappeared, its dying gift, on leaving us, is to make all that it has touched more beautiful than it had been before, that we may know the sun was here, and hold its memory till we meet with it again.'

And as she promised him, a moment later all the clouds caught fire along their edges in a glorious display that spread across the sky until it seemed there was no corner of it that had not been painted with the glowing light.

Esther told her son, ‘You see? It is not gone.' And looking over her son's head at David, softly said, ‘ He is not gone.'

He let his walls down once again, and let his eyes show her all that was in his heart, and told her, ‘Thank you.'

David stood a little longer in the field after Esther took her son into the house to ready him for bed. He was still standing in the field when Logan wandered out to join him.

‘How is Hector?' David asked.

‘Awake.'

‘He shouldn't be, this late.'

‘Aye, well, ye tell him that,' invited Logan, looking upwards at the sky. ‘Are ye developing an interest in astrology?'

David smiled. ‘No, but I do wonder if Phoebe's father might be somewhere up there now, in some auspicious constellation, gazing down upon us. That is what the ancient Romans thought the stars were, after all. The lights of those we've lost.'

‘I thought they did believe the stars were gods,' said Logan.

‘Not all of them. When Marcus Aurelius lost his wife, he had a special coin cast to let all of Rome know their beloved empress had become a new star in the sky.'

‘Then,' Logan said, ‘I've no doubt Phoebe's father will be up there, too.'

‘He cannot care for her too well, though, from that distance.' David kept looking up, even when he felt Logan's gaze lower to study him. ‘'Twould be a shame if she were left alone.'

‘I will not leave her undefended,' Logan said, ‘but neither will I hurry her. She has just lost her father.'

David nodded. ‘I do understand. I thought I had time, once. I loved a woman, much as you love Phoebe, and I wished to marry her, but…' David nearly said, ‘Another man did ask her first', but no, it was not ever quite that simple. Looking at the stars, he merely said, ‘I missed my chance to ask her. We have but a little time upon this earth, Marcus Aurelius reminds us. If we do not take the chances we are given, they will go, and we will go, and not return.'

The silence stretched, and David could not tell if he'd offended. He hoped not. Then Logan said, in a mild tone, ‘Marcus Aurelius has a lot to say, for a dead man.'

‘Aye.' David smiled. ‘He does. But he speaks truth. And should we live three thousand years, he tells us – nay, ten thousand – still a man cannot lose any life but that he is now living, nor indeed can he live any life but that which he must lose.' It was the simplest, best advice that he could offer in that moment. It had grown colder. Turning from the field, he set his steps towards the house and clapped the younger man encouragingly on the shoulder. ‘Live it wisely, Logan. Live it well.'