Philippa Carr: Witch from the Sea

Court affairs were always of the utmost interest to us, none the less so because, being so far from London, we usually heard of them some time after they had taken place. This distance may well have made us perhaps more reckless than we would have dared be had we lived closer to the Court.

My mother said she had heard that Robert Dudley’s countess was enamoured of her master of horse, Christopher Blount, and there were rumours that Dudley had been murdered by her that she might change husbands.

“Well, he had his first wife thrown down the stairs,” said Penn, “so he can’t complain if his second poisons him.”

Everyone laughed and Romilly said: “Hush, Penn. You must not say such things.”

“Why not, if they’re true?” He was looking at Jake for approval, but Jake said nothing. I believed he was still thinking about those trading ships.

“There is no proof that they are,” said my mother firmly. “Now,” she went on, turning to Edwina, “tell us of the recent rumours.”

Edwina’s stepfather, Lord Remus, had a post at Court and this meant that visitors from London called now and then at Trewynd Grange. Also, Edwina’s mother wrote to her regularly and she consequently had the latest Court gossip and scandal.

“There has, it seems, always been gossip about Robert Earl of Leicester,” she said. “Naturally there would be because of his closeness to the Queen. It is said that she was heartbroken when he died. She will miss him. But I don’t think she ever forgave him for marrying, and it is true that at Court they are saying that the poisoner has died of a dose of his own medicine.”

It was an irresistible subject—the amours of the Court—and one of the most amorous of Court gentlemen had been Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. We talked of poison then. How it was being used more and more effectively. There were so many secrets of the poisoner’s art and many people died mysteriously. Leicester had had a reputation of being an expert in the field.

We all knew the story of the Queen’s passion for him and how his first wife Amy Robsart had died mysteriously. The general verdict was that he had had her put out of the way, and because the Queen was known to be passionately in love with him at the time, she dared not marry him. When Mary Queen of Scots had lost her head at Fotheringay—and that was not much more than a year before—there had been a great deal of talk about the Queen, Amy Robsart and the Earl of Leicester, because Mary had been in a similar position. Her husband Lord Darnley had been murdered and she, Mary, had married the Earl of Bothwell, his murderer. It was said that that was the fatal step that led to Fotheringay. Our own Queen was admired for her astuteness. She had not married Leicester but had kept him hoping and dancing attendance on her. When he, realizing the Queen would never marry him, had married someone else, the Queen had hated Lettice, his wife. Rumour had it that Leicester had even been married before that and in secret to Lady Sheffield and that he had poisoned her husband that he might do so. Then later, when he had wished to be rid of her, he attempted to poison her too.

“Her nails began to wither and her hair fell out,” said Edwina. “The Queen suspected there was some sort of liaison between them and had them watched. It’s strange how she still remained faithful to Leicester in spite of everything.”

“Our Queen is a faithful woman,” said Jake. “An example to you all.”

He looked at my mother who was suddenly silent, remembering I think how not so long ago she was ill and suspected Jake of trying to rid himself of her. How foolish of her! I realized she knew that now.

“Yes indeed,” said my mother. “For she was sorely tried. Leicester hoped for years that she would change her mind and marry him, but she never would. That old scandal would have been revived! How hard it is to live down a scandal!”

“But he did marry the Countess of Essex,” I said.

“And when the Queen heard,” put in my mother, “they say she was heartbroken and she was furious with him.”

“She all but sent him to the Tower,” said Edwina. “But she relented and she has hated Lettice ever since.”

“And now he is dead. Do you really think it was poison that killed him?” I asked.

“With poison one can never be sure,” said Edwina. “If it is true that Lettice was in love with Christopher Blount and that Leicester was trying to poison him and was given one of his own concoctions by his wife …”

“Would that be possible?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed it would.”

Edwina should know. She was descended from a witch. I was never quite sure how far back but her mother was the great-granddaughter of one, I believe. My mother told me she used to tease her adopted sister about it.

Edwina talked of herbs then; for she had built up a big herb garden at Trewynd. She was very interested in the uses of the plants and whenever we were not well we always first asked Edwina if she knew of a cure before consulting apothecaries or doctors.

She had just learned that woodruff was good for the liver and she was working a cure on one of the grooms at Trewynd. Fennimore became quite interested then—far more than he had over the chatter of Leicester’s affairs. In fact I feared he was a little bored by all that.

He said: “You must find something that will cure sailors of their ills on long voyages. Food is a great problem and also keeping sailors healthy. They suffer from terrible diseases—scurvy is one of them. If you could grow a herb that would cure that you would be performing a great service.”

Edwina said she would study the matter, but her herbs were of the simple sort and she merely picked up information here and there.

“It may be the cure is simple,” he answered.

Then he began to talk again of sea and the trade he hoped would come to England.

I watched from my window the rowing-boat take Fennimore Landor out to his ship. As I stood there I heard someone come into my room and, turning, saw that it was my mother.

She came over to the window and together we looked at the carrack out there on the faintly moonlit waters.

“A fine ship,” said my mother. “What did you think of her captain?”

“I thought he was a man with a purpose.”

“There was no doubt of that. It sounded very sensible to me.”

I was pleased and showed it; she looked at me intently.

“I liked him,” she said. “I liked his earnestness. He’s an idealist. And that’s a good thing for a young man to be.”

“This idea of trading,” I said, “how much better than fighting!”

“There will doubtless be fighting involved in it,” replied my mother grimly. “Men never seem to be able to get along without that.”

“Do you think he wants some sort of partnership?”

“I gathered he wanted your father’s help.”

“Do you think he will give it?”

My mother was thoughtful. Then she said: “He might. As a Captain who has been accustomed to see a prize and take it, he will find it a little difficult to adjust himself to legitimate trading, I doubt not. But I fancied he was less sceptical as the hours passed than he had been in the beginning.”

“Shall you persuade him?”

“My dear Linnet, do you think anyone could do that?”

“I think you could.”

“Why, the very fact that I thought it a good idea would make him try to prove it wasn’t. So you liked the captain, Linnet?”

“I thought as you did that he was earnest … serious and dedicated to his plan.”

“If your father joined him in some enterprise doubtless we should see a good deal of him. I discovered where he comes from. Farther along the coast towards Falmouth.”