I see a mouse catch the cat,
Fie, man, fie:
I see a mouse catch the cat,
And the cheese to eat the rat,
Thou hast well drunken, man,
Who’s the fool now?
‘Martin said to his Man’
Popular ballad
As soon as we reach Tregarrick, I send Mark to see the Reverend Hitch.
‘Tell him the man in need of a guardian angel wishes to see him.’
Hitch’s greeting is succinct: ‘Leave immediately. Grosse tells anyone who’ll listen that England’s ills are all the fault of the Catholics. Did you know he accuses you of having ruined the weavers? And of being hand-in-glove with Lord Cockayne? You have friends, while Grosse has hardly any. But too many people are on the brink of ruin, and the first man to recognise you will have you arrested to get his hands on the fifty-pound reward. Everything is in place for your dispatch. Guardian angels have their limits; I can’t see to everything. Your best course would be to leave England just as you came.’
‘But…’
‘I was talking about you to a gentleman of the region. Someone who has no particular affection for you, but who nonetheless is of the opinion that you have been shamefully robbed. He believes a gentleman has a duty to defend himself always. So get away quickly, now, before you are set upon and clubbed to death – Grosse’s life will be all the easier once yours is at an end. Can you trust your people?’
My tenant Hugh is listening to our interview, and starts at this.
‘Good Lord, Reverend! No one will betray Master Tregian. We could have no better master. Grosse doesn’t even know this property belongs to “Master Tregarrick”, as we call him here.’
I sweep Hitch’s question aside with a wave of my hand.
‘Tell me what is happening with the weavers?’
‘Nothing that isn’t happening elsewhere in England. The sheep are sheared, the wool is spun, cloth is woven and it stops there. No one will buy the stuff – it is forbidden to buy it unfinished, and the skills to dye it properly are lacking. The region is ruined.’
‘I’ve heard Master Grosse myself,’ says Hugh. ‘He says the weavers have no work because you led them astray.’
‘They had no work anyway, when I first convinced them to take up weaving.’
‘That’s what one of them said in reply. Master Grosse is greatly disliked in Grampound. People refuse him the slightest service. One of his men ventured to object in harsh terms, recently, and was promptly thrown into the criminals’ dungeon. But alas, Grosse has the Sheriff in his pocket.’
I can hear no more.
‘I should like you to compensate those weavers who paid for their looms out of their own pockets,’ I tell Hitch.
I hold my purse out to him. All the coin I possess.
‘No one expects you to do that, sir!’
‘I’ve heard a great deal from people about honour, my whole life long. And about the sanctity of my word as a gentleman, which remains sacred even when it pains me to keep it. I promised these people a prosperous living, and look what has happened.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Perhaps. But try explaining that to Little John in his thatched hovel. I gave him my word. It’s up to me to do something to make amends for this vile business.’
Reverend Hitch takes the purse, fixing me all the while with his limpid gaze.
‘I have often heard talk of your family from my older parishioners. People respected your grandfather; his only fault is generally held to be the raising of a fine young squire who paid heed to his soul rather than his properties, and left his tenant farmers at the mercy of Carey and Grosse. Lately, people have been saying you are your grandfather’s worthy successor, and that perhaps you are quite unlike your father.’
‘I make a point of being as unlike him as possible, and I’m honoured that people here compare me to my grandfather.’
‘I will do my best to distribute your money, Master Tregian. I fear it will come too late for many people. And I will keep the rest for you. You will have need of it soon enough.’
Believing I still had time, I lingered. But I was being watched. And I was arrested. A Cornishman in desperate straits recognised me and alerted the authorities. But I was not seized in Cornwall.
Before leaving England, I determined to go to London one last time. I would be harder to find there, I thought. I even agreed to take the precautions I had been advised. Reverend Hitch ‘lent’ me his housekeeper’s son: the lad knew every pannier-lane in the region – deep, hollow trails most often taken by foot-travellers with an occasional pack mule, to move from one village to the next. Being very little used by the heavier carts, they remain grassy and are far less muddy than the main highway. It was unlikely I would be looked for on them, whereas the bridle-paths were riskier, being laid out for travellers on horseback. And so we left Cornwall, taking a circuitous route northward to throw off any potential pursuers.
It took us a good ten days to reach Clerkenwell. I had come to warn my family and consult with Treswell, but I was unprepared for what I found on my arrival.
My brother Charles had returned from Belgium, decided that it was time for him to take charge of our family’s affairs: I was irresponsible, unreliable, a virtual criminal. He had won over our mother, doubtless because he expressed himself in terms similar to those used habitually by our father.
‘Have you never heard of the Cornish law forbidding the eldest son to sell family property without the consent of his younger brother?’
‘It is a custom, not the law. Besides, you were not here to consult.’
‘How could you relinquish Rosmondres to escape prison?’ He had lost none of his hollow bombast. ‘“Death, not surrender!” That’s what our officers told us when we were cadets, and what we told our cadets when we became officers.’
‘But we’re not in barracks here, dear brother, and things are rather more complicated.’
Objection was useless. Only my sister Elizabeth supported me. My mother, my sisters Catherine and Sibyll, and above all the Stourtons – of whom there were many – all agreed with Charles. The Arundells were consulted and showed polite interest but refused to become involved – they had more than enough on their hands; the more distant branches of the family, such as the Chandoses, merely assured the Tregians of their warm regard and affection.
I shall never know whether I was betrayed by one of my own, or caught by the long arm of Grosse and his men.
It has even occurred to me at times that my brother and mother viewed me as any other debtor, and had me seized in order to recover ‘their’ property. I never had occasion to talk the business over calmly with either one of them.
My first memories of prison life are fragmented shards. As fate would have it, I was alone in the house in Holborn when they came for me. I was taken by surprise and offered no resistance. My arrest attracted no attention.
I had not a farthing on me and was thrown into the common gaol as a result – but even this was a better fate than being fed to the poor wretches in the beggars’ hall, akin to the sixth circle of Hell, or clapped in irons and thrown into the dungeon.
It took my friends several days to locate me. Days that turned my vision of the world, and life, on its head.
Until then, I had taken scant account of my noble origins, and felt no guilt engaging in activities that might have been deemed beneath me. I had led a frugal, not to say Spartan life, owning only the bare essentials – simple lodgings, and as many horses as were needed, no more. I had two swords and two pistols, as a precaution. But I had always eaten adequately, and been served.
In those few days, I was deprived of everything. You might say that a few days is nothing. But at the time, it felt like an eternity: I lived through each day with no knowledge of when it would all end. I felt I was cut off from the world forever. I didn’t know that only the Warden of the Fleet was authorised to receive prisoners and allocate them a lodging. In his absence, I was kept where I could be most easily watched (with the exception of the dungeon).
English debtors were less well provided-for than their Roman counterparts. In ancient Rome, the debtor became his creditor’s slave: he had a duty to work for him, but was protected against violent or abusive behaviour, and was fed and housed by his master. Nowadays, in our own country, a debtor locked up in the Fleet is a lost soul, to be released only once his debt is acquitted. His continued presence in gaol is often, then, his creditor’s only hope, albeit a vain, not to say absurd hope, in most cases. Because once in prison, most debtors have no means of acquiring money. Declaring a man an insolvent debtor and placing him under arrest is an excellent way to be rid of him without the bother of executing him.
Once under the Warden’s authority, I became the living token of my debt, and the Warden was responsible for my fate. If I managed to escape, or went missing, he was personally liable for the amount I owed. He was obliged to produce me on demand, and to ensure I answered every summons to court.
For the truly destitute shut up in the beggars’ hall (often for a debt of two or three shillings), the conditions were so appalling that they often paid with their lives, dropping like flies from hunger, cold and the lack of air, collapsing one on top of the other in the filth. Things were a little better in the common gaol, but at a price: our lodgings cost us eight pence a day.
Prisoners of means – like my father – could pay more to enjoy their own apartment and receive their families.
My arresting officers hurl me into the common gaol and leave.
I am well dressed, with no appearance of poverty. Though my sword is taken from me, I still have my daggers, which I clutch in my pockets as I enter, while a pack of murderous-looking men move slowly towards me, forming a circle. Fortunately, I have been careful to maintain my skill at arms.
‘Sire,’ croaks one, stepping forward and removing an imaginary hat with a sweep of his arm.
‘Leave me in peace!’
‘You pays for your peace in here, my little Lord.’
‘Let’s have that purse,’ says another.
‘Is it forthcoming or must we fetch it ourselves?’ says a third.
It has been a while since I have found myself in such company – once or twice, on my travels. My height, agility and skill at arms have always ensured I kept the upper hand. For a moment I am tempted to let them have their way. They would strip me of all I have, kill me, and so make an end of it.
To die to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub…
‘I’ll have the guts of the first man who comes within reach.’ I speak the words calmly, not moving a muscle, staring the apparent ringleader in the eye. I am confident of my effect. They freeze.
‘Well now, an arrogant little lord is it? Looking to be taught a lesson, is it?’ brays someone behind me. Finding myself near a pillar, I fling my back against it, still clutching the daggers in my pockets.
‘Arrogant, says who? I’ll show you a lesson all right.’
A curious silence follows my declaration, stated evenly, without boastfulness, as a matter of fact.
A phrase of Archduke Albert’s runs in my head:
‘Master Tregian, you are a born leader of men. You have a rare authority over others, when you choose to exercise it. Indeed, you can dissuade an adversary with a single look.’ Go to it, Francis Tregian. No sleep, nor dreams for you.
‘Better my friend than my enemy, believe me. When I strike, I hit home.’
‘Ha! All the fine gentlemen say that! Proving it’s another matter.’
‘Approach if you dare.’
The man takes a step forward. I aim a kick at his gut, not too hard – I do not intend to injure him. One sharp, precise kick is the ideal; with skill, the assailant won’t see it coming, and may even feel he’s been knocked backward without being touched. The crowd is duly impressed. One man takes out a knife.
I draw one of mine.
‘Will you have the measure of me?’
I step forward, still within protective reach of the pillar, keeping my eye on him all the while.
They all step back, in complete silence. I have won. They would never leave me in absolute peace, but I have instilled fear, and they will think twice before approaching me now.
Towards evening, people begin pouring into the gaol: prisoners who have been allowed out for the day. Among them is a priest arrested for entering the country under cover. He has spent the day out and about in London, officiating at Mass. He has done the same for several years, he assures me.
‘One day, they’ll drag me to Tower Hill or Holborn, and I will be hanged. Meanwhile, I’m making myself useful. I see you have gained acceptance already. That’s a rare thing.’
He shares a crust of bread with me, and a gourd of water, and offers to share his straw mat, which I refuse. It is too small – and I have no intention of sleeping.
The din continues with nightfall. If anything, it grows louder still. For all that it is difficult to get free of the Fleet once incarcerated, visitors to the prison enter and leave as through an open barn door. In one corner, a group plays at cards and dice; a fight breaks out, to a round of blasphemous oaths. Elsewhere, whores at every stage of decline and drunkenness strive to earn a coin or two from the unfortunate inmates. Vile couplings end in shouts and curses. I even see people creeping into the Fleet to hide – the ultimate paradox. I am approached and defied once or twice. I stare them down, and then another inmate will pull the reckless challenger’s sleeve, whispering something in his ear, until he backs off and goes on his way.
I feel sure that if I should sleep, I shall wake stripped bare as the day as I was born. But even in monastic silence, I would have found it hard to sleep. I must escape my predicament. But how? I spend hours making calculations. The Tregarrick income is meagre; enough for me, but no more. In any event, I cannot return to Cornwall. I am too tall to pass unnoticed or disguise myself. My Dutch monies are substantial, but everything is invested. And my Cornish properties have been sequestered. There is the Devon property… A wave of nausea overwhelms me. Have I still not understood? I am here because someone wishes to be rid of me. Selling more property, paying more money, would serve no purpose at all. The irony of it! I, who have found it so hard to accept my father, have suffered exactly the same fate. But my father had the benefit of his devout faith, the absolute certainty that his sufferings would earn him a choice corner of Paradise. I have no such powerful antidote.
‘You’re not asleep?’ It is the priest.
‘No. I’m contemplating the scale of the disaster.’
‘May I be of some help?’
I need help, but have no desire to confide in him.
‘You might perhaps go to a woman of my acquaintance, and tell her that her harpsichord player is here.’
I give him Miss Hutchinson’s address, and hope I am not making a terrible mistake.
He leaves early the next morning. I spend the day without food or drink: meals have to be paid for, water, too. No one knows me well enough to grant me credit. No one challenges me. No one pays any attention to me at all. The Warden’s Men – known to all as ‘bastons’ – make their rounds among us. I say nothing, and no one asks anything of me.
At length, I make out a quiet group of men next to a barred window. I approach them. Their corner is cleaner and better kept than the rest of the vast hall. Here I find a handful of tradesmen and one or two recusants; they have joined forces above and beyond any religious differences to try to preserve some dignity. One man lies on a straw mat, staring empty-eyed at the roof. I sit beside him.
‘Are you taken ill?’
‘No. I was imagining… The detail is unimportant. A life without debt, at any rate.’
‘Do you owe a large sum?’
‘Fourteen pounds.’
‘You’re here for fourteen pounds?’
‘You’re a gentleman. Fourteen pounds is nothing to you. But I’m a poor cloth finisher. It would take me a year to earn as much – assuming I can get work. I hope I die soon, so that my wife may remarry and my two sons will have enough to eat, perhaps to purchase an apprenticeship. They will bless poor Peter Osborne who had the good sense to leave quietly. And you, what do you owe?’
I feel almost ashamed.
‘Three thousand pounds.’
He stares at me, and manages a faint, pale smile.
‘Ten shillings, fourteen pounds, three thousand pounds. It’s all one. In here, you’re a mere token of debt, like me. Die, and your debt dies with you.’
The priest returns late. I am anxious and restless.
‘What news?’
‘I have seen Mistress Hutchinson. She says to be patient.’
He unfolds a square cloth and I cannot help but smile. It is a strip of woollen drape from the house of Ardent.
‘She has sent your supper.’
‘For us to share, Father.’
‘For us to share, Master Tregian.’
‘She told you my name.’
‘No, I discovered it elsewhere. I am an admirer of your family, Master Tregian.’
I make no reply. What can I say to people who think, inevitably, that my ideas are my father’s, that I would have behaved as he had and be suffering the same consequences as him, for the same reasons?
Over the days that follow, I make some semblance of existence for myself in the recusants’ corner, with the priest’s help. To stave off my anxiety and dread, I teach them some Italian madrigals, and we arrange them for our own voices. The result is by no means perfect, but it makes a welcome distraction from our troubles.
Mistress Hutchinson comes at last, early one morning. I have lost count of the passing days. I have been wearing the same clothes since I arrived, I am unshaven and have hardly eaten, despite the entreaties of my companions in misfortune. Mistress Hutchinson’s expression of horror, when she recognises me, comes as no surprise. She hurries to where I stand.
‘Come no nearer, I beg you. I’m covered in lice.’
She sweeps my protest aside with a brusque wave of her hand, rushes toward me and holds me tight in her arms.
‘What harm is that? You’re alive; the rest can be remedied.’
‘My children,’ the priest interrupts. ‘Step behind that pillar – you’ll be more comfortable.’
The priest’s attentive concern and Mistress Hutchinson’s presence overwhelm me. Out of sight behind the pillar, I weep like a child.
Mistress Hutchinson and I have maintained a somewhat distant relationship, even in our private moments. Now, for the first time, she abandons her reserve, covering with me kisses and caresses, whispering sweet words. I have need of these even more than food. She knows it. I have never called her May until this moment. Thenceforth, I would call her nothing else.
‘Why did you say “You are alive; the rest can be remedied”?’
‘Jack came tearing back from Cornwall this morning at dawn. Reverend Hitch had heard there was a plot to assassinate you. The plan was to have you arrested, shut you up in the Fleet, then have you killed in a fight provoked by a man in Grosse’s pay.’
‘But why?’
‘Because Grosse is persuaded the King is a friend to the Catholics. And he’s afraid your properties will be returned to you before he can secure possession of them for good.’
‘And where are Jack and Mark?’
‘Jack is at my house, or rather in your lodgings, packing your things. Mark is bringing Phillips – who begs you not to bargain with the Warden. He knows the Fleet and thinks he can obtain better quarters for you himself.’
‘He’s surely right. I will wait.’
Phillips arrived shortly after, and I was taken out of the common gaol. I met the hateful Alexander Harris – the Warden, back from his travels – but made no attempt to parley with him. Phillips took charge of everything. When I stepped into the apartment he had secured for me, I felt as if I were walking into my own study: Jack had done a fine job. Some of my books were there, with my furniture, my harpsichord and my lute. The windows looked onto the courtyard garden, far from the bowls and rackets yard, which I scarcely heard. There was a separate apartment for my servants.
‘I preferred to place you in the section reserved for Catholics,’ said Phillips. ‘The apartments are more comfortable and there are fewer fights.’
‘My dear Phillips, can we truly be here once more, fifteen years on?’
‘Times have changed, sir, and one way or another, you will not be here for long. You’ll see. But we decided that if you must be here, you might as well live in comfort.’
Still, Phillips had reckoned without the extreme vexation caused me by Sir John Whitbrooke, my immediate neighbour, a recusant thrown into prison for his own stubbornness (he had decided he had no need to pay an admittedly exorbitant fine). He had not come alone, but was accompanied by a whole string of servants, every bit as loud and turbulent as the man himself. Sir John found fault with everything, out of principle.
‘We cannot let Master Harris think we are housed here in palatial comfort. If we show the slightest satisfaction, even indifference to our conditions, he will raise the prices. We must protest day and night.’
And he did just that, supported by his indefatigable valets and friends. Some of the other prisoners did the same – Nicholas Rookwood, for example, who was the son of an old friend of my father. I allied myself to him; prison is no place to forge friendships, but our relations were cordial at least. We discussed music, literature, theology and the law. I found him all the more interesting because he was the only non-Catholic member of a family that was traditionally loyal to Rome. He showed an unshakeable faith in the freedom of each individual to choose his own religion, and he stated his creed unambiguously:
‘Civil power does not and never will have authority over a man’s conscience. Our misfortunes have come about because the ecclesiastical powers have allowed themselves to be drawn into politics and made our consciences the field for battles that have nothing whatever to do with spiritual matters. I have quit my family’s religion for the same reason you have clung to yours: to show my independence of mind.’
Nicholas Rookwood was a skilled swordsman; I spent endless hours fencing with him, between discussions. Music and fencing are the two activities that have always restored my spirits. The guards didn’t like it but we convinced them, with the finely minted coin of our argument, that this was a mere pastime between bored gentlemen.
Phillips suggested that Jack return to Cornwall.
‘I think I can be of more use to you here at the Fleet, sir,’ said Phillips. ‘But I believe you need someone reliable to see to your interests there, too.’
‘I’m willing to go but not for long,’ said Jack. ‘I feel I’m in exile, sir, when I am far from you.’
‘Far from me and far from – what is that charming young woman’s name? Marianne?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He set off. Phillips and Mark divided their time between prison and my London lodgings. My mother visited once or twice, generally escorted by Lord Stourton. They delivered lengthy sermons which I tried hard not to hear.
Elizabeth came almost daily to play music, and sometimes she succeeded in persuading her sisters to come too, though they maintained their habitual reserve. I had them sing villanelles in three voices. After the arrival at the Fleet of Lady Amy Blunt – who had a magnificent voice – we sang four-part madrigals.
I prefer to remember these moments rather than the everyday routine of our lives as prisoners. I tried not to be drawn into the quarrels provoked at every opportunity by Alexander Harris, the bursar Robert Holmes, the porter Henry Cooke (a particularly detestable individual), and the bastons and their inferiors. Truly, Mark was my guard-dog. Phillips had given sufficient guarantees on my behalf, it seemed: a considerable length of time elapsed before anyone demanded money.
I had to bide my time. Justice would not be done. Treswell was viewed with suspicion merely for defending my interests – and not because I was a Catholic. At court, matters of religion had dwindled in importance. Catholics were only of interest there because their religion left them prey to greedy courtiers whose Protestantism was based on shakier foundations than faith alone. Grosse was doubtless sharing my spoils with one such, who made it his business to ensure I was punished with continuing severity. But Treswell was tenacious, and gave me his word that he would defend my family’s interests to the end.
‘Sir,’ said Phillips one evening. ‘Why do you not try to attract the attention of His Excellency Count Gondomar, the Spanish ambassador to the court? Your father is wreathed in the odour of sanctity in Lisbon. They say King James refuses Spain nothing at the moment. He would surely allow you to leave for Madrid.’
‘I am too different from my father, Phillips. Music is my religion; I wouldn’t know how to give proof of a fervent piety I’ve never felt. If I feign religious sentiment, I will fall into another trap, worse than this. At least here I am free to think as I please.’
‘You are too honest, sir, in a world that is not. I’m suggesting an honourable expedient to get you out of here.’
‘But then I should have to play the role expected of me. A proper courtier. I don’t have the strength to live a lie. The end cannot justify the use of all means.’
To my surprise, Phillips’s eyes gleamed with tears.
‘I give thanks to God that you are what you are, sir. Forgive me for saying something that may be disagreeable to you, but, in your unflinching rectitude, you are a worthy son to your father.’
He saw the expression on my face.
‘Oh to be sure, in his place you would have moderated your stance, made amends and small concessions to save the core of the estates; you would have taken your family’s material interests into account, where he made not the slightest provision and thought only of himself. But where you do stand firm, you are quite as intransigent as he. Allow me to give you a piece of advice, sir.’
‘Go on, my dear Phillips.’
‘Devote yourself to an occupation, while you wait for something to happen. Your father learned seventeen languages. Do anything, but do not become listless. In prison, those who break are those incapable of occupying themselves.’
‘Thank you Phillips. Tell me, despite our financial difficulties, do we have fourteen pounds at our disposal?’
‘Easily, sir. We are only paupers when it comes to dealing with the Warden. You are not rich, sir, but you have enough to live comfortably.’
‘Well then, by whatever means you may, see to it that the debt of a certain Peter Osborne is paid – a cloth finisher in the common gaol. Once he has been released, give him another twenty pounds to set him off on the right foot.’
Phillips was doubtful, I could read it in his eyes, but he did as instructed, without comment. Osborne was released, never knowing that it was I who had secured his freedom. Only afterwards did Phillips tell him about my ‘extreme kindness’.
‘The men of his trade were very pleased to see him again,’ he said. ‘He is esteemed as a hard-working artisan. A shame that the cloth trade is in such dire straits, and that the lack of finishing workshops prevents him from exercising his skill.’
‘There’s still no one setting them up?’
‘No, sir. People talk of reverting to the old system. No one will invest in activities under His Majesty’s direct control. Millions have been sunk into such schemes – and lost, sir. The experience has left many feeling very bitter. And the King’s new Merchant Adventurers are incapable of organising exports as their predecessors did.’
‘Even if they do revert to the old system, it will take more than good intentions to persuade the Dutch drapers to lift their ban on the purchase of English cloth.’
In fact, thanks to my communications with Holland, I knew that alternative solutions had been found. More cloth was being woven there and also imported from northern Europe. Like so many others, Ardent and van Gouden ceased trading with England.
I throw myself into my music. I begin by getting my scores into a sort of order, with a system of classification. I add the occasional new piece to my collection, having hired a skilled music copier to help me in my task. But – alas! – it is difficult to keep up to date without travelling. I am sure that Monteverde has written new madrigals, for example.
One day, a side panel splits on my virginal. I send Mark to find a joiner. He is already out in the passageway when an idea occurs to me:
‘Mark!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Try and find Master Giles Farnaby, if you can. The Guild of Virginal Makers, or the Joiners and Ceilers, will have his address.’
He returns with a fine, tall young man of about twenty.
‘My respects to you, Master Tregian. I am Richard Farnaby. My father regrets he is unable to come straight away. Meantime, he has sent me to inspect the damage.’
From that day forward, the Farnaby family adopt me as one of their own. Giles spends innumerable evenings at the Fleet and brings astonishing music with him. I know some of the pieces from earlier versions, but he has made great progress. His technique is sometimes limited but he has turned the handicap of a life spent making furniture and instruments rather than studying music (as Bull or Byrd had been able to do) to his advantage: he achieves his greatest heights when he disregards every rule of musical composition. Strangely, his music puts me in mind of Monteverde. The pieces he brings are the product of a mastery of melody I have seldom seen, before or since. His is a bold, spontaneous genius, with an enviable, palpable ability and generosity of spirit. He attends one of our madrigal gatherings and, a few days later, brings me a remarkable fantasia inspired by that same evening. Effects of echo, melodic sequences, experiments in rhythm, delightfully graduated figures, a finale in the style of a toccata and a magnificent cadenza to finish, with a double flourish I would never have dared contemplate. A masterpiece, which I copy straight down and include in my repertory of scores. Giles had the art of transforming an invariably exquisite melody into a free-moving counterpoint, that passes almost insensibly from the left hand to the right, and so fills the whole piece. When I play it now, my fingers fly from one end of the keyboard to the other and my soul rises to unexplored regions, far from the travails of this life.
I found Giles’s pieces more appealing than Gibbons’s, and at times more daring than Master Byrd’s. Richard composed, too. I especially liked his way of treating counterpoint. He was less inspired than his father but he was young, and Giles had not been so accomplished at his age.
The Farnabys were the last musical discovery of my first life, and one of the finest I ever made.
Phillips watched over me with paternal care. His blond hair had paled while not turning completely white, and deep lines furrowed his temples and brow; but like all those who are lucky enough to keep their teeth, he had a youthful look, accentuated by his upright, lean figure. It touched me to think that he had taken care of me forty years before. I saw him as he was then, on our flight from Cornwall, helping me as a small boy out of the basket in which I had made the journey. I remembered his strong, protecting arm, somewhere in Devon or Dorset, while my mother gave birth to my sister Margaret. And I thought of the devotion he had showed my father. Now he was watching over me, displaying not the least sign of weariness. On the contrary, he was full of energy and useful ideas, endlessly coming and going. I had always declared that I couldn’t live without Jack by my side, and it was true that I missed him at times. But in my current situation, Phillips was indispensable. I felt a truly filial affection towards him.
He bargained with Harris for an exit pass – a right as old as the Fleet itself, allowing a prisoner to leave the building with a guard specially appointed for the purpose. Some prisoners were even allowed out alone, provided they left an adequate deposit with the Warden.
Phillips arranged just such a thing, furnishing Harris with a paper of no value whatsoever, but cleverly drafted so that the poor man was convinced it entitled him to the equivalent of three thousand pounds.
‘Do you not think Master Harris will see it’s quite worthless?’
‘I do not, sir. I have made sure that he if makes enquiries, he will be amply satisfied. I hope we shan’t be forced to disappear without the necessary preparations. But I would advise you all the same to leave nothing you value at the Fleet – we may be forced to leave suddenly. The opportunity may present itself at any moment…’
‘What opportunity, my dear Phillips?’
‘I hope sir will forgive me for saying no more at the moment. I have an idea but it needs time and the conjunction of a certain number of conditions. No sir, I beg you, ask me no more questions.’
I acquiesced. I had placed my blind trust in this man.
And so I was able to absent myself from the Fleet, almost at will, provided I paid the exit fee and remained in London.
I went frequently to the Farnabys’, where I learned the art of virginal-making. Sometimes, when Giles had to take long journeys in search of the wood needed for his instruments, I would go with him, dressed as his valet – otherwise my name would have been demanded at the city gates and I would have been arrested. I left for weeks at a time, working patiently day after day to make the registers, then the jacks for the registers and the plectrums for the jacks. I learned how to cut the keys and cover them in bone. I watched the artisan making the strings on a kind of spinning wheel. It was intricate work: the metal had to be ‘spun’ to a precise gauge.
Giles and Richard taught me how to build not only virginals – both the version known as a spinet (with the keyboard to the left and the strings plucked as for a harpsichord, a quarter of the way along their length) and the muselaar (with the keyboard to the right and the strings plucked in the middle) – but also harpsichords, which were less widely used but demanded a great deal more work and complex operations in their assembly. I drew on my memories of the long hours spent watching the instrument makers at the Ruckers’, consulted a treatise on the subject and devoted myself to studying the instruments’ architecture. When I wasn’t working with the Farnabys or singing with my sisters and the ladies of the Fleet, I busied myself with setting my madrigals in order. I no longer had Jack to help – he imitated my hand to perfection – and so copied everything out myself. What with one thing and another, I often worked for eighteen, even twenty hours in a day.
I had a horse, as did Mark, and often stayed with May, only returning for a few nights at the Fleet, intermittently.
I stopped thinking constantly about myself, my problems and miseries. I thought only of music, playing music and musical instruments. I visited the shops of music publishers and printers, who sold the pieces I had collected sometimes fifteen or twenty years earlier. And I added to my own collection with extracts from some of their pieces, too.
On occasion, I took my sisters to sing at gatherings in Catholic homes. We were much talked about; our performances, too.
A musician borrowed some Monteverde scores from me, then informed me eight days later that they were un-singable. I offered to conduct his singers and explained the particular technique of seconda pratica. The madrigals were sung and the musician declared it a miracle. News spread and people came seeking my advice, inviting me to conduct their consorts. Through music, I re-established a contact of sorts with the world. Thanks to music, I forgot my troubles. Cornwall faded from my thoughts. Such is the human mind: we wipe the slate of memory clean, almost at will.
It was then that word reached me of my sister Mary’s death. The news left me almost indifferent at the time. Only little by little did I feel a sense of sorrow, steeped in memories of our childhood.
I took little part in the turbulent life of the Fleet, but I agreed to join an action I thought just and which involved a number of prominent prisoners, both Protestant and Catholic, at the suggestion of one of the most active Catholic inmates, Edmund Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne was a gentleman who declared to anyone who would listen that he was indeed a Catholic but that this was not the reason for his incarceration: he was at the Fleet because his brother had accumulated debts of fifteen thousand pounds. To enable his family to continue going about their business despite this terrible handicap, one of the brothers had to agree to shoulder the debt, and go to the Fleet. It had fallen to Edmund to do so.
He had not gone quietly to this sacrifice but had brought with him his wife, children and servants. He was gifted with remarkable charm, and quickly succeeded in persuading Harris – God alone knows how – to vacate his own apartments and make way for the household. After a while, the Warden sought to recover his lodgings. Chamberlayne wouldn’t hear of it, and held out in Harris’s apartments for at least a year. The enraged shouts of one and the other irritated and amused us in equal measure, becoming the butt of many jokes.
‘Harris is venting his spleen on Chamberlayne, again,’ we commented. Or ‘Chamberlayne’s in fine voice today – Harris is in for it now.’
We totted up the score, like gamblers at a cockfight.
It was Chamberlayne who first hatched the idea:
‘Why pay Harris for our meat and drink? We should stop. He’ll be ruined.’
A new arrival, Sir Francis Englefield, declared immediately that he would take charge of ordering food from a nearby inn, and invited us all to dine at his table.
I was out and about often enough to eat my fill of good food, and had no complaints about the meals at the Fleet. I confess that I’ve never paid much attention to what I eat. If it’s good and tasty, so much the better; if mediocre, I don’t give it a second thought. But the services and board at the Fleet were costly, and other privileges were dealt with a mean hand indeed. Nothing was free of charge. Harris had sub-contracted a number of functions to the bastons, who hoped to make their fortunes at our expense.
Chamberlayne made it known, loud and clear, that he was no longer paying. Others among us went about it a different way. Quietly and calmly, we stated that we would pay – tomorrow. Or next month. Our debts to the Warden mounted up. Finally, I was eighteen months in arrears. Two hundred pounds. Harris threatened to stop my exit passes, and I retorted that, in that case, I would stand little chance of ever getting the money to pay him. Phillips sighed heavily in confirmation of the fact, and on it went.
Harris was especially infuriated by Sir Francis Englefield’s dinner club, and maintained that Sir Francis was robbing him by choosing not to eat meals from the Fleet’s admittedly questionable kitchens. The Warden and his inmates played cat-and-mouse with the steaming dishes of food. We all joined in, and often ate (cold) after hours of to-ing and fro-ing. I found it all greatly entertaining, but the games drove hungry diners to wild exasperation. At such times, they talked of murdering Harris, and he took their threats quite seriously: his had always been a very poor sense of humour.
Sir Francis Englefield was just as loud and vociferous as Chamberlayne, Sir John Witbrooke and others I no longer care to remember. Had I not been able to go out, I believe I would never have slept. The noise was constant, night and day – the breaking-down of doors, the blowing of horns and the beating of drums; shouts and quarrelling without end.
Let no one imagine for an instant that it was possible to accustom oneself to life at the Fleet, even with the freedom to come and go from time to time. The mean-mindedness, coercion, mediocrity and pettiness of the inmates and their factions (we had our Puritans and our Protestants, our Jesuits and our secular Catholics, just as outside in the city), the gossip and promiscuity all made the prison a particular form of torture, gentle but nonetheless real. The Fleet clung to my clothes, insinuated itself into the creases of my skin; and galloping out into the countryside did nothing to rid me of it.
I owe my salvation to Phillips, May Hutchinson’s goodness, the Farnabys and my sister Elizabeth, who worked at her playing like a slave, most often at the Fleet, and to whom I taught everything I knew. Without my many distractions, I hardly dare think what would have become of me. I would have gone mad.
On the few occasions when I stepped outside my world of music and plunged back into the reality of my life’s troubles, such as when my brother Charles came to demand payment for some transaction or other, or when I had to travel to Cornwall to procure funds by selling some small parcel of my remaining land, I sank straight away into the deepest melancholy. No music could reach me then. I felt ready to give up everything, to lie down, turn to the wall, as I had seen so many prisoners do, and let death take me. But it never came to that.
Without hope, one cannot find the unhoped-for: it cannot, by definition, be tracked, and no path leads to it, said Heraclitus. I continued to hope, but for what? I did not know.
And so two, perhaps three years passed – an eternity I prefer to leave under the cloak of silence. Until, at long last, the day came when the opportunity Phillips had been looking for presented itself.