He had a sharp, clever face; he had lived almost sixty years and a great many experiences had been packed into those years. He had always thirsted after knowledge; and it had become clear to him, at a very early age, that he was an extraordinary man. As a child he had been tormented by the strangest dreams; and he had quickly discovered that, by telling these dreams and putting a plausible construction on them, making a guess at what had a very good chance of happening to some of his acquaintances, he very soon earned a reputation for having supernatural knowledge. He decided to exploit this.
Simon Forman was born at Quidhampton in Wiltshire. His grandfather had been governor of Wilton Abbey but, with the suppression of the Monasteries, was robbed of that post and given inferior employment about the Park.
One of Simon’s early occupations was to compile a genealogical tree which, he insisted, revealed that the Formans were a family of some gentility and that several of his forbears had been knights.
His pride had been deeply wounded in his childhood, for poverty was humiliating to one who was certain that he possessed unusual powers. But he never lost sight of the need for education, and when William Riddout, an ex-cobbler turned clergyman who had fled from Salisbury on account of the plague, came to live near the Forman family, Simon was allowed to take lessons with him.
Simon’s father had the same respect for learning as his son, and had in fact imbued Simon with this desire to improve himself; and when it seemed that Riddout could teach him no more, Simon was sent to a free school in Salisbury.
He had suffered there under a master named Bowle, who had beaten him severely on more than one occasion, so under him Simon lost a little of his desire for learning; but he was a sharp lad and managed to elude whippings more successfully than his fellow students.
Simon was pleased when his father decided to take him from this school and put him into the care of a Canon of Salisbury Cathedral. This man, whose name was Minterne, lived very austerely, and life in his household was sheer misery. There was never enough to eat and in winter the cold was almost unbearable.
Canon Minterne did not believe in self-indulgence and would not have coal in the house, although he did permit a little wood to be used—but not for burning. “Exercise,” he told Simon, “brings more comfort to the body than sitting over fires. If you are cold, boy, do as I do. Take these faggots and carry them up to the top of the house at great speed. When you have reached the top, come down again; repeat this until you are warm. That is the way to enjoy comfort in cold weather.”
The boy had been sorry for himself during his stay in the Canon’s house; but he had to suffer greater misery than that of austere living when his father had died and his mother, harassed by poverty, declared that she had not patience with a boy wasting his time on learning, and Simon must earn his keep now.
What humiliation! He, Simon Forman, the possessor of special powers, to be apprenticed to a dealer of Salisbury; moreover one with a wife who thought it her right to lay about her husband’s apprentices with a stick when the mood took her. He had no intention of giving up his dream of becoming a scholar though, and found a means of doing this. Lodging in the house of his master was a schoolboy, and Simon cajoled this boy into teaching him by night all that he had learned by day.
When he considered himself sufficiently learned to teach others, he ran away from the merchant’s house and became a schoolmaster; he then had a stroke of luck. He made the acquaintance of two lighthearted young men who were studying at Oxford—or pretending to. They needed a servant. This gave Simon his opportunity. While looking after these young men, helping them in their courtship of a certain lady (they were both her suitors, which simplified matters) Simon was able to study at the university—a great asset for future use, even though circumstances prevented his attaining his degree.
He took several small posts at schools after that and, believing that there was more money and prestige to be won by using what he called his miraculous powers than by teaching, he decided to make a career for himself. He studied astrology and medicine and had certain success. It was inevitable though that some should consider him a quack, and he was brought to court to answer a charge of quackery.
When he was bound over on an injunction to cease his practices he went abroad for a while, and on his return set up as a doctor and astrologer in Lambeth. That was in the year 1583. There had been occasions when complaints were made against him, and he was imprisoned for a while; but his reputation was growing; and many wealthy people were coming to him and recommending him to their friends.
Although he was nearly sixty, he was as vital as he had been in his youth; he lived comfortably with several servants to attend to him. The females among them shared his bed whenever he had the fancy to invite them to, which was often—a fact which his wife had found necessary to accept. He was a man who had always been very fond of women—his clientele was largely made up of this sex—and it was a great pleasure to him to hear of their love affairs, their need to attract this lover, or rid themselves of that. He enjoyed a vicarious delight, of which they were not aware, as they sat in this darkened room and allowed him to peer into the secret places of their minds.
It was remembered in some of the poorer districts of London that during times of plague he had come where no other doctor had ventured, and that his remedies had saved many lives. So that he had his followers among the poor as well as the rich.
The authorities might despise him, and from time to time bring him before the justices. They might call him a charlatan and a quack with little knowledge of medicine. Simon would laugh.
“I look to the stars,” he retorted. “They tell me all I want to know about disease.”
He was vain and longed for the approbation of the world, and like most men of his trade he made long and frequent experiments in search of the philosopher’s stone; and because now and then his prophecies came true, like many of his kind and those who followed him, he remembered such occasions and conveniently forgot the many times he failed.
“I came to my present position the hard way,” he often told one of the maids whose young bodies kept him warm at night, “and that is the best way, my dear; for when a man has experienced hardship and opposition on his long climb upward he is ready for any contingency which presents itself.”
Now a rather intriguing contingency was about to present itself. Frances Howard, Countess of Essex, was on her way to see him.
Frances was overawed by the character of the room into which she was ushered. She was even more impressed by the man in his long black robes—decorated with colorful cabalistic signs—which gave a glimpse of blood-red lining as he moved toward her.
“Do not be afraid, my daughter,” he said.
“I am not afraid,” answered Frances.
“Call him ‘Father,’” whispered Anne Turner.
And strangely enough, so impressed was Frances that she did.
Jennet remained standing by the door, her eyes wide with wonderment.
“Be seated,” said Simon Forman.
Frances sat in the chair which was offered her; and Simon placed a crystal ball in her hands. Then with long bony fingers he himself threw back her hood.
Her beauty was startling in this dark room. Even Simon was astonished. His tongue licked his lips. What kind of man is this who needs to be wooed by such a beauty? he asked himself.
His expert eye saw there was more than beauty to this girl. Fire, passion, desire … and all directed toward one who was not eager for it.
He could bless his daughter Anne for bringing her to him.
He rubbed his hands together. Now he was going to uncover a spicy strip of Court scandal. He would have the pleasure of brooding on that—and counting the money it would bring him. This one could be considerably milched, he doubted not, for she was young, inexperienced and very eager in her desires.
“My daughter,” he said, “tell me all as clearly as you can.”
So Frances once more told of the unfairness of her marriage, of her dislike for her husband, of her love of another; and how it was imperative to her happiness that she be rescued from a position which was intolerable to her.
“Can you help me … Father?” she asked.
He laughed lightly. “It does not seem to me to be an impossible task, Daughter. First, there is the young man whose affections are cooling. We can give you a potion to strengthen his ardor. His affections, you say, cooled when your husband returned. Shall we say he is a man who has a horror of being involved in scandal?”
“You could say that.”
“Well then, our first task should be to work on your husband. We must find a means of cooling his ardor. Then if he is less anxious for your company, your lover will be less afraid. That will make it easier for us to work on his feelings.”
Frances clasped her hands. “Oh, I am sure you are right.”
“Then we will first work on the husband. Can you arrange that a powder be slipped into his food without his knowing?”
Frances hesitated. “He is surrounded by his servants. But I might manage it.”
Simon nodded. “H’m. We will brood on this matter. It may be that we can use some influence to make you life less difficult. But our first step is to give you the powders. These are costly to prepare.”
“I know … I know. I am ready to pay.”
“Mrs. Turner has explained?”
“Yes.”
“And she is no longer a rich woman. She has given up much time and thought …”
“I am ready to pay you both whatever you ask.”
“You must forgive my insistence, Daughter. We must live while we retain our earthly guise. You know Mrs. Turner, my dear daughter; she will be your confidante. And when necessary she will bring you to me. It would not be wise for you to pay too many visits to me; but why should you not enjoy a friendship with Mrs. Turner? She is a lady, like yourself, although not of such high rank. You will have much in common.”
“Thank you,” said Frances gratefully.
Two little phials were given to her. “Put the contents of these into his food, and we will see what is the result. I would have you remember that we are dealing with a difficult problem. There may be no results at first; particularly as you may have some difficulty in administering the powders. But we will not despair. I promise you, my daughter, that in time you will have your desire. I repeat … in time.”
Frances went away satisfied. She had been greatly impressed by both Mrs. Turner and Dr. Forman.
When she had left, Simon wrote in his diary: “The Countess of Essex came today. She is desirous of ridding herself of her husband that she may marry a certain gentleman in a very high place at Court.”
Robert Devereux faced his father- and mother-in-law. He was pale and there was a determined line about his jaw.
“I believe I have been patient,” he said, “but I cannot remain so. Your daughter simply refuses to live with me as my wife. I must ask you to speak to her and to tell her that, although I have waited so long, I am not prepared to wait any longer.”
The Earl and the Countess exchanged glances.
This, implied the Earl, is what comes of allowing the girl to live at Court. She should have remained in the country until her husband came to claim her. Then she would have been willing enough to go away with him. Court life has turned her head.
The Countess shrugged her shoulders. She understood her daughter well, because they were so much alike. Frances was not born to live a quiet life in the country any more than she herself was; and she would have rebelled sooner or later. The pity was that it was sooner.
She herself was far too interested in her own exciting life to worry much about her daughter. Frances must, of course, live with the man she had married—until she could make some other arrangement. It was the duty of her parents to make her understand this.
The Earl said: “I will speak to Frances. She is young and, I am afraid, wayward.”
“Tell her,” said Devereux, “that I intend to leave for Chartley within the next few weeks and to take her with me.”
“I shall insist that she accompanies you,” answered his father-in-law. “Leave this to me.”
As soon as Devereux had left, the Earl sent for his daughter.
Frances stood before him, sullen and defiant.
“You must be mad,” burst out her mother, “to behave thus.”
“I know you are thinking of my tragic marriage….”
“Tragic marriage! With Essex! My dear child, he is an easy young man. If you liked you could have what you wanted from him.”
“There is only one thing I want from him … my freedom.”
The Earl spoke gently: “Look here, my child, you have not given your marriage a chance. You have been spoiled at Court. I would to God we had never allowed you to come.”
“I will not leave the Court with Essex.”
The Earl was aware of his wife’s eye on him, a little scornful; he then went to Frances and gripped her firmly by the arm.
“We have been over-gentle with you,” he said. “That was a mistake. There shall be no more mistakes. You are going to behave like a good wife to your husband. Make no mistake about it.”
“No one can make me,” cried Frances wildly.
“You are mistaken. I am your father and I can make you. I shall have you whipped if need be. I shall have you kept a prisoner in your apartment. I shall have you trussed, if necessary, and delivered to your husband.”
His mouth was grim. Frances knew that like most easy-going men he could be goaded into action; and on those rare occasions he could be stubbornly determined.
She was in despair.
When he left the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, Robert Devereux, feeling sick at heart and deeply depressed, wanted to escape from the restrictions of the palace. He came out into the fresh air and walked aimlessly, not seeing the river and the crowds, but Frances, the expression of loathing on her face; he contrasted the reality of his homecoming with what he had hoped for, and his melancholy increased.
He had made up his mind. He was not a man to act impulsively, but once he had decided on a course of action he was determined to take it.
When he had said that he intended to leave Court within a few weeks, he meant it; and when he said that Frances was coming with him, he meant that too.
He found himself close to St. Paul’s and, still not caring which way he went, he wandered into the main walk where all kinds of business was in progress. The noise was deafening but he did not heed it; several sharp eyes were on him, for he was obviously a gentleman of the Court; his clothes betrayed him. Two pick-pockets had their eyes on him and were closely observed by a third.
A marriage broker called to him as he passed: “Are you seeking me, sir?”
