#HistFicThursdays - Invention, Nature's Child - Free Short Story

I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I took the title for this short story from a poem! If you are unfamiliar with the poem, I've included it at the bottom of this post rather than here since it gives away a significant part of the plot.

So here is a little piece of historical sci-fi because, as fans of Doctor Who know, sci-fi is not limited to the future!

Girolamo Fabrizio
(from Wikipedia)

Invention, Nature's Child

Candlelight flickered in the small office, the pale stone walls alive with dancing shadows. They were monstrous, not in size but in shape. Deformed oddities and dissected organs in jars which refracted the flame’s glow.

“Sir?” Harvey asked. There was no sign of his teacher. “Doctor Fabrizio?”

“You’re returning to your language already?” came an amused voice from behind an amphora. It spoke in Italian, but Harvey had heard almost no other language in three years, making it easy to understand. Adjusting his own speech accordingly, he replied.

“I am to leave this evening. And I should be in England once again before the summer. But I will take a great deal of learning with me, sir. And, were there ever a way to repay the debt I owe you for such an education, I should happily settle it.”

Fabrizio emerged from where he had been sitting. His old eyes, hooded and heavy, studied Harvey with an expression he could not fully understand. Was it amusement? Affection? Pride? Or perhaps all three?

“What extent of debt do you believe you have accumulated?”

Harvey paused, unsure what Fabrizio meant. He had only been polite, as his father had taught him and his mother had further recommended in the series of correspondence.

“Not so great, I hope, that I cannot repay it.”

“Wisely answered.” There was definitely amusement in the old man’s voice now. He was laughing at Harvey, and Harvey could not understand why. “I have only a request, a favour you might say. I would like you to take another student back with you. He is from your native England, but he is unsure about the journey.”

Breathing a sigh of relief before he had time to check himself, Harvey nodded. “Of course, sir. Although, pardon, but has he means to fund his travel?”

“You need have no concern on that account. He is a student of Padua, the greatest university in the world. It will pay for you both to return to your homeland.”

Having been taught never to assume poverty by his father, but how to accept the offering of a gift by his mother, the young graduate stood for a moment, perplexed over how to proceed. Fabrizio had clearly noted this inner turmoil, but it served only to raise his amusement. After a moment, the old man began making arrangements, telling Harvey where and when he could expect the mysterious Phillips, and concluding the conversation by offering him a large purse. Harvey took it uncertainly, thanked Fabrizio, and left the office.

He gathered his belongings and prepared for the journey home. He was eager to see his parents and his younger siblings again, but he was equally sad to be leaving behind this institution and its magical country. Padua was a seat of great wisdom and he could hardly believe he had been fortunate enough to graduate as a Doctor of Medicine from such a place as could trace its roots into the bedrock of learning. It would be strange and stifling to return to simple Chigwell, where so few people ventured further than the parish boundary.

Having a companion was a welcome distraction. Phillips was a fine young man who, despite his youthful appearance, explained himself as being older than Harvey when the newly-qualified doctor bluntly asked. He had a high forehead and perfect skin and a body which looked able to withstand any form of exercise, and Harvey found himself feeling a certain amount of insecurity around such an ideal model of manhood. But Phillips’ nature did not match his physique. He was shy, quiet, and almost cowardly. Harvey, unable to accept that his jealousy might have caused any of these traits, had talked more than enough for them both in an attempt to make Phillips more comfortable and, by the time they boarded the boat which would take them to their homeland, the two had become good friends.

On arriving in Folkestone, Harvey offered his hand to Phillips.

“I never asked where you were going,” he began cheerfully. “Where is your home, Phillips?”

“First I must visit London.” Phillips’ voice was uncertain. “In truth, Harvey, I don’t expect to be well-received.”

For a moment, Harvey worked his jaw, trying to tempt words to issue but none would come.

“You wouldn’t have travelled with me if you knew the truth,” Phillips continued, utterly crushed by his own admission. “My brother-in-law and my daughter’s husband were accused of treason. That’s why I was sent away from Padua. I am to petition the queen for my son-in-law’s release.” He lowered his head in shame. “I’m not the man for this job, Harvey. I cannot talk to Her Majesty.”

“Yet,” Harvey added, desperate to help the man before him. Phillips was no more capable of treason than himself, and he refused to accept that a man could be judged by those his family chose to marry. Besides, the longer Elizabeth sat on the throne, the more young men sort to challenge her. Treason was rife in the country and, where it was not, there were rumours aplenty that it was being planned.

“Will you wish me luck, Harvey?” Phillips asked miserably.

Harvey realised he was about to do exactly that, allowing the poor man to face what would certainly be imprisonment, if not death. Word of Queen Elizabeth’s temper and bitterness, unconstrained as it travelled through the papal heartland of Europe, had reached Harvey in Padua, and he was certain she would not take kindly to being questioned by a young upstart. Hastily changing his mind on his words, he smiled.

“Come to Chigwell and meet my family. I should like them to meet you. I’ve a mind to visit London later in the year. I’ll accompany you, if you wish.”

Phillips gave a relieved sigh, scrambling over thanks, and leaning forward to embrace Harvey before correcting himself. They journeyed inland in the carriage Harvey’s father had sent for him. There was no one to meet Phillips, and Harvey’s mind, so accustomed to challenging everything, questioned who his friend truly was, that he should seek an audience with the queen, but receive no welcome returning to his native land.

Phillips, the model gentleman, was welcomed by Harvey’s family. He helped Harvey’s father in his duties as mayor, and assisted with the education of the children. Although the invitation was only meant to last a day or two at most, it was not until several days later that they journeyed to London. 

“Protect one another,” Harvey’s mother said, watching as the two men readied to leave. She parted from Phillips before turning to her son, ensuring he alone would hear her next words. “Be careful, William. Your friend is afraid, and frightened men may lose their loyalties as they gain their fear.”

The journey to London was uneventful. His mother’s words continued to echo through his head as he watched Phillips, whose face was set. Eager to distract his companion from falling into the state of which he had been warned, Harvey smiled and opened a conversation on a neutral topic.

On arriving in London, Harvey expected Phillips to find an inn but, despite knowing the man’s purpose, he stared in mute amazement as Phillips stopped outside the impressive gates of an imposing house.

“What is this place? Is this your home?”

“No,” Phillips replied nervously. “This was Leicester House. It was the home of my uncle, then my poor brother-in-law. I don’t know who lives here, now.”

Unsure, Harvey followed Phillips towards the house. It was larger than the homes of any of his or his father’s friends. His steps stumbled, but Phillips seemed to be gaining in confidence, his back was straightening and his chin lifting in defiance of the nervousness he had exhibited earlier.

The door was opened and Harvey prepared for an angry response that these two unknown men had arrived unannounced. Instead, the face of the man before them turned grey, all colour fading from every inch of his skin so that his brown eyes stood out. This was not anger, it was fear. All too rapidly, however, one gave rise to the other and Harvey blinked in surprise as the man drew the sword he wore.

“This was not the welcome I expected,” Phillips announced, his voice quivering as he raised his hands. “I thought here, more than anywhere in this land, I’d be safe.”

Although these words were spoken as much in fear as sadness, the man before them returned the blade. “Forgive me, Philip,” he whispered, this new form of his companion’s name making Harvey’s forehead crease. “I know now I shall join you soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Phillips asked. “Where do you believe I am?”

“Come inside.” He made no attempt to address the question Phillips had raised. Harvey felt every bone in his body telling him it was not safe to accept this invitation, but Phillips was already stepping into the property, and he could not leave his friend to go alone. “I shall fetch the countess at once.”

Harvey, who had not spoken since they arrived, maintained his silence as he looked at the room into which they were shown. The furniture was lavishly carved into leafy patterns, and there was a tapestry over an enormous fireplace. Two bronze hounds stood on either side so beautifully fired that, as Harvey reached out to one of them, he almost expected to find they were not models at all.

“God have mercy upon me!”

Both Harvey and Phillips turned at this statement. They were met by a pallid-faced woman whose wide skirts seemed to be the only thing keeping her upright. The ruff on her neck framed her failing auburn hair which was capped with a black coif, and her features twitched between horror and gratitude.

“How have you survived?”

Harvey took a step back, as confused as the woman by what he saw before him. Phillips, however, smiled and bowed his head, the only person in the room to maintain their calm.

“Countess, I was sent by Signor Fabrizio.”

“But I have seen your effigy, Philip,” the woman wailed.

Harvey had intended to remain silent, but gave a strangled gasp at her words, drawing two pairs of eyes to him. The countess appeared to have only just noticed his existence, and she rounded on him, demanding answers. But Harvey had none to give. It hardly mattered for, though her lips asked a thousand questions, her ears refused to heed any explanation. Once this interrogation had ended, she walked over to Phillips, her hand outstretched, but seeming almost afraid of what would happen if she touched him.

“It’s nothing short of a miracle,” she laughed, as he took her hand and bowed low to kiss it. “You look so much like your mother’s family, like my dear Dudley. Your cousin, Philip,” she continued, choking on her words. “She killed him. She created him, and then she killed him.”

“My mother killed-?”

The woman held her hand up, silencing his question and looking sidelong at Harvey. Following her gaze, Phillips shook his head.

“I trust Harvey, Countess. He has been truer to me than any friend.”

“That fickle chit,” the woman spat, causing Harvey’s eyebrows to rise. “Not your dear mother, Philip. That wretch who sits upon the throne.”

These words struck Harvey and left him rooted to the spot. After Phillips’ assessment of his character, how could he flee? And yet fleeing was precisely what he desperately wanted to do. The axe, or perhaps worse, awaited him if he remained a part of this conversation.

Perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily, however, for the pair seemed to have forgotten him. They were talking about earls and knights whose names meant nothing to Harvey, the old countess pouring out her heart to her young nephew. Being peripheral also gave him the chance to observe the way in which Phillips responded and, although he comforted and consoled her, there was a certain vacancy in his expression as the woman reeled off all the deaths she had faced, beginning with Phillips’ own disappearance. It almost seemed that Phillips had steeled himself against admitting to an emotion where these horrendous executions were concerned.

“What of the Earl of Rutland?” Phillips asked at length. “Where is my son-in-law?”

“In the Tower still. But, while he is not at liberty, your dear wife has beseeched the queen to let him live well.”

“My wife-?”

“Is my daughter-in-law now. But you must forgive her, Philip. We all believed you were dead.”

Harvey watched as this conversation continued, Phillips refusing to see his wife, and the countess swinging from anger to despair always by way of bewilderment. He volunteered nothing to the conversation but, when he was invited to remain, he felt unable to refuse. He was silent throughout the meal, smiling as often as his conscience would allow, and withdrew early to bed. His bedchamber was as elegant as the rest of the house and he lay awake for hours following the patterns in the bedposts, constantly guttering his candle for fear it would go out and he would be murdered in the dark.

He was awake, then, as the door opened.

The candle was almost entirely burnt out. Its tall flame was strong enough to illuminate the shadowy form who stood in the doorway, but too weak to focus on their features. Harvey shuffled backwards on the bed, his racing mind trying to decide whether it was better to call out or stay silent in the pretence of sleep. But if one person in the house wished him dead, surely they all would and, by the glow of his own candle, the newcomer must have seen him move.

“Forgive me.” It was Phillips’ voice, and Harvey tried to remind himself of the friendship they had formed. “I saw candlelight beneath your door.”

Willing himself to believe this was his companion’s real motive, Harvey nodded, but could not coax his voice to speak. Phillips was wearing a long nightshirt, which hung down to his bare feet. He did not seem to notice the draught which raged through the house, causing his garment to bulge, and extinguishing the flame from Harvey’s candle.

All reason fled at this sudden darkness, and Harvey scrambled from the bed, holding his hand out before him and cursing his eyesight for taking such precious seconds to accustom to the dark.

“Don’t kill me!” he begged, stumbling towards the window, although he did not dare consider the fall he would make if he exited this way.

“Kill you?” Phillips gasped, halting Harvey’s steps as he realised how ridiculous such a notion was. “I wanted to talk to you, that was all. Away from the countess.”

Harvey’s eyes rested on the form which sat down on the bed, and watched as the perfectly balanced shoulders fell forward. Trying to remind himself of the doctor’s oath to care for those in need, he shuffled over and sat beside him.

“What is it?”

“You must have thought me cold for my response downstairs. For not wishing to see my wife, nor to know of my daughter.”

“I try not to judge.” The words were true, but only partially relevant. In truth, he had overlooked the decision amid the horror of the treason his friend was discussing.

“I have no memory of them,” Phillips continued wretchedly. “What should I do with a wife I don’t know? How could I love a daughter who was conceived without my knowing of what it was to feel her mother in my arms?”

“You forgot them? It has been known to happen, Phillips. In war, it happens often, and the countess said you were believed to have died in war. Your mind might recover on seeing them once more.”

Phillips shook his head, lifting his eyes to meet Harvey’s gaze. There was calm on his face, but his words held absolute heartbreak. “I haven’t forgotten them, Harvey. I never knew them. My son-in-law, I met once. Signor Fabrizio saved his life when he fell ill in Italy, but he would only do so in exchange for his marriage to my daughter. But she is not my daughter and so he is not my son.”

None of Phillips’ words made sense. Harvey began to suspect that the poor man was experiencing an active dream. He could remember having to stop his brother sleepwalking out into the streets. How much greater the nightmares must be for a man who had experienced war. Patiently listening to Phillips, discussing the confusion his memory lapse had caused, or the fear he felt at having to confront the queen, Harvey nodded, tutted, and soothed the man, but there was only one course he felt was open to him.

The following day, Harvey addressed a letter to his former tutor, candidly discussing the ailments Phillips appeared to be suffering from, but stopping short of writing anything concerning the mutual dislike of the queen which he appeared to share with the countess. Somehow, writing it made it more real. Unsure how greatly his letter might expose any role he was perceived to have in this treason, Harvey was reluctant to return home. Instead, he wrote as though he was Phillips’ physician, and gave his Cambridge address, where he enlisted as a student once more.

Phillips had remained in London, and it was not until September that Harvey next heard from him. Unable to delay his visit to the queen, Philips asked Harvey to accompany him. Being a measured thinker, Harvey’s mind would not work quickly enough to find a plausible excuse to escape this journey and he found himself walking uncertainly to the palace of Whitehall, amazed and alarmed by how readily Phillips was granted admission. They parted then, Harvey remaining beyond the palace boundaries, while Phillips walked on with a swagger Harvey knew was imagined more than felt.

It took Phillips all afternoon to return, his face calm as he walked out into the onset of night. The twilight was peculiar, and Harvey found himself peering into every growing shadow as though he expected it to leap out and attack him. He suggested taking a boat back to the house, but Phillips just shook his head and continued on foot. When Harvey enquired about the meeting, or concerning the safety of Phillips’ son-in-law, Phillips only answered curtly that the queen had taken one look at him and dismissed him with the words “Sweet Robin” on her lips in a voice which cracked in age and emotion. Harvey longed to believe his friend but when, after only two days, the queen and her company travelled up the river to Richmond Palace, Harvey began to suspect more had happened than Phillips had admitted.

England became awash with rumours of the queen’s failing health. A madness and a melancholy were said to plague her mind and torment her body. She withdrew from all her customary excursions, and whispers abounded that she was willing herself into the arms of death. This, Harvey dismissed as a madness in the populace until one evening in March. He looked up as a servant entered, carrying a letter which he set firmly into Harvey’s hand. Accustomed to a little more care, Harvey would normally have questioned him, but his heart pounded in the hope it contained Fabrizio’s reply, which he had been expecting for half a year. The handwriting was not his former tutor’s however, and Harvey opened it with great interest. Checking the name of the sender, he pushed himself to his feet at once.

“Who delivered this?” he demanded from the servant, who still stood in the room as though he was not only expecting but awaiting this response.

“He’s waiting outside, sir. He could not be coaxed in.”

Harvey ran from the room and out into the night. Just as he had been told, Phillips stood there, his horse’s bridle in his right hand. In his left, he held the reins of another horse and, as Harvey burst onto the street, he offered the reins towards him. Taking them, Harvey stared expectantly at his friend.

“I need your companionship once more, Harvey. It will only be once more.”

“How can I answer yes or no without knowing the nature of such a request?” Harvey breathed, remembering the fear he had felt last summer in London and the misgivings which had followed him since they had visited Whitehall.

“You wrote to Signor Fabrizio about me,” Phillips said, and Harvey was afraid his friend would be angry, but there was only a hint of sadness in his tone. “He responded to your letter through me.”

“When? I have waited for so long for a reply, I was left to believe he might have perished.”

“It arrived a little before I first visited the queen. I had meant to tell you then, but I couldn’t bring myself to impart the knowledge I had gained.”

“First visited?” Harvey whispered.

“Will you meet me in London, Harvey? In the cathedral? I brought you a horse.” His voice was full of desperation, and Harvey was unsure whether it was that tone or his determination to have his questions answered which made him nod.

“Where are you going?”

“To the cathedral. But I must go by way of Richmond.”

“What?” Harvey hissed, his intrigue giving way to fear as he felt once more the panic of being implicated in any form of treason. There could only be one reason for Phillips to visit Richmond.

But his companion would not divulge anything about his journey beyond promising to tell Harvey all he knew when they reached the cathedral. With hasty wishes for safe travel to the capital, Harvey watched as Phillips mounted and rode away. Harvey was not far behind him, settling matters before leaving Cambridge for London. He travelled through the night, breaking his journey in Chigwell, keen to have what he feared might be a final visit to his parents’ house.

The next day, Harvey found himself standing before the immense cathedral. The foreboding tower seemed to crush down on him as he walked forward, and being inside offered no respite from the reminder of how small and insignificant he was. Determined not to question what the future might hold, he walked in as the bells began tolling a plaintive, steady knoll. He looked around, watching as a number of people knelt on the floor wherever they had been standing and began offering prayers. Harvey, uncertain about interrupting them, glanced about the building until his eyes rested on Phillips. The man was standing beside a tomb, his hand stroking the air above it as though he wanted to touch the marble surface but did not dare. Harvey hurried over to him as more people flooded into the nave.

“What has happened?” Harvey whispered, looking at the morbid procession which poured through the building while he and Phillips remained at the side, entirely overlooked.

“The queen is dead.”

Harvey felt his jaw drop, unable to conceal the horror he felt at these words. It was not that he was especially distraught by Her Majesty’s death, the queen had been known to be in ill health, and had reached an age unheard of for her family. But Phillips had been with her. There was only one conclusion he could reach, although it took him several breathless seconds to voice this concern.

“Did you kill her?”

“Yes,” came the unwelcome reply. “I didn’t think you would see it in such a way, Harvey. You, a physician, a man of physicality. I hoped you would not. But then Signor Fabrizio wrote to me of what you had said. And I knew you would know I was to blame.”

“Phillips, please,” Harvey began with a trembling voice which, despite his best effort, continued to shake. “This makes no sense to me. Explain it, I beg you.”

Harvey watched as Phillips set his hand on the marble surface beside him, sighing as he did so. But it was not in sorrow, but relief. “This is my tomb, Harvey. I died, just as the countess said. I was but thirteen years into my life.”

This was met by a blank expression on Harvey’s face as he attempted to make sense of what he had just heard. “But you’re still alive. Here and now. You cannot be dead for I can feel your breath and, were you to give me your hand, would feel your pulse. You’re as alive as I am.”

Phillips shook his head. “And yet I have never shaved, nor grown an inch since I came to life. Nor was I born into this world through any woman’s womb. No, not like the man who lies here,” he added, stroking his hands across the marble. “He was both father and mother to me.”

“Philip Sidney?” Harvey asked, reading the inscription.

“Of all the nephews, the most like his mother’s brother. That was when the plan was hatched. The plan, which should have grown to fruition fifteen years ago.”

Harvey could feel his brow crease in confusion, but waited in silence until Phillips continued.

“Philip Sidney arrived in Padua thirty years ago and, bearing sympathies towards his Catholic predecessors, became acquainted with those like-minded souls who had fled to the continent. Amongst that group was a banished Englishman named Henry Howard. He was an admirer of Signor Fabrizio’s work, so much so that he persuaded Sidney to meet with him. Howard, it would seem, had seen the likeness between Sidney and his uncle, Dudley.”

“Wait,” Harvey stammered, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “Do you mean Signor Fabrizio plotted to kill the queen?”

“I doubt he cared who held the throne of a foreign land,” Phillips whispered. “He had the opportunity to demonstrate his theory of creating and modifying one life from another in its most complex form. As Eve was drawn from Adam, so too was I drawn from Philip Sidney.”

He sighed, and Harvey sought for any emotion on his features but, for the first time, he realised Phillips’ face had never portrayed emotion. His words and tone had always denoted how he felt, but his face had only ever held one expression. Clearly uncomfortable under this scrutiny, Phillips leaned forward to set his lips against the tomb.

“I had no weapon, Harvey. I needed none to kill her. My own face, a ghost of her past, was enough for his revenge upon her.” Phillips looked at him. “Do you not see, Harvey? I was the weapon. Fabrizio created me to be Philip Sidney, to mimic life. That was why I didn’t remember my wife, or my daughter. That was why I had no memories of childhood, why all recognise me but none know me. Tell me you know me, Harvey,” he added, snatching Harvey’s arms so tightly the young doctor jumped. “You know me, don’t you? Tell me I am not simply Philip Sidney. Can I not be a man in my own right?”

Despite this desperate tirade of words, Phillips’ expression still never altered. But Harvey could feel the rapid pulse through the hands which gripped his arms. His tone proved his words as honest while his face made them appear insincere.

“Of course you are,” Harvey whispered. “Whatever you were created to do, however you were pulled into existence, made not born, your soul is yours and yours alone. Signor Fabrizio could not manufacture that.” As he looked at the perfect form of the man before him, Harvey found himself questioning how Fabrizio had done it. How had he built a man? How had he given life to a creation pieced together from little more than lifeless tissue and bone? And could it ever have been worth it to create the sorry, lost, and confused individual who stood before him?

Phillips nodded and took Harvey’s hand in both of his own. “I wanted to part from you in friendship, Harvey. Do you think you could be a friend of a creature like me? God may have forgotten me, but promise me you will not. He respected you, you must know that. Signor Fabrizio claimed you would go far in your profession, and further still in your compassion. That was the only reason he allowed me to leave, for he so trusted your care and skill.”

Harvey set his free hand over Phillips’ and smiled under the weight of this praise. “And I him. I shall take his teaching and inquiring mind with me throughout my life. And my admiration for you, my friend. You will always have it.”

Phillips nodded slightly, sighing again, in contentment this time. The two men left the colossal church. It was strange to step out into the city and know that the queen, a reliable constant throughout Harvey’s life, was dead. The Tudor line had ended, but the uncertainty which filled the halls of power was not matched in the hearts of the two young men who walked through the damp air of the new year. Life was ready for shaping, for them both, and Harvey felt the corners of his mouth twist up into a smile.

“Have you a place to go? My family would happily take you in until you can establish yourself.”

“Thank you, Harvey, but Howard has found me a position in the service of a gentleman soldier on the continent, named Guido Fawkes. I’m to leave for Calais at once. But I shall hold your invitation in my heart and, should a time arise that I might return to this country, I shall visit you.”

Equally relieved and disappointed to be parting from his friend, Harvey laughed. “No doubt I shall be an old man by then, and you shall not have aged a day.”

Thank you for reading Invention, Nature's Child. I hope you enjoyed it! The title is from a line of Philip Sidney's Sonnet 1. The complete poem is:

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay:
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:

“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”