Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2

by Philippa Gregory

  I am starting to feel afraid. I would not have believed that Elizabeth could put me in the charge of such a man. It is to dishonour me, to make such a man my custodian. She would know this, she has been a captive herself. She would know how a harsh jailor destroys a prisoner’s life. He will not let me walk in the park, not even in the frozen snow in the morning, he will not let me ride out, he will allow me no more than ten minutes’ walk in the cold yard, and he has been talking to Bess about reducing my household once more. He says I cannot have my luxuries from London, I may not have letters from Paris. He says I should not have so many dishes for dinner, nor fine wines. He wants to take down the cloth of estate which marks my royal status. He wants me to have an ordinary chair, not a throne; and he sits without invitation, in my presence.

  I would not have believed that this could happen to me. But neither would I have believed that Elizabeth would put her own cousin, her closest kin, on trial for treason, especially as she must know that he is guilty of nothing but his ambition to marry me – which, though disagreeable to a woman of Elizabeth’s gross vanity, is hardly a crime. He rode out in no rebellion, he sent no money of his own to any rebellious army – why, he lost the French gold he was supposed to send. He obeyed her order to go to court though his followers hung on to the leathers of his stirrups and the tail of his horse and begged him not to go. He surrendered Kenninghall, his own great house, disinheriting his own children: just as she asked. He stayed obediently at his London house and then went, as ordered, to the Tower. He met Ridolfi, several times, it is true. But I know, as they must know, that he would not have laid a plot with him to murder Elizabeth and overthrow her country.

  I am guilty of that – good God yes, I don’t deny it to myself though I will never confess it to them. I would see Elizabeth destroyed and the country free of her illegal, heretical rule. But Thomas Howard would never have done so. To be cruelly frank – he is not the man for it, he has not the stomach for it. There is only one man I know who would plan it and see it through, and he is in a well-guarded room with bars on the window, facing the sea in Denmark, thinking of me; and will never throw his life down on a gamble again.

  ‘I have no prospects,’ I say gloomily to Mary Seton as we sit over our own private dinner in my chamber. I will not dine with Ralph Sadler, I would rather starve.

  Around us, about forty companions and servants sit down to dine, and the servers bring dish after dish for me to take a small helping and send them out around the hall. They still bring in more than thirty different dishes, a tribute to my importance as a queen. I would be insulted by less.

  Mary Seton is not gloomy like me, her dark eyes are dancing with mischief. ‘You always have prospects,’ she whispers in French. ‘And now you have another Sir Galahad ready to serve you.’

  ‘Sir Galahad?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Maybe he is more a Sir Lancelot. Certainly a nobleman ready to risk everything for you. One who has come in secret. One whose name you know. One that you don’t expect, and one who has a plan to get you out of here before the end of the trial. Before the shame of having your business discussed in open court.’

  ‘Bothwell,’ I breathe at once. I have an instant certainty that he has got away from Denmark. For what prison could hold him? Bothwell, free and coming to my side, will have me out of here and on a horse to Scotland in a moment. Bothwell will raise an army in the borders, turn the country upside down. Bothwell will take Scotland as if the country were a reluctant woman and make her know her master. I could laugh aloud at the thought of him free. What a fox among a hen coop he will be when he is on his horse with his sword drawn once more. What a nightmare for the English, what a revenge for me. ‘Bothwell.’

  Thank God she does not hear me. I would not want Mary to think that his name ever comes to my mind. He was my undoing. I never to speak of him.

  ‘Sir Henry Percy,’ she says. ‘God bless him. He sent this, it came to me from the hand of young Babington. Sir Ralph watches you so close we did not dare try to get it to you till now. I was going to hold it till bedtime if I had to.’

  She hands me a little note. It is brief and to the point.

  Be ready at midnight. Put a candle at your bedroom window from ten of the clock if you are ready to come tonight. At midnight tonight, blow out the candle, and let yourself down from the window. I have horses and a guard and will have you away to France at once. Trust me. I would give my life for you. Henry Percy

  ‘Do you dare?’ Mary asks me. ‘Your closet window faces outwards over the garden, that must be the one he means. It is a drop of forty feet. It is no worse than Bolton Castle and you would have got away then but for the rope breaking on that girl.’

  ‘Of course I dare,’ I say. At once the candles burn brighter and the smell of dinner is so appetising that I feel my mouth water. My companions in the room are dear friends who will miss me when I am gone but who will delight in my triumph. At once, I am alive again, alive and with hopes. I think of Sir Ralph Sadler’s consternation and Bess’s destruction when I get away from their guardianship, and I cannot help but giggle at the thought of their faces when they find I am gone in the morning. I shall get to France and I shall persuade the king and his mother that they must send me home to Scotland with an army great enough to dominate the Scots lords. They will command that Bothwell be freed to lead my army. They will see the advantages of it, and if they do not, I shall apply to Philip of Spain for help. I could go to him, or to the Pope, or to any one of a dozen wealthy Papists who would help me if I were away from here and free from the wicked imprisonment of my cousin.

  ‘Oh no! Did you not promise the Earl of Shrewsbury that you would not escape while he was away from home? He asked for your word of parole and you gave it.’ Mary is suddenly aghast at the memory. ‘You cannot break your word to him.’

  ‘A promise under duress is worth nothing,’ I say cheerfully. ‘I will be free.’

  1572, January, London: George

  I almost fall asleep straining my eyes in candlelight, trying to read the notes I have made during the day of Norfolk’s trial. The words that I have scribbled merge and go hazy before my eyes. The evidence from Bishop Ross is enough to destroy Norfolk but it has come from a man so terrified that he cannot even make up a convincing story. Half of the evidence has clearly been dictated by Cecil and attested by men out of their mind with terror and pain. The other half of it has no support from anyone, no witnesses, no evidence. It is nothing but Cecil’s lies, undiluted shameless lies.

  I am weary to my soul at the thought that if I were a better man I would stand up and denounce Cecil for a false advisor, demand that the lords stand with me and that we go to the queen and insist that she listen to us. I am the greatest man in England, I am the Lord High Steward, it is my duty and honour to defend England against bad advisors.

  But to my shame, I know, I am not that man. As my wife would be quick to explain I have neither the wit nor the courage to state and defend a case against Cecil. I do not have the prestige with my peers, I do not have the ear of the queen. Worst of all: I no longer have pride in myself.

  The last man to challenge Cecil is before us now on a charge of treason. If we had stood against Cecil when he first took sway over the mind of the young princess, or if we had backed Dudley against him in those early days, or if we had even backed Howard against him only months ago … But we are like a besom of sticks; if we stood together we would be unbreakable, but Cecil will snap us off one by one. There is no-one here who will rise to save Thomas Howard. There is no-one here who will rise to overthrow Cecil. Not even I, who know of Cecil’s spying, and his lies, and the quiet men who do his bidding all around the country, the men who are trained in torture, the men who have taken the laws of this country and said that they shall not stand, that Cecil’s imaginary dangers are greater than the law, the men who lie for him, and care nothing for the truth. I know all this, and I dare not stand against him. Actually, it is because I kno
w all this that I dare not.

  1572, January, Sheffield Castle: Mary

  The little candle-flame bobs at my window, and at midnight, when I bend down to blow it out, I hesitate as I see an answering wink from a quickly doused lantern, down in the shadows of the garden where the dark trees overhang the dark grass. There is a small new moon, hidden by scudding clouds, throwing no light on the stone wall below me. It is black as a cliff.

  I did this three years ago at Bolton Castle when I trusted in my luck, I thought no walls could keep me in, I thought some man would be bound to rescue me. Elizabeth would not be able to resist my persuasion, or my family would rise up for me, Bothwell would come for me. I could not believe that I would not once again be at a beautiful court, beloved, enchanting, at the heart of everything.

  Now it is not the same. I am not the same. I am weary from three years in prison. I am heavier, I have lost my wiry strength, I am no longer tireless, undefeated. When I climbed down the wall at Bolton Castle I had spent a week on the run from my enemies, I was hardened. Here, in the three years of luxurious imprisonment, I have been over-fed and bored, inflamed with false hopes and distracted by my own dreams, and I am never well.

  I am a different woman in my heart. I have seen the North rise and fall for me, I have seen my men swinging as picked-off bones on the gibbets at the village crossroads. I have accepted a man in marriage and learned of his arrest. And I have waited and waited for Bothwell, certain that he would come to me. He does not come. He cannot come. I have realised that he will never come to me again, even if I order him not to. Even if I send to tell him I never want to see him again, even though he would understand the prohibition is an invitation, he cannot come.

  Courage! I bend my head and blow out the little flame. I have nothing to lose by trying, and everything to gain. As soon as I am free again I shall have everything restored to me, my health, my beauty, my fortune, my optimism, Bothwell himself. I check that the sheets are knotted around my waist, I hand the end to John my steward, I smile at Mary Seton, and give her my hand to kiss. I will not wait for her, this time, I will not take a maid. I shall start running the moment that my feet touch the ground.

  ‘I will send for you when I am in France,’ I say to her.

  Her face is pale and strained, tears in her eyes. ‘God speed,’ she says. ‘Bonne chance!’

  She swings open the lattice window and John winds the rope of sheets around the strong wooden post of the bed, and braces himself to take my weight.

  I nod my thanks to him and step up to the windowsill, bend my head to get out of the window, and at that very moment there is a hammering on my door and Ralph Sadler’s gruff voice hollering: ‘Open up! In the name of the queen! Open up!’

  ‘Go!’ John urges me. ‘I have you! Jump.’

  I look down. Below me at the foot of the wall I see a gleam of metal; there are soldiers waiting. Hurrying from the main house come a dozen men with torches.

  ‘Open up!’

  I meet Mary Seton’s appalled gaze and I shrug. I try to smile, but I feel my lip tremble. ‘Mon dieu,’ I say. ‘What a noise! Not tonight, then.’

  ‘Open in the name of the queen, or I will break down this door!’ Sadler bellows like a bull.

  I nod to John. ‘I think you had better let him in,’ I say.

  I put out my hand to Mary and let her help me down from the window. ‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘Untie the rope. I don’t want him to see me like this.’

  She fumbles as he hammers with the hilt of his sword. John throws open the door and Sadler falls inwards. Behind him is Bess, white-faced, her hand tugging at his sleeve, holding back his sword arm.

  ‘You damned traitor, you damned treasonous, wicked traitor!’ he hollers as he stumbles into the room and sees the knotted sheets on the floor and the open window. ‘She should take your head off, she should take your head off without trial.’

  I stand like a queen, and say nothing.

  ‘Sir Ralph …’ Bess protests. ‘This is a queen.’

  ‘I could damned well kill you myself!’ he shouts. ‘If I threw you out of the window now I could say that the rope broke and you fell.’

  ‘Do it,’ I spit.

  He bellows in his rage and Mary dives between us and John moves closer, fearing this brute will lunge at me in his temper. But it is Bess who prevents him, tightening her grip on his arm. ‘Sir Ralph,’ she says quietly. ‘You cannot. Everyone would know. The queen would have you tried for murder.’

  ‘The queen would thank God for me!’ he snaps.

  She shakes her head. ‘She would not. She would never forgive you. She does not want her cousin dead, she has spent three years trying to find a way to restore her to her throne.’

  ‘And look at the thanks she gets! Look at the love which is returned her!’

  ‘Even so,’ she says steadily, ‘she does not want her death.’

  ‘I would give it her as a gift.’

  ‘She does not want her death on her conscience,’ Bess says, more precisely. ‘She could not bear it. She does not wish it. She will never order it. A queen’s life is sacred.’

  I feel icy inside, I don’t even admire Bess for defending me. I know she is defending her own house and her own reputation. She doesn’t want to go down in history as the hostess who killed a royal guest. Mary Seton slips her hand in mine.

  ‘You will not touch her,’ she says quietly to Sir Ralph. ‘You will have to kill me, you will have to kill us all first.’

  ‘You are blessed in the loyalty of your friends,’ Sir Ralph says bitterly. ‘Though you yourself are so disloyal.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘A traitor,’ he says.

  For the first time I look at him. I see him flush under the contempt of my gaze. ‘I am a queen,’ I say. ‘I cannot be named as a traitor. There can be no such thing. I am of the blood royal, I cannot be accused of treason, I cannot be legally executed. I am untouchable. And I don’t answer to such as you.’

  A vein throbs in his temple, his eyes goggle like a landed fish. ‘Her Majesty is a saint to endure you in her lands,’ he growls.

  ‘Her Majesty is a criminal to hold me against my consent,’ I say. ‘Leave my room.’

  His eyes narrow, I do believe he would kill me if he could. But he cannot. I am untouchable. Bess tugs gently at his arm and together they leave. I could almost laugh: they go backwards, step by stiff step, as they must do when they leave a royal presence. Sadler may hate me, but he cannot free himself from deference.

  The door closes behind them. We are left alone with our candle still showing a wisp of smoke, the open window, and the knotted rope dangling in space.

  Mary pulls in the rope, snuffs the candle and closes the window. She looks out over the garden. ‘I hope Sir Henry got away,’ she says. ‘God help him.’

  I shrug. If Sir Ralph knew where to come and at what time, the whole plot was probably penetrated by Cecil from the moment that Sir Henry Percy first hired his horses. No doubt he is under arrest now. No doubt he will be dead within the week.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Mary demands. ‘What shall we do now?’

  I take a breath. ‘We go on planning,’ I say. ‘It is a game, a deadly game, and Elizabeth is a fool for she has left me with nothing to do but to play this game. She will plot to keep me, and I will plot to be free. And we shall see, at the very end, which one of us wins and which of us dies.’

  1572, March, Chatsworth: Bess

  I am bidden to meet my lord, his lawyer and his steward in his privy chamber, a formal meeting. His lawyer and clerks have come from London, and I have my chief steward to advise me. I pretend to ignorance; but I know what this is all about. I have been waiting for this all the weeks after the verdict of guilty on Howard and my lord’s silent return home.

  My lord has served his queen as loyally as any man could do but even after the verdict she wanted, she has not rewarded him. He may be Lord High Steward of England but he is a great lord only in reputation. In rea
lity he is a pauper. He has no money left at all, and not a field that is not mortgaged. He has returned from London as a man broken by his own times. Howard is sentenced to death and it will be Cecil’s England now, and my lord cannot live in peace and prosperity in Cecil’s England.

  Under the terms of our marriage contract my lord has to give me great sums of money at my son’s coming of age. Henry is now twenty-one years old and Charles will soon be twenty and my lord will owe me their inheritance and the money for my other children on the first day of April, as well as other obligations to me. I know he cannot pay it. He cannot get anywhere near to paying it.

  In addition to this I have been lending him money to pay for the queen’s keep for the past year, and I have known for the past six months that he won’t be able to repay me this either. The expense of housing and guarding the Queen of Scots has cost him all the rents and revenues of his land, and there is never enough money coming in. To settle his debt to me, to fulfil his marriage contract, he will have to sell land or offer me land instead of the money he should pay me.

  He finally realised what a crisis he was in when he could not hold his usual open house at Christmas. He finally realised that he could not go on pouring his fortune at the feet of the Scots queen. When I told him that there was nothing left in the treasure room, no credit available for us in the whole of Derbyshire, he finally saw the disaster that has been building every day for the past three years, and of which I have warned him, every time that we sent out our bill to the queen and received no payment. I have been thinking every day for three years about what we should do about this unbearable expense, every day for the past three years it has nagged at me like a pain; and so I know what I want. His poverty has come as a surprise to him; to me it is an old enemy.