CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I MUST SPEAK TO YOU IN ALL SERIOUSNESS,” WILL TOLD BESS THE day after the tourney, as they strolled along in the park above the palace. “You gave me your promise in the heat of passion yesterday, but I must speak to you as I would to your father if he were alive and demanding to know in what fashion I will keep you.”
“Very well,” Bess said. “I am all ears, sir.”
“When my father died in December, Sutton Court in Somerset and Tormarton in Gloucestershire came to me, along with all his wealth but seventy pounds to my brother Clement, a dowry for my sister, and of course the jewelry and plate he left to my mother. I have in addition a lease on a substantial property in Ireland. The income from these, together with what I get from the positions in which I serve the queen, is sufficient that you will never want for anything while I live, and I will ensure that you are provided for when I am gone.”
“I thank you, my love,” Bess said. “And now must I lay my cards on the table, for it is only right that you know how things stand with me.”
She paused, afraid to speak of the worry that weighed on her so heavily. For the debt that she owed on William’s behalf was great. Might it make Will think twice about yoking himself to her?
“I have yet my dower rights in the properties from my young first husband,” she said, “and I hold for my lifetime all the lands, houses, and other wealth of my other William. But his death left me also a burden so heavy that I lie awake at night and think on it—a debt of near on five thousand pounds to the crown from errors in his accounting while he was treasurer of the privy chamber.”
Bess glanced sideways at Will’s face as they walked, trying to read his thoughts. His face was somber. Laughter rose from below where flower-bedecked pavilions dotted the green hill, their bright banners rippling in the breeze.
“If the money is owed to the crown, I may be of help,” Will said at last, and Bess’s hopes rose. “Her Majesty considers herself in my obligation for my standing by her when she had few friends and much to fear, and I doubt not but she may be persuaded to forgive the debt.” He stopped walking, and cupping Bess’s face in his hands, kissed her. “I will speak to her.”
“You would take on my burden as your own?” Bess scarcely dared believe it was true.
“I do, and gladly.”
Her heart flooded with gratitude and hope, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
“I will speak to Her Majesty soon, then. I must also ask her permission to wed, though I have no doubt she will grant it happily.”
Bess breathed deeply of the summer air, perfumed with the meadow grass and the fresh green scent of the river far below, feeling that a shadow that had hovered in her mind for so long might soon be lifted. Will drew her arm into his and pulled her closer as they resumed their walk.
“I must tell you, Bess, that I have a blot of my own that darkens my soul in the long hours of the night.”
What terrible secret could this be? she wondered, alarmed at his deep sigh.
“My brother Ned,” Will said. “He has ever been a wastrel and a scoundrel, to the despair of my mother and the ire of my father. In the end, my father left him nothing. And now his resentment has hardened into malignancy against me.”
Bess felt a curious sense of relief at Will’s admission, both to know that he had problems of his own and that he would bare himself to her by telling her of them.
“That must be a great grief to you, surely,” she said. “But no more than happens in many families.”
“Yet there is worse to tell, for Ned is the center of a scandal that has greatly discredited my family. Last year one of my father’s tenants, John Scutt, who had been a tailor to King Henry, died suddenly and of no apparent cause. It was known that he beat his wife, and there were rumors that she had poisoned him. Suspicion fell on Ned a fortnight after Scutt’s death when he bought from the widow—Bridget was her name—the leases of some property.”
“Could it not have been that he wanted to help her? Perhaps she needed the ready money more than the leases.”
“It might have been thought so, except that only another fortnight later, he married her, and before long she gave birth to a baby that most strongly resembled my brother. Then, only a few months later, this very lusty young woman suddenly died.”
A chill went up Bess’s spine despite the warmth of the day.
“The whispers that had followed the first death rose to a roar when Ned, six months a widower, then wed Margaret Scutt, the stepdaughter of his dead wife, thereby becoming master of all that Scutt had owned. These troubles were the last straw for my father. He had formerly given Ned the leases of some properties at my mother’s entreaty, only to have Ned sell them and waste the profits on loose living. So when he died, he left Ned nothing at all. My brother has been kicking up trouble since my father’s death, and I fear it will end in the courts.”
“I know such woes all too well,” Bess said. “I had to fight for my dower rights when poor Robbie died, and William Cavendish and I bought Chatsworth as the result of legal broils resulting from a scandal that touched my family.”
“Then you are not so put off that you will not marry me, my love?”
“Not in the least. Bring on all the ill-tempered brothers you may, but I will be your wife.”
Twenty-seventh of August, 1559—Sutton Court, Chew Magna, Somerset
The sun rose bright on the morning of Bess’s third wedding day, and she felt giddy with happiness as she dressed, surrounded by her mother, sisters, Aunt Marcella, Will’s sister Elizabeth, and his grown daughters Mary and Margaret.
She was nearly thirty-two years old, but the years ahead were full of promise. Her first marriage had been to a boy, her second to a man old enough to be her father, and she had nursed both through ill health and at their deathbeds. But Will was only nine years older than she, in the prime of his vigorous manhood, and with God’s blessing, they would have many joyous years together.
“I feel like a thoroughgoing bride today,” she mused. She took her mother’s hand and kissed it. “I’m so grateful to have all my dear ones near me.”
Many of Bess’s and Will’s friends had journeyed to Sutton Court for the nuptials, including their old mutual friends Sir John Thynne and his wife Christian, and Frances Newton and her cousin Anne Poyntz, who were both distantly related to Will. The wedding party set off on foot to St. Andrew’s Church in the village of Chew Magna, led by fiddlers and cheered along the way by Will’s tenants and farm laborers, given a holiday in honor of the marriage.
As the priest spoke, Bess listened carefully to the words of the marriage ceremony, which had come into use after her second marriage. The words had been spoken at other weddings she had attended, surely, but it seemed she had never properly heard them before. Or perhaps it was that only now, at the age of thirty-one, did her soul truly understand and crave a marriage that promised the “mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.”
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife,” the priest asked Will, “to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?”
“I will.”
Will’s eyes were the color of the summer sky, thought Bess, and the feel of his hand holding hers like the home she had always sought. And to promise to obey him, serve him, love, honor, and keep him was all that her heart desired, and she answered, “I will.”
* * *
BESS STOOD AT THE OPEN WINDOW OF THE BEDCHAMBER, GAZING out on the night sky. The moon had been full the previous night and hung bright and heavy like a pearl on the black velvet field of spangled stars. The scent of fruit from the orchard sweetened the air. The quiet of the countryside was broken only by the distant, mellow whoo of an owl, and Bess felt at peace and supremely happy.
“All well?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, setting down his candle. “Shutters closed, doors locked, fires banked. And I think all the household is asleep.”
He came to her side and took her into his arms and kissed her gently.
“I do love this place. I’m glad we chose to have the wedding here rather than in London.”
Bess nodded, sliding her hands beneath his doublet and against his chest, marveling as always at the live firmness of his muscles. One of his hands caressed the back of her neck, the other held her body close against him, and she felt herself begin to take fire. He kissed her, his mouth opening hers, his lips and tongue soft and warm and sweet, tasting faintly of ale.
He untied the ribbon at the neck of her shift and caressed one of her breasts, the rough skin of his fingers rousing her nipple to hardness, and Bess moaned with desire. She felt the hardness of him against her belly, and threw her head back as his lips traveled to her throat, then down to kiss her breasts, cupping them so that he could bring his mouth first to one and then the other.
“Oh, my love,” she gasped. “How I have longed for you.”
He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, and she sank into the softness of the bedding, opening her arms to him. His hand encircled her ankle, then moved up her leg, sliding against the smoothness of her skin until he brushed against the soft nest between her thighs. Bess gasped as his fingers caressed her, spreading her honeyed wetness, his touch rousing her to a pitch of desire. She moved against him, giving herself over to the waves of pleasure that built within her as his hand moved over her, in her, his touch like liquid flame. She cried out as she reached a shattering crest, calling out his name as wave after wave shook her.
He took his hands from her only long enough to pull off his shirt and shed his breeches, and then he knelt between her thighs and entered her, filling her, thrusting himself to her very core, and she arched up to meet him, wrapping her legs around him to hold him deep within her. His strokes built from slow and languorous to rapid and powerful, pinning her to the bed, possessing her.
“Ah, my Bess.” His voice was a low growl in her ear and she sobbed with the pleasure of the feel of him, nuzzling his neck, and then biting softly as he brought her to another crashing peak. She felt as though her edges had blurred, there was no Bess anymore, only undulating waves of sensation.
Later, much later, they lay entangled in each other’s arms, legs entwined, and Bess felt as though all division between them had been driven away by the intensity of their merging, that their skins and souls had melded in the crucible of their passion. She kissed his shoulder, trailed her fingers across the silk of his skin, and drifted off to sleep, conscious that the first pale light of dawn was lightening the sky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Twenty-ninth of September, 1559, Michaelmas—London
BESS WAS WELL PLEASED WITH WILL’S HOUSE IN TUTHILL STREET, now that she had spent the week since they had been back in London seeing to the opening of the house. It had been dusty and unkempt, and barren of servants, as before their marriage, Will had usually spent his time in London lodging at Master Mann’s house in Red Cross Street, just outside the city walls near St. Giles’ Cripplegate. But now the house had been aired and scrubbed and dusted, fresh matting laid down, the kitchen well stocked, and a small army of servants hired, and the St. Loe home was not only comfortable and welcoming to Bess and Will and their friends, but ready for the crucial business of entertaining important guests.
The bustle of London! Bess’s heart rose at the thought of it. It had been years since she and her first William had regularly spent time there, and for so long the thought of London had carried with it the recollection of Mary’s burnings and the death of Jane Grey and so many friends. But now London was the land of Elizabeth, and England was smiling again.
Bess and Will had intended to remain longer at Sutton Court, where immediately after their marriage Bess had embarked on building an extension of the house to provide a suitable parlor, which the old manor lacked. But King Henri of France had died of his injury from the jousting accident and Will had been summoned to London to serve as one of the four attendant knights at the memorial service at St. Paul’s. So Bess had sent her children back to Chatsworth, in the care of her mother and her aunt Marcella, bringing her sisters Jenny and Dibby with her to London as ladies-in-waiting. She was grateful and happy that Will had insisted she use his money to resume the building at Chatsworth that had been suspended upon William’s death, and she received regular letters from her steward James Crompe about the progress of construction.
Bess could see the spire of St. Paul’s from her window and shivered, reminded of King Henri’s death. Had she but known it, on that golden day in Greenwich, when she had watched Will’s triumph in the tiltyard, her heart in her throat lest he should be hurt, the French king was already cold and stiff from exactly such a misfortune.
Henri’s death had done more than leave a grieving widow and nation, too. For now his son the dauphin was King Francis, and his wife, the sixteen-year-old Mary Stuart, was queen of France as well as Scotland. She had also proclaimed herself queen of England, as her grandmother had been Margaret Tudor, the sister of King Henry.
Bess turned at the sound of Will’s footsteps on the stair. Dear God, he seemed more handsome every time she looked upon him, she thought. He took her into his arms and kissed her, smelling faintly of leather and ale and tobacco, for he had taken up the fashionable and expensive new habit of smoking a pipe.
“What’s the news at court today, my love?” she asked, standing a-tiptoe to smooth his ruffled hair.
“No news but plenty of gossip,” he laughed. “Half of London, it seems, has been daily expecting the queen to announce her betrothal to the Earl of Arundel—the earl expecting it most fervently, I’m told—you should see the set of plate he gave her when she departed Nonsuch—and yet no announcement comes.”
Arundel was the widower of Harry Grey’s sister Kate. If Frances Grey’s brother-in-law married the queen and they had a child, Frances would be disappointed once again in her hopes of being mother to a queen.
The question of Elizabeth’s marriage was not only the subject of gossip, but was uppermost in the minds of her council, for of course she needed a man to rule, but it must be the right man. There must be no repetition of Queen Mary’s disastrous Spanish marriage.
“Will the queen instead choose Prince Erik of Sweden, do you think?” Bess asked. Will had told her that the Swedish prince was apparently so desirous of a match with Elizabeth that he planned to visit her in person.
“I’d sooner lay my money on the Earl of Arran,” Will said, sitting and pulling off his boots. “He’s solidly Protestant and heir to the Scottish throne, unless Mary Stuart should bear a child, and by marrying him Elizabeth would take the wind out of the sails of those who would try to put Mary on the throne in her place.”
“And will he come to woo?” Bess asked, climbing onto the bed and watching the play of muscles in Will’s back as he shed his doublet.
“He’d better be quick about it if he intends to,” Will said, throwing himself down beside her and pulling her on top of him. “Since the queen came back from her progress all the talk has been of how much time she spent in private with Robert Dudley and how free he is with her even in company.”
“And how does his wife?” Bess asked. But her mind was not much on Elizabeth’s suitors now, as Will’s hand was exploring beneath her kirtle, and through his breeches she could feel his hardness against her belly.
“Unhappy, I expect,” Will murmured, his lips nuzzling her ear. “But hush now, no more of Robin Dudley for the nonce.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Twenty-first of November, 1559—Tuthill Street, London
WINTRY DARKNESS HAD DESCENDED ON LONDON BEFORE FOUR in the afternoon, and as Bess stood gazing out the window toward the rive
r, winking lantern light here and there was the only illumination in the streets. In the black sky above, stars glimmered beneath a moon waxing toward fullness.
Frances Grey was dead. Bess could hardly believe it, though the cold that seemed settled into her very bones was surely due to more than the weather. Frances’s face rose to her mind, as Bess had first seen it upon her arrival at Bradgate Park so many years ago. As always when she thought of Frances, Bess felt gratitude, bafflement, and heartache. Frances had taught her to be a lady, had engineered her marriage to William Cavendish, had lavished her with praise and motherly affection even while she stinted her love to her own daughter Jane.
Bess had last visited Frances a month earlier, when all the household at Sheen House in Richmond was in a happy state of commotion over the recent proposal by Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford and son of the late Lord Protector, to marry Jane’s sister Kate Grey. Frances had been hoping to get the queen’s permission for the marriage.
“My poor girl loves him and he her,” she had confided to Bess. “And moreover, the marriage would strengthen Kate’s position as successor to Her Majesty, though God grant there be no need of such a thing for many years to come.”
Bess’s heart had been wrung to see Frances clearly in pain from troubles in her gut, and looking weak and far beyond her forty-two years of age.
“Surely Her Majesty will agree,” she had said, wanting to soothe Frances but doubting her words were true, and inevitably thinking of Jane, and Frances’s previous ambitions to have a daughter for a queen.
And yesterday, Frances Grey had died, with her daughters Kate and Mary and her beloved husband Adrian Stokes at her side. Will had told Bess that the queen had already promised to bear the expenses of a great state funeral for her cousin and a tomb in Westminster Abbey, and agreed to a posthumous quartering of Frances’s coat of arms with the royal arms.
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