by Georgina Lee
“Well, what is so important that you disturb me now?” she asks.
“Beg pardon your ladyship, there is someone to see you in the Great Hall. She will not give her name and says she knows Master Henry.”
“What has that to do with me?”
He hesitates. “It might be best if you came at once, m’lady.”
She gets up reluctantly and follows him inside. The servant waits by the entrance as Bess makes her way towards the figure sitting at one of the trestle tables. The person who has so unceremoniously arrived is a young girl. Bess estimates quickly that she is no more than fourteen. Dressed in clothes that have seen better days, her pretty face is hollow and tired. She stands up rather awkwardly and gives a brief curtsey. Now Bess sees that she is heavily with child.
“M’lady, thank you for seeing me.”
Her voice is surprisingly strong, but she leans on the table for support as her hands shake.
“You had better tell me why you are here. I do not usually receive visitors unannounced.”
“I think you should know ...” She swoons suddenly and falls forward in a faint, as the servant rushes forward to help Bess as they place her in a nearby chair.
“Go to the kitchens and get some ale,” Bess orders.
She watches her recover as she thinks of what to do. It is obvious that she is going to claim that Henry is the father of her child and she has come here for some recompense. There have already been rumours about Henry’s sexual exploits that have reached his mother’s ears but she does not wish to believe them. She had hoped that the discipline of Eton would have curbed his behaviour, but the opposite seems to have happened. The servant returns with a pewter cup and places it on the table. The girl’s expression is wary as Bess watches her drink.
“What is your name, child?”
“Charity Tanner,” she mumbles in reply.
“How old are you and where are you from?”
“I am nearly eighteen, my home is near your son’s school. My grandfather has an inn.”
“You are not eighteen are you? Do not lie to me or it will be the worse for you.”
Charity slams the cup on the table, the contents spilling out.
“I am not afraid of you just because you have a grand house and you are the lady of the manor. Henry used me and then left, that was not very gentlemanly of him was it?”
“Do not dare to address me in that fashion or I will have you thrown out! Anyone can see that you are not eighteen.”
Neither speaks for a few moments, then Charity’s voice is subdued.
“I did not know where else to go. My grandfather says he does not want me and a screaming brat in the house. Henry told me everything would be all right. It has taken me nearly a month to get here.”
“You travelled from Windsor on your own?”
She nods and a tear rolls slowly down her cheek.
“How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“Write and ask your son. If he denies me he deserves to roast in hell.”
Bess has heard enough and calls back the servant.
“John! Take Charity to the servants quarters, tell one of the women to help her wash and find some clean clothes, feed her and find somewhere for her to sleep.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“I will write to my son and see if he will vouch for you. In the meantime you may stay here until I decide what is to become of you.”
“Thank you, m’lady”
She watches as the servant helps Charity and they make their way to the kitchens. What a cruel irony that the girl is called Charity! It would be several days before Henry would be able to return her letter and she would not have put it past him to ignore it. She hurries back to her desk and picks up her quill to write to him. The letter is brief, and to the point, and will be taken to Eton at first light tomorrow. There is another matter to occupy her that afternoon. Although Bess is far removed from London, she is in constant correspondence with friends and important members of the Court. They are concerned to hear of her welfare and naturally tell her all the latest social gossip, of which there is always plenty. She likes to be kept up-to-date. Everything is of interest, Queen Elizabeth’s latest remarks, political developments, unfolding scandals. She still has the network of spies set up during her second marriage to Sir William Cavendish and they are handsomely paid for their trouble. Consequently, a large numbers of personal and business letters arrive almost daily, carried by riders, from Court and her other properties and businesses in Derbyshire, London and Somerset. There are regular letters from her mother, sisters and half-sisters, as well as friends living locally. Her only brother, James, a year older, has always been a poor letter writer. But everyone has been scandalized by the rumour earlier in the year of the Scottish Queen Mary’s possible involvement in the murder of her husband, Lord Darnley.
Recently she has received some unusual letters that are of a more personal nature. Turning the key, she opens a drawer and places two of them on her desk. The first is from the brother-in-law of her friend, Frances, and the other from an old acquaintance. She reads:
Palace of Whitehall
London
My Lady St Loe,
It is too long since we have had the pleasure of your company at Court. Now that the period of mourning for your late husband is over, I hope you will consider me as much more than a friend, for my loving feelings for you cannot be repressed any longer. My sister-in-law, Frances, tells me that you are thinking of returning to Court and I would be overjoyed to see you again.
My fervent wish is that you will allow me to speak frankly to you about the future that I so long to share with you. I pray God send you good health and long life. Written this day xviii of August 1567. I remain your most devoted friend,
Henry Cobham.
Frances has been quietly arranging for Bess and Henry to be in each other’s company as often as possible at Court. Bess likes him well enough, but he is a little too eager to please her, which she sometimes finds irksome. She turns her attention to the other letter, which is more direct and she cannot not help but smile when she reads it.
York House
London
Sweet Bess,
I hope you do not consider me too bold in addressing you thus, but I cannot help myself. I have long admired you for your beauty and charm. To watch you suffering alone the trials of widowhood yet again has been a torture for me as I have been unable to help you as I would have wished. Now I feel that our time together has come and, with your permission, I would like to give you the protection you deserve. I am well placed to do so and you may be assured of my devotion and love. I would also love your children as my own. It has not escaped my knowledge that others are vying for your hand, but I know you to be steady enough to choose wisely. I pray you to look kindly upon me and return to Court without delay, for you are much missed. My prayers and thoughts continue to be for you as I wait for your answer on this iv day of September 1567.
Written by the hand of him who would be yours,
John Thynne.
She lays the letters down and reflects for some minutes. The parchments have a smell of the London Court, indefinable and exciting. Always attractive to the ambitious, it is here that great matters of state are decided. A few aspiring men rise to high office, while others fail and are sent away to live the remainder of their days in obscurity. Others are found guilty of treason and pay the ultimate price. In contrast, there is lavish entertainment with banquets, plays, tournaments and music; life here is to be enjoyed wherever possible.
Foreign ambassadors and clergy clamour with everyone else of importance for the attention of the queen, who has now been on the throne for nine years and shows no signs of marrying. The extravagance here is beyond ordinary peoples’ dreams and there is always a heady mix of seduction and intrigue. It is hard not to be impressed by it, not to want to be part of it. But it can be a claustrophobic, dangerous place and Bess has lived through years when it was safe
r to be a long way from Court. She knows she will have to make the journey down to London again and the time is fast approaching. Several weeks ago she received another letter from the queen who had hinted that Bess should feel ready to return, she would be most welcome. Not exactly a command, but close enough for her to feel it is time to start planning the journey. Bess decides to write to her mother and ask her to stay with Mary and Elizabeth whilst she is away, for she will be there for some months. In anticipation of the visit, she has already ordered new French gowns and some knitted silk stockings that ladies of quality are now wearing. Most importantly, she will take a present for the queen, an expensive silver cup that she has specially commissioned. Bess had once arrived without a gift, but the queen received her with such a coolness of manner that it was a mistake she will never make again.
She lifts her head to look out through the open window and thinks about returning to the garden again, but Elizabeth and Mary are nowhere to be seen, and she suspects they have probably gone to see the new pony that arrived yesterday. The servants are gathering up the rugs and cushions to bring them inside as the dogs sniff at the skittle balls before wandering away in search of some other scent. Dusk is beginning to fall and the shadows are lengthening. The thought of a family evening for once makes her a little restless.
There is one more letter in the drawer and she pulls it out as if it was fragile. Running her forefinger gently along the heavy seal, she is aware of its power and all it represents. The spidery writing therein reveals it is a love letter too, but more restrained and formal than the others. She has met the writer a number of times in London, for he is a Knight of the Garter and often at Court, as well as being Lord Lieutenant of Derbyshire, Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire. Of similar age to Bess and a widower, his wife died nine months previously. He is very wealthy and from one of the most distinguished and noble families in England. The letter says that he has been thinking about Bess a great deal, how highly the queen always speaks of her, and how he finds himself ever more impressed by these endorsements of her character and also wishes to see her soon. Bess stares out of the window, deep in thought.
She knows the financial worry that her mother, Elizabeth, endured when she was widowed.
After three years of struggling to run the family farm on her own, Bess’ mother remarried a local man, Ralph Leche, whom Bess regarded as her father. But he eventually ended up in the debtors prison and once again, Elizabeth found herself having to beg relations for help. Bess is determined never to be in such a position herself. Replacing all the letters in the drawer, she turns the key with a satisfying click. She knows what has to be done now to ensure those cherished ambitions for herself and her children become a reality.
Westminster Palace, London. December 1567 (3 months later)
One evening the queen stands in her bedchamber as her ladies-in-waiting help her to dress for the first of many Christmas feasts in the coming month. A handful of gowns lie discarded, her majesty having changed her mind several times about what to wear. Bess and her friend, Frances Cobham, are helping her into the detachable sleeves of a yellow silk gown, while Blanche Parry and Lady Dorothy Stafford, also friends of Bess, comb one of her red wigs ready to place over the royal head. The atmosphere is light-hearted as the queen is in a better mood, having finally agreed to the removal of a tooth two days before, which had been causing her a lot of pain. The ladies dart about attending to her, their gowns a rainbow of colours in the dark oak-panelled chamber. In less than an hour, the toilette will be complete, but first the queen decides to be a little mischievous. She teases Frances about her brother-in-law, Henry, who has made no secret that he hopes to marry soon.
“He does not discuss such matters with me, your majesty,” Frances responds when the queen asks about his intentions.
“Then he should, for your opinion, as a woman, is worth ten times that of a man when it comes to love. Would you not agree, Bess?”
“I would, your majesty.” Bess was seemingly engrossed in her task.
“But what of the rumours? For example, I have heard that Henry is making overtures to a certain widow and so far, she has not indicated her preference.”
“We have not heard these rumours, your majesty.”
Dorothy is quick to reply as she sees that Bess is uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Why yes, it is the talk of my Court. The lady concerned has several admirers. Sir John Thynne is one such man. They say he is going round like a lovesick calf.”
She gives Bess a teasing look.
“At his age, your majesty?” Blanche murmurs.
“Love knows no age limits. We none of us know when or where Cupid’s arrow will strike. I believe Lord Darcy is smitten with the lady too.”
Bess bows her head and remains silent. She knows that this talk is not vindictive but she wishes the queen would change the subject. They all know that the ‘lady’ is Bess herself.
“And there is another mystery contender causing much speculation.” Her eyes sparkle at the thought. “I shall say no more. Now make haste, I long to be dancing and I can hear the musicians getting ready.”
Finally they leave the chamber, the queen a vision of embroidered extravagance, sparkling precious stones and exquisite lace ruff, her face painted alabaster white with lead powder, all the better to show off her red hair and green eyes. As she descends the stairs, a sweet cloud of rosewater surrounds her. The courtiers are silenced as they look up and bow low, for no one may outshine their queen.
The sight that greets her is one she loves to see. The Great Hall is decked out in bunches of red berried holly and trails of ivy. Snowy white cloths with swags of coloured ribbons decorate the long tables, and candles burn on the wall sconces alongside banners of the queen’s coat of arms. The air is heavy with wood smoke from the huge log fire in the inglenook fireplace, and with the costly perfumed musk oil worn by the courtiers. They too are ostentatiously dressed in their finest clothes of silks, furs and velvets, as they look forward to the evening. Servants hurry in and out of the vast kitchen, their arms weighted down with seemingly endless silver platters containing a wide variety of meat and fish dishes, which they carefully place on the tables.
Afterwards the guests will partake of elaborate marzipan sweetmeats, gingerbread and figs, as they drain flagons of spiced wine and beer. The centrepiece of the confectionery is a large sugar paste replica of Whitehall Palace edged with gold leaf, a masterpiece, which the cook has taken many hours to prepare. The dancing will continue long into the night or whenever the queen retires, but she has been known to dance until dawn, much to the frustration of those who would rather be in their beds, either alone or with someone else. The musicians play in the gallery above, although the noise of everyone talking and laughing does much to drown their playing. Bess sits with the other ladies and listens to their chatter. She is in a particularly reflective mood. Having been here for several weeks now, it is not easy for her to enjoy some time to herself.
Her duties as lady-in-waiting involve being in attendance to the queen on a daily basis. There is always some task to do: assisting with the queen’s toilette, attending to the royal wardrobe, sewing and mending, caring for her jewellery, taking dictation and writing letters, applying cosmetics to the queen’s face, embroidery, reading aloud to her or playing chess and backgammon. At Court there is plenty of entertainment to amuse everyone. There are always musicians and dancers, plays to watch, masked balls, banquets and gambling. The queen also loves hunting and falconry whenever she can spare time from her state duties. As a high-ranking lady-in-waiting, Bess is privileged to have the ear of the queen in her private chambers, which is much sought after, hence everyone approaches her asking for favours or to intercede on their behalf. Some are not beyond offering bribes, but Bess takes her duties very seriously and conducts herself with dignity and poise, not becoming involved in the more giggly chatter of the younger ladies who are, in fact, slightly in awe of her. They look up now as she prepares
to leave the table, wondering if all the rumours about her suitors are true. She whispers to Blanche that she will be back shortly.
“Bess, are you sure it is wise? No one may leave without the queen’s permission. What if her majesty notices?”
They both look to where the queen is laughing with the Earl of Leicester, their faces close.
“I will explain and she will understand.”
Blanche looks skeptical.
“I am not sure that she will.”
Bess puts her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You worry too much.”
She makes her way along the back of the hall to the stairs and hurries to her chamber. It is not so warm once out of the hall, and she pulls her mantle round her as she walks. Luckily the fire in her chamber still gives out some heat and she is glad of it. Only a matter of minutes after she sits at her desk to write, there is a knock on the door. She is startled; someone must have seen her leave. Has the queen sent someone to fetch her after all?
Covering the letters quickly, she bids them enter. To her surprise it is George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, the writer of the third letter. She immediately curtseys and he responds by bowing low and asks, a little cautiously, if he may speak to her. Bess hesitates, as the queen forbids male visitors to the apartments of her ladies-in-waiting, a fact that everyone knows.
“It is not allowed, your grace.”
“What I have to say will only take a few moments, Lady St Loe.”
“Very well.”
As he passes her to stand by the window, she catches a hint of sandalwood in the air and becomes acutely aware of his masculine presence in the confined chamber. Bess pushes the door so that it is almost shut and waits, folding her hands demurely in front of her with her eyes downcast, as is proper. The earl is tall and slim, his cropped hair and long beard accentuate the serious expression in his dark eyes. His clothes are made from the finest red velvet and silk embroidery, trimmed with sable, a fur that must only be worn by peers of the realm. He clears his throat and speaks quickly in a hushed tone.