by Georgina Lee
“He is right, the world can be a bad place.” Bess links arms with her. “Come with me, I will show you the rest of the house, as much as we can see. You will like living here, we shall be very comfortable together.”
“Until I marry,” adds Arbella quickly.
“Of course, but in the meantime you must continue with your studies, learning Spanish and Hebrew and reading the classics. Mr Starkey tells me that you are doing very well and working hard. Wylkyn has learnt much from your Latin lessons with him.”
“He is a sweet child, I enjoy our time together and I am pleased to teach my cousin.”
“Good. There is much to keep you occupied here, Arbella, if you will only seek it out. You must make the most of these days, so that when you eventually become a wife and mother, you will be the greatest accomplished lady in the land and the envy of everyone.”
Looking unconvinced, Arbella allows Bess to lead her round the parts of the house that are habitable. No expense has been spared in the interior decoration either. The symmetry of the chambers and expanse of natural light that floods through all the glass windows, give the house a delicate, almost spiritual atmosphere. There is a soft sheen on the exquisitely carved oak wall panelling and overmantels, which Bess caresses sometimes, as if to reassure herself of their beauty. It is unlike any other house that either of them have seen. But Arbella cannot share her grandmother’s enthusiasm, finding the light, airy space intrusive and threatening. There seems no escape from the relentless luminosity in each chamber. She nods silently as Bess chatters away to her, the pride in her voice all too evident.
Compared to Chatsworth, the New Hall is smaller and less fussy. But it is the magnificent Great High Chamber, on the uppermost floor, that Bess is most proud of. This is the place where she hopes to entertain Queen Elizabeth, although men are still working on finishing the plasterwork frieze, which tells the story of Diana the Huntress. Once this is complete, splendid tapestries will be hung along the walls, rush matting laid on the floors, and furniture brought over from the Old Hall, where it is being stored. Bess can hardly wait to entertain here.
The first Christmas festivities to be held in the New Hardwick Hall are fast approaching, and the servants are working hard to get everything ready. But Anne has been constantly sick during her present pregnancy, and spends most of each day in bed, her spirits low. Even William cannot cheer her with talk of their new home at Oldcotes, which should be ready for completion soon.
Over the next few days, family and friends start to arrive to celebrate Bess’ birthday; they stand and look up in wonder at the carved initials before entering through the front door. She welcomes them all herself, explaining the reasons for a certain design, and pointing out areas of special interest as they tour the house. As queen of all she surveys, she sits in the new Long Gallery, surrounded by everyone, always the centre of it all. She listens, gives advice, laughs and watches her beloved children and grandchildren as they grow up. In quieter moments, she reflects on her seventy years, and thanks God she is still fit and healthy. Neighbours that she has lent money to, regard her as a lifesaver, as they do not know who else would help them out of financial difficulties. The fact that she insists on their land as security for loans does irk some of them, but not enough to shun her generous hospitality and friendship. There is still no news from the queen about Arbella’s future, and Bess notices that her granddaughter seems to be shrinking under the strain of her restricted life, not eating much or joining in with card games any more. She has become very secretive, taking letters and running upstairs to read in private, then either burning or hiding them. Bess knows that not only is she in contact with the Earl of Essex, but also with her uncle Henry, whom she suspects is very sympathetic to her plight. But it is Anne who causes the most concern over the next few weeks. Her ankles have started to swell and she complains constantly of severe headaches. She looks very unwell, her face is puffy and there are dark shadows under her eyes.
Bess is sitting with her one February afternoon; the sky is grey, and rumbles of thunder are heard as the light begins to fade. Anne is laying on the bed, too exhausted to speak, but stares at the window, while Bess sponges her forehead with rosewater.
“Will you have some warm mead, my dear?” Bess asks her, holding the goblet to her lips.
Anne shakes her head, and suddenly clutches her stomach, groaning in pain.
“Is it your time? I will send for the midwife.”
Bess immediately calls for servant and tells them to summon not only Mistress Flack, but also William. “She has started early, God willing all will be well,” Bess tells a tense William when he arrives from the hunting field, his cloak and boots wet with mud.
He goes to Anne’s side and is shocked by her appearance; beads of perspiration are trickling down her ashen face as she rolls from side to side in pain. Mistress Flack does not take long to arrive, and after rolling up her sleeves, carries out an examination. When she has satisfied herself, she goes over to where Bess and William are waiting anxiously outside the chamber.
“Lady Anne’s condition gives me cause for concern, your grace. How long has she been like this?”
“We sent for you at once when she began to complain of pain, but she has not been herself all through this pregnancy.”
“How bad is it?” William’s voice is shaking with fear.
“I cannot say, sir. I will do my best but I must warn you to be prepared for the worst. I have seen mothers like this before …” her voice trails off and she looks back at the bed.
William gives a gasp and Bess puts her arm round him. “Come away and let Mrs Flack carry on, there is nothing we can do here. It is in God’s hands now.”
For the next ten hours, the Old Hall is wracked with Anne’s cries, which gradually become fainter and fainter as her strength gives out. Everyone else waits downstairs in desperation and helplessness; William pacing up and down like a caged animal, Bess trying to concentrate on her sewing, and Arbella biting her nails as she turns the pages of a book. Finally all is quiet and then they hear the sound of a crying baby.
“God be praised!” William cries and runs up the stairs, Bess and Arbella following behind. They crowd into the chamber as Mrs Flack is wrapping the baby in a blanket.
“A baby boy, he seems bonny enough,” she adds encouragingly and hands him to William.
“And my wife?” His gaze moves to the bed but Anne has her eyes closed, oblivious to his presence.
“She must rest,” Mrs Flack instructs them. “You have a wet nurse ready?”
“Yes, she is waiting to be called. A woman from the estate, we have used her before,” Bess replies, and looks lovingly at her new grandchild.
“What will you call him?” she asks William.
“James I think, after your brother.”
Bess smiles and holds the baby’s little hand tenderly.
“We must get your mother better now, James.”
“Amen to that,” says William and hands him to Bess while he goes to comfort Anne. She is unresponsive to his solicitous murmurings, but he holds her hand and strokes it. The fear is still there gripping the pit of his stomach; he turns to Mistress Slack as she gathers up her instruments and soiled linen.
“Thank you,” he tells her simply. “Please go to the kitchen for some refreshments.”
She nods, and says she will be back in the morning, before curtseying and leaving the chamber. Bess kisses baby James before placing him in the hastily prepared crib, and leaves the three of them alone while she gives orders for some nourishing soup and fresh linen to be brought up.
Arbella is still at the door, wide-eyed and curious. “We will return later when Anne is stronger,” Bess tells her.
“Will aunt Anne be all right?” whispers Arbella.
“We shall have to see, child. Do not worry now, the worst is probably over.”
But Bess has a terrible foreboding about Anne. Such fancies have no place in Bess’ usual outlook on life, but t
his time she cannot help but think there will be another death in the family before long.
1598 – 1599
Bess’ worst fears were realised when Anne dies less than four months after Bess and Arbella move into the New Hall, but James thrives and is doted on by everyone, especially Bess. Lord Burghley is also dead. Bess is still in contact with officials at Court, including Sir Robert Cecil and Sir Walter Raleigh; she sends them occasional gifts of food or silver plate. The bad feeling between the Stanhopes and Gilbert has not gone away, as Charles finds out, to his detriment, one morning in June 1599.
“Will you take the new mare this morning, sir?”
They are outside the stables where grooms and stable lads are busy going about their early morning chores: sweeping the yard, polishing harnesses, mucking out and preparing the cart horses for work in the fields. As befits a gentleman of means, Charles has a variety of horses for different purposes. There are palfreys for long distance riding, coursers for hunting and some large Flanders horses for heavy work such as transporting goods. Charles has an expert eye and runs his hands over the mare’s flank. He usually buys them from a breeder such as Sir Nicholas Arnold or the horse fair at Ripon, but this one has recently come from a neighbour. She is a beautiful four-year-old chestnut with white markings on her forehead. Charles is paying a visit to a kiln he is having built near where his new house is to stand, and he wants to check progress on the work.
“She is smaller than I remembered,” he replies and the groom raises his eyebrows as he holds the reins.
“Try her out, the ride to the kiln is not long, sir. The lad says she responds well and has a soft mouth.”
“Very well, although I have a feeling she might be more suitable for Lady Catherine. We shall call her Lucky. Have my hunter saddled and ready for when we return within the hour.”
The groom murmurs acknowledgement, and Charles mounts with ease and rides to the gates where his brother-in-law Henry, and his page Lance, are waiting, also on horseback. They set off at a gentle pace, the roads are good for a change, there has been no rain, so the dust swirls beneath the horses hooves, making clouds at their feet. In ten minutes they are in the open countryside of Nottinghamshire and they can see their destination, less than a quarter of a mile away. Laughing and relaxed in the morning sunshine, it seems they have no cares in the world.
Then Charles looks towards the brow of a hill to the right, and sees a large group of riders galloping towards them, about half a mile distant. He reins his horse in and they all stop. “Who is that at such a pace?” he frowns, squinting against the sun on the eastern horizon.
“They cannot be heading for us,” replies Henry, shielding his eyes. “They must veer soon one way or the other.”
“I am not so sure,” Charles says slowly.
They watch as a dozen determined riders gallop nearer and nearer with frightening purpose and speed; the horses hooves thundering towards them, the riders in a frenzy of determined unity. As they approach with each second, they show no sign of deviating from the course leading them to where Charles and the others are waiting in the middle of the road. “God’s blood, they are coming straight for us!” Charles shouts. “Separate quickly!”
They spur their horses in different directions, Henry and Lance manage to make some ground, but despite brave Lucky’s efforts, Charles is slower and the riders are soon almost upon him. Not one of the riders has chased the other two, so it is clear to Charles at once that he is the intended victim. With a shout of anguish, he is thrown to the ground as Lucky stumbles on gravel. Dazed and hurt, he looks up to see two masked men pointing their pistols at him, less than fifteen feet away. They are masked, but their eyes are cold and determined as they loom over him. There are rallying shouts, the sound of swords being unsheathed, horses neighing in confusion. He tries to draw his sword, but before he can reach it, two shots are fired and he feels a searing pain shoot up his leg. Crying out in pain, he falls back and his attackers laugh as if they have performed a conjuring trick. Charles loses consciousness for a few seconds, but on recovering, is reassured to see that Henry and Lance have turned round and are already fighting. Outnumbered, with only a dagger and sword between them, they charge into their opponents’ horses, unseating several riders in the process, whilst wielding the weapons with enough accuracy to injury two more. Some of the attackers have had enough already and disappear with speed, one exits on foot, limping and holding his arm. Henry and Lance dismount and continue fighting on the ground. The clash of steel on steel glinting in the sunlight fills the air, and Henry also manages to land some well-aimed punches to his opponents. Lance, although of slight frame and short, is as tenacious as a terrier; thanks to having four older brothers, he knows how to take care of himself in a fight. Charles can only watch in frustration from the sidelines, clutching his right leg, which by now is bleeding badly.
By this time, alerted by the noise, twenty or so workmen at the kiln are running towards the scene and Charles notices them with a sigh of relief. The remaining attackers realise they have lost the advantage, and either re-mount, riding away at a gallop, or run off without their horses. Two of the men lie inert in the road, perhaps unconscious or dead. Henry and Lance run over to Charles and attend to his leg wound, tying it as best they can with their shirts to staunch the bleeding. The attack has lasted less than five minutes, but caused mayhem. The worst Henry and Lance have suffered is some bruising, but they are much more concerned about Charles.
“I am fine,” he insists, although his expression tells a different story, and he grimaces as they tighten the makeshift bandages. “Someone needs to look at Lucky, she may be injured too.”
Henry and Lance look at each other grimly, they know that Charles must have the bullet removed quickly. Henry takes charge, and as soon as the men from the kiln are close enough, he tells them to bring a litter at once to transport Sir Charles back home, and someone to ride urgently to the physician and tell him to attend without delay.
A handful of men run back to carry out his orders, and the others round up the horses and weapons left behind. Lance goes over to the attackers on the ground and turns them over with his foot. He does not recognise them, but they are both dead, one has bled heavily from his chest and the other has a gaping head wound where he fell, most likely hitting a nearby rock.
“God’s Blood! I could do with a drink! I hope the physician can give me something for this pain, I have never felt the like before.”
Charles closes his eyes and he starts to shake with shock. Lance murmurs words of manly comfort as Henry tries to distract him.
“I am trying to deduce the reason for the attack, it was completely unprovoked! They were not robbers, they asked for nothing; they were only interested in you, Charles. Do you have any idea what motive they might have had?” Henry asks as they put their weapons away and sit beside him, mopping their faces with handkerchiefs.
Charles opens his eyes briefly. “Stanhope was amongst them,” he manages to mutter, his breath laboured and erratic.
“That bastard!” exclaims Henry.
“Must be revenge for when I laughed at his doublet on Lambeth Bridge.”
“That was six years ago,” Lance says incredulously.
“Do not try to talk, Charles,” Henry tells him. “Save your strength. The litter will be here shortly, we are not far from home and you will soon be right again.”
His words do not fool anyone. They have all heard of men who have had to have limbs amputated from such pistol wounds, or died from the infections that took hold afterwards. They attempt to move him to a more comfortable position and he lies back, trying not to think of the agony from his wound. As he waits underneath the warming heat of the summer day, his friends loyally by his side, Charles has time to think of what the consequences of this cowardly attack might be for him. It seems unimaginable that one minute he is riding in the sunshine with his friends, laughing and talking, and the next he is lying wounded on the ground, bleeding and in
pain. He is a very active, fit man of forty and has every intention of staying that way for as long as possible. The best surgeon available will be at his disposal, but there is no guarantee that the outcome of his treatment will be successful. Having forgotten all about the duel, this attack has come as a great shock, and at the moment he knows he cannot think clearly. He was certainly unaware that Stanhope had been planning anything. Henry and Lance are looking at him anxiously.
“Are you all right?” Lance asks him. “Where is that damn litter?” He gets up to look.
“Stanhope has a prestigious post at Court does he not?” asks Henry.
“Treasurer of the Queen’s Chamber, no less. You can imagine what the Stanhopes had to do to get it for him,” replies Charles through gritted teeth.
“He will not keep it after this cowardly attack.”
“We shall see; he has powerful friends at Court.”
“Your mother, the Dowager Countess is not without influence,” Henry reminds him.
Charles thinks there is not much that even Bess can do about the situation. They sit and wait, looking round uneasily in case of a second attack, but no one passes. At last the litter arrives and he is lifted carefully onto it. Henry and Lance sit beside him to begin the slow, careful ride home where Catherine and the physician will be waiting. Getting justice for the attack is not a priority over the next few days, but Charles will not be in a position to do anything about it for a while.
New Hardwick Hall – 1601
“Has the rider delivered any letters yet today?” Arbella asks a servant one afternoon as she sits, bored and discontented, watching the sleet as it falls against the latticed windows.
“Yes highness, he arrived about an hour since. The Dowager Countess has all that was delivered.”
Arbella gives a sniff of disapproval and goes to Bess’ study, where without knocking, she storms in and demands to see her letters. Bess is in the middle of a meeting with William and Timothy and looks at her with a frown of annoyance.