Silently, I shake my head. I have been married four times and never yet been in love. For me, marriage has always been a carefully considered business contract, and I don’t know whatcoup de foudre even means, and I don’t like the sound of it.
“Well,voilа , I married Darnley, partly to spite your Queen Elizabeth, partly for policy, partly for love, in haste, and regretted it soon enough. He was a drunkard and a sodomite. A wreck of a boy. He took it into his stupid head that I had a lover and he lighted upon the only good advisor I had at my court, the only man I could count on. David Rizzio was my secretary and advisor, my Cecil if you like. A steady good man that I could trust. Darnley let his bullies into my private rooms and they killed him before my very eyes, in my chamber, poor David…” She breaks off. “I could not stop them, God knows I tried. The men came for him and poor David ran to me. He hid behind me, but they dragged him out. They would have killed me too: one of them held a pistol against my belly, my unborn son quickening as I screamed. Andrew Kerr his name was—I don’t forget it, I don’t forgive him. He put the barrel of his pistol to my belly and my little son’s foot pressed back. I thought he would shoot me and my unborn child inside me. I thought he would kill us both. I knew then that the Scots are beyond ruling, they are madmen.”
She holds her hands over her eyes as if to block out the sight of it even now. I nod in silence. I don’t tell her that we knew of the plot in England. We could have protected her, but we chose not to do so. We could have warned her but we did not. Cecil decided that we should not warn her, but leave her, isolated and in danger. We heard the news that her own court had turned on her, her own husband had become corrupt, and it amused us: thinking of her alone with those barbarians. We thought she would be forced to turn to England for help.
“The lords of my court killed my own secretary in front of me, as I stood there trying to shield him. Before me—a Princess of France.” She shakes her head. “After that it could only get worse. They had learned their power. They held me captive; they said they would cut me in pieces and throw my body in bits from the terrace of Stirling Castle.”
My women are aghast. One of them gives a little sigh of horror and thinks about fainting. I scowl at her.
“But you escaped?”
At once she smiles a mischievous grin, like a clever boy. “Such an adventure! I turned Darnley back to my side and I had them lower us out of the window. We rode for five hours through the night, though I was six months pregnant, and at the end of the road, in the darkness, Bothwell and his men were waiting for us and we were safe.”
“Bothwell?”
“He was the only man in Scotland I could trust,” she says quietly. “I learned later he was the only man in Scotland who had never taken a bribe from a foreign power. He is a Scot and loyal to my mother and to me. He was always on my side. He raised an army for me and we returned to Edinburgh and banished the murderers.”
“And your husband?”
She shrugs. “You must know the rest. I could not part from my husband while I was carrying his child. I gave birth to my son and Bothwell guarded him and me. My husband Darnley was murdered by his former friends. They planned to kill me too but it happened I was not in the house that night. It was nothing more than luck.”
“Terrible, terrible,” one of my women whispers. They will be converting to Papacy next out of sheer fellow feeling.
“Yes indeed,” I say sharply to her. “Go and fetch a lute and play for us.” So that gets her out of earshot.
“I had lost my secretary and my husband, and my principal advisors were his murderers,” she said. “I could get no help from my family in France, and the country was in uproar. Bothwell stood by me, and he had his army to keep us safe. Then he declared us married.”
“Were you not married?” I whisper.
“No,” she says shortly. “Not by my church. Not in my faith. His wife still lives, and now another one, another wife, has thrown him into prison in Denmark for breach of promise. She claims they were married years ago. Who knows with Bothwell? Not I.”
“Did you love him?” I ask, thinking that this is a woman who was once a fool for love.
“We never speak of love,” she says flatly. “Never. We are not some romantic couple writing poetry and exchanging tokens. We never speak of love. I have never said one word of love to him nor he to me.”
There is a silence, and I realize she has not exactly answered me.
“And then?” one of my entranced half-wit women whispers.
“Then my half brother and his treacherous allies called up their army to attack Bothwell and me with him, and Bothwell and I rode out to battle together, side by side, as comrades. But they won—it is as simple as that. Our army drained away as we delayed. Bothwell would have fought at once and we might have won then, but I hoped to avoid bloodshed of kin against kin. I let them delay us with talks and false promises and my army slipped away. We made an agreement and Bothwell got away. They promised me safe conduct but they lied. They held me as a prisoner, and I miscarried my twins; two boys. They made me abdicate while I was ill and broken with grief. My own half brother claimed my throne, the traitor. He sold my pearls, and they have my son…my boy…” Her voice, which has been low and steady, wavers now for the first time.
“You will see him again, for sure,” I say.
“He is mine,” she whispers. “My own son. He should be raised as a Prince of Scotland and England. Not by these heretical fools, not by the murderers of his own father, men who believe neither in God nor king.”
“My husband says that you will be restored to your throne this very summer, any day now,” I say. I do not add that I think him mistaken.
She lifts her head. “I shall need an army to get back my throne,” she says. “It is not a question of simply riding back to Edinburgh. I shall need a husband to dominate the Scots lords and an army to hold them down. Tell Elizabeth when you write to her that she must honor her kinship to me. She must restore me. I shall be Queen of Scotland again.”
“Her Majesty doesn’t take advice from me,” I say. “But I know she is planning for your restoration.” Even if Cecil is not, I think.
“I have made mistakes,” she concedes. “I have not judged very well for myself, after all. But perhaps still I may be forgiven. And at least I do have a son.”
“You will be forgiven,” I say earnestly. “If you have done anything wrong, which I am sure…and anyway, as you say, you do have a son, and a woman with a son is a woman with a future.”
She blinks back the tears and nods. “He will be King of England,” she breathes. “King of England and Scotland.”
I am silent for a moment. It is treason to speak of the queen’s death; it is treason to speculate about her heir. I shoot a hard look at my women, who are all, wisely, eyes down on their sewing now and pretending they cannot hear.
Her mood shifts, as quickly as a child’s. “Ah, here I am becoming as morbid as a Highlander!” she cries out. “Lady Seton, ask a page to come and sing for us and let’s have some dancing. Lady Shrewsbury here will think herself in prison or in mourning!”
I laugh, as if we were not in truth in prison and bereft, and I send for wine and for fruit, and for the musicians. When my lord comes in before dinner he finds us in a whirl of dancing and the Scots queen in the middle, calling the changes and laughing aloud as we get all muddled up and end opposite the wrong partners.
“You must go right! Right!” she calls out. “Gauche et puis а gauche!”She whirls around to laugh at him. “My lord, command your wife! She is making a mockery of me as a dancing tutor.”
“It is you!” he says, his face reflecting her joy. “No! No! Truly it is you. You shall not accuse the countess, indeed you shall not.Gauche means left in English, Your Grace! Not right. You have been commanding them the wrong way round.”
She screams with laughter and falls into my arms and kisses me the French way, on both cheeks. “Ah, pardon, Lady Bess! Your husband is ri
ght! I have been teaching you all wrong. I am a fool not to speak your difficult language. You have a most poor master of dance. But tomorrow I shall write to my family in Paris and they shall send me a dancing teacher and some violinists, and he will teach us all and we shall dance beautifully!”
1569, SPRING,
TUTBURY CASTLE:
GEORGE
Idraw Bess to one side before dinner and tell her. “Our guest is to leave us. She is to be returned to Scotland. I heard from Cecil himself today.”
“Never!” she exclaims.
I cannot restrain a knowledgeable nod. “As I said,” I remind her. “The queen said she should be restored to her throne and the queen honors her own word. We will take her back to Scotland. She will return in triumph. And we will be there with her.”
Bess’s eyes gleam. “This will be the making of us. Good God, she might give us a massive estate on the borders. She will have acres to give away; she will have miles.”
“The recognition we deserve,” I correct her. “And perhaps, a token of her thanks. But the messenger brought me something else.” I show her the sealed package and Norfolk’s letter. “Should I give it to her, d’you think?”
“What does it say?”
“How should I know? It is sealed. He wrote to me that it is a proposal of marriage. I can hardly pry into a courtship.”
“With her you can. You have not lifted the seal and resealed it?”
Sometimes my Bess shocks me. “Wife!” I have to remember that she was not born into this position. She has not always been, as she is now, a countess and a Talbot.
She drops her gaze, penitent at once. “But my lord, should we not know what the Duke of Norfolk is writing? If you give her the letter you are condoning whatever he says.”
“All the other lords condone it. They support it.”
“The other lords were not personally commanded by the queen to guard her,” she remarks. “The other lords are not here, handing over secret letters.”
I feel deeply uneasy. Queen Mary is a guest under my roof, I can hardly spy on her.
“Does he say that Cecil knows?” she asks.
“He wouldn’t confide in Cecil,” I say irritably. “Everyone knows that Cecil hopes to rule everything. His ambition is unbearable. A Howard would hardly apply to William Cecil for permission to marry.”
“Yes, but I do wonder what Cecil thinks,” she muses.
I am so annoyed by this that I can hardly reply. “My lady, it does not matter a fig to me what Cecil thinks. It does not matter to Howard what Cecil thinks. It should not matter to you what Cecil thinks. He is little more than the queen’s steward, as he always has been. He should not presume to advise those of us who are lords of the realm, and have been for generations.”
“But, husband, the queen listens to Cecil more than any other. We should take his advice.”
“A Talbot would never apply to such as William Cecil for advice,” I say grandly.
“Of course, of course,” she soothes me, finally understanding that I am obdurate. “So give me the package for now, and I will return it to you after dinner and you can give it to her then.”
I nod. “I cannot spy on her, Bess,” I say. “I am her host; I stand in a position of honor and trust with her. I cannot be her jailer. I am a Talbot. I cannot do anything that is at all dishonorable.”
“Of course not,” she says. “Leave it all to me.”
We go in to dinner happily enough and for once the queen eats well; her sickness has passed and she has had a merry day, riding with me and sewing with Bess, and then dancing. After dinner Bess goes out for a little while on household business while the queen and I play cards. When Bess comes back into the presence chamber she calls me to one side and says that she thinks I am right and that the queen should have her letter.
I am deeply relieved at her agreeing with me. I cannot be under the cat’s paw in this marriage. Bess will have to learn that I must be master in my house. She can act as if she is the manager of everything, just as she likes; I never stand in her way. But she must know that the steward is not the master. She can be my wife and the keeper of my house but she can never be head of the household. We are the Talbots, I am a Privy Councillor, I am the Earl of Shrewsbury. I cannot do anything dishonorable.
I am glad that Bess has come to see reason. I cannot withhold letters to a queen, and a guest in my household. Norfolk is a nobleman, he knows where his duty lies. I cannot sink to the level of a Cecil and spy on those who are my friends and family.
1569, SPRING,
TUTBURY CASTLE:
MARY
After dinner, which we eat together in the great hall of the Shrewsburys’ lodgings, the earl asks if he may speak with me for a moment and we step across to a window as if to look out over the little courtyard, where there is a well, a patch of garden growing herbs, and a few servants lazing about. Good God, this is a poor, ugly little place.
“I have very good news for you,” he says, looking down on me kindly. “I have heard this afternoon from William Cecil. I am very pleased to say that I am commanded to make arrangements for you to return to Scotland. You are to be restored to your throne.”
For a moment his warm face blurs before my eyes. I cannot see clearly. Then I feel his gentle hand under my elbow. “Are you faint?” he asks. “Shall I call Bess?”
I blink. “I am so relieved,” I say, my words heartfelt. “I am just so relieved. It is as if…Good God, my lord. You have brought me the best news I have ever had. My heart…my heart…”
“Are you ill?”
“No,” I say wonderingly. “I think I am well for the first time since you have known me. My heart has stopped aching. The pain is going. I can hope for happiness again.”
He is beaming down at me. “I too am so glad,” he says. “I too. It is as if a shadow has lifted from England, from me…I shall arrange for a guard and the horses to escort you to Scotland. We could leave within the month.”
I smile at him. “Yes, do. As soon as we can. I cannot wait to see my son; I cannot wait to be back in my true place. The lords will accept me, and obey me? They have given their word?”
“They will receive you as queen,” he assures me. “They acknowledge that the abdication was unlawful and forced. And there is something else which should give you greater safety there.”
I wait. I turn my head and smile at him, but I take care not to appear too eager. It is always good to go slowly with shy men; they are frightened by a quick-witted woman.
“I have received a letter addressed to you,” he says in his awkward way. “It comes from the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard. Perhaps you are expecting it?”
I incline my head, which could mean yes or no, and I smile up at him again.
“I am at a loss to know what I should do,” he continues, more to himself than to me. “It is your letter. But it has come to me.”
I keep a steady smile. “What is your question?” I ask pleasantly. “If it is my letter?”
“It is the content,” he says heavily. “I cannot in honor deliver a letter which contains unsuitable material. But I cannot, in honor, read a letter which is addressed to another. Especially to a lady. Especially to a queen.”
I swear I could take his troubled face in my hands and kiss away his frown. “My lord,” I say gently, “let me resolve this.” I put out my hand. “I shall open it and read it before you. You shall see the letter yourself. And if you think it was not fit for me to see, then you can take it back and I will forget it, and no harm will be done.” I am burning up to see this letter, but he would never know it from my steady hand and sweet patient smile.
“Very well,” he agrees. He hands it over and steps to one side, puts his hands behind his back like a sentry on duty, and raises himself up on his toes in his embarrassment at having to be guardian and host, all at once.
I see at once that the seal has been lifted and resealed. It has been done with great care but I have been spied on for al
l my life; not much escapes me. I give no sign that I know my letter has been opened and read by someone else, as I break the seal and unfold the paper.
Dear God, it takes all my long years of training as a French princess to keep my face completely still and calm. In my hands I have a letter of such importance that the words dance before my eyes as I read it and read it again. It is very brief. It is, I think, my pass of safe conduct to guarantee I shall get me out of this bailey on a midden and back to my throne, and my son, and my freedom. Ross said that this would come, and I have been hoping. It is a proposal of marriage. It is my chance for happiness once more.
“You know what he says?” I ask Lord Shrewsbury’s discreetly turned back.
He swings round. “He wrote to me in a covering letter that he was proposing marriage,” he says. “But he has not asked permission of the queen.”
The Other Queen Page 10