The Other Queen

by Philippa Gregory

  I abhor the thought of this war. I thought that God might have called me to defend my home against the Spanish or the French, but never did I dream I would find myself in a battle against fellow Englishmen. To threaten a fellow countryman, led by a man I have known for all my life as my friend, will break my heart. Good God, Westmorland and Northumberland have been companions and advisors and kin to me for all my life. We are third cousins and in-laws and stepcousins to each other through five generations. If those two and their kin are out under the flag of the five wounds of Christ, it is unbelievable to me that I am not at their side. I am their brother; I should be beside them.

  The battle will come and then I shall have to look over my horse’s ears at their standards, at their beloved, familiar standards, and see them as the enemy. The day will come when I shall see the honest English faces of the other side, and still I shall have to tell my men to prepare to stand against a murderous charge, but it won’t be today. Thank God it won’t be today. But the only reason it is not today is their choice. They are choosing their moment. We are defeated already.

  1569, CHRISTMAS EVE,

  COVENTRY:

  MARY

  My chaplain locks my door and my household and I celebrate Mass on this most special night, as if we were Christians in hiding in the catacombs of Rome, surrounded by the ungodly. And like them we know, with utter conviction, that though they seem so powerful, though they seem to dominate the world, it will be our vision that triumphs and our faith that will grow until it is the only one.

  He finishes with the bidding prayers and then he wraps up the sacred goods, puts them in a box, and quietly leaves the room. Only his whispered “Merry Christmas” stirs me from my prayer.

  I rise up from the kneeler and blow out the candles before the little altar. “Merry Christmas,” I say to Agnes and Mary, and I kiss them on each cheek. The members of my household file out, one by one, pausing to bow or curtsy to me and whisper their blessings. I smile as they go, and then the room is silent, warm.

  “Open the window,” I say to Agnes, and I lean out. The stars are sharp as diamonds against the blackness of the sky. I look for the north star and think that my army will be sleeping beneath it, on its way to me. A story Bothwell once told me comes to my mind and I take in a breath of cold, cold air, and whistle a long cold whistle like the howl of a gale out into the night.

  “What are you doing?” Mary asks, throwing a shawl around my shoulders.

  “I am whistling up a storm,” I say, smiling at the thought of Bothwell, who whistled up his own storm the night before Carberry Hill. “I am whistling up a storm that is going to blow me all the way to my throne.”

  1569, DECEMBER,

  COVENTRY:

  BESS

  Acold season and little chance of much joy at a Christmas feast for my household this year. This is the second Christmas for me and my lord that has been spoilt by this other queen. I wish to God I had never heard of her, never mind thinking I could make a profit from serving her. Far from my home, and separated from my children, with no news of my mother and sister or my house, we wait in anxiety for the arrival of the army of the North. Hastings sends out scouts three times a day to see if we can get at least some idea of where it is now, and when it will be upon us, but half the time they are riding blind in mist and rain and could be within feet of the Northern army and not see it.

  The town is fortified as well as it can be but there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that we cannot hold out a siege against an army of nearly six thousand men. We have a handful of men whose loyalty we cannot depend on, nor will the citizens of Coventry defend us. They want to see the queen freed too. We are not popular here; we are an army of occupation.

  I cannot stop fretting for my mother and sister at Chatsworth. My girls are safe in the south, in service with friends, learning how to run great households and making the friendships which will serve them in later life, and my boy Charles is at school. But the Northern army could march through Chatsworth, and though my mother has the determination and the courage to order them off my land, what if the soldiers take offense? I worry too for Henry, my son, and Gilbert, my stepson, who are both at court. I cannot stop thinking that they may take it into their heads to volunteer to march with the queen’s army and come north against her enemies. If my Henry is in a battle with the Northern army, I swear I will behead the Queen of Scots myself. I am sure Robert Dudley will not let him go; I am sure the queen would forbid it. But over and over again I start up in the night, certain that my boy will have volunteered for danger and is even now marching north to meet an unstoppable army of traitors.

  Hastings has a letter from London, promising relief and pretending to optimism, but it brings the disastrous news that Barnard Castle has fallen to the army of the North. Sir George Bowes was holding out for the queen but his men risked their necks and jumped down from the castle walls to join the rebels. One of them even broke his leg in his determination to change sides, and the townspeople themselves threw open the gates and called the rebels in, singing the old anthems as they advanced. They held Mass in the parish churches; they brought out the hidden stoups for the holy water, the gold, the silver, even the pictures and the stained-glass windows. They declared the return of the faith at the market cross and all the farmers’ wives brought their children to be properly baptized at last.

  It will be as it was before, I know it: the church at the center of life, the monasteries and the abbeys rich with their wealth, the faith restored. It is as if the world is knitting itself back together, like a skilled weaver repairing an unraveled cloth. I can hardly believe that I will not walk backwards myself, back past my third good husband, William St. Loe, back past my second good husband, William Cavendish, who gave me Chatsworth and stole the gold candlesticks from the abbey for me, past my first manor, all the way back to my childhood when I married my first husband to escape my life as a poor girl with no prospects at Hardwick and my mother did not even hold the deeds to our home.

  I remark to the queen at dinner that every night in this terrible time of waiting, I dream that I am going backwards to my childhood, and her face lights up as if this were a wonderful prospect. “If I could wish anything I would be back in France,” she says. “I would be a little princess in France once again.”

  I smile weakly, as if in agreement. God knows, I wish she was there too.

  1569, DECEMBER,

  COVENTRY:

  GEORGE

  The queen is housed in the best house in town and that is not good enough for her. Bess and I are quartered next door, goods piled up in the rooms, servants sleeping on benches. The grooms are sleeping in the stables with the horses, Hastings’ men pushed into the houses of poor people all around the town. The market has run out of food and the stink of the streets and the drains is unbearable. We will have to move on, whatever the danger, or illness will break out in these cramped quarters. Hastings has written to Cecil but the reply comes to me in our poor quarters, carried by yet another of his young nameless men. That I am now his chosen correspondent and Hastings is ignored tells me everything at once. Cecil must be in despair. Cecil has brought his queen to the brink of defeat and now he needs me to negotiate with the other queen.

  Your friendship with the Queen of Scots must serve us now. I have certain information that the rebels have taken the port of Hartlepool to serve as a beachhead for a Spanish landing. The Spanish fleet will come from the Netherlands and land their army to support the army of the North. We have no force that can match them, nor can we raise one.

  In this event, you are to protect the Queen of Scots at all costs and start negotiations with her to reach a settlement. Tell Bess, Devereux, and Hastings that they must keep her safe at all costs. Whatever plans we had before are now urgently changed—make sure that they understand this. Far from being our danger, she is now our only hope for a truce. She must be kept safe and if possible turned into a friend and future ally.

  Find out what sh
e will accept. We would support her return to the throne of Scotland and guarantee her as heir to the throne of England, if we have to. She would have to guarantee freedom of religion but she could practice her own faith as queen. She would have to choose any future husband on the advice of her Privy Council. She can have Norfolk if she still wants him.

  You see from this that I judge our situation to be grave, extremely grave. I am anticipating our defeat by the army of the North and we have to persuade Queen Mary not to overthrow Queen Elizabeth. We are counting on you to come to an agreement with her that leaves Queen Elizabeth on her throne. When the Spanish armada sails into our port and lands their army, we are lost. We cannot muster a defense against such a force. We cannot even muster against the army of the North. Everything will depend on the agreement you can make with Queen Mary. Please use your best endeavors, Shrewsbury. We may have had our differences in the past but please put them out of your mind now.

  This is to save the life of Queen Elizabeth and her throne, and everything we have done for her and for God.

  This should come as no surprise. After all, I have been on the lookout for an overwhelming enemy for days, but even so, I am shocked, so shocked that I can hardly hold the letter in my hands. My fingers are trembling.

  I shall have to do as he commands. As soon as the Spanish are landed I shall have to start to talk to Queen Mary as a supplicant talks to a victor. I shall have to beg her for the life and freedom of Queen Elizabeth. I shall have to see if I can persuade her to be generous. But, in all honesty, I cannot see why she would be merciful when no mercy has ever been shown to her.

  When Queen Mary commands the army of the North and Spanish army together, then she commands England. I cannot think why she would not simply take her throne. And then she will be Queen Mary of England and Scotland, and Elizabeth will become the other queen and a prisoner once more.

  1569, DECEMBER,

  COVENTRY:

  MARY

  Iam trembling with excitement and I cannot hide it. I cannot make my face serene or my voice calm. I am a French princess, I should be under complete self-control, but I want to dance around the room and scream with delight. It seems that the storm I have summoned has broken on England like a great wave at sea. My army has won the whole of the North and today captured the port of Hartlepool for the Spanish armada, which will land there. The Pope will declare for me and order every Roman Catholic in England to take arms for me. I cannot hide my joy and my excitement, so I tell Mary Seton to announce that I am ill and that I must stay in my room. I dare not let anyone see me.

  Hartlepool is a deepwater port, and the Spanish fleet has only to come the short voyage from the Netherlands. They could sail overnight and be here tomorrow. They could be at sea now, even now. When the Spanish army is landed it has only to march across country to me. I am now counting my time in captivity in days.

  I hear a tap at the outer door of my rooms and a quiet voice outside. It is Shrewsbury: I would know his diffident tones anywhere. Mary Seton tells me he has come to inquire after my health.

  “Let him enter,” I say, and rise from my chair and straighten my skirts. I glance in my looking glass. I am flushed and my eyes are bright. He will think I am feverish, rather than thrilled.

  “Your Grace,” he says, and comes in and bows.

  I give him my hand to kiss. “My dear Shrewsbury.”

  He smiles at my pronunciation of his name and he looks carefully into my face. “I heard you were unwell. I was worried about you. But I see you are more beautiful than ever.”

  “I have a slight fever,” I say, “but I don’t think it is anything serious.”

  Mary Seton steps over to the window, out of our way.

  “Would you wish to see a doctor? I could send to London for a physician.” He hesitates. “No, I cannot promise that. I am not sure we could get someone to make the journey in these troubled times. May I see if there is a trustworthy local man?”

  I shake my head. “I will be well tomorrow, I am sure.”

  “These are difficult times,” he says. “It is not surprising that you are unwell. I have been hoping to take you back to Wingfield Manor for the twelve days of Christmas; you will be more comfortable there.”

  “We can go to Wingfield?” I ask, wondering if he has new intelligence. Can he know where my army is now? Can he really hope to take me to a house that cannot be defended?

  “I hope so,” he says, and in his uncertain tone I know that they are advancing on us, that he knows he is defeated, and Wingfield and Christmas is his dream of peace with me, not a real plan.

  “Oh, it will be our second Christmas together,” I exclaim, and watch the color slowly rise under his skin.

  “I did not know then…,” he starts and then falls silent. “If you are taken,” he says, and corrects himself. “When you are taken from me…”

  “Are they close?” I whisper. “Do you expect them?”

  He nods. “I may not say.”

  “Don’t resist,” I say urgently. “I could not bear for you to be hurt for my sake. You will be hugely outnumbered, you know, and the men of Coventry won’t take up arms for Elizabeth. Please, just surrender.”

  He smiles, a little sadly. “I have to do my duty to the queen. You know that.”

  “I too cannot tell you some things,” I whisper. “I have secrets too. But I do know that they are a force, an overwhelming force. When they arrive I want you to promise to come to me, come to my side, and I will protect you.”

  “It is I who should be protecting you,” he says. “That is my duty and also my…my…”

  “Your what?” I think he will say “desire,” and then we will be on the very brink of a declaration. I know that I should not raise my eyes and my face to him, but I do, and I take a small step so that we are close as lovers.

  “It is my habit,” he says simply. “I have a habit of obedience to my queen. And I am obliged. It is my obligation to Queen Elizabeth.” And he steps back from me, his eyes down. “I came only to see if you needed a physician,” he says, his gaze on his boots. “I am glad to find you well.” He bows, and leaves.

  I let him go. I have my safety in his unacknowledged love for me: he is mine, even if he does not know it. I have my rescue in the army which is coming ever closer. My future marches towards me, step by step, and the young men of the North on their fast beautiful horses are coming to save me from Elizabeth. The finest army in Europe is coming in their great ships. I am about to regain my own.

  If Bothwell has escaped, he will be on his way to me, by land, by sea, by foot, by horse, by ship; if he has to crawl on his hands and knees, he will. This will be a battle he will not miss. He hates the English like a man possessed; he hates them like the borderer he is. His kin have raided the English lands and suffered English attack for centuries. He would do anything to threaten them. To defeat them in open battle would be the delight of his life.

  We will meet again as we parted, on a battlefield. He left me, after the dreadful long day on Carberry Hill, and he told me, at the last, everything. He predicted that the rebellious Scots lords would give their word for my safety and for his, but they would betray their own oath the minute he was out of sight. He said they would post him as an outlaw and arrest me. He begged me to let him fight our way out, to run together. But I thought I knew better. I said they could not harm me, I was of blood royal. They dared not harm me, I was certain to be safe. No one could touch me, my person was sacred, and he was my husband; they would never dare touch him.

  He threw down his hat and swore at me; he said he might be damned but he knew they would harm me—my name and my crown would not protect me. He said I was a fool; had his own kidnap of me taught me nothing? Did I not see? Did I not know? The magic of royalty is an illusion that can be shattered by a man without a conscience. He shouted at me: did I think he was the only rapist in Scotland? Would I leave his protection now?

  I lost my own temper in return. I swore he was wrong, tha
t even the wickedest Scots lords know their king. I said they would never harm one of royal blood; they might be angry but they were not outright mad—they could not lay a hand on me.

  And then he told me. He told me to my face the truth that I had sworn to discover but feared to hear. He told me that he and the rebel lords had made an alliance and sworn a covenant to kill Darnley, who had royal blood just as I do. They had joined together and signed a bond to kill Darnley, who was consort to a queen, father of the prince, and of blood royal himself. Bothwell put his heavy hands on my shoulders and said, “Marie, listen, your body is not sacred. If it ever was, it is not sacred anymore. I have had it. They all know that I had you, and without your consent. They all know you are a mortal woman. You can be raped, you can be seduced. You can be killed. You can be pushed into prison, you can be marched to the scaffold, and your head can be laid on the block. I have taught them that. God forgive me, I did not realize that was the lesson they would learn. I thought I would make you safe by making you mine, but all I have done is break your spell. I have shown them what can be done. I have shown them a man can do what he wants with you, with or without your consent.”