Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2

by Philippa Gregory

  Howard choked on his words. ‘You are offensive!’ he spluttered.

  Dudley went quietly by him, serene in his power.

  ‘You are a damned upstart, from nowhere!’ Thomas Howard shouted at his back.

  ‘Will he let that go, d’you think?’ Throckmorton asked Cecil, quite fascinated at the little drama before them. ‘Is he as cool as he seems? Will he ignore Thomas Howard?’

  ‘Not him,’ Cecil said. ‘And he probably knows that he is in real danger.’

  ‘A plot?’

  ‘One of dozens. I think we can expect to see young Thomas Howard as the next ambassador to the Turkish court. I think it will be the Ottoman empire for the Howards, and a long posting.’

  Cecil was wrong only in the destination.

  ‘I think Thomas Howard should strengthen our defences in the north,’ Dudley remarked to the queen that night when they were alone, a slight smile warming his glance. ‘He is so fierce and warlike.’

  At once Elizabeth was alert, fearful for him. ‘Is he threatening you?’

  ‘That puppy? Hardly,’ Robert said proudly. ‘But you do need someone you can trust in the north, and since he is spoiling for a fight, let him fight the French rather than me.’

  The queen laughed, as though Robert’s words were meant as a joke, but the next day she awarded her uncle a new title: he was to be Lieutenant General of the Scottish border.

  He bowed as he accepted the commission. ‘I know why I am sent away, Your Grace,’ he said with the prickly dignity of a young man. ‘But I will serve you faithfully. And I think you may find I am a better servant to you in Newcastle than some who hide behind your petticoats in London, far from danger.’

  Elizabeth had the grace to look abashed. ‘I need someone I can trust,’ she said. ‘We must hold the French north of Berwick. They cannot come into the heart of England.’

  ‘I am honoured with your trust,’ he said sarcastically, and took his leave, ignoring the rumours that swirled around his departure, the gossip that said that Elizabeth had put her own family in the very front of the line, rather than embarrass her lover.

  ‘Why not just behead him and get it over with?’ Catherine Knollys asked.

  Elizabeth giggled to her cousin, but faced a reprimand from her old governess as soon as they were alone together.

  ‘Princess!’ Kat Ashley exclaimed despairingly. ‘This is as bad as it ever was. What will everyone think? Everyone believes that you are as much in love with Sir Robert as ever. The archduke will never come to England now. No man would risk being so insulted.’

  ‘If he had come for me when he had promised, I would have married him, I gave my word,’ Elizabeth said lightly, secure in the knowledge that he would not come now, and that if he did, Robert would think of some way out of it.

  But Kat Ashley, Mary Sidney, and all the court were right: he would not come now. The ambassador, deeply offended, asked to be recalled, and wrote to his master that he thought the whole episode of Lady Sidney coming to him and begging him to propose once more to the queen had been nothing more than a plot to take the attention from the clandestine love affair which was notorious once more throughout England and throughout Europe. He wrote that the queen had become a young woman inured to shame, corrupted without hope, and that he could recommend no honourable man to marry her, let alone a prince. She was living as a whore to a married man and their only way out was a semi-legal divorce, or the death of his wife: which was hardly likely.

  Cecil, reading the first draft of this letter, retrieved by Cecil’s agent from the ambassador’s kindling paper basket, thought that his foreign policy lay in ruins, that England’s safety could not be guaranteed, and that the Queen of England had run mad for lust and would lose the war in Scotland and then her head, and all for a smile from a dark-eyed man.

  But when Elizabeth summoned Cecil by name he came to her at once.

  ‘You were right, I am sure of it now,’ she said quietly. ‘I have found the courage you wanted me to find. I am quite decided on war.’

  Cecil glanced past her to where Sir Robert leaned against the shutters of the window, apparently absorbed in a game of bowls taking place in the cold garden below.

  — So we have the benefit of your advice, do we? And you, in your wisdom, have decided to adopt a policy I have been begging her to deploy for months. — Aloud, Cecil asked: ‘What has Your Grace decided?’

  ‘We shall invade Scotland and defeat the French,’ she said calmly.

  Cecil bowed, hiding his sense of intense relief. ‘I shall see that the moneys are raised and the army mustered,’ he said. ‘You will want to meet with the Privy Council and issue a proclamation of war.’

  Elizabeth glanced towards Robert. Minutely, he nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Cecil, too wise to object to advice that agreed with his own, merely bowed again.

  ‘And Cecil, you will be my Lord Secretary again, won’t you? Now that I have taken your advice?’

  ‘What of the archduke?’ he asked.

  Robert, at the window, recognised at once that the question was not as irrelevant as it seemed, striking as it did at the very heart of what he was doing there, within earshot of the queen and her most trusted advisor, nodding through her decisions as if he were her husband and king-consort. But this time, the queen did not even look at Robert.

  ‘I shall be betrothed to the archduke as soon as he comes to England,’ she said. ‘I know that the alliance with Spain is more vital than ever.’

  ‘You know very well that he will not come,’ Cecil said flatly. ‘You know that his ambassador is leaving London.’

  Robert levered himself up from the shutter. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said briefly to Cecil. ‘King Philip of Spain will stand her ally against France, marriage or no marriage. He cannot risk the French creating a kingdom in England. Their borders would run from Perth to the Mediterranean, they would destroy Spain after they had enslaved us.’

  — You think so, do you? — Cecil demanded silently. — And I am to save this kingdom for your bastards to inherit, am I? —

  ‘What matters now,’ Dudley ruled, ‘is that we call up the men and arm them. The survival of the kingdom and the queen herself depends on swift action. We are looking to you, Cecil.’

  That night Cecil worked furiously, sending out the hundreds of instructions that were needed to recruit, arm and supply the army that must march north at once. He wrote to Lord Clinton, the High Admiral, to say that the navy must intercept the French fleet in the North Sea, they must prevent at all costs the French reinforcements landing in Scotland, but they must destroy his letter and seemingly attack on their own initiative. He wrote to his spies with the Scots, and to his men positioned at Berwick and to his most secret correspondents at the court of the queen regent, Mary of Guise, to say that at last the Queen of England had found a warlike resolution, and that England was to defend the Lords Protestant of Scotland, and her own borders, and that he needed the fullest information and at once.

  Cecil worked so speedily and so efficiently that when the Privy Council met, a few days later, in the last days of February, and the queen announced that, on reflection, she had changed her mind, and that since the risk was too great, there would be no venture in Scotland, he apologised but said it was too late.

  ‘You will recall the fleet,’ she commanded, white to her ruff.

  Cecil spread his hands. ‘They have sailed,’ he said. ‘With orders to attack.’

  ‘Bring back my army!’

  He shook his head. ‘They are marching north, recruiting as they go. We are on a war footing, we cannot reverse the decision.’

  ‘We cannot go to war with the French!’ she almost screamed at him.

  The Privy Councillors bowed their heads to the table. Cecil alone faced her. ‘The die is already cast,’ he said. ‘Your Grace, we are at war. England is at war with France. God help us.’

  Spring 1560

  Robert Dudley came to Stanfield Hall in Mar
ch, a bad month for travelling on ill-maintained roads, and arrived chilled and bad-tempered.

  No-one was waiting for him, he had sent no warning that he would be coming, and Amy, a reluctant listener to the constant rumours that said that he and the queen were once more inseparable, hardly expected ever to see him again.

  As soon as the horses clattered into the yard Lady Robsart came to find her.

  ‘He’s here!’ she said coldly.

  Amy leapt to her feet. ‘He’ could only ever mean one man at Stanfield Hall. ‘My lord Robert?’

  ‘His men are unsaddling in the yard.’

  Amy trembled as she stood. If he had come back to her, after their last parting when she had insisted that she would always be his wife, it could mean only one thing: that he had finished with Elizabeth and wanted to reconcile with his wife. ‘He is here?’ she said again, as if she could not believe it.

  Lady Robsart smiled wryly at her stepdaughter in the shared triumph of women over men. ‘It looks as if you have won,’ she said. ‘He is here and looking very cold and sorry for himself.’

  ‘Then he must come in!’ Amy exclaimed and dashed towards the stairs. ‘Tell Cook he’s here, and send word to the village that we will need a couple of hens and someone must slaughter a cow.’

  ‘A fatted calf, why not?’ Lady Robsart said under her breath; but she went to do her stepdaughter’s bidding.

  Amy dashed down the stairs and flung open the front door. Robert, travel-stained and weary, walked up the short flight of steps, and Amy stepped into his arms.

  From old habit he held her close to him, and Amy, feeling his arms come around her, and that familiar touch of his hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder blade, leaned her head against his warm, sweat-smelling neck and knew that he had come home to her at last, and that despite it all, all of it, she would forgive him as easily as accepting his kiss.

  ‘Come in, you must be half-frozen,’ she said, drawing him into the hall. She threw logs on the fire and pressed him into her father’s heavy carved chair. Lady Robsart came in with hot ale and cakes from the kitchen and dipped a curtsey to Sir Robert.

  ‘Good day to you,’ she said neutrally. ‘I have sent your men to find beds in the village. We cannot accommodate such a large company here.’

  To Amy she remarked, ‘Hughes says he has some well-hung venison that he can let us have.’

  ‘I don’t wish to put you out,’ Robert said politely, as if he had not once cursed her to her face.

  ‘How could you put us out?’ Amy demanded. ‘This is my home, you are always welcome here. There is always a place for you here.’

  Robert said nothing at the thought of Lady Robsart’s cold house being their home, and her ladyship took herself out of the room to see about beds, and a pudding.

  ‘My lord, it is so good to see you.’ Amy put another log on the fire. ‘I shall get my maid Mrs Pirto to lay out your linen, the shirt you left here last time is all mended, you can’t see the darn, I did it so carefully.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Surely Mrs Pirto does the mending for you?’

  ‘I like to do your linen myself,’ Amy said. ‘Shall you want to wash?’

  ‘Later,’ he said.

  ‘Only I will have to warn Cook, to heat the water.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I lived here long enough.’

  ‘You were hardly here at all! And anyway, things are much better now.’

  ‘Well, in any case I remember that you cannot have a jug of hot water without mentioning it first thing in the morning on the third Sunday in the month.’

  ‘It’s just that we have a small fireplace and …’

  ‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘I remember all about the small fireplace.’

  Amy fell silent. She did not dare ask him the one thing that she wanted to know: how long he would stay with her. When he broodingly watched the fire in silence she put on another log and they both watched the sparks fly up the dark chimney.

  ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Which horse did you bring?’

  ‘Blithe, my hunter,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Did you not bring a spare horse?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hardly hearing the question.

  ‘Shall I unpack your bags?’ She rose to her feet. ‘Did you bring many bags?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  Robert did not see her face fall. She understood at once that one horse and one bag meant a short visit.

  ‘And Tamworth will have done it already.’

  ‘You are not planning on a long stay, then?’

  He looked up at her. ‘No, no, I am sorry, I should have said. Matters are very grave, I have to get back to court, I just wanted to see you, Amy, about something important.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he decided. ‘But I need your help, Amy. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  She blushed at the thought of him coming to her for help. ‘You know that anything I can do for you, I will do.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said. ‘I am glad of it.’ He rose to his feet and put his hands to the blaze.

  ‘I like it when you ask things of me,’ she said shyly. ‘It always used to be like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘You are cold, shall I light a fire in our bedchamber?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’ll change my shirt and come down at once.’

  Her smile lit up her face like a girl’s. ‘And we shall have such a good dinner, the family here has been living on mutton and I am heartily sick of it!’

  It was a good dinner, with venison steaks, a mutton pasty, a chicken broth and some puddings. There were hardly any vegetables in season, but Amy’s father had been an enthusiast for wines and his cellar was still good. Robert, thinking he would need some help in getting through dinner with the two women, and Lady Robsart’s daughter and son-in-law, fetched up four bottles and prevailed upon them all to help him drink them.

  When they went to bed at a little after nine o’clock the women were tipsy and giggling, and Robert stayed downstairs to finish his glass in good-humoured solitude. He left plenty of time for Amy to get into bed and did not go up until he thought she would be asleep.

  He shed his clothes as quietly as he could, and put them on the chest at the foot of the bed. She had left a candle burning for him and in the flickering golden light he thought she looked like a sleeping child. He felt filled with tenderness for her as he blew out her candle and slipped into bed beside her, careful not to touch her.

  Half-asleep, she turned towards him and slid her naked leg between his thighs. At once he was aroused, but he shifted a little away from her, firmly taking her waist in his hands and holding her from him, but she gave a little sleepy sigh and put her hand on his chest, and then slid it inexorably down his belly to caress him.

  ‘Amy,’ he whispered.

  He could not see her in the darkness, but the even pace of her breathing told him that although she was still asleep, she was moving towards him in sleep, she was stroking him, sliding towards him, and finally rolling on her back so that he could take her in a state of aroused sleepiness that he, knowing that he was a fool, could not resist. Even as he took his pleasure, even as he heard her cry, her familiar, breathy little cry of delight as she woke to find him inside her, Robert knew that he was doing the wrong thing, the worst thing that he could do: for himself, for Amy, and for Elizabeth.

  In the morning Amy was glowing, confident, a woman restored to love, a wife restored to her place in the world. He did not have to wake to her timid smile; she was up and in the kitchen as he was getting dressed, stirring the cook to bake breakfast bread just as he liked it. She had fetched the honey from their own hive, she brought fresh butter from the dairy with the Stanfield Hall seal on the pat. From the meat larder she had brought a good cut of ham borrowed from someone in the village, and there were some cold venison cutlets left over from
last night.

  Amy, presiding over a good table, poured small ale for her husband and tucked back a curl behind her ear.

  ‘Shall you ride today?’ she asked. ‘I can send Jeb to the stable to tell them to saddle your horse. We can ride together if you wish.’

  He could not believe that she had forgotten their last ride together, but her pleasure in the night had restored her to the Amy that he had once loved, the confident little mistress of her kingdom, Sir John Robsart’s favourite child.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, delaying the moment when he would have to speak honestly with her. ‘I should have brought my hawk, I shall soon eat you out of house and home.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘For the Carters have already sent over a newly weaned calf as a compliment to you, and now that everyone knows you are here we shall be half-buried in gifts. I thought we might ask them to come over for the day, you always find them good company.’

  ‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ he said cravenly. ‘Not today.’

  ‘All right,’ she said agreeably. ‘But you will be hard put to eat the calf on your own.’

  ‘Tell them I will ride in an hour,’ he said, abruptly rising from the table. ‘And I should be glad of your company.’

  ‘Could we ride towards Flitcham Hall?’ she asked. ‘Just to remind you what a fine house it is? I know you said it is too far from London, but they still have not found a buyer.’

  He winced. ‘Wherever you wish,’ he said, avoiding the issue of the house. ‘In an hour.’

  — And so I avoid speaking to her until dinner — Robert berated himself, taking the stairs two at a time. — Because I shall never again try and talk sense to a woman while riding with her. But tonight, after dinner, I have to talk to her. I cannot lie with her again, I make a cheat of myself, and a fool of her. — He kicked open the door to Sir John’s private room, and threw himself into the old man’s chair. — Damn you — he addressed his dead father-in-law. — Damn you for saying I would break her heart and damn you for being right. —