They will see. They will see their mistake. I will marry him and make him king consort; and they will still see that I shall have my own way, and I will still bring Bothwell down on them for my revenge.
I write faithfully to Thomas Howard, and my letters are as inviting and alluring as I can make them. Thank God, I know one thing: how to entice a man. I was not a French princess for nothing, I do know how to make a man fall in love, even at hundreds of miles’ distance. I know how to lead him on, and draw back, come forward, make promises, renege, enchant, puzzle, confuse, seduce. I am irresistible in person, and I can be enchanting on paper. I write to him daily and I bring him onward and onward to ensure that he is mine.
As part of this campaign of seduction and compromise, I have embroidered for him a special cushion, which I think will amuse him. It shows a barren vine being pruned with a bill hook and he will know that I mean that the barren line of the Tudors can be cut down to let the new growth of our children take the throne. No-one can blame me for the design – though it is such a sharp slap at the spinster Elizabeth! – since it is a quotation from the Bible. What could be more tasteful and innocent? ‘Virtue flourishes by wounding,’ is the quotation that I have embroidered around the picture. Norfolk will see the slyest hint of treason in it, and if he has anything of a man about him he will be stirred by that provocative word ‘wounding’.
Bess understood it at once, and was deliciously scandalised, and swore that I would not dare to stitch it when she first saw the design.
I dare! I dare anything! Let the barren vine be cut down. Let Elizabeth, the bastard, be struck down. I am a fertile woman of twenty-six, I have conceived nothing but boys. Howard is a man who has already fathered sons. Who can doubt that either my young son James, or our future sons – Stuart-Howards – will take Elizabeth’s empty throne?
1569, August, Wingfield Manor: Bess
A note from Cecil delivered in secret reads:
No, you are not mistaken in my intentions, dear Bess. I am as like to install her on the throne of Scotland as I am to point a pistol at the heart of England and destroy everything I love.
Every secret letter between her and our terrible enemies that comes to my hand convinces me of the greatness of the danger that she poses. How many letters elude me, only she will know, only the devil himself who directs her will know. Wait for news of her arrest for treason. C
1569, August, Wingfield Manor: Mary
Oh God, I am a fool, a fool, and now a heartbroken fool. I am damned by my stars, and betrayed by my friends, and abandoned by my God.
This new blow is almost too much for me to bear. The pain in my side is so great that I can hardly bear to put my foot to the ground, it is like a knife in my side. It is Rizzio’s wound bleeding from my own side. It is my stigmata.
Hamilton, my friend and spy in Scotland, writes to tell me that my half-brother Lord Moray has suddenly reneged on his agreement, and is now unwilling to let me return. He gives no reason, and indeed, there can be none except cowardice, greed and faithlessness. The English are on the brink of signing our treaty with him, I have already given my word. But he has suddenly broken off, at the very last minute. He has taken fright and says he will not have me back in the country. Saints forgive him! He is a false-hearted wicked man; but this last cruelty surprises me.
I should have known. I should have been prepared for his dishonesty. He is a usurper who drove me from my own throne, a bastard of my father’s mistaken begetting, I should have guessed he would not want his true queen returned. What can I do but supplant and replace him and, as soon as I can, behead him?
The shock throws me into illness. I cannot stop myself from crying. I take to my bed, and in rage and distress I write to Elizabeth that my brother is false through and through, a child conceived by mistake in lust, bad breeding coming out as dishonour. Then I remember that she too is a bastard of mistaken begetting, also occupying my throne, and I tear up the letter and painfully, slowly, forge something more dutiful and loving, and ask her, please, please, of her kindness, of her honour, to defend my rights as a fellow queen and as a sister, as the only woman in the world who can understand and sympathise with my plight.
Dear God, let her hear me and understand that she must, by the light of heaven, in all honour, help me. She cannot let me be thrown from my throne, thrown down to nothing. I am a queen three times over! I am her own cousin! Am I to end my life under house arrest, crippled with pain and weak with crying?
I take a sip of small ale from the cup by my bedside, I steady myself, it cannot be – it cannot be. God has chosen me and called me to be a queen; I cannot be defeated. I ring the bell for Mary Seton.
‘Sit with me,’ I say when she comes. ‘This is a long night for me. My enemies are working against me and my friends do nothing. I have to write a letter.’
She takes a stool at the fireside and tucks a shawl around her shoulders. She will wait with me for as long as I need. Sitting up in my bed, despite the pain in my side, I write again, using our special cipher to urge my betrothed, the duke, to tell Elizabeth that we are agreed to marry, and that every lord in her own court supports this betrothal. I write sweetly and tenderly, urging him to be brave in this reversal of our fortunes. I never speak of my own well-being; I always speak of ‘us’.
If he will only hold fast we will get our way. If he can only persuade Elizabeth to support this marriage and to support us, then the treaty will still go ahead. Moray may not like my return, especially with a strong husband at my side – but he cannot refuse if Elizabeth will only stand my friend. Dear God, if only she will do her duty and be a good cousin to Thomas Howard, a good cousin to me, then I shall be restored and our troubles will be over. Dear God, how can she not do the right thing by me? Any monarch in Europe would put out a hand to save me. Why not her?
Then I write to the only man in the world that I trust:
Bothwell,
Come, please please come.
Marie
1569, September, Wingfield Manor: George
Just when I have enough to worry about – the Scots queen ill with unhappiness and no explanation from court; my letters go unanswered because the court is on progress and my messenger has to chase around half of England to find them, and then is told that the queen is not doing business today, but he can wait – in the middle of all of this my steward comes to me with a grave face and says that a debt that I have carried for years has now fallen due and I have to pay two thousand pounds this Michaelmas Day.
‘Well, pay it!’ I say impatiently. He has caught me on my way to the stable and I am not in the mood for delay.
‘That is why I have come to you, my lord,’ he says uncomfortably. ‘There are insufficient funds in the treasure house here at Wingfield.’
‘Well, send to one of the other houses,’ I say. ‘They must have coin.’
He shakes his head.
‘They don’t?’
‘It has been an expensive year,’ he says tactfully. He says nothing more but this is the same old song that Bess sings to me – the expenditure on the queen and the fact that the court never reimburses us.
‘Can we extend the debt for another year? Just to tide us over?’ I ask. ‘Till we get back to normal again?’
He hesitates. ‘I have tried. The terms are worse, we would pay more interest, but it can be done. They want the woods on the south side of the river as security.’
‘Do it then,’ I decide quickly. I cannot be troubled with business, and this is a temporary difficulty until the queen repays us what she owes. ‘Extend the debt for another year.’
1569, September, Wingfield Manor: Bess
I have a letter from my son Henry, an astute observer who reports to me. The court is on summer progress, which seems to have become a nightmare journey of suspicion and entrapment. The summers used to be the high point of the court year when we were all young and happy and in love and went hunting every day and dancing every night. Our fears have spoiled
everything, we have destroyed our own joys ourselves, our enemies need do nothing. Nobody from beyond our borders needs to threaten us with destruction, we are already terrified of our own shadows.
Titchfield Palace,
Hampshire
Dear Mama,
The queen has long guessed of an agreement between Norfolk and the Queen of Scots and my lord Robert has just confessed it for them.
The duke, Thomas Howard, has denied his bride-to-be and the betrothal to the queen and now he has fled from the queen’s presence, without permission, and everything is in uproar. They all say that he has gone to raise an army to rescue the other queen from your keeping. Lord Robert says that an army raised by him and led by her would be unbeatable as no-one would take arms against Queen Mary. He says that against Norfolk and the Papists of England Elizabeth could not prevail and we will be ruined.
Lord Robert bids me tell you to ask the Scots queen to write to her cousin, confess the betrothal, and ask for forgiveness. He says she must also write to the duke and order him back to court to face the queen. Her Majesty is furious – as we all knew she would be – but without Norfolk here there is no-one to explain that this marriage is a good solution. He says that Norfolk must put a brave face on it to our queen, survive her anger, marry the Queen of Scots and take her home to Scotland.
Mama, I have to say that everyone here is very afraid that this is the start of a general uprising in support of your guest. I pray you to have a care of your own safety. It sounds very likely that an army could come against you to rescue her. Gilbert and I request that we may come home to you and my lord Papa, and help in the defence.
I remain your obedient son,
Henry
In a hastily scrawled postscript Robert Dudley has added:
The queen is beside herself at what looks like a conspiracy of her own two cousins against her. Bess, you must persuade your queen to reassure Elizabeth before she is seriously distressed, and we are all suspected of treason.
Yours aye,
Dudley
And burn this, Bess. There are spies everywhere. Sometimes I am even fearful for my own safety.
I go to the queen’s apartments on the west side of the palace and find her listening to music. She has hired a new lute player who has recently joined the household at extra cost to me, and he is playing and singing for her. The music is very fine, which should give me some comfort for the bed, board and wages that I have to provide for him, his two servants and two horses.
When she sees my face she nods to him to be silent.
‘Lady Shrewsbury?’
‘Bad news from court,’ I say baldly. And there! I see it! A flash across her face, instantly hidden, like a flare of torchlight in a shadowy room. She expects something, she is waiting for something to happen. There is a conspiracy indeed, and Dudley is wrong to think her innocent, and Cecil is right to alert the queen. Dear God, what if she is plotting war against us?
The smile she turns on me is utterly serene. ‘Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. Tell me, is Her Grace the queen well?’
‘She has learned of your proposed betrothal to the Duke of Norfolk,’ I say flatly. ‘And she is much distressed that he should have engaged himself without consulting her.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Has he not done so yet?’ she wonders.
‘No,’ I say shortly. ‘And when she asked him for an explanation he left court without permission.’
She turns her eyes down as if in regret and then looks up again. ‘He has gone away? Far?’
I nip my lip at irritation at this mummery, which may amuse her but does not entertain me. ‘Robert Dudley suggests that you write to the queen and explain the betrothal, and that you write to the duke and persuade him to go back to court and reassure his queen and kinswoman.’
She lifts her face and smiles at me. ‘I will certainly take Robert Dudley’s advice,’ she says sweetly. ‘But my lord duke, Thomas Howard, will do as he thinks best. I cannot command him. I am his betrothed, his wife-to-be; not his master. I am not a wife who believes in ruling the roast. His own queen must command him; I cannot. Does she not order him back to court?’
‘She orders him but he doesn’t go,’ I say curtly. ‘And his staying away from court looks like a confession of guilt. Next thing they will be saying that he has run off to raise an army.’
Again, I see it, though her eyelashes flicker down to hide that flash of hope. So that is what she wants. She wants war, in the very heart of our court, in the very heart of our country. Dudley is mistaken; and Cecil is very right to fear her. Dear God, I am housing and humouring an enemy who will destroy us all. She hopes that Norfolk will lead an uprising. God damn her, she would see the peace of England broken to get her a husband and a throne.
‘Don’t even think it,’ I warn her flatly. ‘Thomas Howard would never raise an army against Elizabeth. Whatever he has written to you, whatever anyone has said to you, whatever you dream: don’t think it. He would never lead out an army against the queen, and no-one would follow him against her.’
I speak very stoutly but I think she can hear the fear in my voice. The truth is that all of Norfolk and most of the east of England would turn out for the duke, whatever his cause, and all the north is solidly Papist and devoted to the Papist queen. But her beauty is impenetrable. I cannot tell what she is thinking as she smiles at me. ‘God forbid,’ she murmurs devoutly.
‘And Your Grace,’ I say more gently, as if she were my daughter, without good advice, and misunderstanding the powers that are ranged against her. ‘You have to rely on the queen to restore you. If all goes well, the queen will overcome the Scots’ objections and return you to your throne. The agreement is all but made. You can marry the duke then. Why not reassure the queen of your loyalty now, and wait for her to send you back to Scotland? You are close to your restoration. Don’t put yourself at risk.’
She widens her eyes. ‘Do you really think she will send me back in safety?’
‘I am sure of it,’ I lie. Then I check myself. There is something about her dark trusting gaze that makes me hesitate to lie. ‘I think so, and in any case, the nobles will demand it.’
‘Even if I marry her cousin and make him king?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I can trust her?’
Of course not. ‘You can.’
‘Despite my half-brother’s treachery?’
I did not know she was getting news from Scotland; but I am not surprised.
‘If the queen supports you, he cannot stand against you,’ I say. ‘So you should write to her and promise your loyal friendship.’
‘And does Secretary Cecil now want me returned to my throne in Scotland?’ she pursues sweetly.
I feel awkward, and I know I look awkward. ‘The queen will decide,’ I say weakly.
‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘For my sake, for all our sakes. Because, Bess, don’t you think, like your friend Robert Dudley, that she should have provided me with an army and sent me back to Scotland as soon as I arrived? Don’t you think she should have honoured her promise to me at once? Don’t you think she should have defended a fellow monarch at once? A fellow queen?’
In my discomfort, I say nothing. I am torn. She has a right to be returned to Scotland, God knows she has a right to be named as heir to the throne of England. She is a young woman with few friends and I cannot help but feel for her. But she is planning something, I know it. She has Norfolk dancing to her tune and what dance has she taught him? She has Robert Dudley in her set and most of the queen’s court are tapping their feet to her song. How many dancers are learning her steps? What is the next movement she has choreographed for us all? Good God, she has me so frightened for myself and for my goods. God alone knows what men see in her.
1569, September, Wingfield Manor: George
I am one of the greatest men in England, who dares accuse me? What dare they say of me? That I have failed in my duty? Plotted against my own queen? Against my own country?
Shall I be bundled into the Tower and accused? Shall I sit in a new inquiry, not as judge but as prisoner? Do they think to bring me to trial? Shall they forge statements against me? Will they show me the rack and tell me it would be better for me if I sign a document now?
There is wickedness abroad, God Himself knows it: omens and portents of bad days. A woman gave birth to a calf near Chatsworth, the moon was blood-red at Derby. The world will be turned upside down and men of family, men of honour, will be shamed. I cannot bear it. I run to find Bess with the letter, this damned insulting letter from Cecil, clenched in my hand. I am raging.
‘I am betrayed! I am suspected! How could he think this of me? Even if he thought it, how dare he say it? How dare he write it to me?’ I burst into the laundry room at Wingfield where she is at peace, surrounded by sheets, dozens of maids all around her, mending.
She takes one cool look and rises to her feet and whisks me out of the room to the gallery outside. Beautifully framed pictures, of anonymous saints and angels, smile down at us as if they were not at all perturbed to find themselves cut out from altarpieces by Bess’s late husband to become nameless smiling faces in our gallery. I shall be like them, I know it, I shall be excised: cut away from my frame and nobody will know who I am.
‘Bess,’ I say brokenly. I could weep, I feel as weak as a child. ‘The queen …’
‘Which queen?’ she asks quickly. She glances out of the window to the terrace where the Scots queen is walking with her little dog in the glow of late summer sunshine. ‘Our queen?’
‘No, no, Queen Elizabeth.’ I do not even notice the power of what we have just said. We are become traitors in our own hearts and we do not even know. ‘Dear God! No! Not her! Not our queen; Queen Elizabeth! Queen Elizabeth knows all about the betrothal!’
Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Page 117
