Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2

by Philippa Gregory

I go to her room and tap at the door. Mary Seton opens it and her eyes are red from weeping. I understand at once that the queen knows of her downfall; perhaps she knows more than I do. She has been receiving secret letters even here, even in Coventry, and I cannot blame her for that.

  ‘You know, then,’ I say simply. ‘It is over.’

  She nods. ‘She will want to see you,’ she says quietly and holds the door wide.

  The queen is seated in her chair of state by the fireside, the cloth of estate is shining golden in the candlelight. She is as still as a painting as I come into the room, her profile outlined in gold by the glow from the fire. Her head is slightly bowed, her hands are clasped in her lap. She could be a gilded statue entitled ‘Sorrow’.

  I step towards her, I don’t know what I can say to her nor what hope I can give her. But as I move she turns her face up to me and rises to her feet in one graceful movement. Without words she comes to me, and I open my arms and hold her. That is all I can do: wordlessly hold her, and kiss her trembling head.

  1569, December, Coventry: Bess

  So, it is over. Good God, I cannot believe that it is over, and I have my goods safe in my wagons and I can go home again. I have a home to go to. I cannot believe it; but it is true. It is over. It is over, and we have won.

  I should have predicted this, I would have predicted it if I had kept my wits about me. But I am a vulgar farmer’s daughter in very truth, and all I could think about was burying the silver, and not about the will and the wit of the rival armies. Elizabeth’s army finally arrived on their sluggish march at Durham and sought an enemy to engage and found they had gone, blown away like mist in the morning. The great army of the North marched to meet the Spanish armada at Hartlepool and found nothing. At once they doubted every plan. They had sworn to restore the old church, so they held their Mass and thought that was done. They were for freeing the Scots queen but they were none of them sure where she had gone and they were counting on the Spanish pikemen and Spanish gold. They did not fancy facing Elizabeth’s army without either; and to tell truth they wanted to slip off to their homes and enjoy the peace and prosperity that has come with Elizabeth. They did not want to be the ones to start another war between kin.

  Alas for them. The Spanish doubted them and did not want to risk their army and their ships until they were certain of victory. They delayed, and while they hesitated, the Northern army waited at Hartlepool, straining their eyes to see over the white wave tops for the whiter sails, and seeing nothing but the grey skyline and wheeling gulls with the cold spray of the North Sea blowing in their disappointed faces. Then they heard that the Duke of Norfolk had submitted to Elizabeth and written to Westmorland and Northumberland, begging them not to march against their queen. He dropped his head and rode to London though his own tenants hung on his horse’s tail and stirrup leathers and begged him to fight. So there was no Spanish fleet, there was no great army led by the Duke of Norfolk; the Northern army had victory at their very fingertips but they did not know it, and they did not grasp it.

  Cecil writes to Hastings to be warned that the country is not at peace, to trust no-one; but Westmorland is fled to the Netherlands and Northumberland has gone over the border to Scotland. Most of the men have gone back to their villages with a great story to tell and memories for the rest of their lives and nothing, in the end, achieved. Let a woman, even a vulgar farmer’s daughter, know this: half the time the greater the noise the less the deeds. And grand announcements do not mean great doings.

  Let me remember also, in my own defence, that the vulgar farmer’s daughter who buries the silver and understands nothing at least has her silver safe when the great campaigns are over. The army is dispersed. The leaders are fled. And I and my fortune are safe. It is over. Praise God, it is over.

  We are to take the queen back to Tutbury for safe-keeping before she goes with Hastings to the Tower of London, or wherever he is commanded to take her; and the carters have broken some good Venetian glasses of mine and lost one wagon altogether, which held some hangings and some carpets; but worse than all of this, there is no note from Cecil addressed to us. We are still left in silence, and no word of thanks from our queen for our triumph in snatching the Scots queen from danger. If we had not rushed her away – what then? If she had been captured by the rebels would not the whole of the North have turned out for her? We saved Elizabeth as surely as if we had met and defeated the army of the North, fifty against six thousand. We kidnapped the rebels’ figurehead and without her they were nothing.

  So why does Elizabeth not write to thank my husband the earl? Why does she not pay the money she owes for the queen’s keep? Why does she not promise us Westmorland’s estates? Day after day I tally up her debt to us in my accounts book and this pell-mell rush across the country did not come cheaply either. Why does not Cecil write one of his warm short notes to send me his good will?

  And when we are back in Tutbury with only a few broken glasses, one lost soup tureen, and a wagon full of hangings gone missing, to show for our terror-struck flight – why can I still not feel safe?

  1570, January, Tutbury Castle: George

  There is no peace for me. No peace at home, where Bess counts up our losses every day, and brings me the totals on beautifully written pages, as if mere accuracy means they will be settled. As if I can take them to the queen, as if anyone cares that they are ruining us.

  No peace in my heart, since Hastings is only waiting for the countryside to be declared safe before he takes the other queen from me, and I can neither speak to her nor plead for her.

  No peace in the country where I can trust the loyalty of no-one, the tenants are surly and are clearly planning yet more mischief, and some of them are still missing from their homes, still roaming with rag-tag armies, still promising trouble.

  Leonard Dacre, one of the greatest lords of the North, who has been in London all this while, is now returned home, instead of seeing that the battle is over, and lost; even with Elizabeth’s great army quartered on his doorstep, he summons his tenants, saying that he needs them to defend the queen’s peace. At once, as always, guided by the twin lights of his fear and his genius at making enemies, Cecil advises the queen to arrest Dacre on suspicion of treason; and, forced into his own defence, the lord raises his standard and marches against the queen.

  Hastings bangs open the door into my private room as if I am traitor myself. ‘Did you know this of Dacre?’ he demands.

  I shake my head. ‘How should I? I thought he was in London.’

  ‘He has attacked Lord Hunsdon’s army, and got clean away. He swears he will raise the North.’

  I feel a sinking fear for her. ‘Not again! Is he coming here?’

  ‘God knows what he is doing.’

  ‘Dacre is a loyal man. He would not fight the queen’s army.’

  ‘He has just done so, and is now an outlaw running for his life like the other Northern earls.’

  ‘He is as loyal as –’

  ‘As you?’ Hastings insinuates.

  I find that my fists are clenched. ‘You are a guest in my house,’ I remind him, my voice trembling with rage.

  He nods. ‘Excuse me. These are troubling times. I wish to God I could just take her and leave.’

  ‘It’s not safe yet,’ I say swiftly. ‘Who knows where Dacre’s men might be? You can’t take her away from this castle until the countryside is safe. You will raise the North again if they kidnap her from you.’

  ‘I know. I’ll have to wait for my orders from Cecil.’

  ‘Yes, he will command everything now,’ I say, unable to hide my bitterness. ‘Thanks to you, he will be without rival. You have made our steward our master.’

  Hastings nods, pleased with himself. ‘He is without equal,’ he says. ‘No man has a better vision of what England can be. He alone saw that we had to become a Protestant country, we had to separate ourselves from the others. He saw that we have to impose order on Ireland, we have to subordinate Scotland,
and we have to go outward, to the other countries of the world, and make them our own.’

  ‘A bad man to have as an enemy,’ I remark.

  Hastings cracks a brutal laugh. ‘I’ll say so. And your friend the other queen will learn it. D’you know how many deaths Elizabeth has ordered?’

  ‘Deaths?’

  ‘Executions. As punishment for the uprising.’

  I feel myself grow cold. ‘I did not know she had ordered any. Surely there will be trials for treason for the leaders only, and …’

  He shakes his head. ‘No trials. Those who are known to have ridden out against her are to be hanged. Without trial. Without plea. Without question. She says she wants seven hundred men hanged.’

  I am stunned into silence. ‘That will be a man from every village, from every hamlet,’ I say weakly.

  ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘They won’t turn out again, for sure.’

  ‘Seven hundred?’

  ‘Every ward is to have a quota. The queen has ruled that they are to be hanged at the crossroads of each village and the bodies are not to be cut down. They are to stay till they rot.’

  ‘More will die by this punishment than ever died in this uprising. There was no battle, there was no blood shed. They fought with no-one, they dispersed without a shot being fired or a sword drawn. They submitted.’

  He laughs once more. ‘Then perhaps they will learn not to rise again.’

  ‘All they will learn is that the new rulers of England do not care for them as the old lords did. All they will learn is that if they ask for their faith to be restored, or the common lands left free to be grazed, or their wages not driven down, that they can expect to be treated as an enemy by their own countrymen and faced with death.’

  ‘They are the enemy,’ Hastings says bluntly. ‘Or had you forgotten? They are the enemy. They are my enemy and Cecil’s enemy and the queen’s enemy. Are they not yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say unwillingly. ‘I follow the queen, wherever she leads.’ And I think to myself: Yes, they have become my enemies now. Cecil has made them my enemies now; though once they were my friends and my countrymen.

  1570, January, Tutbury Castle: Mary

  My husband, Bothwell – I am returned to Tutbury, I am imprisoned without hope of release. My army has dispersed. I wish I could see you.

  Marie

  I have not summoned my lord Shrewsbury since our return to this miserable place from miserable Coventry, when he comes to me without announcement, and asks me if he may sit with me for a moment. His face is so weary and so sad that for a second I am filled with hope that he has heard of a reverse for his queen.

  ‘Is anything wrong, my lord?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘No. Not for me and for my cause. But I have grave news for you.’

  ‘Norfolk?’ I whisper. ‘Is he coming for me at last?’

  He shakes his head. ‘He did not rise with the Northern earls. He went to court. In the end he decided to obey his queen. He has submitted to her will. He is her liegeman and he has thrown himself on her mercy.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I bite my lip so that I say nothing more. Dear God, what a fool, what a coward, what a turncoat. Damn Norfolk for his stupidity that will be my ruin. Bothwell would never have threatened an uprising and then submitted early. Bothwell would have ridden out to battle. Bothwell never evaded a fight in his life. An apology would have choked him.

  ‘And I am sorry to tell you that Lord Dacre has fled over the border to Scotland.’

  ‘His rising is over?’

  ‘It is all over. The queen’s army controls the North, and her executioners are hanging men in every village.’

  I nod. ‘I am sorry for them.’

  ‘I too,’ he says shortly. ‘Many of them will have been ordered to follow their liege lord, and done nothing more than their duty. Many of them will have thought they were doing the will of God. They are simple men who didn’t understand the changes that have come to this country. They will have to die for not understanding Cecil’s policies.’

  ‘And I?’ I whisper.

  ‘Hastings will take you as soon as the roads are fit to travel,’ he says, his voice very low. ‘I cannot prevent him. Only the bad weather is holding him now; as soon as the snow clears he will take you away. I am under suspicion myself. Pray God I am not ordered to London to the Tower on a charge of treason as you are taken from me to Leicester.’

  I find I am shaking at the thought of being parted from him. ‘Will you not travel with us?’

  ‘I won’t be allowed.’

  ‘Who will protect me when I am taken from your care?’

  ‘Hastings will be responsible for your safety.’

  I don’t even mock this. I just give him a long fearful look.

  ‘He will not harm you.’

  ‘But, my lord, when shall I see you again?’

  He gets up from his chair and leans his forehead against the high stone mantelpiece. ‘I don’t know, Your Grace, my dearest queen. I don’t know when we shall meet again.’

  ‘How will I manage?’ I can hear how small and weak my voice is. ‘Without you … and Lady Bess, of course. How shall I manage without you?’

  ‘Hastings will protect you.’

  ‘He will incarcerate me in his house, or worse.’

  ‘Only if they accuse you of treason. You cannot be charged with any crime if you were only planning to escape. You are only in danger if you encouraged rebellion.’ He hesitates. ‘It is essential that you remember this. You have to keep the difference clear in your mind, if anyone should ever question you. You cannot be charged with treason unless they can show that you were plotting the death of the queen.’ He pauses, he lowers his voice. ‘If you wanted nothing more than your freedom then you are innocent of any charge. Remember this if anyone asks you. Always tell them that you were only planning to be free. They cannot touch you if you insist that your only plan was escape.’

  I nod. ‘I understand, I will be careful what I say.’

  ‘And even more careful of what you write,’ he says, very low. ‘Cecil is a man for written records. Never put your name to anything he can name as treason. He will be watching your letters. Never receive and never write anything that threatens the safety of the queen.’

  I nod. There is a silence.

  ‘But what is the truth?’ Shrewsbury asks. ‘Now that it is all over, did you plot with the Northern lords?’

  I let him see my gleam of amusement. ‘Of course I did. What else is there for me to do?’

  ‘It is not a game!’ He turns irritably. ‘They are in exile, one of them charged with treason, and hundreds of men will die.’

  ‘We might have won,’ I say stubbornly. ‘It was so close. You know it yourself, you thought we would win. There was a chance. You don’t understand me, Chowsbewwy. I have to be free.’

  ‘There was a great chance. I see that. But you lost,’ he says heavily. ‘And the seven hundred men who must die have lost, and the Northern lords who will be executed or exiled have lost, and the greatest duke in England, fighting for his life and his good name, has lost … and I have lost you.’

  I rise and stand beside him. If he turned his head now he would see me, looking up at him, my face raised for his kiss.

  ‘I have lost you,’ he says again, and he steps away from me, bows and goes to the door. ‘And I don’t know how I will manage, how I will manage without you.’

  1570, January, Tutbury Castle: Bess

  You would not take us for a castle of victors. Hastings is surly and anxious to be home. He speaks of riding out and overseeing the hangings himself, as if the lives of our tenants were a matter of sport: another sort of kill when the weather is too snowy for hunting. The queen is pale and sickly, she complains of a pain in her side, in her leg, she has headaches and sits in the darkness of her rooms with the shutters closed against the cold wintry light. She is taking this hard, as well she might.

  And my lord is as quiet and grave as if there was a death in t
he house, he goes quietly about his business almost on tip-toe. We hardly speak to one another except about the work of the house and family matters. I have not heard him laugh, not once, not since we were at Wingfield, when it was summer and we thought the queen would go back to her throne in Scotland within days.

  Elizabeth’s justice is clamping down on our lands like a hard winter. The news of the planned executions has leaked out and men are disappearing from the villages overnight, leaving nothing but their footsteps in the snow, leaving wives like widows with no-one to break the ice on the water of the well. It will not be the same here, not for a generation. We will be ruined if the strong young men run away and their sons are taken to the gallows in their place.

  I don’t pretend to know how to run a country, I am a woman of no education, and I care for nothing but keeping my lands in good heart and building my houses, keeping my books, and raising my children to the best estate I can find for them. But I do know how to run a farm, and I do know when a land is ruined, and I have never seen anything more sad and sorry than the estates of the North in this bitter, bitter year of 1570.

  1570, January, Tutbury Castle: Mary

  Babington, the sweet boy page Anthony Babington, brings me my little dog who insists on running away from my rooms to whore in the stable yard, where there is some kind of rough lady guard-dog to whom he is a most devoted swain. He is a bad dog and whatever the charms of the stable-yard bitch, he should show a little more discrimination. I tell him so, kissing the warm silky head as Babington holds him and says, his face scarlet, ‘I washed him for you, and towelled him dry, Your Grace.’

  ‘You are a kind boy,’ I say. ‘And he is a bad dog. You should have beaten him.’

  ‘He’s too small,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Too small to beat. He is smaller than a kitten.’

  ‘Well, I thank you for bringing him back to me,’ I say, straightening up.

  Anthony’s hand goes inside his doublet, pulls out a packet, tucks it under the dog and hands them both to me.