‘Thank you, Babington,’ I say loudly. ‘I am indebted to you. Make sure you take no risks,’ I say softly. ‘This is a graver matter than bringing a naughty dog home.’
He flushes red, like the little boy he is. ‘I would do anything …’ he stammers.
‘Then do this,’ I caution him. ‘Take no grave risks for me. Do only what you can do safely.’
‘I would lay down my life for you,’ he says in a rush. ‘When I am grown to be a man I will set you free myself, you can count on me. I will make a plan, we will call it the Babington plot, everyone will know of it, and I will rescue you.’
I put my fingertips on his bright cheek. ‘And I thank you for that,’ I say quietly. ‘But don’t forget to take care. Think: I need you free and alive to serve me. I shall look for you when you are a man, Anthony Babington.’
He smiles at that and bows to me, a great sweep of a bow as if I were an empress, and then he dashes off, long-legged like a colt in a springing field. Such a sweet, sweet boy, he makes me think of my own son, little James, and the man that I hope he will be.
I carry the dog and the packet to my privy room where my two-winged altar stands. I lock the door and look at Babington’s parcel. I see the unbroken seal of Bishop Lesley of Ross, writing from London.
I am grieved to my heart to tell you that my lords Westmorland and Northumberland and the Duke of Norfolk are all undone. Norfolk has given himself up, and is in the Tower under charge of treason, God help him. Northumberland will join him there as soon as they bring him in. He was raising an army for you in Scotland but your wicked half-brother captured him and sold him to Elizabeth for a ransom. It should have been thirty pieces of silver.
Westmorland has disappeared, and the word is that he has got away to Europe, perhaps France, perhaps the Netherlands, and the Countess of Northumberland with him. She rode at the head of your army, God bless her, and now she pays a heavy price. She will be a widow in exile. Westmorland’s own wife has gone to their country house in despair and declares she knows nothing of the plot, and wishes only to live quietly in peace. She hopes that the Tudor lust for revenge will pass over her.
Your betrothed, Norfolk, is almost certain to be charged with treason, God be with him and you. Cecil will revel in this undoing of his enemies and we have to pray that King Philip of Spain or your French cousins exert themselves to ensure your safety while these brave men face accusation and die for you. You are the third point to this plot, and there is no doubt in my mind that any evidence brought against Norfolk will implicate you. Pray God they do not dare to come near you, though all who love you are in danger of their lives.
I am in constant contact with de Spes, the Spanish ambassador, for your protection. But your loyal servant Roberto Ridolfi, who loaned money to Norfolk and brought me the Spanish gold and the promise of support from the Holy Father, has disappeared off the face of the earth. I am deeply afraid for him. I think we will have to assume that he has been arrested. But why would they arrest him and not come for me? I pray that he is safe in hiding, and not captive or dead.
I myself am in fear of my own life and safety. The city is like a darkened courtyard at night, filled with spies, every footstep echoes, every passer-by is watched. No-one trusts his neighbour and everyone listens at every corner. Please God that the queen is merciful and Cecil does not destroy these poor men he has captured. Please God they leave you where you are, with your trustworthy guardian. I shall write again as soon as I can. I wish I had better news to send you and greater courage for myself but I remain, your faithful friend and servant, John Lesley.
I swear I will never fail you, not now, at this time of your need.
Slowly, I throw the pages one by one into the little grate. They blacken and flame and curl and I watch the smoke drift up the chimney, and my hopes with it. The Northern lords are defeated in my cause, Norfolk is in the Tower. His life will be in the hands of his cousin Elizabeth. I have to believe that she will never destroy her own kinsman, her own cousin. Surely she will not kill him for nothing more than the offence of loving me, of wanting me as his wife.
I take the diamond ring he sent to me and press it to my lips. We are betrothed to marry, he has given his word, and I mine, and I will not release him. He has sent me this valuable ring and we are sworn. Besides, if we get through this, if he survives the charge and escapes the scaffold, then our case is as good as ever. Why should she not support him as king consort of Scotland? Why should he not have sons with me? Why should they not inherit the thrones of England and Scotland? He is still my best choice. And, anyway, until Bothwell escapes, I have no other.
I take out the numbered code which is hidden in the Bible at the altar and start to write a letter to my husband, Norfolk. I shall send the letter to Bishop Lesley and hope that he can get it to my beloved. If he will stand by me now, and Elizabeth spares him, we still might get Scotland by agreement when we could not get it by battle.
Dearest Husband, I will pray for you daily, I shall fast once a week until you are freed. I am yours and you are mine and I shall be yours until death. May God forgive those who come against us, for I never will. Be brave, be faithful, and I will too. Perhaps our friends will rise up for us and we will conquer at last. Perhaps we will win our throne in peace. Perhaps you can persuade Elizabeth, as I will try, to let us marry and restore us, her loving cousins, to our throne. I will pray for that. I will pray for the day when you are my husband in deed as well as sworn promise; and I am Queen of Scotland again.
Your wife before God, Mary
I seal it and put it ready for a chance to smuggle it out, and then Agnes comes to prepare me for bed. My nightgown has been badly pressed and I send it away and choose another, then we pray together, then I dismiss her. All the time my thoughts are like a weasel in a cage, twisting this way and that, going round and round. I think of Bothwell, another animal in a cage. I think of him walking the length of his room, turning, and walking back again. I think of him looking out of his barred window at the moonlight on the dark water of Malmö Sound, watching the sky for storms, scratching another mark on the wall to show another night in captivity. This is the eight hundredth and eighty-seventh night we have been apart, more than two and a half years. He will know that tonight, as well as I do. He will need no scratch on the wall to know how long he has been parted from me. He will be a wolf caged, he will be an eagle pinioned. But he will be himself, they will not break him. The wolf is still there, still a wolf despite the cage. The eagle is ready to soar, unchanged. Before I sleep, I write to him, who is sleepless, thinking of me.
Bothwell, my star is in eclipse, my friends arrested or exiled, my spies in hiding, my ambassador afraid. But I don’t despair. I don’t surrender. I wait for you and I know you will come.
Don’t expect a reward. Don’t expect anything of me, we know what we are to each other, and it remains our secret.
I wait for you, and I know you will come.
Marie
1570, January, Tutbury Castle: George
The wintry days drag by. Hastings is still here, spending his time riding out to supervise the hangings of men named as rebels and given to the gallows as a pagan sacrifice to some ruthless god. I can hardly bear to leave the grounds of the castle, I cannot meet the accusing eyes of the widows in Tutbury. Inside, of course, there is nothing for me to do.
Bess keeps busy with the reports from her stewards and her endless books of accounts. She is anxious to get back to Chatsworth and summon Henry and her other children. But we cannot leave until Hastings takes the Scots queen, and we all wait upon our orders.
When they come, they are not what we expected. I go to find Bess in the little room she has commandeered for her records, with the letter from Cecil in my hand.
‘I am ordered to court,’ I say quietly.
She looks up at once from her desk, a ledger still open before her, ink drying on the quill pen, the colour draining from her face until she is as white as the page before her.
‘Are you to be charged?’
‘Your dear friend Cecil neglects to tell me,’ I say bitterly. ‘Have you heard from him privately? Do you know? Am I to go straight to the Tower? Is it a charge of treason? Have you provided him with evidence against me?’
Bess blinks at my savage tone and glances towards the door. She too fears eavesdroppers now. The spies must be spying on the spies. ‘He does not write to me any more,’ she says. ‘I don’t know why. Perhaps he does not trust me either.’
‘I have to go at once,’ I say. ‘The messenger who brought this rode with a guard of six men. They are eating in the kitchen and waiting to escort me to London.’
‘You are under arrest?’ she whispers.
‘It is wonderfully unclear. He says I am to ride with an escort at once,’ I say wryly. ‘Whether this is to ensure my safety or to ensure my arrival they don’t specify. Will you pack a saddlebag for me?’
At once she gets to her feet and starts to bustle towards our bedroom. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Bess, if I go to the Tower, I will do my best to save your fortune from the wreck of my own. I will send for a lawyer, I will settle my fortune upon you. You will not be the widow of a dead traitor. You will not lose your house.’
She shakes her head and her colour rises. ‘I don’t think of my fortune now,’ she says, her voice very low. ‘I think of you. My husband.’ Her face is strained with fear.
‘You think of me before your house?’ I say, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Bess, this is love indeed.’
‘It is love,’ she emphasises. ‘It is, George.’
‘I know,’ I say softly. I clear my throat. ‘They say I am not allowed to say goodbye to the Queen of Scots. Will you give her my compliments and tell her that I am sorry I cannot say farewell?’
At once I feel her stiffen. ‘I will tell her,’ she says coldly, and she moves away.
I should not go on; but I have to go on. These may be my last words to the Queen of Scots. ‘And will you tell her to take care, and warn her that Hastings will be a rigorous guardian. Warn her against him. And tell her that I am sorry, very sorry.’
Bess turns away. ‘I will pack for you,’ she says icily. ‘But I can’t remember all of that. I shall tell her that you are gone, that you may be tried for treason for your kindness to her, that she has cost us our fortune and our reputation and she may cost your life. I don’t think I can bring myself to tell her that you are very, very sorry for her. I think the words would make me sick.’
1570, January, Tutbury Castle: Bess
I pack for him, throwing his things into saddlebags in a cold fury, and I send a manservant on a carthorse with food for the first day so he is not reliant on the poor fare of the Derbyshire inns. I see that he has his new hose and a change of linen in his bag, some good soap and a small travelling looking glass so he can shave on the road. I give him a sheet of paper with the latest accounts in case anyone at court chooses to see that we have been ruined by our care of the Scots queen. I curtsey to him and I kiss him goodbye as a good wife should, and all the time the words he wanted me to say to the queen, the tone of his voice when he spoke of her and the warmth in his eyes when he thought of her eat away inside me as if I had worms.
I never knew that I was a passionate woman, a jealous woman. I have been married four times, twice to men who clearly adored me: older men who made me their pet, men who prized me above all others. I have never in my life before seen my husband’s gaze go past me to another, and I cannot reconcile myself to it.
We part coldly and in public, for he sets off from the courtyard and, though they were forbidden to see each other privately, the queen arrives as if by accident, as the guard is mounting. Devereux and Hastings come to see the little party off through the gates. But even if we had been quite alone I think it would have been no better. I could cry out at the thought that this was my darling husband, the man I loved to call ‘my husband the earl’ only two years ago, and now he may be riding to his death and we part with a dry kiss and a chilly farewell.
I am a simple woman, not a trained clerk or a scholar. But whatever wrong they say Elizabeth has done to England, I can attest that these years of her reign have taken the very heart out of me.
1570, January, Tutbury Castle: Mary
I see from my window that Shrewsbury’s big horse is saddled for a journey, and then I see there is an armed guard waiting for him. I throw a shawl over my head and go downstairs, not even changing my shoes.
I see at once that he is going alone. Bess is white and looks sick; Hastings and Devereux are not dressed for travelling, they are clearly to stay here. I am very afraid that he is summoned to court, perhaps even arrested.
‘Are you going on a journey, my lord?’ I ask, trying to sound easy and unconcerned.
He looks at me as if he would snatch me up before them all. He is desperate for me. He puts his hands behind his back as if to stop himself from reaching for me. ‘I am summoned to court,’ he says. ‘My lord Hastings will keep you safe in my absence. I hope I shall be home soon.’
‘I am to stay here until you return?’
‘I believe so,’ he says.
‘And you will return?’
‘I hope so.’
I feel my mouth quiver. I so want to cry out that he is not to go, or that I shall go with him. I cannot bear to stay here with his furious wife and with the cold Hastings. To tell the truth I am afraid of them both.
‘I shall look for you,’ is all I dare say in front of them all. ‘And I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.’
The twisted smile that he gives me as he bows over my hand tells me that he does not expect either. I want to whisper to him to come back to me soon, but I don’t dare. He presses my hand, it is all that he can do, and then he turns and mounts his horse quickly and in a second – it is all far too quick – there is a scramble of the guards and he is riding out of the gate, and I bite my lip so as not to call out.
I turn, and his wife is looking at me, her face hard. ‘I hope he comes home safely to you, Bess,’ I say.
‘You know that I have lost him, whether he comes home or not,’ she says, and she turns her back on me, which she should not do, and walks away, without a curtsey, which is worse.
1570, January, Windsor Castle: George
It is a long cold journey in winter, and poor company on the road. Behind me is an inadequate farewell and ahead of me the certainty of an unkind welcome. Parted from the Queen of Scots, not even knowing if she is safe, I arrive at the court of the Queen of England and know myself in disgrace.
Every morning and every night, my first and last thought is of her, my lost queen, the other queen, and I torture myself with blame. I feel as if I have failed her. Even though I know well enough that I could not have kept her with me, not when Hastings was there with orders to take her, not when Cecil was determined that she should be parted from me. But even so … even so.
When I told her I was going to London, her eyes went darker with fear, but in front of Bess, Hastings and Devereux she could say nothing but that she hoped I had a pleasant journey and a safe homecoming.
I thought I might go to her privately, while Bess was packing for me. I thought I might tell her how I feel, now that we are to be parted. I thought for once I might have spoken from the heart; but I could not. I am a man married to another woman, and sworn in fealty to another queen. How could I speak to the Scots queen of love? What have I got to offer her freely? Nothing. Nothing. When I was in the courtyard, ready to say my farewells, they were all there, Bess and the two lords and every servant and spy in the place, anxious to see how I would leave her and how she would take it. Hopeless to try to say goodbye to her in any way other than a bow, and a formal farewell. What did I think I could say to her, before her ladies-in-waiting, with my own wife looking on? With Hastings trying to hide a smile, and Devereux looking bored and tapping his whip against his boot? I stumbled on wishing her well and she looked at me as if she would beg me to help her. She loo
ked at me in silence, I would swear there were tears in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. She is a queen, she would never show her fears before them. I followed her lead, I was cool and polite. But I hope she knew that my heart was churning for her. She just looked at me as if I might save her, if I wanted to. And God knows I probably looked as I feel – a man who has failed the woman he swore to protect.
I could not even assure her that she will be safe. All the men who have ever spoken in her favour to Queen Elizabeth, who have tried to balance Cecil’s counsel of fear and suspicion, are now disgraced. Some of them are in the Tower, some of them are exiled and will never show their faces in England again. Some of them are condemned to death and their wives will be widows and their houses will be sold. And I am summoned to see the queen, ordered to leave my prisoner, ordered to hand her over to her enemy. I have been commanded to court as if they don’t trust me to go willingly. I am under shadow of suspicion and I count myself lucky to be ordered to report to the court and not directly to the Tower.
It takes us nearly a week to get there. One of the horses goes lame and we cannot hire another, some of the roads are impassable with snow drifts and we have to go round on the high ground where the winter winds cut like a knife. The snow flurries drive into my face and I am so miserable and so sick of my failure to be faithful and failure to be unfaithful that I would rather be on the long cold journey forever, than arrive at Windsor in the early winter dark to a chilly welcome and poor rooms.
The court is in sombre mood, the cannon still primed and pointing towards London. They are still recovering from their fear that the army of the North would come against them, they are ashamed of their panic. I have to kick my heels for three days while Cecil decides if the queen has time to be bothered by me. I wait in the royal presence chamber, ever alert for a summons, dawdling around with the other men she cannot be troubled to greet. For the first time I am not admitted as soon as my name is mentioned. My stock is low with my fellows too, even with those that I thought were my friends. I eat in the great hall, not in the privy chamber, and I ride out alone, no-one asks for my company. Nobody even stops to chat with me, no-one greets me with pleasure. I feel as if I carry with me a shadow, a stink. I smell of treason. Everyone is afraid and nobody wants to be seen with someone who is shady, who smells of suspicion.
Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Page 126
