Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2

by Philippa Gregory

  ‘Your Grace, I must ask you some questions, and this gentleman –’

  ‘Sir Peter Brown.’ He bows to her.

  ‘This gentleman will listen. He has come from Lord Burghley with most disturbing news.’

  Her gaze that meets my eyes is so honest and true that I am certain that she knows nothing of this. If the Spanish land, they will do so without her knowledge. If they come for her and take her from me, it will be without her consent. She gave her word to Lord Morton and to me that she would not plot with anyone, any more. She plans to get back to Scotland by Elizabeth’s treaty, not by destroying England. She gave her word there would be no more plots.

  ‘Your Grace,’ I begin trustingly. ‘You must tell Sir Peter all that you know.’

  She droops a little, like a flower, heavy-headed in a shower of rain. ‘But I know nothing,’ she says gently. ‘You know that I am cut off from my friends and my family. You know yourself that you see every letter that comes for me and that I see no-one without your consent.’

  ‘I am afraid that you know more than I do,’ I say. ‘I am afraid that you know more than you tell me.’

  ‘You don’t trust me now?’ Her dark eyes widen as if she cannot believe that I would betray the affection I have for her, as if she cannot imagine that I would accuse her of being false, especially in front of a stranger, and an adherent of her enemy.

  ‘Your Grace, I dare not trust you,’ I say clumsily. ‘Sir Peter here has brought me a message from Lord Burghley that commands me to question you. You are implicated in a plot. I have to ask you what you know.’

  ‘Shall we sit?’ she asks distantly, like the queen she is, and turns her back on us and leads us into the garden. There is a bench in an arbour with roses growing around the seat. She spreads out her gown and sits, like a girl interviewing suitors. I take the stool that her lady-in-waiting was using, and Sir Peter drops to the grass at her feet.

  ‘Ask,’ she invites me. ‘Please, ask me whatever you want. I should like to clear my name. I should like everything to be above board with us.’

  ‘Will you give me your word that you will tell me the truth?’

  Queen Mary’s face is as open as a child’s. ‘I have never lied to you, Chowsbewwy,’ she says sweetly. ‘You know I have always insisted that I be allowed to write privately to my friends and to my family. You know I have admitted that they are forced to write to me secretly and I to reply. But I have never plotted against the Queen of England, and I have never encouraged rebellion of her subjects. You can ask me what you wish. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘Do you know a Florentine named Roberto Ridolfi?’ Sir Peter says quietly.

  ‘I have heard of him, but I have never met him nor had any correspondence with him.’

  ‘How have you heard of him?’

  ‘I have heard that he lent the Duke of Norfolk some money,’ she says readily.

  ‘D’you know what the money was for?’

  ‘For his private use, I think,’ she says. She turns to me. ‘My lord, you know I do not have letters from the duke any more. You know he has abandoned our betrothal and sworn allegiance to the queen. He broke his betrothal to me and deserted me, on the command of his queen.’

  I nod. ‘That’s true,’ I say aside to Sir Peter.

  ‘You have had no letters from him?’

  ‘Not since he broke his promise to me. I would not receive a letter from him if he wrote it, not since he rejected me,’ she says proudly.

  ‘And when did you last hear from the Bishop of Ross?’ Sir Peter asks her.

  She frowns, trying to remember. ‘Lord Chowsbewwy would recall, perhaps. His letters are always delivered to me by Lord Chowsbewwy.’ She turns to me. ‘He wrote to say he was safely back in London after visiting us at Chatsworth, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirm.

  ‘And you have not heard from him since?’

  Again she turns to me. ‘I don’t think so. Have we? No.’

  Sir Peter gets to his feet, and puts his hand against the warm stone wall as if to steady himself. ‘Have you had any letters from the Pope or from Philip of Spain or any of their servants?’

  ‘Do you mean ever?’ she asks, a little puzzled.

  ‘I mean this summer, I mean in the past few months.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Have they written to me and their letters gone astray? I think Lord Burghley spies upon me and steals my messages, and you can tell him from me that it is wrong to do so.’

  Sir Peter bows to her. ‘Thank you for your courtesy in talking with me, Your Grace. I will leave you now.’

  ‘I have a question for you,’ she tells him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am a prisoner, but that does not guarantee my safety. I was alarmed when I heard the bell ringing, and your questions have not reassured me. Please tell me, Sir Peter, what is happening? Please reassure me that my cousin the queen is safe and well.’

  ‘Do you think she might be in danger?’

  She glances down as if the question is an embarrassment. ‘I know there are many who disagree with her rule,’ she says, shamefaced. ‘I am afraid there are those who would plot against her. There may even be those who would plot against her in my name. But that does not mean that I have joined with them. I wish her nothing but good, and I always have done. I am here in her country, in her power, imprisoned by her, because I trusted to the love that she promised me. She failed that love, she failed the bond that should be between queens. But even so, I would never wish her anything but good health and safety and good fortune.’

  ‘Her Grace is blessed with such a friendship,’ Sir Peter says and I wonder if he is being ironic. I look at him quickly, but I can tell nothing. He and the queen are equally bland. I cannot tell what either of them is truly thinking.

  ‘So, is she safe?’ she asks.

  ‘When I left London the queen was on progress in the country and enjoying the warm weather,’ he says. ‘My lord Burghley has uncovered a plot in time to destroy it. All those who were party to it will go to the scaffold. Every one of them. I am here only to ensure that you are safe also.’

  ‘And where is she?’ Queen Mary asks him.

  ‘On progress,’ he replies levelly.

  ‘This plot concerns me?’ she asks.

  ‘I think many plots concern you,’ he says. ‘But luckily my lord Burghley’s men are thorough. You are safe here.’

  ‘Well, I thank you,’ she says coolly.

  ‘A word,’ Sir Peter says to me as he turns away from her, and I follow him to the garden gate. ‘She is lying,’ he says bluntly. ‘Lying like a trooper.’

  ‘I dare swear she is not …’

  ‘I know she is,’ he says. ‘Ridolfi was carrying a letter of introduction from her to the Pope himself. He showed it to Cecil’s man. He boasted of her support. She told the Pope to trust Ridolfi as he would trust her own self. Ridolfi has a plan he calls ‘the Great Enterprise of England’ to destroy us all. It is this plot which is coming to us now. She has called down six thousand fanatical Papist Spaniards on us. And she knows where they are landing, and she has organised for their payment.’

  I hold on to the gate to conceal the weakness in my knees.

  ‘I can’t question her,’ he goes on. ‘I cannot interrogate her as I would any ordinary suspect. If she was anyone else she would be in the Tower now and we would be piling rocks on her chest till her ribs broke and her lies were squeezed out with her last gasping breath. We can’t do that to her, and it is hard to tell what other pressure we can bring to bear. To tell truth, I can hardly bear to speak to her. I can hardly look into her false face.’

  ‘There is no more beautiful woman in the world!’ bursts from me.

  ‘Oh aye, she’s lovely. But how can you admire a face which is two-faced?’

  For a moment I am about to argue, and then I remember the sweetness of her inquiry after her cousin’s health and I think of her writing to Philip of Spain, bringing the Spaniards in
on us, summoning the armada and the end of England. ‘Are you certain she knows of this plot?’

  ‘Knows of it? She has made it!’

  I shake my head. I cannot believe it. I will not believe it.

  ‘I have asked her as much as I can. But she might be more honest with you or the countess,’ the young man says earnestly. ‘Go back to her, see if you can find out any more. I shall eat and rest here tonight, and leave at dawn.’

  ‘Ridolfi could have forged his letter which said that she recommended him,’ I suggest. ‘Or he could be lying about it.’ Or, I think, in the mess we are in since I can be sure of nothing, you could be lying to me, or Cecil lying to us all.

  ‘Suppose we start with the presumption that it is she who is lying,’ he says. ‘See if you can get anything out of her. The plans of the Spanish especially. We have to know what they are going to do. If she knows, she must tell you. If we had the slightest idea where they would land we could save hundreds of lives, we might save our country. I will see you before I leave. I am going to her rooms. My men will be turning them upside down right now.’

  He sketches a little bow and walks away. I turn back to her. She is smiling at me as I walk across the grass and I know that heart-stopping mischievous gleam. I know it, I know her.

  ‘How pale you are, dear Chowsbewwy,’ she remarks. ‘These alarms are bad for us both. I nearly fainted when I heard the bell.’

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ I ask wearily. I don’t sit down on the stool at her feet, again, I remain standing, and she rises from the seat and comes beside me. I can smell the perfume in her hair, she stands so close that if I stretched out my hand I could touch her waist. I could draw her to me. She tilts back her head and smiles at me, a knowing smile, one that would be exchanged between warm familiar friends, a lovers’ smile.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ she says with her naughty confiding gleam.

  ‘I have just been telling him that this Ridolfi might have used your name without your leave,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t believe me, and I find I don’t even believe myself. You know Ridolfi, don’t you? You authorised him, didn’t you? You sent him to the Pope, and to the duke in the Netherlands, and to Philip of Spain, you ordered him to plan an invasion? Even though you are sworn to a new agreement with Elizabeth? Even though you signed your name to her peace treaty? Even though you promised Morton that you would weave no plots and send no letters? Even though you promised me privately, between the two of us, at my request, that you would take care? Even though you know that they will take you away from me if I don’t guard you?’

  ‘I cannot live like a dead woman,’ she whispers, though we are alone and there is no sound in the garden but the haunting late afternoon song of the thrush. ‘I cannot give up on my own cause, on my own life. I cannot lie like a corpse in my coffin and hope that someone is kind enough to carry me to Scotland or to London. I have to be alive. I have to act.’

  ‘But you promised,’ I insist like a child. ‘How can I trust anything, if I hear you promise on your honour as a queen, if I see you sign your name and place your seal, and then I find that it means nothing? You mean none of it?’

  ‘I am imprisoned,’ she says. ‘Everything means nothing until I am free.’

  I am so angry with her and I feel so betrayed that I turn my back on her and take two hasty steps away. It is an insult to a queen, men have been banished from court for far less than turning their back. I check when I realise what I have done, but I don’t turn to face her and kneel.

  I feel like a fool. All this time I have been thinking the best of her, reporting to Cecil that I have intercepted messages and she has not received them. I have told him I am sure she has not invited them, that she attracts conspiracies but does not conspire herself; and all this time he has known that she was writing treasonous rebellious instructions, planning to overthrow the peace of the country. All this time he has known that he was right and I was wrong, that she was an enemy and my tenderness towards her was itself a folly, if not treason. She has played the part of a devil and I have trusted her and helped her against my own interests, against my own friends, against my fellow Englishmen. I have been a fool for this woman, and she has abused my trust and abused my household and abused my fortune and abused my wife.

  ‘You have shamed me,’ I burst out, still turned away from her, my head bowed and my back to her. ‘Shamed me before Cecil and the court. I swore that I could keep you safe and away from conspiracy and you have made me false to my oath. You have done whatever wickedness you pleased and you have made a fool of me. A fool.’ I am out of breath, I end in a sob of mortification. ‘You have played me for a fool.’

  Still she says nothing and still, I don’t turn to look at her.

  ‘I told them that you were not plotting, that you could be trusted with greater freedom,’ I say. ‘I told them that you had entered into a treaty with the queen and made a promise to Morton and you had sworn these on your honour. I said that you would never break your word. Not your word of honour as a queen. I promised this on your behalf. I said that you had given your word. I said that was as good as a gold coin. I told them that you are a queen, a queen par excellence; and a woman incapable of dishonour.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘I don’t think you know what honour is,’ I say bitterly. ‘I don’t think you know what honour means. And you have dishonoured me.’

  Gently, like a petal falling, I feel her touch. She has come up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. I don’t move and gently she lays her cheek against my shoulder blade. If I turned, I could take her in my arms and the coolness of her cheek would be like a balm on my red and angry face.

  ‘You have made a fool of me before my queen, before the court, and before my own wife,’ I choke out, my back tingling under her touch. ‘You have dishonoured me in my own house, and once I cared for nothing more than my honour and my house.’

  Her hand on my shoulder grows firmer, she gives a little tug on my jacket and I turn to look at her. Her dark eyes are filled with tears, her face twisted with grief. ‘Ah, don’t say so,’ she whispers. ‘Chowsbewwy, don’t say such things. You have been a man of such honour to me, you have been such a friend to me. I have never had a man serve me as you have done. I have never had a man care for me without hope of return. I can tell you, that I love –’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘Don’t say another word to me. Don’t make another promise to me. How should I hear anything you say? I cannot trust anything you say!’

  ‘I don’t break my word!’ she insists. ‘I have never given my true word. I am a prisoner, I am not bound to tell the truth. I am under duress and my promise means noth—’

  ‘You have broken your word and with it, you have broken my heart,’ I say simply, and I pull away from her grip and walk away from her without looking back.

  1571, October, Sheffield Castle: Bess

  A cold autumn, and the leaves falling early from the trees, as if the weather itself will be hard on us this year. We have escaped disaster by a whisper, a whisper, nothing more. The Queen of Scots’ spy and plotter, Roberto Ridolfi, had every great power in Christendom in alliance against us. He had visited the Pope in Rome, the Duke of Alva in the Netherlands, the King of Spain and the King of France. They all sent either gold or men or both, ready for an invasion which was to murder Queen Elizabeth and put Queen Mary on the throne. Only Ridolfi’s boastful whisper of the plot reached the keen ears of William Cecil and saved us.

  Cecil took the Queen of Scots’ bishop to stay with the Bishop of Ely as a house guest. It must have been a merry party. He took his servant to the Tower and broke him on the rack, under the stones, and by hanging him from the wrists. The man – an old servant of the Queen of Scots – told the torturers everything they asked, and probably more besides. Then Norfolk’s men were taken into the Tower and sang their songs as their fingernails were pulled out. Robert Higford showed them the hiding place for the letters, under the tiles of the roof. William Barker told them of th
e plot. Lawrence Bannister decoded the Queen of Scots’ letters to her betrothed, Norfolk, filled with love and promises. Then finally they took the Queen of Scots’ friend and ambassador, Bishop John Lesley, from his stay in Cambridgeshire to the harsher hospitality of the Tower and gave him a taste of the pain that had broken lesser men, and he told them everything.

  Another round of arrests of men named as traitors and Norfolk himself was thrown back in the Tower again. It is unbelievable, but it seems that after giving his complete submission to our Queen Elizabeth, he went on writing and plotting with the other queen and was deep in the toils of the Spanish and the French, planning the overthrow of our peace.

  I do believe we were within a day of a Spanish invasion that would have destroyed us, murdered Elizabeth, and put this most true heir to Bloody Mary Tudor – Bloody Mary Stuart – on the throne of England, and the fires in Smithfield would have been burning hot for Protestant martyrs once more.

  Thank God Ridolfi was a braggart, thank God the King of Spain is a cautious man. Thank God the Duke of Norfolk is a fool who sent out a fortune in gold by an unreliable courier and the plotters betrayed themselves. And thank God Cecil was there, at the centre of the web of his spies, knowing everything. For if the other queen had her way, she would be in Whitehall now, Elizabeth would be dead, and England, my England, would be lost.

  My husband the earl has grown dark along with the colder nights, and drawn in as they have done, into silence. He visits the queen in her rooms only once a week and asks her with bleak courtesy if she is well, if she has everything she needs, and if she has any letters that she would like dispatched by him, if she has any requests or complaints for him or for the court.

  She replies with equal coldness that she is unwell, that she requires her freedom, that she demands Elizabeth honour the agreement to send her home to Scotland, and that she has no letters to send. They part as formally as enemies forced to dance together and joined for a moment by the movement of the dance and then released again.