by Georgina Lee
CONTENTS
Quote
The Tower of London – June 1611
1579
October 1597
25 December 1602
3 January 1603
1605
1608
Two Weeks Later
March 1613
1613 – 1614
1615
11 September 1615
Authors Note
Copyright
“Why might I not marry? I have not gone about, in this,
to create any new world, or custom.”
The Duchess of Malfi
by John Webster.
This is a work of fiction, based on fact.
By the same author as
Bess
THE TOWER OF LONDON – JUNE 1611
Sir William Waad, Lieutenant of the Tower, puts down his quill with a heavy sigh and stretches his legs under the vast oak desk. It has been a long day, and he is tired. His secretaries went home earlier, there was no point in keeping them here any longer and, unlike himself, they have families waiting at home for them. He glances at the Royal Arrest Warrant that was brought to him earlier and frowns, not through any misgivings about the document itself, but because he is now obliged to wait up until gone midnight to receive the latest prisoner. His usual routine is being disrupted and he does not care for it. The reason for the arrest of any prisoner is not his concern, but King James must be exceedingly displeased to have issued it by his own hand. The truth will become clear in due course, he has no doubt.
Within the confines of the Tower itself though, everything is as it should be. The Ceremony of the Keys has taken place as it does every night, all the prisoners are under lock and key, (in their own cells which, until he took charge, was not always the case) the menagerie of exotic animals has been fed and watered, the soldiers should be asleep in their barracks and the Yeomen Warders are patrolling the precincts as usual.
His supper of cold mutton, manchet bread and a goblet of ale sit untouched on the tray beside him. The warm weather has diminished his usually healthy appetite, but he thinks he may have it later. A breeze from the open window ruffles his papers and he gets up to shut it, pausing to look out onto the dark, inky water of the Thames as it flows relentlessly to the open sea. Beyond it, the city is quiet as clouds scuttle across the moon and a few lone dogs are heard to bark in the distance. Above the many church spires and timber framed buildings, thin wisps of smoke from ovens still spiral upwards, and on his face, he feels the residual heat of the summer’s day still lingering in the air.
Sir William had been appalled at what he considered to be the laxness of his predecessor, who seemed to have a very casual attitude to his duties. Those days are gone and he is proud of the tough changes he has made. However, the prisoner tonight is special, and Sir William knows he will have to be careful. King James has strong views about wealthy and important prisoners; especially if they are of royal blood, like this one.
There is a knock on the door and a servant enters with a bow.
“A barge is approaching, sir.”
“At last.”
The two men make their way down a steep spiral staircase, well lit by burning candles from the wall sconces, and go through a heavy door into the large courtyard, where they turn left and walk towards the main wharf. Beside a gate, two Yeomen wearing the Tower of London Livery stand to attention as they approach, and Sir William tells them to unlock it. The wall torches cast pooled light over the scene, with Traitors’ Gate just visible some 30 yards away. He has given orders that it is not to be used tonight.
“I see nothing,” Sir William growls after a few moments as they wait. “I hope you have not brought me down here for no reason.”
“It is definitely coming, sir,” the servant replies nervously, peering into the distance.
Hundreds of boats are moored along the bank, gently bobbing against one another, their wooden hulls making a dull clank in the water. Along the river, lifting apparatus at the Port of London sits idly, black shapes reaching up into the sky like huge arms. Then slowly, a shape is seen approaching from the east like a phantom, it’s lights twinkling and the oars swishing in rhythm. The rowers are evidently tired, as progress is slow against the tide, so it is a few minutes before it moors along- side. Sir William gives a nod in satisfaction to the four armed guards standing at each corner, their pikes held vertically and to attention.
Two small, cloaked figures sit huddled in the middle and clutching one another. They watch as the lines are expertly secured and the vessel comes to rest. Another Yeoman appears now, also carrying a lantern, so the area is bathed in more light. Both figures get up stiffly before being helped on to the quayside. He can see they are exhausted as they stand before him. Removing his cap, he bows low.
“My name is Sir William Waad, the Lieutenant of the Tower of London. Do I have the honour of addressing the Lady Arbella Seymour?”
“You do indeed!” one of the women replies icily. “I protest in the strongest terms at my imprisonment here and I shall be writing to the king at the earliest opportunity. He will no doubt be commanding my release within hours.”
“ I shall await his majesty’s orders on that matter, m’lady.”
“Where is the warrant for my arrest? I demand to see it, Sir William.”
Her imperious attitude does not impress him, he has seen and heard it all before.
“The Royal Warrant is in my study and you may see it when you are in your quarters. The king has signed it himself, m’lady.”
Lady Arbella opens her mouth to reply, but thinks better of it, and remains silent.
He turns to the second figure. “And this lady is your companion, Mrs Bradshaw, I assume?”
“I am, sir.”
Giving a brief curtsey, she raises her head and he sees that she is older than her mistress. Her face and build are strong, which will be an advantage in this environment; she eyes him with hostility and he meets her gaze steadily before turning his attention back to Lady Arbella.
“M’lady, I will not insult you by welcoming you to this place, but you must understand I am carrying out my orders and that I take no pleasure from it. Your accommodation has been prepared for you; I think you will find every effort has been made for your comfort.”
She regards him haughtily, but there is also fear in her eyes. It is an emotion he knows well. He notices their travel stained, crumpled appearance and muddy boots as they walk before him. Lady Arbella appears to be wearing some sort of male disguise that sits on her with a resigned acceptance. He is relieved that so far, she is compliant, as the last thing he wants to deal with is a hysterical woman. They leave the wharf with the Yeomen accompanying them, their lanterns swinging in the darkness as the gate is locked behind them. Lady Arbella looks around in bewilderment, her eyes wide as she holds the arm of her companion.
“This way if you please,” Sir William tells her curtly.
“Is it really necessary to have so many of your guards to accompany us?” asks Mrs Bradshaw. “We are but two women and hardly likely to run away in the night.”
He ignores this comment and they continue in silence. It takes nearly ten minutes to reach their destination. Lady Arbella moves slowly, and needs a lot of murmured encouragement from Mrs Bradshaw to continue. Sir William supresses his impatience and the Yeomen roll their eyes as they are forced to wait. The night does nothing to soften the bleak outline of this place and the women look up at the high stone walls, which surround them at every turn. The air is pierced by cries and groans of the wild animals kept here, causing Lady Arbella to look around fearfully and Mrs Bradshaw offers more words of comfort to her mistress. Sir William assures them that they are quite safe.
Once inside, they are marshalled along narrow, st
one passages, where a bitter draught howls, despite the summer weather. The walls feel damp as they brush past, and the women pull their clothes tighter to avoid touching the sides. Glimpses are seen of squalid cells through grilled doors, dark and unsavoury, where the incumbents are kept, moaning and rattling their chains anytime of day or night. Some prisoners extend their hands through the grills; their eyes curious and pleading as the guards push them back roughly. As the women stumble up and down stairs in the semi darkness, their breath comes in short bursts. The air is fetid, unwholesome, dripping with despair, and Lady Arbella feels a catch in her throat at the enormity of her situation, as numerous doors are unlocked for them by attending guards.
With the Yeomen instructed to wait, Sir William leads the women up the last flight of steps to a solid, reinforced door, which he opens using keys hanging from his bulging waist. The two women hesitate before going through, then just as Lady Arbella steps inside, she collapses to the floor with a cry of anguish.
For Lady Arbella Seymour, this is not the end of her journey, but the beginning of another, more dangerous than anything she has ever known.
It is now 10 days since I was brought here and it has taken me this long to summon the courage to pick up my quill to write, for write I must, lest I lose my reason in this Godforsaken place. I still find it hard to believe that the king continues to order my detention at all, I am surely no threat to his throne. He knows that I am a faithful subject and would never take any action to harm him or his crown. Indeed, the idea of putting myself on the throne of England does not appeal to me in the slightest.
There was a time, when I was younger and my grandmother was alive, that I did think to be Queen of England would be my destiny, but not any more. For the last few years, all I have wished for in my life is to have a loving husband and family. Even as I write these words, my eyes start to fill with tears; it is by attempting to pursue that dream that I find myself in this position.
I must have made a sorry sight on arrival here, with muddy boots and my shabby male disguise splashed with seawater. No wonder the jailors stared at me. They would have seen a woman utterly worn down, exhausted and frightened. Exposed to the elements for two days and nights, I bore no resemblance to the richly clad member of King James’ glittering Court. My family and friends would not have recognised me as I entered these dreaded gates in a stupor of disbelief and despair.
But I am not completely alone. I have been allowed one companion, Mrs Bradshaw, without whom I do not think I would have had the strength to go on. I look over to where she sits with her sewing and her body is stiff with fatigue and fear. But she smiles back reassuringly at me and I know it is all a show, a brave face for my benefit. Mrs B. as I call her, is no stranger to heartache, having lost her husband and three of her sons at sea during a perilous Channel crossing one stormy night ten years ago. Having helped me with my escape, she shares my predicament and our future is uncertain. She has pledged to stay with me, no matter what happens, and for this, I am very grateful.
My apartments in the Tower are not as bad as I imagined them to be. The windows are not large, but at least I am able to look out onto a courtyard and see the sunshine. The furniture is not what I am used to of course, it is old and not of the best quality, but adequate. I was most concerned that I would hear other prisoners, but the walls are very thick and any cries of men being tortured are well muffled.
My aunt Mary, the Countess of Shrewsbury, is being kept here too, although I have not been allowed to see her. She has been accused of masterminding the plan and providing a large sum of money to help me, without which it could not have happened. I am wracked with guilt to think that it is all my fault and there seems nothing I can do to help her. It is my fervent hope that she too is released before too long.
I have no illusions about the events that occur within the precincts of this castle, its reputation is well-founded as a place of torture, despair and misery. Just the mention of its name causes people to go pale and shudder. Having passed it on many occasions, I never once thought I would be kept here as a prisoner, but then neither did Queen Anne Boleyn or Queen Catherine Howard, poor creatures.
I do not compare myself to them, for they displeased their husband King Henry to such a degree that he had them executed. Such is the great power of our monarch, given by God himself. King James, my kinsman, is only keeping me here to teach me a lesson, I feel sure. Any day soon he will command my release and I shall return to Court quietly and without fuss, my husband by my side.
People will look and gossip about us at first, but in time, it will all be forgotten and everything will return to how it was before. William and I shall have children and live happily together in the country as man and wife. In the meantime, I must bide my time here with patience and fortitude, God willing, I will not be a prisoner for much longer. It was Mrs B’s suggestion that I write each day, she thinks it will help me to remain calm and keep me busy. Some of my precious books are here, but as long as I have quill, ink and paper, I shall be able to occupy myself.
Before I am able to start, I need to remind myself of earlier days when I was growing up. I used to keep my diary hidden in a secret alcove at Chatsworth, which was one of my grandmother’s homes and it was only recently that I remembered it. I was always very anxious that she might discover it; there would be no doubting her reaction if she had, but luckily she did not, and I am sure that no one has seen it. The only person I could trust to obtain it on my behalf is my uncle Henry and he was kind enough to agree to my request. As the eldest son, the great house of Chatsworth was entailed upon him, but he sold it to my uncle William, who now lives there with his second wife and family.
My diary arrived within a week, together with a short letter from uncle Henry saying it had not been easy for him to gain access to the house without arousing suspicion, and asked me if I could reimburse him for the cost of the journey. It was thoughtless of me not to think of it myself, as I know he has very little money, and so I promptly sent him some funds by return. Poor uncle Henry, his gambling debts are well known and he finds it difficult to obtain credit.
I had forgotten how much I had written over time, although as I look through it now, I see that I hop from one year to the next and some of the writing is difficult to read. I suppose in my haste to put my thoughts onto paper, I had become careless.
Re-living everything that has happened in my life will be sometimes hard, but I will try and remember events accurately, and not allow my emotions to cloud my writing. Whatever my fate, I must never forget that I am a Stuart and have royal blood in my veins. I will pray for the strength to see me through these unhappy days. I have not given up hope for the future that I have always desired, which so far, has eluded me.
1579
My earliest memory is of standing in front of a lady I knew to be my mother. She had a sad face and did not look at me, staring instead at something none of us could see. Someone told me to curtsey and then kiss her, but I was unsure and stood rooted to the spot. Strong arms lifted me up to where she sat and my lips touched her pale cheek briefly. She did not respond and there was an awkward silence. I did not know what I should have done, was it my fault that my own mother would not even look at me?
“Come child, your mother is still unwell. Let us go in the garden and see your new puppy.”
The voice that spoke to me invited no argument and I was carried away from her into the glaring sunshine. The lady who carried me was my grandmother and, together with my mother, we lived in her house. My father, Charles Stuart, died when I was just a baby. He was a Scottish nobleman, the younger brother of Henry, Lord Darnley, the second husband of Queen Mary of Scotland. I was told his death was the reason that my mother, Elizabeth, was so sad. No one seemed able to cheer her up and she spent most of the time sitting silently by the window. I did not really miss my mother’s attention, as there were so many other people in my life who showed me kindness and love.
My world was upstairs in the n
ursery and I had servants who attended to my every wish. Although I am a Stuart and descended from King Henry VII, I lived exclusively with my mother’s Cavendish family. There were many of them and when they were all assembled, the house was full of noise and activity. My grandmother and her husband had several houses of their own, and we moved from one to another every so often. I gradually learnt the reason for these moves. It seemed that, together with her husband, the Earl of Shrewsbury, they were jailors to the Scottish Queen Mary, my aunt. One day my grandmother sat me down and explained what had happened.
She said that my aunt was an anointed queen, but that she had been foolish and got married in haste, to the wrong man. This had caused a lot of trouble in her native Scotland and she had been forced to give up her baby son, James, and flee to England. She had been under the protection of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth, since 1569 and kept as a prisoner.
I asked why she was not allowed any freedom to do as she pleased? My grandmother looked shocked at such a question and told me that, as a Catholic, my aunt was a danger to the English throne and there were people who wished to kill our own queen and put Mary on the throne of England. I listened solemnly and nodded my head as if I understood, but to tell the truth, it all seemed difficult to grasp and very complicated.
Sometimes I was taken to see Queen Mary through many locked doors and past frightening looking guards, to her apartments. Here I was made a great fuss of, petted and admired by my aunt and her ladies-in-waiting. They all had strong accents, which I knew to be Scottish, and occasionally I did not understand what they were saying, especially if they spoke too quickly.
I had been given strict instructions about how to behave in her presence. I must curtsey of course and only call her ‘aunt’ if she gave me permission. I was to be obedient and quiet, not to ask questions or do anything that would offend (I was not quite sure what this last one meant) and never, ever, to talk about the family.
