Arbella

by Georgina Lee

  Uncle Charles had a lucky escape one summer morning, and I was very upset to hear of his misfortune. When out with friends, he was attacked, shot in the leg by the man whom he had previously challenged to a duel, John Stanhope. My grandmother was incensed about it, particularly so, since his quarrel was not even with uncle Charles, but with uncle Gilbert, who of course was not even a blood relation of ours, but the son of her husband, the late Earl of Shrewsbury. This all happened some distance from us, at Kirkby-in-Ashby, but my grandmother sent a surgeon from Chesterfield as soon as she heard, which was all she could do. He slowly recovered and paid us a visit some months afterwards, he still walked with a limp though and the surgeon told him it could be permanent.

  Such events were mercifully rare, but I was ashamed to say they did enliven my dull existence at Hardwick. The days when we moved from one home to another were gone and my grandmother was content to spend her dotage at the New Hall. As we celebrated the New Year of 1600, I was just 25 and my grandmother would be 74 in October. Neither of us had envisaged our lives would be entangled so closely for this long and neither of us could see an end in sight.

  My letters from Robert started to become less frequent. It was always my belief that he had a glittering future ahead of him; how many other men could lay claim to such a handsome appearance, charm and physical bravery? Was he not one of those men who shared the glory of the victory at Cadiz? It was no wonder the queen favoured him; she had even made him Earl Marshall of England, as well as all his other prestigious posts.

  The year before, he was commanded to lead an expeditionary force of 15,000 men to Ireland, but it was a disaster. He became very ill, which must have affected his leadership, and the majority of men under his command either deserted or died, so that only a few thousand remained. The queen sent more troops, but Robert chose to negotiate a peace treaty with the Irish rebel, Tyrone. I thought this was very courageous of him, but everyone else believed it was a disloyal act of arrogance and condemned him at once.

  Apparently the queen was furious with him, especially when he arrived from Ireland early one morning to explain himself, bursting unannounced into her bedchamber before she was dressed. I could image the sight that greeted him. The queen was an old woman with an arthritic riddled body, wrinkled skin and grey, thinning hair, quite a contrast from the make up, expensive gowns, wigs and jewels she always wore in public. It must have been quite a shock for them both.

  This time the queen did not forgive him and he was put under house arrest. Months before, he had half drawn his sword on her when she boxed his ears, that particular story was around the Court within minutes. How I wished I could be there to comfort him through this difficult time!

  Instead I was given a lecture by my grandmother. She told me that Robert was a traitor without honour, and that he would soon be sent to the block and lose his head. This filled me with horror and I became very agitated and upset. I was put to bed and told I must stay there until I felt better. I kept re-reading his last letter, written as he was about to set sail for Ireland. It was full of hope and excitement, even now I still weep when I read it and could not bring myself to burn it, as I should have done.

  But he escaped from Essex House and amassed a small army of about 200 men to attempt a coup. It failed of course, and he was charged with treason before being sent to the Tower. It all happened very quickly, my poor Robert went to the block on Ash Wednesday, 25 February 1601, a date that is forever imprinted on my heart.

  I made a pact with myself after his death, that I would do something of my own volition that would release me from this miserable life and find myself a husband, someone I could love and be loved in return. Is that not what every woman wishes for?

  Apparently the queen did not mourn him; she must have had a heart of stone. I was completely devastated by his death and became very ill with strange symptoms that the physician could not alleviate. I suffered with pains in my stomach and was sick, my headaches grew worse, my skin developed rashes and sometimes I could not remember events. I swayed between being very happy and very sad; I could see the confusion and lack of understanding in those around me.

  My grandmother, never one to have a lot of patience, grew more exasperated with me and would occasionally rap my knuckles or tweak my nose, which I found very humiliating as it was in front of servants. My only friend in the house was my tutor, Mr Starkey, who was also the chaplain. I had persuaded him to help me escape, not giving any detail as to what he might do. At first, he was reluctant, but when he saw my heartache, which was not false, he agreed.

  Apart from him, there was my uncle Henry, who wrote that when the time was right, he would be there for me. As my desperation grew over these long months and years, I realised I would have to take matters into my own hands if I was ever to be married. I thought about my options at great length and as Christmas approached, I devised a plan. In preparation, I sent some of my jewels and money to a friend in Yorkshire where they were safe. Nobody was going to stop me now.

  25 DECEMBER 1602

  On Christmas Day I woke with a great feeling of relief and excitement. The family would celebrate in the usual way, with chapel after breakfast, then the time would be spent playing games and sharing a banquet later in the afternoon. We had already provided a fine feast for the poor, as was expected of anyone with enough wealth to do so.

  After Chapel, I lagged behind on the stairs before seeking out Dodderidge, a servant at Hardwick. I had known him since I was a child and he was very trustworthy. Finding him downstairs just about to start eating his breakfast, I bade him come to me in the passage where no one could overhear our conversation. I urged him to leave the house at once and deliver a letter to Lord Hertford, who lived just outside London. I knew I was asking a lot of him as the journey was long, and at this time of year, could be quite arduous, but when I told him how desperate I was, he said he would do it.

  My idea was to propose marriage to Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford’s eldest grandson. This match between us had been brought up some years ago, but dismissed, I know not why; I simply decided to resurrect it. Dodderidge was to tell his lordship that my uncles Henry and William approved of the idea, and that despite our age difference (I am 10 years older than Edward) it was a good match. Although I had never met Edward, I was sure he would be more than happy to be my husband.

  I wrote that Lord Hertford or his son, Lord Beauchamp (Edward’s father) were to come disguised to Hardwick, saying they wished to buy land. I told them to bring a letter in the Lady Jane Grey’s writing as a means of identifying themselves to me. I had seen evidence of her writing in my grandmother’s bedchamber; she still kept a likeness and letters of the lady after all these years, from when she lived with that family in her youth. I had heard many a sad tale of Lady Jane Grey and her untimely end on the scaffold. She was the sister of Katherine, who married Lord Hertford in 1560 without royal permission. To me, at the time, my plan was fool proof. (Looking back, I do not know what possessed me to suggest anything so far-fetched.)

  How I got through those days of waiting for news, I do not know. I let it be known that Dodderidge had to return to his mother, who was seriously ill, and not expected to live much longer. I was careful to act normally and not give rise to suspicion by being unusually cheerful. The festivities were lavish; my grandmother could not be accused of meanness for giving her family the best food, wine and entertainment. My hopes were high that this would be the last time I would celebrate Christmas as a single woman, for by next December, I was sure I would be mistress of my own house, with a husband and maybe a babe in the cradle for me to rock.

  My grandmother sat in the middle of all the activity as usual, holding her own court and being gracious to everyone. Here she was, in her new home with the Cavendish clan (at least those members of the family that were still on speaking terms with her) and no doubt she was congratulating herself on her near perfect existence. But I was making sure that all that was about to change.

 
3 JANUARY 1603

  Christmas and New Year were behind us and it had all been very enjoyable. That afternoon we were assembled in the Long Gallery on the second floor. Outside a bank of grey cloud made the chamber gloomy, so my grandmother ordered for the candles to be lit early. Everyone was in a lively mood and I was playing cards with Wylkyn, now a tall, thirteen-year-old.

  The two fireplaces burned with roaring fires, and it was very comfortable to sit on one of the window seats with their fine embroidered cushions. I was nervous though and could not relax. There had been no reaction so far to my letter, and I did not even know if Dodderidge had arrived safely. I dared not ask of his whereabouts and it was assumed he was still with his ailing mother.

  At about two o’clock, a servant approached my grandmother, whispering something in her ear. She went deathly pale and I saw uncle William lean forward to ask her what was wrong. They conferred for a few moments before he gave an order to the servant, who went out at once. Uncle William stood up and shouted for quiet. We all looked up curiously, I think no one could have guessed what was going to happen next.

  “Listen everyone! Sir Henry Brounker, a Royal Commissioner is downstairs in the Great Hall. He is here by command of Her Majesty the Queen. In a few moments he will be amongst us.”

  There was stunned silence and I looked at my grandmother’s shocked face; I thought she was about to swoon. She took a few sips of wine and I could see she was trying to compose herself. Uncle Charles happened to be near me and whispered, “God’s bones! Whatever can he want?”

  I edged towards an unobtrusive corner and waited with everyone else. It took a few minutes for Sir Henry to reach us and on arrival he was perspiring and out of breath from the climb. There could be no doubt in my mind for the reason he had come and I was filled with a strange excitement.

  After being announced and the formalities were over, my grandmother and Sir Henry went to the far end of the Gallery, where I saw him give her a letter carrying the Royal Seal. She read it and seemed to sink to the floor, I could almost think she went on her knees before him. There was a gasp from the family who were watching these proceedings. Sir Henry tried to help her rise, but she pushed him away impatiently and got up by herself. With a stony glare, she told me to go into the adjacent withdrawing chamber with Sir Henry, whereupon he proceeded to question me.

  At first I denied all knowledge of it, but it soon became clear that Dodderidge had told everything he knew, and had in fact, been imprisoned for his trouble. I tried to think, bluffing my way through his questions. Sir Henry was a sturdy little man, rather full of his own self-importance and after about fifteen minutes, he changed his tone to one of conciliation. He told me that many young people make mistakes, he was here to help me, anything I told him would be confidential and he would not tell my grandmother. I did not believe him, but I found myself becoming confused and disorientated, stammering over my replies, I felt tired, hot and uncomfortable. Knowing I was not presenting a clear case, I began to doubt the whole scheme. Eventually, he gave up and bid me go to my bedchamber and write down my explanation for him to read in the morning.

  I escaped with relief and went straight to bed. I lay awake in the darkness and thought about what would happen. The queen was displeased, but what else was I to do? My grandmother followed me after a few minutes, but I pretended to be asleep. She called out to me, but I did not reply, and I heard her sigh heavily and the bed creaked as she climbed in and blew out the candle. I dreaded having to face them all tomorrow.

  My dreams of marrying Edward Seymour have come to nothing and have fallen like sand through my fingertips. His father and grandfather will not be coming to Hardwick as businessmen wanting to purchase land. In all likelihood, I shall never even see Edward, let alone marry him. My grandmother, predictably, was furious.

  “Whatever are you about, child? Do you not know that no one of royal blood may marry without the permission of the queen? Of course you know! You are not stupid, just disobedient and wayward. I have told you often enough that this matter will be decided by her majesty.”

  It was early the following morning and we were in our bedchamber, where I had just woken to find her slamming drawers and opening chests. She had not yet been attended to and looked dishevelled, with uncombed hair and crumpled nightclothes.

  “I am tired of waiting,” I replied with a yawn and sat up, trying to focus; I had slept badly and rubbed my eyes.

  “You are tired,” she repeated. “We are all tired. Do you think I want to spend my last years on this earth caring for an ungrateful, foolish child like you? How dare you imagine that you have the right to choose your own husband, you know nothing about such matters! You must show me what you have written to Sir Henry and it had better be good. I myself will have to write to the queen and reassure her that I knew nothing of this plan.”

  “My youth is slipping away, soon I shall be too old to marry! Life is so unfair, I wish I were born a common servant, they have more freedom than I do!”

  “You think a servant’s life is better do you? They are at their chores all day and have little life of their own. Most people do not have fine silks and furs to keep them warm in winter as you do, some of them have little enough money to put bread on the table to feed their families. Do not talk such nonsense. After everything I have done for you, this is how you repay me!”

  At that moment, her new lady-in-waiting, Ruby, appeared with hot water for her to wash and begin her morning toilette.

  “Get up at once, the sooner Sir Henry has all the facts, the sooner he can return to Court. Wretched child!”

  I did as she said with a heavy heart; another day of my captivity had begun.

  After Sir Henry left, I was barely speaking to my grandmother and I realised that the mere sight of me annoyed her. I tried to keep out of her way and spent hours writing down my thoughts, in an attempt to clear all in my mind. It did not really help, and I despaired of ever finding an inner peace within myself, for sometimes I knew there was something not quite right about my mind. I shunned company and spent long periods alone, when thoughts went round and round in my head. There was no one in the house that I could trust to confide in.

  I sometimes felt as if a net was closing in over my head, suffocating me more each day. I was convinced my letters were being intercepted. I wrote to aunt Mary after Sir Henry had returned to London and begged her to come and see me, but her reply was stilted and her writing looked different. Other letters of mine to friends and local neighbours have either not had a reply, or looked suspicious in some way. I wrote to the queen several times too, begging to be allowed to live at Court, but there was never any response.

  My grandmother told me that she had also asked the queen to relieve her of this duty, but I did not know if she was telling the truth. To call my own grandmother a liar was a serious accusation, but I think she got a perverse pleasure from keeping me locked up and away from everyone. My poor aunt Mary, the Scottish Queen, was also at her mercy for many years and now I had some idea of how she must have felt.

  I wrote a long letter to my grandmother some weeks later, saying amongst other things that I had a secret lover who would help me escape, and that it might be my cousin, King James himself. Why did I write such lies? I knew that King James was already married to Anne of Denmark. It made me feel better to see my thoughts written down on paper. Writing has always been helpful to me. I never read back what I have written, so I had no idea if any of it makes sense, but all I knew is that it kept me occupied and if the words were on paper, they were no longer in my head. My writing was like a scribbling melancholy, a kind of madness. Indeed there were rumours at Court that I was a madwoman, which I found deeply hurtful. I am not a fainthearted fool and I would prove it given the chance to do so.

  Once again Sir Henry was summoned, looking very disgruntled. I had made enquiries about him since his last visit and knew that he had previously been sent to the Scottish Court by Robert Cecil, to allay their fears about my marr
iage to Duke Matthias. He was also involved in securing London against the Essex rebellion, calling Robert’s speeches ‘seditious’ and ‘provoking’. This was enough to make me dislike him intensely, so I was better prepared for him this time and showed no fear.

  In fact, I found him rather ridiculous as he stood in front of the fire, swaying backwards and forwards like a loose-hinged gate. I thought the whole visit rather a joke and felt pleased with myself that I should have the power to cause such an upheaval. What will they do with me in any case? I could not be more of a prisoner. I suggested that writing my explanation would be easier and this seemed to satisfy him. No doubt he did not relish the task he had been given, and was already heartily sick of me and my marriage matters. He probably had no more inclination to speak to me about it than I had to him.

  The next few days were spent re-writing my explanation, as he told me what I had written did not make any sense! To placate him and my grandmother, who of course was involved, we all worked on it before he took it back to Court. Nothing resulted from this, other than another lecture from my grandmother. Nothing changed. I wrote to Robert Cecil asking if I may choose my own servants and a companion of my age. I also sent letters to aunt Mary again asking her to see me, but to my great disappointment, she did not come.