Arbella

by Georgina Lee

  I could not help myself, I know I should not have said it, but when he was sitting next to me and looking so intently into my eyes, I had difficulty in thinking properly. With all the noise in the hall, our heads were very near and I ached to feel his touch on my skin.

  “You know that I have feelings for you too, my lady,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Please say my name, call me by my name.”

  “Arbella,” he said softly, his voice caressing me like warm honey.

  I was unaware now of anyone else nearby. My senses tingled with his sublime closeness, his hand touching mine, the faint scent of his clean body through his clothes and my own wanton reaction. I closed my eyes, savouring every second. The sound of someone shouting an order at a servant disturbed us and we separated guiltily. We smiled at one another, sharing our secret.

  “You will write to me?” he asked.

  “Yes of course, but burn all my letters, as I shall with yours.”

  “Must we?”

  “I fear so. No one must know; I will pretend to be interested in others, but please do not doubt me, William. We must be careful, so very careful. If the king thinks we are becoming close, he will see it as a threat, as we both have a claim to his throne. I do not wish to antagonise him in any way. Do you promise you will say nothing for the moment?”

  “Yes, I promise. Now I must leave you, our trunks are being taken down as we speak and Edward is keen to leave, despite the inclement weather.”

  He got up and gave a formal bow before kissing my hand, his lips lingering longer than they should and then he was gone. I picked up my sewing again and pretended to be indifferent at his departure. I was getting rather good at it lately.

  The long winter evenings dragged by and my eyes became strained with reading and sewing by candlelight so much. Prince Henry and I often had conversations in Latin or French to amuse ourselves, although we were obliged to do it out of the sight of the king. Queen Anne was not well with her pregnancy again, and her physician was in constant attendance.

  My own health was not good either. I continued to have recurrent episodes of painful neuralgia, when I was forced to rest in my apartments with my meals sent up from the kitchen on a tray. I could not bring myself to burn William’s letters, I did try, but they gave me such pleasure to re-read. I hid them behind a loose brick at the side of the fireplace. I wrote to him every day, I could always think of something to tell him. Sometimes it was only a few lines, but I wanted him to know that I was missing him and thought of him often. He replied by return, with news of life at home with his family and studies at Oxford.

  I very much wished to be present at the trials of the gunpowder plot conspirators and the king graciously gave me permission to attend. A discreet curtain was erected so that his majesty may not be seen by those in the court, and I was also to sit behind it. The queen had a few more months before she was due to give birth and unsurprisingly, she still kept to her apartments. She expressed a preference to be only in the company of ladies who have given birth themselves, so instead I sent her little tokens to cheer her up, a daintily embroidered handkerchief or a basket of candied oranges.

  As always with these events, the court was packed with curious on-lookers, who fell silent as the men were brought in to stand before the bench. I could not resist a peek though the curtain and saw that they looked a ragged lot. They were manacled together, the heavy chains making a lot of noise as they were pushed and pulled along. With large bruises and blood-smeared skin, their torn clothes told a story of violence, which was all too evident. One of them noticed me, his eyes wide in terror, and I pulled back quickly. The court began to jeer and it was some moments before order was restored.

  “They have been tortured,” Prince Henry whispered to me. “ I suspect the real ringleaders of this affair will get away free.”

  The king turned to look at us with a frown and I did not reply. The trial lasted for several weeks and I was shocked to learn that some of the conspirators were involved, albeit in a minor way, with the Essex rebellion five years ago, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. This of course, did not help their case, and it was no great surprise when they were all found guilty and sentenced to death. Uncle Gilbert’s name was mentioned which worried me, but it was only in connection with a long dismissed servant who had Catholic sympathies. Aunt Mary’s religious persuasions were now under suspicion, and I feared for her future because of it.

  The conspirators were given a chance to speak, although it was Sir Edward Digby’s speech that brought some feelings of compassion to the court. He alone had pleaded guilty and was tried separately, although most of the accused begged for mercy, which was not forthcoming. The king seemed to have a morbid fascination with the proceedings and sat all day, every day to listen, arriving before, and leaving well after me. I know when he was in Scotland, he was keen to hunt down witches, and considered himself an expert on the matter, having written a book. In England however, he devoted himself to more intellectual subjects and did not like to be reminded about his previous interest in sorcery and magic.

  The Attorney General, Sir Edward Coke, spared us no details of what he described as the ‘gristly death’ that awaited them. They were to be hanged, drawn and quartered, their heads held on spikes for all to see as an example to others. I remember the first time I came to London with my grandmother and saw such gruesome sights; although she had prepared me, I felt very sick when we rode past them and the smell was overpowering. Perhaps those people who had to walk past every day became immune to it after a while, although I did not think I would ever be able to do so.

  Once the trial and executions were over, rumours began to surface that Robert Cecil actually masterminded the whole plot himself, to discredit the Catholics, whose influence he feared. Or if not, then he turned a blind eye to it until the last minute. Indeed, there were many questions that arose from the whole event. Where did they obtain such a large amount of gunpowder without anyone noticing? How did they manage to keep 38 barrels of gunpowder dry along the Thames? Who did write the strange coded letter giving warning? Why were the men allowed to rent a house near the Houses of Parliament when they were all known Catholics? No one had any answers to these questions. The king ordered that the country was to remember the failed plot every year on 5 November by burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes, the ringleader. We all wondered how long that would last!

  We returned to relative normality, and before we knew it, Christmas was upon us once more. As 1606 began, I sat down with Crompton to look over my income and expenditure, which was much worse that I had feared. I simply did not have enough money to live as I should at Court. I never had to think about money before; my grandmother was always in charge of my finances. The cost of everything had been a mystery to me, all taken for granted. I would go into my grandmother’s study sometimes and see her head bent over a book of figures and columns, adding them up; she would hold her hand up for me to wait until she finished. Then I watched as she signed her name, Elizabeth Shrewsbury, carefully at the bottom of the page. She was meticulous about accounting for every groat and despaired of her family’s inability to do the same.

  Crompton told me that Robert Cecil’s (now Lord Salisbury) yearly income was almost £23,000, yet he spent double that amount. This was not hard to believe when a presentation sword could cost over three thousand pounds and a barony ten thousand. I was the highest-ranking female after the queen, and yet I had to watch every penny in my purse to provide for myself and my ten servants. It was particularly galling when I saw all the extravagance and waste of the Court, to say nothing of the many expensive presents that the king showered on his favourites.

  But what was I to do? I petitioned the king for the right to import Irish hides, such means were often used at Queen Elizabeth’s Court to raise money, but it caused an unpleasant stir, and anyway, my request was refused. The only path open to me was matrimony; a state that I desired, but only on my own terms and when I felt the time was right. I
n the meantime, I had to borrow, along with everyone else.

  The big event of the summer was a visit by the queen’s brother, King Christian. Naturally Her Majesty was kept busy arranging her favourite entertainment of masques, feasts and plays, despite her condition. But it did not go to plan.

  I still shudder when I think about one particular banquet in his honour, which went horribly wrong. We had all been out hunting during the day and came back ready for a hearty meal. The king was in high spirits, relieved that because King Christian spoke no English, he was not obliged to converse much with his guest, although we all understood Latin. I managed to learn a little Danish, enough to have a reasonable conversation with him, which gave the queen some respite.

  After the tables had been cleared, we were to watch a presentation of ‘Solomon in his Temple’, attended by the three virtues of Hope, Faith and Peace, with the Queen of Sheba. As soon as the first player appeared, I knew there was going to be trouble, as she was hopelessly inebriated and could hardly stand up straight. The lady playing the Queen of Sheba also looked very fine at first as she carried a casket to present to King Christian, but her walk towards him became more shaky and unsure. She ended up tripping, the casket landing with a thump in his lap and the lady collapsing at the bottom of the steps. There was some sniggering at this mistake, but worse was to come.

  At this point, Hope and Faith were supposed to appear, but were seen and heard to be vomiting at the far end of the Hall, having consumed too much drink and food. It was left for Peace to enter waving an olive branch, but she too, was not up to the task, and lost control of the branch, which ended up swatting the royal party, including myself.

  When I retold this story to William later, he laughed so much I thought he would never stop, but at the time, I was thoroughly ashamed of such a spectacle and could not understand why the players seemed to feel no embarrassment. After a few moments, the king began to laugh, what else could he have done? So the rest of us picked up our cue from him. King Christian looked bemused; he must have thought the English Court a very strange place. I had come to the same conclusion not long after my arrival, but I kept such views to myself.

  I found an unexpected ally within King Christian’s entourage, one Sir Andrew Sinclair, an Englishman who was discreet and courteous. If I ever went to his study, I would find everything very precise and tidy. His appearance was just the same, his clothes free from marks and his beard neatly trimmed, I felt I could rely on him if necessary and it was a pleasure to see Crompton conversing so easily with him. I knew they were as dismayed as I was by the changes at Court since the late queen’s death, and would exchange sympathetic looks with me. None of us dared to do more.

  After King Christian’s return to Denmark at the end of the summer, there was some unpleasantness between my relative, Lady Nottingham, who was the wife of the captain of the ship taking him home. She had mistaken a two-fingered gesture to her by King Christian and was so angry that she promptly wrote a most vitriolic letter to him. Obviously this misunderstanding caused a lot of upset and was an unfortunate end to his visit. Sir Andrew asked for my help to explain and calm Lady Nottingham, which I managed to do. The whole affair was blown out of all proportion and I had to bring all my powers of persuasion to pacify the lady.

  Uncle Charles and aunt Catherine, together with aunt Mary and uncle Gilbert, were all at Court that year and it cheered me to have them nearby. Poor uncle Henry still remained at Tutbury with his wife; he was so much in debt that a visit to Court was unthinkable, although I knew he wished to be there, as he was very sociable. I hoped that uncle Gilbert could be persuaded to help him financially as my lady grandmother refused do so any more. She said he owed her enough already.

  Aunt Mary and I were walking in the kings privy gardens one sunny October day and we had a chance to discuss my future. There was no one else nearby, so we were able to talk freely.

  “What is the news of your latest suitors?” she asked as we paused to sniff some late roses, untouched by frost as yet.

  “The King of Poland, Sigismund III has formally asked for my hand, as expected. Also Count Maurice of Nassau.”

  “The leader of the Dutch Protestants?”

  “The same. And Prince Anhalt, although his Latin is full of errors and the content of his letters boring. I can well imagine what he is like in person.”

  “And what does the king say about these suitors?”

  “When I am able to speak to him, which is not often, he says very little about it. I suppose my marriage is not the most important question on his mind.”

  “But he is kind to you, my dear?”

  “Oh yes, he is always kind and has been generous to me lately by increasing my pension. It is still not enough though.”

  “It is never enough, but I think he is genuinely fond of you.”

  “Is he going to be fond enough to allow me to marry where my heart lies?

  “Maybe you should get the queen on your side.”

  “She has been too ill after this latest pregnancy; I have not thought it right to bother her with it.”

  “Well, time marches on, we none of us are getting any younger.”

  “I do not need to be reminded, I shall be 31 this year. A tactless ambassador said I was ‘without estate and mate’ which sums me up perfectly, does it not?”

  I could not help a note of self-pity creeping into my voice and she put her arm round me.

  “Come, Arbell.” She called me by my family pet name. “Do not be defeatist. We shall find a way for you to be happy; we shall think of some diversions for your birthday next month.”

  “I do hope so,” I mumbled and stifled an urge to sob. I had not seen William since the Easter recess and I was missing him more each day. “Instead I have to feign interest in the Prince of Moldavia, pretending to find his likeness agreeable and writing letters to him.”

  “But William will be at Court this Christmas, so you will see him then and make up for all this lost time.”

  A group of courtiers appeared and we hastily stopped talking. It would not do for me to be overheard discussing him in this way. Aunt Mary and I began to walk back inside; it had started to get chilly.

  1608

  That was to be the last time we were able to walk outside as winter gripped the city. It was the harshest weather imaginable, with the Thames completely iced over. I have been used to bleak winters in Derbyshire, when the wind howls like a pack of wolves, but I never thought to see such conditions in the city. People tried to go about their daily life as best they could and I watched them sometimes from the comfort of my warm chamber where the fires were plentifully supplied with coal and logs. Even so, I became ill again and decided to make the journey to Sheffield Castle and stay with aunt Mary, where I always felt more relaxed.

  It meant I would not see William, but I had begun to dread these cold months as all my symptoms returned: the unsightly red rash, pains in my head and side, sickness and strange feelings that I was not myself. I fancied that I was looking at myself from the ceiling. Nothing was sharp and true, but had a dreamlike quality. I slept badly during those times, waking with screams of terror after nightmares that left my bedsheets soaked with perspiration.

  Mrs B. was always there for me, quietly efficient, changing my nightclothes and sheets, giving me sips of herbal medicine and offering words of comfort. All I could do when these attacks occurred was to keep myself away from prying eyes and try to rest. But then I recovered as quickly as I succumbed and felt quite well again. I would not have liked William to see me like this, but I told myself it was all as a result of my being prevented from marrying and having the experiences of love that I desired. Once I was married, all this illness would stop, I felt very sure of it.

  Uncle Gilbert suggested that I went on a progress and I must admit I found the idea very appealing, although I did not do so at first. I was concerned about the cost, but as he reminded me, the late queen would always go on a royal progress every summer to sa
ve money, living off the generosity of her hosts. I saw no reason why I should not do the same. It would be a chance to see family and friends and also escape from Court, which sometimes had a negative effect on my spirits. William was still studying at Oxford, he worked very hard and on the rare occasions that I saw him at Court, he looked tired. Like me, he worked late by candlelight into the night, when he should have been asleep.

  But my plans were halted by news of my grandmother’s death in February 1608. She had been ill for some time, so it was no great surprise; I had given her little thought since I left. She did restore my name as a beneficiary in her will, but I was not sure if she had been so gracious to uncle Henry; somehow I doubted it. For some unaccountable reason I found myself shedding a few tears as I read uncle William’s letter. I should have opened it in the privacy of my chamber, but it was unusual for me to receive a letter from him and I was too curious to wait. As I sat in an alcove within the king’s Palace at Whitehall, a gentleman walked past me, then doubled back, seemingly concerned.

  “Is all well, Lady Arbella?” he asked.

  I recognised him as Ben Jonson, the poet, playwright and actor.

  “I have just heard of the death of my grandmother and it has shocked me,” I replied.

  Removing his cap, he gave a cursory bow. “May I join you?”

  I was slightly taken aback, as I had only seen him briefly when he collaborated with Inigo Jones on scenery design for one the queen’s masques, but he clearly knew who I was, so I nodded, folding the letter away and turned to face him. He was aged about 38 years with a rough sort of complexion, large nose and ink stained fingers. I was slightly wary of what he was going to say, he had a reputation for being controversial, but I knew he was well educated and intellectual. His eyes roamed over me critically and I though him impertinent at his forwardness.

  “Your grandmother was the Dowager Countess of Shrewsbury, was she not? I never had the honour to meet her, but I know the late queen thought highly of her.”