B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  Mother, help me, she prayed. And Christ our Lord, I thank Thee for the care of so many friends in my time of trouble, and I am grateful that the rest of my children and family are in health.

  Huddled in the London house, and driven by desperation, she had written to every friend, every colleague of William’s she thought could aid her—Frances Grey, William Cecil, John Thynne. She would not let the crown reduce her and her children to poverty. Her friends had rallied to her side, and the bill had not passed. Part of the reason for that, she felt sure, was that it would harm so many others in a like case to hers. There be few in the house that they or their friends should not smart if the Act should pass, she had written to John Thynne.

  Bess raised her eyes once more to the grave countenance of the Virgin. A draft gusted through the church and she pulled her fur-lined robe tighter about her. Her feet were numb with the cold even under her heavy skirts, and she wiggled her toes in an effort to regain some feeling. It was time she went back to the house. Easter Sunday or no, she wanted to look over her accounts and see if she could find some sources of money she was overlooking, some unnecessary costs she could eliminate.

  She bent her head once more and closed her eyes.

  You raised Your beloved son, O Lord, from the tomb. I humbly beg You to take pity on me and my poor children and raise me from this pit of black despair that I may live to honor You and show You my duty through all the days of my life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Twentieth of June, 1558—Brentford, Middlesex

  UPON ENTERING JOHN THYNNE’S HOUSE IN BRENTFORD, BESS had begun to weep. It was here that she had given birth to Bessie three years earlier, and she had not been in the house since then.

  But now, with her belongings unpacked and the children settled, and breathing in the scent of the blooming orchard, her spirits rose. She had rented the house for a year, and its location was perfect—out of the unhealthful airs of the city, but less than ten miles from Whitehall, Richmond, and Hampton Court. She could stay comfortably at home with the children when it suited her and be in London when she felt the need. And there would be need, for things were happening fast. She had kept up the payments to William’s contacts at court and corresponded with old friends in London, and rumors blew on the spring winds of great changes coming.

  Queen Mary, who had for a second time taken to her chamber in expectation of giving birth, was not in fact with child but was gravely ill. She was now forty-two years of age, and even if she would not yet admit it, it was clear that she would bear no children. Her own husband was urging her to acknowledge her sister Elizabeth as her successor to the throne. And John Thynne had written to Bess that the Spanish ambassador was among the parade of dignitaries who were now making discreet visits to Hatfield House, where Elizabeth waited.

  Elizabeth! Bess laughed out loud, turning her face up to the sun’s warmth as she walked among the flowering trees of the orchard. How wonderful it would be, after the darkness and fear of the last years, to have Elizabeth Tudor on the throne.

  The face of Queen Mary as the young woman she had been when Bess first met her came to Bess’s mind, and she felt an intense pang of sadness. Then poor Mary had still had her softness and red-gold beauty, her face tinged with pain and loss but not yet hardened into the cruel mask she had worn in later years. When she had come to the throne there had been such hope, Bess thought. It had been hard for her to feel any hope, as grief-stricken as she had been over Jane’s death. But Mary was the daughter of Henry, whom the people had loved, and Catherine, whom they had adored and pitied. She was a Tudor, Papist or no.

  But what had begun so bright and shining had turned all to blackness and despair. More than three hundred people had gone to the flames during Mary’s reign. England had been dragged into Spain’s war with France, and what had it got but the loss of Calais, which it had held for two hundred years. And Mary was hated and feared. Of course such sentiments could not be spoken of openly, but they bubbled just below the surface.

  Bess recalled the words of a letter from John Thynne. I never saw England weaker in strength, money, men, and riches. The queen is poor, the realm exhausted, the nobility poor and decayed. The people are out of order and justice is not executed. Here is nothing but fining, hanging, quartering and burning, taxing, levying, and beggaring.

  Mary was vilified as a traitor to God and the country. The sickness the previous year was a plague sent to punish her, the people whispered. It was easy to think that might be true, and Bess found that knotted up with her grief at the loss of William and Lucres was the hope that Mary would die, though she felt guilty at the thought.

  But with Elizabeth . . . Bess hardly dared hope for how much better things could be, once the shadows were chased away by the rays of the sun.

  And, the thought struck her, perhaps through her friends she might be able to beg reprieve from the debt that hung over her head.

  Twenty-third of September, 1558

  Bess read over John Thynne’s letter again and then called to her sister. Jenny came bustling in from the next room, her smile disappearing as she took in Bess’s expression.

  “We must go back to Chatsworth,” Bess said, folding the letter and tucking it into her bosom.

  “Now? But we’ve only been here three months! What’s amiss?”

  Bess beckoned Jenny and lowered her voice as her sister sat beside her.

  “The queen is dying. Everyone knows now that Elizabeth will succeed her, but as Mary has not named her as successor, she may have to fight. I am given to understand by friends that there could be much trouble, and that it would be safer to be away from London.”

  It all seemed horribly familiar, Bess thought. The frightened whispers as death crept up on Henry, then Edward. Surely this time the outcome would be better. But without a husband, and with six children, the oldest just turned ten, she wanted to be safe in Derbyshire, far from tumult and danger.

  “We must make ready to depart as soon as we may,” Bess said. “Thank God, the weather is dry and clear, perfect for traveling.”

  “Yes, we are like to be able to make the journey in a week or less,” Jenny agreed.

  “Perhaps, but I must make a little stop on the way,” Bess said. At Jenny’s quizzical look she added, “To Hatfield House, to pay my respects to the Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Ah.” Jenny grinned. “A most important visit.”

  “The most important visit,” Bess said, “that I have ever paid in my life.”

  * * *

  THE ROAD TO HATFIELD WAS HEAVILY TRAVELED WHEN BESS SET out from Brentford two days later. Her slow-moving entourage was passed by ladies and gentlemen on horseback, many of whom she knew. As the sun rose high in the sky, she heard a familiar laugh and turned to see her old friend Lizzie riding between two other ladies and accompanied by a brace of bodyguards.

  How long had it been since she’d seen Lizzie? Too long, however it was, and Bess’s heart warmed to see the familiar lovely face, a hood covering the tangle of dark curls that Bess knew so well.

  “Lizzie Brooke!” she called.

  “Bess!” Lizzie cried, catching sight of Bess and spurring her horse forward.

  Bess noted that Lizzie’s cloak and gloves looked sadly worn, and thought with a pang of sadness that her friend had fared worse than she over the last five years, when she and William had spent most of their time at Chatsworth. Queen Mary had ordered William Parr to abandon Lizzie and return to his first wife, her friend and lady-in-waiting, with the threat of being executed for bigamy if he saw Lizzie again. And, Bess thought, it could not have helped Lizzie’s situation that Thomas Wyatt, who had led the rebellion against Mary that had ended so catastrophically, was her first cousin. She should have looked beyond the occasional letters she received from Lizzie and helped her if she could.

  “These are my friends Frances Newton and her cousin Anne Poyntz,” Lizzie said, as her companions came abreast of her.

  Frances Newton’s appearance was
much like her own, Bess noted, for the lady was about her age, with the same pale rose complexion and red-gold hair. Frances’s face lit with a smile and Bess took an instant liking to her. Anne Poyntz was dark-haired, and some eight or ten years younger than Bess, and she, too, was smiling, with an air of barely suppressed excitement.

  “This is my dear friend Lady Cavendish,” Lizzie said, introducing Bess. Her eyes swept over Bess’s widow’s weeds. “I was so very sorry to learn of dear William’s death.”

  “Thank you,” Bess said. “And I am most grieved to know of the hardships you have suffered.”

  “I have hopes that the sun will soon shine brighter,” Lizzie said. “And thus am making a pilgrimage toward her blessed rays.”

  Yes, Bess thought, Lizzie’s situation would be sure to improve if Elizabeth came to the throne.

  “I, too, am bound for Hatfield,” Bess said. “It would please me to visit with you, but I mustn’t hinder your progress.”

  “We intend stopping for the night at an inn and going on to Hatfield in the morning. Why not ride with us and meet your family there, and leave them to rest tomorrow while you make your call?”

  “An excellent idea,” she agreed, for the prospect of spending time with Lizzie, and of arriving at Hatfield in the company of three friends of Princess Elizabeth, made Bess feel much happier and more confident about the visit.

  “I’ll see you by suppertime,” she assured four-year-old Charlie, who began to look tearful as Bess’s saddle was placed on the horse ridden by one of her footmen. “And you shall have whatever special treat we can manage for being such a brave boy.”

  The day was glorious, the sun high in a cloudless blue sky and a cool breeze rattling the leaves in the trees, now turning to burnished gold and russet.

  “Anne has been in Princess Elizabeth’s household all this while,” Lizzie told Bess as they rode. “She only came to London to seek me out and bid me go to Hatfield at the princess’s command, and I may tell you I wasted no time in making myself ready. These years have been truly hellish for me.”

  “So Elizabeth is forming her household already?” Bess asked.

  “Hatfield is become a court in little. Now there is no question she will be queen, only how soon it may come to pass.”

  * * *

  AS BESS AND HER FRIENDS APPROACHED HATFIELD HOUSE THE next morning, Bess saw that what Lizzie had said was very true. The lawns were thronged with chattering courtiers, and at their center, fitting an arrow to a bow and taking careful aim at a target, stood Elizabeth herself, soberly dressed in black but seeming to radiate happiness. Her shaft hit the center of its mark, prompting applause, and Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed with delight. Bess recognized Robert Dudley, the handsome older brother of Jane Grey’s poor young husband Guildford, near the princess’s side.

  Yet there was evidence that Elizabeth knew she had enemies. Three guards stood within sword’s length from her. One of them, a tall, strapping man with the bearing of a soldier, looked familiar to Bess. He seemed to sense Bess’s eyes on him and looked toward her, and bowed as he met her gaze.

  Bess, Lizzie, Frances, and Anne dismounted and went toward Elizabeth on foot, and her face lit with a smile as they drew near.

  “By my life, I cannot think of four ladies I would rather see before me than you!” she cried. “My dear cousin,” she said, embracing Lizzie, “you are most welcome. And Lady Cavendish, it’s been an age!”

  Bess’s heart sang at the welcome and she curtsied low before Elizabeth.

  “It gives me joy to see Your Highness in such good health and spirits.”

  “I thank you for it, good Bess. In truth my spirits are lighter than at any time since I first met you all those years ago, I think.” The princess had just turned twenty-five, Bess realized with surprise.

  * * *

  BESS WAS PLEASED TO FIND THAT WILLIAM’S OLD FRIEND SIR WILLIAM Cecil was in residence at Hatfield.

  “I grieve the loss of William as much for myself as for you, dear Bess,” he said over a goblet of spiced wine that evening. “He was a steadfast friend and a most accomplished man. Were he still with us, I have no doubt the princess would have a place for him, for there will be much to be done when she comes at last to the throne.”

  “How comes your house?” Bess asked. Three years earlier, Cecil had begun building a grand home modeled on Richmond Palace, and she and William had frequently exchanged letters with Cecil about the joys and trials of construction on such a grand scale as they had worked on Chatsworth.

  “Oh, there is fair progress,” he said. “Though at times I wonder what possessed me to begin it, and fear that I will not live to see it completed.”

  “I have much the same thoughts. I think the same when I look upon Chatsworth and know how much remains to be done.”

  And I wonder if it ever will be done, and if I will lose it. No, I must find a way.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING WHEN BESS ENTERED HER CHAMBER SHE WAS DRAWN to the sight of the moon hanging bright in the darkening sky and went to stand at the open window. The scent of fruit from the orchard drifted on the breeze and mingled with the aroma from the stubbled fields. It had been a long time coming, this season of harvest, she thought, but once it came, England would be in a better case than it had for many years.

  She was exhausted after the previous day’s long ride and the excitement of being at Elizabeth’s budding court, and she was past ready for bed. She reached to pull the great shutters closed but one of them swung stubbornly outward, pinching her finger.

  “God’s blood!” she swore, shaking her hand in pain.

  “My lady, may I be of help?”

  Bess whirled around, startled at the sound of a man’s voice. What had she been thinking, to daydream there at the window without closing the door of her bedchamber? The speaker was the tall guard she had noticed earlier, standing just outside her door, and she felt herself flush at his gaze.

  “No. Or rather yes, I thank you, sir. I would close the shutters but find they misbehave.”

  The man came to her side, leaned out the window, and easily swung the heavy shutter into place and latched it. He turned and smiled down at her and Bess realized he was head and shoulders taller than she was.

  “The wretch should stay in place now, I think. But I beg you to let me know if you need further protection from wayward shutters or anything else.”

  He was smiling, but there was not a trace of mockery in his words, and Bess smiled back at him.

  “Do I know you, sir?”

  “William St. Loe, at your service,” he said, bowing. “My father was a good friend of Harry Grey’s and I recall you from Bradgate Park.”

  The mention of Bradgate brought a vivid picture of Jane Grey to Bess’s mind and she felt the familiar tug of grief that came whenever she thought of Jane.

  “A terrible loss that was,” St. Loe said. “Both poor Lady Jane and her father.”

  Was it safe to openly mourn Jane, Bess wondered, now that Mary was almost gone?

  “Yes,” she said. “We lost much when we lost them. I miss Jane every day.”

  The man’s blue eyes seemed lit from within as he looked down at her, and she felt at ease with him. Safe, as she had felt with William Cavendish when first she knew him. But there was something more she felt with this man. A flame leapt to life somewhere deep within her and she swallowed.

  “I was Elizabeth Barlow when I was at Bradgate. Now I am Elizabeth Cavendish. Though I lost my dear husband near a year ago.”

  “I knew him a bit as well. A good man. And fortunate to have such a lady as you.”

  “I have seen you at court, also, have I not?” Bess asked.

  He nodded. “I have had the honor to be responsible for the safety of the Princess Elizabeth since I returned from service in Ireland five years ago, and when she was at court, so was I.”

  Bess was suddenly very conscious that she was standing with a man alone in her bedchamber, and felt he
rself blushing.

  “I thank you for your kindness, William. I am most grateful to have a protector.”

  She had used the word somewhat lightly, but he did not laugh, and she realized that she did feel grateful, and knew that here was someone who would come to her aid if needed.

  “Lady Cavendish.” He bowed again. “I hope I will have the pleasure of further conversation before you depart.”

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF WILLIAM ST. LOE?” BESS ASKED LIZZIE THE next day.

  Lizzie gave her a catlike smile.

  “He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”

  Bess was annoyed that she found herself blushing.

  “Sir William,” Lizzie said, emphasizing the first word, “comes of a good family that’s been closely tied to the crown for centuries. He served Henry Courtenay when a young man.”

  The Courtenays, like the Greys, were near-royalty, as Henry Courtenay had been a first cousin to King Henry. So St. Loe must be well-placed and well-respected, Bess thought.

  “His father supported Jane Grey, and Thomas Wyatt’s rebellion,” Lizzie continued, “but managed to survive. Sir William’s daughter Mary is one of Princess Elizabeth’s maids of honor.”

  Bess felt her heart contract and scolded herself for it. Of course such a handsome, personable, and successful man must have a wife.

  “He’s been a widower for almost ten years,” Lizzie said, as though reading her mind. “Though how he has escaped capture until now is a great mystery to me.”

  “Perhaps he’s too busy to marry,” Bess said.

  “Perhaps. And perhaps he has just not met the right woman. Until now.” She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  Bess had not thought of being on the hunt for a husband. “I’m only recently a widow,” she faltered, though Lizzie’s words echoed what was in her own heart.