B009RYSCAU EBOK

by Gillian Bagwell

  * * *

  “OF COURSE YOU SHOULD GO BACK TO COURT,” JENNY SAID WHEN Bess told her about Frances’s letter, and as Bess looked into her sister’s blue eyes and heard the warmth and assurance in her voice, she knew that it was the right thing to do. “Bess, you are made to be married. And you will find no suitable husband anywhere but London.”

  “Oh, I shall need so many clothes,” Bess fretted, yanking gowns from the coffers in her bedchamber. “Ruffs. Ruffs are all the rage, Frances writes—they are growing, like plants it seems, and these puny things of mine will not do.”

  “Then ruffs you shall have. My dearest sister, you never lacked the ability to dress yourself at the height of fashion, and certainly in Lady Cobham and your other friends you have the most expert advisors in what is needful.”

  “You are right,” Bess said, yanking off her cap and gazing into the mirror. “Frances will tell me what is just the thing.”

  Tenth of August, 1566—Warwickshire

  “That,” Bess said, as Kenilworth Castle loomed ahead, “is a very fine place indeed.”

  “It should be,” Frances Brooke replied. “Robert Dudley has been carrying out building works since the queen gave him the place, in anticipation of this visit.”

  “And it was almost for naught.”

  The queen had nearly decided not to take the court to Kenilworth on the summer progress as originally planned when she got wind that rumors were flying that the visit presaged an announcement that she would marry Robert Dudley, but in the end he had convinced her to come.

  “I will welcome a few days’ respite from traveling,” Bess said. “And I hear that Dudley has some exquisite entertainments planned.”

  Bess was once more attending Elizabeth, in company with Frances Brooke, Blanche Perry, and Dorothy Stafford. She was happy to be among her old friends, but the court’s sojourn could not help but remind her of the idyllic days she had spent with Will during the progress five summers before. At least, she thought, it had been idyllic before Kate Grey had thrown a grenade into her face with the disclosure of her secret marriage and pregnancy.

  How much had changed since then and how little, she mused. Then she had been newly married and had thought to spend the rest of her years with Will. Now she had lost him. She was flattered that she was receiving attention from several gentlemen of wealth and standing, but meant to weigh her opportunities carefully before she committed herself to another marriage.

  The matter of the queen’s marriage was no more settled than it had been five years earlier, nor was the question of who would succeed her. And the queen was now almost three and thirty. Time was running out, Bess thought. But perhaps that was what Elizabeth intended.

  Robert Dudley was waiting before Kenilworth Castle as the queen’s entourage arrived. He bowed low and the ranks of his household ranged behind him sank into bows and curtsies to the ground.

  “Your Majesty, I bid you welcome,” Dudley said, and then stepped forward to help the queen from her litter.

  “You spoke the truth when you said you had been busy with improvements, Robin,” she said, gazing at the towering walls of the gatehouse. “This is new since I was last here.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, and much more.” He took the queen’s arm. “Allow me to lead you to your apartments.”

  They made their way through the gatehouse and courtyard and into a fine Italianate building of sand-colored stone, tall windows sparkling in the sun.

  “Beautiful,” Bess said to Frances as they followed behind. “I shall be quite happy here, I think.”

  The queen’s bedchamber and withdrawing chamber were flooded with sunlight, breaking into bright shards on the gleaming honey-colored planks of the floor. Bess admired the high ornamented chimney pieces rising from the mantels above the fireplaces to the brightly painted panels of the ceiling. The plasterwork was lovely, she thought, and decided she would speak to Smythson about adding something similar to the best chamber at Chatsworth.

  “You have outdone yourself, Robin,” the queen said, turning to inspect the furnishings. “You know just what I like, better than I do myself, I think.”

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, THE GROUNDS OF THE CASTLE WERE ILLUMINATED by hundreds of torches and candles flickering in the shadowed depths of the summer night. Supper was followed by a masque, with a faerie queen rising out of the small lake, and then by music and dancing. Bess thought she had never seen anything so enchanting. She loved Chatsworth, but oh, to have such a house as this!

  The queen appeared to be as enthralled as she, smiling up at Dudley as they danced and laughing at something he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

  Henry Brooke, the brother of Lizzie and brother-in-law of Frances, appeared at Bess’s elbow.

  “A magical night, is it not?”

  He was resplendent in a new doublet of cream-colored satin sparkling with gold embroidery, an ostrich plume curling down from his hat. He was a most handsome man, Bess thought, somewhat of the appearance of Robert Dudley, and she did enjoy his company very much.

  “Like nothing I have ever seen,” she replied. “The Earl of Leicester has shown himself to be a master at entrancing queen and court. Look, not a sour face in sight.”

  “You’re right.” Henry smiled. “Will you increase my enjoyment of this night and favor me with the next dance, my lady?”

  The volta was next. It allowed the gentlemen the opportunity to show off their athletic leaps and to hoist their partners high into the air, to the delighted cries of the crowd. The Earl of Oxford, just turned sixteen, kicked high as he capered, his cape flying out behind him. Bess had taken note of him over the weeks of the progress and observed him to be courtly, bright, and witty as well as handsome. Yes, he would make an admirable husband for Bessie, she thought. She would have to speak to Cecil. But not just now; Cecil’s daughter was ill with smallpox, preventing the court’s planned gest at his home.

  “Excellently done, sir!” the queen cried as Henry Brooke circled Bess and lifted her, laughing, above his head.

  Bess felt giddy with the dancing and the aura of love and possibility in the air. She danced on and on, with Henry Brooke, with Robert Dudley, with the Earl of Shrewsbury, with Lord Darcy. She couldn’t recall when she had enjoyed herself so, or felt so young.

  At last the party broke up and Bess and the queen’s other ladies attended her as she prepared for bed. Bess, standing behind the queen, unpinned the ruff from around her neck and was about to turn away when the queen spoke.

  “I declare, Lady St. Loe, you were much at the center of the gentlemen’s attention this night. It appears that you will have a fourth husband e’er I have one.”

  Bess was startled and glanced into the mirror before which Elizabeth sat. Had there been an edge to the queen’s voice, or was she in a good humor?

  “No, surely, Your Majesty,” she protested, “you might have any man in the world for the asking.”

  “Think you so?” The queen’s eyes met Bess’s in her reflection. She pulled off her earrings and dropped them onto the table before her. “Perhaps. But look what it profits a woman to have a husband. The Scottish queen defied me to marry Henry Darnley, and now, how soon after, he has murdered her poor friend and secretary before her eyes. I hear that she bitterly regrets the marriage and wishes to be rid of him. Might I not suffer the same thing were I to marry?”

  Bess could not quite read the queen’s mood. She longed to glance at Frances, who stood nearby, but the queen’s gaze held hers, hawklike.

  “Not if you chose the right man, Your Majesty.”

  “But is there one in whom I could find all that I seek? Tell me, Bess, could you make a perfect man by combining the best qualities of your three husbands?”

  Bess thought of Will, who she still missed every day. His humor, his vitality, his ardor. William Cavendish, who had been her rock for the many years of their marriage, always wise, always steady. And poor Robbie Barlow. She could scarcely call his face to mi
nd now sometimes, so many years after his death. But she could well remember his sweetness and gentleness, and the feeling she always had that she wished to make his world a safe and comfortable place.

  “And what would you seek in a husband now, madam?” the queen persisted.

  What would she like? Passion, such as she had found with Will. But surely that burned out over the years of a long marriage. Serene companionship and mutual respect. Those would be excellent qualities for another partnership. Children? No, she was past that now, and would have no more. But for those she had, she wanted the best life possible.

  “What do you advise, Your Majesty?”

  “Hold out, Bess. Hold out until you find the man you want.” The queen’s eyes were sad now. “And what do you advise me?”

  “You wish my advice, Your Majesty?” Bess faltered.

  “Certainly. There is no lady who I better love or like than you, Bess.”

  “I . . .” Bess had been going to parrot the advice that she knew Cecil and the rest of the council gave the queen—marry a worthy foreign prince. But all the objections that the queen had raised to the various prospective husbands presented to her were valid. Marrying the Archduke Charles or another Papist would cause fear and hostility among much of the populace. Marrying any foreigner carried the risk that England’s power would be lost. Who would Elizabeth wed within England but Robert Dudley, and yet what storms of opposition she had weathered—nay, continued to weather—at the prospect of her marrying the only man whom she seemed truly to love. And whether her husband be foreigner or Englishman, marrying any man would surely mean that she would lose some of her power, for certainly no woman, not even a queen, could really rule a man.

  And what harm could come if the queen did not marry? She had been on the throne for near eight years now, and the sun and moon had not fallen from their place in the heavens. Maybe she should not marry. After all, the only reason for her to do so would be to produce an heir, and even if she married soon, it was by no means certain that she would bear a child. She might be past the age. She might have a girl, and then suffer a stillbirth, as had her mother, and countless other women. And how old would she be then? What if she proved barren, like her sister? No, there were heirs aplenty if she would but name them—Mary Stuart and her boy James, or Kate Grey and her two sons—Elizabeth did not need to produce an heir out of her own body.

  “What would I advise you, Your Majesty? Why, to do just what you want,” Bess said, meaning it with all her heart.

  “I think you advise well,” the queen said. And then—did Bess really see it, or had she imagined it?—she winked.

  “Come,” Elizabeth said, turning to Dorothy Stafford. “Unpin me. For I am weary and would be abed.”

  Twenty-fifth of May, 1567—Greenwich Palace

  “I would not be Mary Stuart for all the world,” Bess said to Frances Brooke.

  “Nor I,” Frances agreed. “All of Scotland is mad, it seems.”

  The court had been rocked in February by the news from Scotland that Lord Darnley, the Scottish queen’s husband, had been murdered. An enormous explosion at Kirk o’ Field, the house where he lay, was apparently not the cause of his death—it appeared that he and his manservant had been strangled. Queen Elizabeth had released his grief-stricken mother, the Countess of Lennox, from the Tower into the care of Sir Richard Sackville.

  Suspicion for the murder had soon settled on the Earl of Bothwell, but after a short trial he had been acquitted. Only a fortnight later, he had abducted the queen, who had inexplicably refused an offer of rescue.

  Now, the court was scandalized to learn, Mary had married Bothwell.

  “Three husbands, each worse than the last,” Frances said.

  “How could she have married him?” Bess wondered. “He raped her, they say. Never mind killing her husband.”

  “Perhaps he did that at her bidding.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s hard to imagine Her Majesty making Mary her heir now.”

  “You would think,” Frances said, “that the prospect of eventually gaining the throne of England would be enough to make a person behave well, wouldn’t you? It would certainly make me think twice before I acted like a fool.”

  “Yes.” Bess’s thoughts went to Kate Grey and sadness swept over her. Although Kate had wanted love and happiness more than she had wanted to be queen, Bess reflected.

  “What’s the news of Kate Grey? And Mary?” Frances asked, as though reading Bess’s mind.

  “Of course Kate’s supporters are using the developments in Scotland as reason to raise her claim to the succession anew, so the queen regards her as more of a threat than ever. She is still in Essex, in the care of Sir John Wentworth. And poor little Mary is at Chequers. They both write to me. Kate is kept without company. Mary still holds out hope that the queen will forgive her and let her out. She is most concerned for her husband. She says he is fed meat that is bad and tainted with poison, and fears it may kill him.”

  Bess covered her eyes, as if that would put out of her mind the heartbreaking images of the girls she loved so well.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Twenty-eighth of July, 1567—Greenwich Palace

  THIS MATTER OF THE SCOTTISH QUEEN GROWS WORSE AND worse.” George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, leaned close to Bess as he spoke. Glancing up at him, she observed that his green eyes had gold flecks and were ringed by long, dark lashes that any lady would envy. Why had she never noticed that before, she wondered? Or the bold angle of his jaw, or the width of his shoulders, set off with a cape draped to one side?

  They were walking along the riverbank, the peaceful scene a stark contrast to the wild scenes that were the latest talk of the court. “The Scots hold her prisoner like a common criminal,” Shrewsbury continued, “and she has lost the love of her people. Throckmorton writes that when she was captured, the crowds cried out, ‘Burn the whore! Drown her!’ And it is said her husband has fled to Denmark. He can never help her now.”

  Shrewsbury seemed to know more about what was happening than anyone else Bess spoke to. He had many friends, she knew, both in London and abroad.

  “Is it true that Cecil dissuaded Her Majesty from sending troops to Mary Stuart’s aid?” she asked.

  “Yes, most true. For he believes that any attempt to rescue the queen would only lead to her death. And, indeed, when she refused to abdicate in favor of her infant son, Lord Lindsay swore that if she did not do it, he would cut her throat himself. And so she gave in, and the baby is now king of Scotland.”

  “Her Majesty has seemed beside herself these last few days,” Bess said. “She ordered that the keys to all of the doors leading to her chambers be hidden, except for only one, but who holds that I do not know. She is terrified, I think.”

  “And who can blame her? For if one queen may be so roughly bereft of a crown, why may not another?”

  Shrewsbury stopped to gaze out over the water. A small wherry was approaching the landing stairs of the palace, bearing a gentleman whose face Bess could not make out.

  “I can scarcely recall such a beautiful day,” she said.

  Shrewsbury turned to her and she was surprised to feel a sudden thrill of desire as his eyes met hers. She had known him for years and never thought of him as other than a friend, probably because then she had been married, and so had he. But his wife Gertrude had died in January. Bess knew their match had been a dynastic arrangement, made when George Talbot was only eleven, and she wondered if the marriage had been happy. She had always thought that Gertrude had seemed of too bland a temperament to match the vivid character of the outspoken earl.

  “It would be a shame to waste such a lovely afternoon,” he said, smiling down at her. “We could ride—to Eltham perhaps, and still be back for supper.”

  “I would like that,” Bess said, feeling that the world was suddenly alive with possibilities.

  * * *

  “HE IS COURTING ME,” BESS TOLD FRANCES THE NEXT DAY.

 
“And why should he not? You would make him an admirable wife.”

  “Surely he must have other ladies in mind, though.”

  “Bess! You will be the death of me. You are a jewel that any man would be happy to have adorn his life. If you marry Shrewsbury, you’ll break the heart of my poor brother-in-law.”

  Bess laughed. “Hardly that.”

  “And that reminds me,” Frances said. “You heard about the to-do with the Earl of Oxford? Killing Cecil’s undercook? Surely that strikes him off your list of possible husbands for the girls.”

  “He was only practicing his fencing,” Bess said. “And the inquest found that Brincknell was drunk and ran onto Oxford’s blade.” She smiled at the look of amused despair on Frances’s face. “But yes, it does give me pause.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Frances said. “Now then, let us get back to the matter of Shrewsbury.” She jumped up and fetched paper, pen, and ink from her desk. “I am determined to get you married, Bess. So let us make a list of all the qualities of the earl, and see if there is anyone else who can touch him.” She dipped the quill in the ink. “Item: only dukes and the royal family are above an earl, and there is only one duke in England just now, and no men in the royal family at all. And our friend George is the premier earl.”

  “Countess of Shrewsbury,” Bess said. “That does have a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

  Frances quirked an eyebrow at her. “Item,” she continued. “He owns Sheffield Castle and Manor, Tutbury Castle and Abbey, Wingfield Manor, Worksop Manor, Welbeck Abbey, Rufford Abbey, Buxton Hall, that lovely house in Chelsea, and when you would like to be in town, Cold Harbour House in Thames Street and another house near Charing Cross.”

  “He holds more land than anyone else in the country,” Bess said. “Great swathes of Derbyshire, Shropshire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Nottinghamshire.”