Bess - A Novel

by Georgina Lee

  She is woken about two hours later by some raised voices through the wall, which she recognises as Mary’s and Gilbert’s. Something is wrong. They sound distraught and she lights a candle before getting up and hurrying to their bedchamber. Without pausing to knock, she opens the door and freezes. The sight that greets her is one of anguish and pain. Mary is standing beside George’s cot, a candle in her hand. Tears are streaming down her face, for she is experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare. His little body, that only a few hours ago had been running around with boundless energy, is limp and lifeless. Gilbert sits immobile nearby, staring at his son in disbelief.

  By this time, family and servants appear and watch in horror as she moves forward to look closer, with a terrible sense of foreboding, for she knows what she will find. Bess stifles a cry as Mary falls into her arms, and the room is racked with their sobs. Charles finds a servant and tells him to ride to the physician without delay. He goes over to Gilbert and puts his arm on his stepbrother’s shoulder.

  “My dear friend, I am so sorry, so very sorry.”

  “Too late, it is too late,” groans Gilbert, burying his face in his hands.

  “But he was well! So full of life yesterday …” Mary cries.

  Bess is speechless with shock as she clings to her daughter and wonders how she will have the strength to tell her husband, for he dotes on his grandson as much as anyone else. No one sleeps for the remainder of that night, and it is not until the first rays of the sun appear as a red streak in the early morning sky, that they return sadly to their beds.

  The night has brought back painful memories for Bess herself, as she lost two of her own babies, Temperance and Lucres, some years ago. With a heavy heart, she sits down at her desk to write to family and friends, but first she must compose George’s letter. Picking up the quill, she cannot stop her tears spilling onto the parchment. For a long while afterwards, she is inconsolable.

  1578 – Westminster Abbey

  Seven months later Bess finds herself at another funeral, but this time, it is someone of her own age being buried, and not a child. From the grand edifice of Westminster Abbey, muffled bells are ringing in the early morning sunshine, the sound echoing across the Thames with haunting regularity. Bess watches with the other mourners as they wait for the coffin of Margaret, the Countess of Lennox, to be lowered in the Chapel of Henry VII, her final resting place.

  She has not seen Margaret since they plotted the marriage of their children three years previously, although they had corresponded regularly. Her death has been very sudden and taken everyone by surprise. The whole court is in attendance, including the queen herself, sitting in great state apart from the congregation, and looking especially regal with her jewels sitting heavy around her neck and head. There is some whispering as to the cost of such a spectacle as no expense seems to have been spared by the queen for her royal cousin, despite their stormy relationship over the years.

  “Well Bess, this was a shock. They say she dropped down dead,” Blanche Parry murmurs as they begin to file out behind the queen.

  “At least it was quick,” responds Bess. “Better than a slow agonising end.”

  Blanch nods in agreement. “How will this affect little Arbella?”

  “The Scottish Regent does not accept Elizabeth as her guardian, which has caused her much anguish, as she fears Arbella will be taken away from her.”

  “I am sure the queen will intervene and make Arbella her ward.”

  “I hope so. Arbella should inherit the Lennox English estates at least. I am not so sure about the Scottish, we may have a fight on our hands about them, as well as the Lennox title.”

  “Poor wee mite. Is Elizabeth any better?”

  “She seems to have accepted her fate, but I don’t think she will ever be quite the same. But at least she plays with Arbella now and seems to dote on her.”

  Blanche smiles. “As do you.”

  “It is true, she is the sweetest child,” Bess says proudly. “I have had her horoscope charted which shows that she will hold the highest rank in the country.”

  “Have a care, Bess. This is dangerous talk and the queen is but a few yards away.”

  They glance towards the back of Elizabeth who has stopped to speak to someone. “Do not fret, Blanche, I know what I am doing in this matter.”

  “Does your husband know of your ambitions for Arbella?”

  “He knows of some of it. I do not tell him all, for he worries so, and chastises me for my dreams.”

  “Well he might. Can you not lower your sights for her?”

  “Certainly not! She has royal blood. I want this to be recognised and for her to have what she is entitled to. You know I recently commissioned a portrait of her.”

  “But she is not yet two years of age!”

  Bess pretends not to hear. “It is in in full Court dress and the Lennox motto will be inscribed – ‘I endure in order to succeed.’ I shall hang it at Chatsworth in a prominent position where everyone can see and marvel at it.”

  “Very commendable.”

  Blanche knows better than to challenge Bess, especially as this is neither the time nor the place. They wait as the Earl of Leicester escorts the queen to her coach. A crowd has gathered to watch the spectacle, all in sombre mood to match the Court. There are a few cries of “God save the queen” – but for the most part they are silent. The bell continues its relentless tolling. Blanche shivers and pulls her cloak tighter, looking for her own coach in the queue.

  “Are you going to the drinking, Bess?”

  “I hope to slip away early. There is much to do and I have little time for such events. The queen has granted me a formal audience tomorrow, and I must have all clear in my mind.”

  “Then will you join us afterwards? Come for supper, it is just the family.”

  “I would like to very much.”

  They kiss briefly on each cheek and go their separate ways, Bess to her waiting coach and Blanche to her own. On the short journey back to Whitehall, Bess is deep in thought and takes little notice of the crowds of beggars that shout as the coach passes along the crowded streets. Her dear friend, Frances Cobham, was not at the funeral. She had decided to leave Court three years previously, when her name was mentioned by one of the Shrewsbury servants during interrogation by Walsingham as being too friendly with the Scots Queen. Bess is wary of communicating with her now, although she is sure there is no truth in it. Margaret had been a life long friend too, and the marriage of their children had brought them even closer. But Margaret would be missed, not least because she was very active in looking after Arbella’s interests while she was at Court. Now that she is dead, it will be left to Bess alone to fight for her granddaughter’s rights. George has made no secret of his relief that Margaret was no longer alive.

  “She cannot get you into any more trouble now,” he tells her. “That woman has been a bane to everyone she came into contact with!”

  “That simply is not true,” replies Bess. “She did not get me into trouble, as you say. I am not so easily swayed.”

  “No, for you are as stubborn as an ox.”

  “That is unkind. Some would call it a strength, not a weakness.”

  “I am not one of them.” He suddenly becomes angry. “If only you were like my first wife. She knew how to behave. She always supported me and never went against me. It is a pity you do not have such virtues.”

  “I suppose you mean she always did as you bid her, something I have never been guilty of.”

  “No indeed, let me assure you madam, you fall very short of an ideal wife!”

  At this, George had stormed out of the chamber and left Bess puzzled and hurt by his accusations. Sitting alone in her coach, she mulls over again what he had said. Such outbursts are becoming more commonplace, and sometimes he seems determined to pick a fight with her over trivial matters. She knows his failing health contributes to his mood, and also that her own robust constitution is a constant source of annoyance to
him. There is nothing she can do about either of these matters, and the queen shows no sign of releasing him from his task as jailor to the Scots Queen. But now Bess has more pressing matters to occupy her, and Arbella’s security and future needs her full attention. George will have to take second place for the time being.

  1578

  In the autumn, Bess has to make another interminable journey to see the queen, who has moved to Richmond in an attempt to avoid the plague. George sent her again to petition regarding his expenses for the Scottish Queen. Not only does he want an increase of the allowance but also payment of the backlog of monies owed, neither of which the queen has so far shown any sign of handing over. Bess has also been trying all year to secure an increase of the pensions awarded to Elizabeth and Arbella. Margaret Lennox left Arbella all her jewels, to be given to her on her fourteenth birthday, but the Scottish executor claims they have been stolen and Arbella has yet to receive them. Another disappointment for Bess was that Queen Elizabeth has confiscated Margaret’s English properties and land that should now belong to Arbella.

  “Somehow we must pay for Margaret’s funeral and her debts,” the queen tells Bess, who has to bite her lip from a confrontation with her. She dreads telling George that her trip has not been successful. He is waiting for her as the coach pulls into the courtyard of Sheffield Castle; his cloak wrapped tightly against the bitter north wind. Hardly has Bess stepped down from her seat, than he is questioning her.

  “Here you are at last! I have been standing for hours in the cold. Well, what news do you have for me?”

  Bess brushes herself down and stretches, chilled and stiff with travelling. “We were delayed by one of the horses shedding a shoe.”

  She makes a gesture to greet him with an embrace, but he pulls back and she hides her embarrassment in front of the servants, who are unloading trunks and attending to the horses.

  “Are you well, my dear?” she asks as they go inside to the warmth of the fire in the Hall.

  “I am never well, you know that. I am ever anxious to hear of the queen’s response to my request.”

  “If I may just catch my breath …” Bess takes a cup of warm mead offered to her and stands in front of the fire warming herself. “Has all been well in my absence?”

  “Of course, I am quite capable of running everything without you.”

  “How is my little Arbella?”

  “The Scots Queen has been playing with her all morning. The little madam has just left with her nurse to buy a toy from the market, I expect them to return shortly.”

  “With the guards?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And Elizabeth? Is she still well?”

  “I believe so. I have seen little of her. Everyone is in the best of health, except me,” he adds.

  “I am sorry to hear it, husband.”

  George sits himself down by the fire and looks morosely at the flames.

  “The family will join us tomorrow and stay a few days.”

  She smiles. “How I miss them all! Now I must wash and change.”

  “Not before you have told me your news.”

  “Can it not wait? I have much to do now I am here.”

  “No! It cannot wait, such matters may not be important to you but I am worried sick about the cost of keeping Mary. It is going to bankrupt me!”

  Bess tries to keep her exasperation to herself. Tired though she is, she knows George will have to find out sooner or later.

  “I am afraid I do not have any good news for you from her majesty. There is to be no increase, and she did not assure me that the backlog would be paid any time in the near future.”

  “Did you make a point of asking?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you clearly did not put my case as well as you should have done! I suppose it was not a priority and that your pleas for Arbella were more important. That is typical of you, all you think about is your own ambitions. It is always the same.”

  “I promise you that I tried very hard to persuade the queen. I explained that the cost of food and fuel for Mary and her Court was much higher than the allowance. I said that you were still carrying out your duties with the highest sense of responsibility and vigilance. I begged her majesty to ease the burden of your debt, believe me. You can ask Lord Burghley or Sir Francis or the Earl of Leicester, who will all vouch for my efforts on your behalf. They told me that there is no money to pay you.”

  “I would not demean myself by asking them! It is you who is to blame here!”

  “No, George, I am not to blame for the queen’s refusal! It is most unfair to accuse me when all I have done is carry out your wishes. I have travelled all the way to London and back, in this bitterly cold weather for you …”

  “It was not for me! You went for yourself, for your own agenda and your spoilt granddaughter. I know you too well! Others may think you are charming and without guile. The Earl of Leicester has already written to me praising your conduct on this visit, but you are nothing better than the women who stand at the quayside selling fish!”

  “George! The servants …” She knew he would be angry, but had not thought his reaction would be so violent. He stands up and shakes his stick in her face.

  “I care nothing for the servants! They know what you are like; they have seen it for themselves. You have a wicked tongue in your head, I see evidence of it every day.”

  Bess loses her temper with him now. She is cold, tired and fed up with his constant criticisms. To fight back is contrary to the behaviour of a good wife, but she cannot help herself.

  “I have done my best for you with the queen! No one could have tried harder than myself. If you are so short of money why have you commissioned a new house in Worksop with Robert Smythson as your designer? Hardly the actions of a man on the brink of bankruptcy!”

  “That is no business of yours. You have commissioned enough work on your beloved Chatsworth, which by the way will be quite outshone by my own building.”

  “So we are in competition with one another are we? I had not realised. It hardly seems necessary for you to undertake this project, as we both know you have more houses than you have fingers on your hands.”

  “How I spend my money is my own affair.”

  “It does not stop you complaining to Lord Burghley and Sir Francis though does it? They must be heartily fed up with your constant stream of letters. Every day so I hear; there must be quite a collection by now.”

  “How easy it for you to sit in judgement! Last year I spent over £1,000 on fuel and wine that was not provided for in the allowance. Mary and her Court are wilfully wasteful with my money; there was another £1,000 for pewter and plate. I am allowed sixpence a day for guards but I only receive payment for twenty-four, when there are twice that number. The bill for paying my servants last year rose by £400, as I must pay extra to secure their loyalty. But you are not interested in all this, are you?”

  “Why should I be? These are matters that I cannot control. Your wealth should be more than enough to pay for all of this, if managed correctly,” she adds under her breath.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Some people are better at keeping their money than others.”

  “When do I have time or opportunity to oversee my finances? I am forced to leave it in the hands of others. I do not have the luxury of giving it my full attention, my role as jailor is all consuming. If you were here to help me more often then perhaps I would not be in this muddle.”

  “Yes, of course! Blame your wife! Everything is all my fault, how convenient for you. It is nothing to do with you at all. Why do you not ask the queen to release you from this task? Let someone else struggle with it? No, you would rather complain and be a martyr, it suits you so much better.”

  “I will carry out her majesty’s commands to the best of my ability. She continues to tell me that I am the best person for this job. It would be an admission of defeat for me to relinquish this position.”

/>   “Let us not pretend your pride is at stake here – you want to continue to be close to the Scottish Queen. I am not a fool, I know …”

  “Lady grandmother!”

  There is a little voice from the doorway and Arbella stands with her nurse staring at the two of them with dismay.

  “My darling jewel, come here my love.”

  Bess immediately changes her mood and crouches down with open arms and a beaming smile to receive her granddaughter, who runs towards her with unsteady steps. George grunts in frustration and annoyance before taking himself off, his stick making a clacking sound on the flag stone floor. The nurse keeps her eyes downcast and pretends not to notice, for such arguments between the master and mistress are now commonplace.

  1582 – 1584

  More sorrow for Bess and the family, when her daughter Elizabeth dies, leaving Arbella an orphan at the age of seven. Her daughter-in-law Margaret, who was married to her youngest son Charles, also dies in the summer after giving birth to a baby boy, who tragically never survives. George has his share of grief too, when his son and heir, Francis, dies of the plague; this means that Gilbert becomes his heir. The rumour that George has fathered a child by Queen Mary will not go away, and he becomes convinced that Bess is responsible.

  There are more disagreements over money, and by 1583, George is refusing to see his wife, despite receiving conciliatory letters from her. But in 1584 matters between George and Bess reach a crisis point, and he effectively declares war on her.

  Annie Carter, long time tenant on the Chatsworth Estate, places her baby granddaughter in the wooden crib, and pulls the blankets gently around her swaddled body. Having spent the last two hours trying to placate her, Annie wearily returns to her bed. She is looking after her son’s child while his wife is ill. Her son is one of the house carpenters and unable to care for the child himself. It is a task that she is glad to do, but hopes it is not for too long, as she is not as young as she was, and coping with little sleep does not come as easily as it used to. Her husband, the head gamekeeper, snores gently as she snuggles down beside him and soon she is fast asleep too. Their cottage stands on its own, a rare statement of his status, at the end of the small hamlet and near the Norman church.