by Georgina Lee
“And the execution of Mary herself? I heard it took several blows of the axe to sever the head from her body.”
He gets up to stretch his limbs after hours of travelling, and his voice hesitates as he retells the moment of her death. “There were gasps from the crowd, for it was badly done, one of her ladies swooned in anguish. After the executioner held up her head so that all could see, the red wig she wore in those last years was parted from her scalp to reveal her own thinning grey hair. There was a terrible moment when after the beheading, Mary’s skirts moved, but it was just her little dog whimpering and cowering underneath.”
Bess tries to imagine the scene, glad that she was not there in person.
“How many people attended?”
“The Great Hall at Fotheringhay was packed; Lord Burghley, Sir Francis Walsingham, Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir James Croft amongst others. She faced all of them bravely. The trial lasted two days, and she kept asking Sir Amias Paulet to identify the faces of men she only knew by name.”
“It is hard to believe she is gone. The consequences will be severe.”
“They say the queen is beside herself with rage and regret. She says that she gave no permission for the execution, and that the Council acted too quickly without her consent, despite the signed warrant in her own hand. Lord Burghley has been banished, Sir Francis Walsingham is at home because he says he is too ill to leave. Even the Earl of Leicester has been sent from Court.”
“But politically, this could be a disaster for England could it not?”
“Spain will retaliate for her death, that much is certain. The belief is that they will launch an invasion attempt. We shall be at war.”
He pushes his plate away and pours some more wine for them both. “But there is nothing we can do about it. These matters are out of our hands and we must trust her majesty and her advisors.”
“As we always do,” Bess agrees.
“But the earl rather gave himself away at the end,” says William cautiously.
“What do you mean?”
“First, he had to tell the executioner to proceed, which they say he seemed to find very difficult. Then he cried like a baby when the axe fell for the last time, and everyone stared at him, can you believe it?”
“I can imagine,” Bess is moved to reply.
“It poses the question why would he cry over the death of a traitor, and in public view?”
She has no answer to this question, but for her part, it is a relief that Mary is dead and can cause no further trouble between her husband and herself. But now, of course, it is too late to save their marriage.
Wingfield Manor –
June 1588 (3 years later)
The years pass and life for Bess continues with George still refusing to live as man and wife with her, despite her best efforts. The queen intervenes on more than one occasion to try and reconcile the pair of them, but to no avail. He is still withholding money he owes to Bess and has started to include Bess’ daughter, Mary, in his outward display of dislike. But Bess has other matters to occupy her; the building projects at Hardwick and the future of Arbella, who is thirteen years old. The Scottish Queen Mary’s son James, is now first in line to inherit the throne of England, followed by Arbella. However there are urgent matters of national importance to occupy the queen and her Privy Council – by June, England is on full alert for an imminent invasion by Spain. These are worrying times for everyone, nonetheless the queen invites Bess and Arbella to Court, and Bess does not need to be asked twice.
Once the invitation from her majesty has been received and read, preparations begin for the visit. Arbella is to have new gowns, and she will learn about the most important people at Court in preparation for when she meets them. Bess writes to her friends telling them of her imminent arrival so that arrangements and invitations can be issued for social gatherings. She leaves more instructions for the on-going building at Hardwick, declaring that she will be inspecting the work on her return. A trip to London is going to be a welcome diversion, and she is keen to remind the queen and everyone at Court that she has a fine granddaughter. Travelling in convoy, three coaches are loaded with boxes of clothes and hampers of food, together with gifts for the queen. Agnes travels in one coach with two male servants, whilst Bess and Arbella sit in the best coach, two chests of coins at their feet. Four, armed mounted outriders escort each coach. Arbella is on the edge of her seat in the coach for most of the time; keen to see everything they pass on the road. Small hamlets, villages and towns all merit her attention, each one individual and different. She watches the people stop and stare as the coach trundles along its way, some men tugging their forelocks as they recognise the Shrewsbury Coat of Arms on the side of the door. The women struggle to curtsey as they carry baskets or go about their daily chores, craning their necks to see the occupants and the sumptuous interior of the coach. Arbella sees that the people are dressed simply in drab coloured smocks and some have wooden clogs on their feet; children run along beside the coach, their high spirits soon dampened by the drivers, who fiercely tell them to go away.
From time to time, Bess throws money through the window for the beggars, a gesture she always makes when travelling, and one that George found infuriating. Arbella’s eyes are wide as she stares incredulously at the fighting that ensues as they scrabble in the filth and mud of the road for the coins.
When they stop for the night at one of the inns en route, Arbella is aware that a great deference is shown to her grandmother, and nothing seems to be too much trouble. But everything is strange; there are new accents to hear, different food to taste, and as they travel south, more of the houses are made from timber, unlike the limestone or sandstone buildings of the north. Approaching London, the coaches slow to a gentler pace, as there are many carts and crowds of people, as well as livestock being taken to or from market. Bess has warned her about the place called Tyburn, where crowds gather to watch the hanging of thieves; their bodies left to rot for days as a reminder to others. Arbella looks at it in morbid fascination as the coach turns towards the queen’s private hunting ground, Hyde Park. From there, they go on to Charing Cross where the River Thames stretches into the distance, with the royal palaces of Whitehall and Westminster on the right hand bank. Today, the quaysides are especially busy, with larger boats loading and unloading goods, the cranes moving backwards and forwards like a synchronised dance.
They are waved through by the heavily armed guards at the entrance to the palace. Once inside, the gates are shut behind them, and the drivers steer their horses through several courtyards where the busy throng of the streets can only be heard faintly. They see a tiltyard used for jousting and the royal tennis court, before passing under a gatehouse leading to the queen’s privy gardens. When Bess sees it she cannot help but think back to that morning when George proposed to her there. It seems a long time ago now. Their journey finally ends in front of an imposing set of doors, and they are greeted by the queen’s housekeeper who shows them to their apartments.
Bess and Arbella are to share a bedchamber, which Arbella does not like very much as she prefers to be alone. Then she can easily slip out of bed to gaze at the moon and listen for noises she has not heard before, breathing in the atmosphere and allowing herself to become almost intoxicated with it. With Bess sleeping only a few feet away, this is impossible. Already Arbella is looking forward to the day when she can be her own person, independent and free. It will not be long to wait she is sure. Bess herself has told her that she was married at an early age and Arbella is already thirteen. It is her dearest wish to have a handsome husband and children one day; she has every faith that her grandmother will enable her marriage to the most suitable man who presents himself. She also is impatient to be a part of the Court, to be admired for her clever mind as well as her beauty, for Bess has told her she has both these qualities in abundance.
She looks at her grandmother now, and although she loves Bess as a granddaughter should, she is also slightly
afraid of her.
“Is this to be our bedchamber? Oh it is so very fine! And look, lady grandmother, the view from my window is vastly different from home. There are so many buildings, all the chimneys, all the people. I am so excited!”
Arbella is in high spirits and runs around their guest apartments at the Palace of Whitehall as Bess watches indulgently.
“To be sure, it is just right for you, my sweet. We shall have a happy time at Court, I am delighted to be here with you.”
“Shall we see the earl, your husband?” she asks hesitantly.
“If he is at Court, he will be civil to me so there is no need for you to worry.”
“He does not like me.”
“I am sure that is not true,” she goes over to her and lifts her chin up gently. “What is there to dislike about such a fine young lady as yourself?”
Arbella does not reply, but she has seen the way George looks at her and heard some of the many arguments between Bess and George over the years. Bess takes her hand and pulls her to sit on the bed.
“I must talk to you about this visit. I know you came here last year with your Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Mary …”
“It was so wonderful!” Arbella exclaims. “I sat at dinner with Sir Walter Raleigh, and Uncle Charles escorted me as if I was quite grown up. Lord Burghley was very impressed with all my accomplishments, but there was someone special who made a particular fuss of me.”
“Oh, and who was that?” Bess asks, looking at her indulgently.
“Robert Deveraux, the Earl of Essex,” she says dreamily. “I think he has marked me out very favourably as I noticed he hardly spoke to the other ladies at all. Is he much older than me?”
Bess’ expression changes in an instant.
“No, Arbella!” she tells her sharply. “You must not encourage him. Be polite of course, but that is all. He is only a twenty-three-year-old soldier, but already a favourite with the queen. Last year she made him her Master of the Horse and no doubt there will be more honours in the future. If the queen sees you both together, she will be very displeased. Stay away from him.”
Arbella scowls. “What did you want to talk about, lady grandmother?”
“You must make the best possible impression each time you come to Court. Everyone will be watching you and there are those who wish you to fail. You are young and you have a lot to learn, but you must stay close to me. Do not put yourself forward with the queen; wait for her to notice you, and speak only when she speaks to you. There are many names and faces to remember and I will ensure everyone of importance is introduced to you. Conduct yourself with dignity and grace at all times. You may not leave the confines of the Palace without permission of the queen. And do not wander round the palace as it is easy to get lost.” Bess pauses. “Do you have any questions?”
Arbella looks annoyed at this list of rules and shakes her head stubbornly.
“Good. Now we must wash and change for dinner.”
Bess disappears to the adjoining chamber to find Agnes, whilst Arbella falls back on the damask coverlet that lies on the four-poster bed. She gazes at the folds of the blue silk lining overhead and imagines Robert Deveraux looking at her adoringly, and asking her to dance above all the other ladies. It is a very pleasant daydream and is only interrupted by the servant bringing in a bowl and jug of hot water for her to wash. Arbella gets up and performs her ablutions, trying to ignore the stares of the young girl who has been sent to attend her.
“Why do you stare at me?”
“I beg pardon m’lady. I did not mean to stare.”
“It is very rude to stare at your betters. Has no-one ever told you?”
“I am sorry.” The girl blushes and twists her fingers nervously.
“You do realise I should be called ‘highness’, I am called it at home in Derbyshire, by order of my grandmother.”
“Yes, m’lady”
“What is your name?”
“Patience, but my family called me Patti.”
“And are you?”
“Am I what, m’lady?”
“Patient of course!” Arbella laughs, drying her hands on the linen towel. “This is my second visit to Court. I came here once before with my aunt and two uncles, but now I am with my grandmother.”
“Yes m’lady, I know. She is the Countess of Shrewsbury.”
“What is your age, Patti?”
“I am not yet ten and six.”
“So you are only two years older than me. Come here.” She guides her over to the looking glass and stands them side by side. Arbella looks closely at the reflections, whilst Patti squirms in embarrassment. “Keep still!” commands Arbella. “How tall are you?”
“I do not know, m’lady.”
“I am slightly taller, see?”
Arbella stares at their reflections. She sees two girls of similar age, both fair haired and blue eyed. But that is where the similarity ends, for Arbella is dressed in the finest cream silk gown with heavily embroidered sleeves; her earrings are costly teardrop pearls, held on with delicate gold clasps, her hands are lily white showing her to be a lady of quality. She is wearing silk stockings and soft velvet slippers, which Patti cannot help but envy. Patti does not wish to stand in her rough linen smock, trying to hide her chapped red hands beside this vision of pampered wealth.
“May I go now please, m’lady?” she asks, edging towards the door.
“Before you leave, are there many other ladies of our age at Court?”
Patti thinks for a moment. “No, I believe you are the only one m’lady.”
“Go then,” she replies offhandedly.
Patti curtseys and sidles out with the jug and bowl. Arbella has a pang of disappointment; once more she is to be in the company of adults. But her mood is not downhearted for long; a visit to Court is an event to be lived to the full. There are no lessons here, although she did have to promise her tutor, Mr. Starkey, that she would continue her reading of the classics when she had time; she knows she will be asked about it. With a sigh she sits on the window seat and waits impatiently for Bess to appear, already she feels delightfully overwhelmed with London and its attractions.
The following morning, Bess and Arbella walk towards chapel with other ladies and gentlemen of the Court. The sun is shining and despite the imminent threat of invasion, everyone seems surprisingly blithe, as if nothing could possibly disturb the routine of the Court and its members. Arbella walks behind her grandmother, who is talking to her friend Blanche, but Bess is distracted by another friend who stops her, and the three ladies begin an animated conversation. After a couple of minutes, Arbella becomes bored with standing around, and decides to go into chapel alone. She pushes past other ladies who are at the entrance, and is surprised to find the Master of Ceremonies lowers his staff to block her way.
“What are you doing?” she demands haughtily. “Let me pass into the chapel.”
“I must ask you to stand back and let other ladies precede you, Lady Arbella,” is his reply, and he looks down on her with undisguised contempt for this slip of a girl, who has given herself airs and graces.
“I think not, sir! Do you know who I am? This is the very lowest position I could be given. Let me pass at once!”
By now everyone has stopped and turned to stare, including Bess, who is completely aghast at her granddaughter’s behaviour. Arbella’s eyes flash around the crowds of people watching her; everyone is waiting to see what she is going to do. She blushes, but holds her head high and tries for the third time.
“I say again, you must allow me entry before anyone else. I demand it! How dare you disobey me?”
Then from the back of the crowd, a male voice is heard, and it is like sweet music to Arbella’s ears. “ If the lady will allow me, I shall be honoured to escort her into chapel.”
All heads turn to see the Earl of Essex, his tall, elegant figure swaggering through the crowd. His mouth is twitching, for he sees the situation as one of humour, rather than a breech of etiquet
te. He is looking particularly attractive this morning, and the ladies follow him hungrily with their eyes, admiring his shapely legs in breeches that are slightly too tight, and the muscular shape of his body beneath his doublet, left open a little too carelessly. Arbella’s mood changes at once and she rewards him with a warm, adoring smile.
“Thank you, your grace,” she says, her voice little more than a whisper. He looks down at her, his eyes caressing her face, and bends forward to whisper something in her ear; she giggles and places her small hand on his arm. The Master of Ceremonies reluctantly steps back to allow them to proceed. Once they are in the chapel, all eyes turn to Bess, whose face is one of absolute fury; then the gasps and whisperings begin, people shake their heads in disbelief, some smirk in satisfaction. Bess has never felt so publicly ashamed.
Within the day, Bess and Arbella are packed off back to Derbyshire. As soon as they are in the coach, Arbella tries to apologise again, but her grandmother is in no mood for reconciliation.
“You have disgraced me more than you can imagine, Arbella! Did you not listen to what I told you? I cannot believe you could be so stupid. Whatever were you thinking of?”
“I thought I was doing only what I am entitled to do.”
“You are a slip of a girl, you know nothing of these matters. I told you not to put yourself forward, and within days of our arrival, that is exactly what you have done.”
“I was tired of waiting for you.”
“Then you are an impatient baggage who needs to learn her manners quickly. I thought you would be ready for a visit to Court, but I was obviously wrong. You are not ready, you have brought shame on both of us; the queen is furious, and now we are being sent home in disgrace.”
