by Georgina Lee
Arbella stops at the entrance to remove a stone from her shoe.
“Are you all right, Arbella?” asks William solicitously, coming after her.
“Oh yes, uncle, please continue without me, I shall be there shortly; I have forgotten my prayer book.”
He carries on and in less than half a minute, everyone is inside the chapel and she is alone. She runs back downstairs and looks around quickly for a particular servant. She finds him giving instructions to a maid, and interrupts them without preamble.
“Dodderidge, I must speak to you.”
He looks at her in surprise as the maid curtseys and leaves them. The Hall is deserted and Arbella produces a letter from her gown, which she furtively holds out to him.
“Highness, what is this?”
“It is letter to Lord Hertford. I want you to take it to him at once.”
Dodderidge has known Arbella since she was a baby and is one of Bess’ oldest and trusted servants. He is known for his discretion, which is why she has chosen him. Puzzled and uneasy, he hesitates and scratches his baldhead.
“Is it from the dowager countess?”
“No, of course not! It is from me, and my lady grandmother must not know about it. I have chosen you to help me. You must hurry, go now, while everyone is at prayer.”
“I cannot leave the house today, highness. It is Christmas morning, I have my duties. You realise Lord Hertford lives just outside London, it will take me days to reach him.”
He still has not taken the letter and she thrusts it into his hand.
“I will say you have received bad news from your family and that I gave you permission to go.”
“I am not sure …”
She looks up him beseechingly. “Please do this for me, I beg you to help me.”
“What is in this letter?”
“My uncles Henry and William are involved in a plan for me to marry Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford’s grandson. You must tell him to bring Edward here in disguise, under the pretext of wanting to buy land, then I shall be able to escape with them. You are my only hope, I shall kill myself if you do not do it.”
At this last declaration, his expression changes and he nods slowly. “Very well highness, if it is that important to you, I shall do it.”
“Thank you. Thank you, I am so grateful. My uncle Henry is waiting outside the gates with a horse for you. Go at once, there is no time to lose!” She turns and runs back to the chapel, her face flushed. Unnoticed, she slips into place at the end of the pew, as the first hymn is starting. Her heart is beating fast; she feels a strange excitement that at last, she is beginning to take control of her life. This secret is the result of a plan that has been going round and round in her head for a long time. If no one can find her a husband, then she will find one herself.
3 January 1603 (Nine days later)
The Christmas celebrations at Hardwick are as lavish as usual, and Bess is enjoying spending time with her family and friends. The days have taken on a routine of their own; the gentleman like to hunt or fish, sometimes the ladies will join them if the weather is dry. Or there is hawking, when the older children are allowed to join the adults. In the evening, Bess has organised entertainment, and there are plays, musicians and dancing, as well as card games, indoor bowls, chess and poetry readings. There are discussions about the recent plays by William Shakespeare and Ben Johnson, the writers that everyone is talking about. This afternoon, Bess sits in her carved oak chair; complete with it’s padded velvet cushions, near the fireplace in the Long Gallery, the largest chamber in the house, although not as grand as the High Great Chamber will be when it is finished. There are other chairs and stools together with window seats in every window, so there is plenty of space for everyone. A recent portrait of Bess herself, as well as the queen and Arbella, hangs on the walls with other family likenesses, and two long tables are covered with silk carpets, one is a beautiful blue Turkish one, admired by all who see it. The nursery maids have just taken the children to bed, and everyone feels replete after another feast of assorted food and best wine.
Bess surveys the scene with satisfaction. Her most ambitious project of a new Hardwick Hall is now almost complete, and her family are enjoying the benefits. Every time she is in the garden and looks up at the tops of the corner towers, she sees with pride and satisfaction, her own initials E S – proof if any were needed, of how far she has come in life. There can be no doubt now of her wealth, power and influence. Having learnt from building all her life and taking note of the designs of other great houses built by her friends, Lord Burghley and Sir Christopher Hatton, she had a very clear idea of what she wanted. William and his family now live nearby at Owlcotes, while Bess and Arbella live here with the ladies–in-waiting, gentlemen and servants. Security is always a priority, and there are guards stationed at the entrances, day and night. But for once, the threat of an imminent kidnap of Arbella is forgotten, and the family are enjoying a game of indoor bowls after supper, amidst much noise and hilarity. The servants have just lit the candles on the wall sconces, providing welcome light in the midwinter afternoon, and the roaring fire provides a cosy atmosphere in contrast to the inhospitable evening outside. Suddenly Bess notices a servant running in towards her and he bows, aware that his announcement will cause much consternation.
“Sir Henry Brounker, a Royal Commissioner, is here to see your grace, by the queen’s command.”
She looks surprised, which quickly turns to shock. William notices and goes to his mother’s side.
“What is it, lady mother?”
The servant repeats his statement. This time the whole gallery hears and there is immediate silence. Everyone realises this is very serious. Arbella takes herself quietly to an obtrusive corner and waits, her eyes darting nervously from Bess to William. Bess has visibly paled at this news and William places his hand on her shoulder as if to reassure her. “Is he alone?” he asks the servant.
“Yes sir.”
“You had better show him up.”
The servant disappears and Bess looks up at her son. “What can this mean? Sweet Jesu, William, for the first time in my life, I feel quite faint.”
He sits beside her; they know they only have a few minutes before he is in the room.
“It must be serious to send a Royal Commissioner during the Christmas celebrations. They are not sent without good reason.”
Bess tries to compose herself and takes a few sips of wine. Downstairs, Sir Henry is looking up at the long, imposing stone steps of the ceremonial staircase that leads to where he has been told the family are all gathered. He is middle aged, overweight and tired after riding from London, where he was enjoying the festivities with his own family. Breathing heavily, he trudges after the servant, mopping his brow with the exertion of the climb.
“Why does your mistress not entertain her guests on the ground floor?” he grumbles, as they are only half way up. “New fangled ideas,” he mutters to himself.
The servant does not tell him that this is a deliberate plan by Bess to emphasise her advantage when her guests eventually reach her. The symbolism of the unusually long climb upwards to be received by Bess is often not realised until guests are later able to reflect on it. They are not the only ones though, to resent the number of steps. The servants, having to walk up and down their own wooden staircase daily, have no great liking either for this topsy-turvy arrangement of new accommodation. They finally reach the door.
“Mind the step, sir,” the servant tells him as he reaches for the knob.
“Wait!” Sir Henry commands and he takes a few seconds to recover his breath, aware that he is now red faced, as well as wet and travel stained. He brushes his cloak and puts his handkerchief away, but there is nothing else for it, he must continue with his task. He nods and the servant opens the door before announcing him. Blinking at the assault on his eyes from the bright colours of the richly coloured wall tapestries, the scene that greets Sir Henry is like a tableau. All the figures are s
tanding poised as they wait, regarding him curiously as he approaches Bess, who by now is calmer, although she is still pale. He gives a courtly bow.
“Sir Henry, you are most welcome.” To her dismay, Bess finds her voice is not strong as usual and she clears her throat self-consciously.
“Countess, I apologise for this intrusion. I have been commanded by her majesty the queen to ride here without delay on a matter of great importance.”
“May I first offer you some refreshment?”
“Thank you, I have need of it, but first I must speak to you privately.”
Bess gets up and indicates for them to go the other end of the gallery, some one hundred and fifty feet from where she is seated. Taking some deep breaths, she tries not to show her acute anxiety. “Sir Henry …this is most unexpected. I trust her majesty is in good health?”
“The queen has asked me to extend her gracious favour to you, and hopes to find you well.”
“Forgive me, I am rather overcome with the surprise of your visit. I am at a loss to know why you are here in the middle of our Christmas festivities.”
“Do not be alarmed, countess, I am to reassure you that you yourself have nothing to fear, and that I am to give you this letter from her majesty at once.”
Bess takes the letter with the queen’s own seal and opens it, her hands trembling.
“I see,” she says after reading it. “You wish to speak to my granddaughter, the Lady Arbella. May I be permitted to know the reason?”
“Not at present, countess. All will become clear shortly I hope. Where may I see her in private?”
“There is an antechamber over there you may use. I shall have some refreshments brought up for you.” Bess waves to the servant standing nearby, and orders him to take their visitor there. After Sir Henry is shown where to go, Bess scans the chamber for Arbella, who is trying to look inconspicuous.
“Arbella! Come here.” Still no one has moved or spoken, but it is clear now who is the reason for this intrusion.
Arbella, her head low in diffidence, approaches her grandmother, but will not look her in the face, preferring instead to study her hands and occupy herself with a broken nail.
“What is this all about?” Bess hisses at her.
“I am sure I do not know, lady grandmother.”
“You have been up to no good, have you not?”
“Why do you always think the worst?”
“Is your Uncle Henry involved in some way? Tell me the truth, I shall find out in the end.”
Arbella does not answer, and Bess points to the door of the antechamber.
“You are to speak to Sir Henry Brounker alone. Do not disgrace me, Arbella!”
William joins his mother, his face full of curiosity.
“Have you managed to find out why he is here?” he whispers, as the others begin to talk amongst themselves once Arbella has left.
“The letter from the queen said that I was to allow Arbella to be questioned, that is all. No hint of the reason. I have no idea at all why he is here, but Henry may be behind it.”
“Can you still not bring yourself to ask the others to our family gatherings?” he asks.
“I could not ask Mary to join us without Gilbert of course, but she does not seem interested in me, except when she wants money, and Gilbert is always bringing some legal suit against me.”
“And Charles?”
“He is more loyal to Gilbert than to me, which I find very hurtful; I think Gilbert has turned him against me. It means I do not see his two boys, William and Charles.”
“ I know you miss seeing the grandchildren, your jewels as you call them.”
Her eyes become misty and William hastily changes the subject.“You know Charles has definitely abandoned the building of his new house since the attack?”
“I did hear he rather lost the will to build there after what happened, understandable I suppose. He was lucky not to lose his leg. All I could do was send Dr. Hunton to attend him.”
“And Stanhope has never been called to answer for his actions on that day, what a disgrace!”
Glancing over to the door where Arbella and Sir Henry are closeted, they can only hear a muffled conversation, Sir Henry’s deep tones asking the questions and Arbella’s much lighter voice replying. Bess and William, along with everyone else, continue to wait as patiently as they can. It looks as if it is going to be a long night.
Sir Henry pours himself a glass of wine and studies Arbella, who is sitting demurely and looking at him expectantly. He has never met her before, and is surprised that she bears no similarity in looks to her Cavendish family. She is very pale and rather delicate, and her large blue eyes are now looking at him without blinking. His own daughters are of a similar age and if they were in such a predicament, he knows they would be much afraid. He had been dismayed at the idea of having to ride a hundred and fifty miles in mid-winter, but a royal command cannot be refused. There was little time to prepare either; her majesty wanted him at Hardwick without delay. A politician and soldier, he served in Ireland and more recently in Scotland, so time with his family is particularly precious. Robert Cecil put forward his name to the queen and she has no reason to doubt his suitability for the job. Sir Henry explains who he is, and that the queen has sent him to question her. Arbella nods calmly and waits, seemingly unperturbed. He stands by the fireplace, his back erect and confident, sure of his authority.
“Her majesty has commanded me to thank you for the Christmas gift you sent her.”
“I am pleased that it was favourably received.”
“But there is a matter that the queen has taken very unkindly. Have you an idea what it could be, Lady Arbella?”
“No, I have not.”
“I suggest you think carefully. Is there nothing you wish to tell me? About a letter that you have sent recently?”
“I do not know of any letter. I have written nothing.”
He produces the letter from his bag, which he shows her.
“Is this your handwriting, Lady Arbella?”
She looks at it closely and shakes her head.
“No, I have never seen it before.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I am! Someone has taken liberties with my writing, no doubt for their own ends.”
Then he gives her a second letter.
“Here is a letter written by you to the queen. The writing is identical. Do you still deny any knowledge of it?”
“Oh, that letter, I may have written it after all,” she admits lightly and two red spots appear on her cheeks. “But I have never seen the other letter until now.”
“You would do well to answer my questions truthfully, this is a very serious matter.”
“You have not yet told me why you are here.”
His voice becomes softer.
“It is not unusual for young people such as yourself to make mistakes. I am here to help you, trust me. How did you think you were going to marry Edward Seymour? Who was going to assist you? You need not fear that I will tell your grandmother, what you say will just be between the two of us.”
“I do not know what you mean, I have never made any plans about marrying anyone.”
“But the writing on these two letters is the same, look for yourself.”
“Someone has forged my hand.”
“Why would they do that? Why would Dodderidge, one of your grandmother’s best servants, spend five days travelling in the middle of winter, to deliver a letter that is forged?”
“I am at a loss to tell you,” she responds stubbornly. “I hardly know this man.”
“I have his confession here; he says he has known you since you were a child.”
Arbella does not reply and shifts position in the chair. He moves closer and the odour of his wet clothes mingled with horse sweat, makes her wrinkle her nose distastefully.
“Well, let me remind you of the facts, Lady Arbella. On Christmas Day you dispatched one of your grandmother’s serv
ants, Dodderidge, to ride at once and take a letter to Lord Hertford. He arrived five days later while the family were still celebrating the Twelve Nights of Christmas. In front of witnesses, Lord Hertford was told that your uncles Henry and Sir William proposed a marriage between his grandson, Edward Seymour and yourself. To facilitate this marriage, Lord Hertford was to come to Hardwick Hall, disguised and under the pretext of selling some land …”
He pauses to judge Arbella’s reaction to this summary of her plan; she hardly seems to be listening, but is looking intently at the embroidery on her gown.
“He was to identify himself to you by producing a letter from his late wife’s sister, the Lady Jane Grey, of all people.”
He waits a few moments and allows the name of the unlucky claimant to the throne, to penetrate Arbella’s apparent indifference. When she still does not respond, he is more direct.
“How do you know the style of Lady Jane Grey’s handwriting?”
“I must have seen it somewhere.”
“She was executed almost fifty years ago!”
“Oh well, my lady grandmother has letters from those days. Did you know she keeps a likeness of Lady Jane beside her bed? No, I suppose you would not. Yes, she knew the Grey family when she was younger. Did you know that? No, perhaps not.” She gives a high-pitched laugh and he regards her with a perplexed expression.
“Can you explain yourself, what do you have to say?” She looks at him with a smile. “What do I have to say about what?”
“Lady Arbella, you must answer my questions. Did you intend to marry Lord Hertford’s son, Edward? It seems an unlikely match, he is only seventeen and you are at least ten years older.”
