Her sojourn in the Tower because of the affair of her daughter’s marriage to Lord Charles Stuart had not been long. There was simply no evidence that she had connived at the marriage before it became a necessity, in order to protect the reputations of Charles and Elizabeth. Therefore, she had been released, and had made her slow way back to Sheffield, where her household had removed from Rufford Abbey after the Yuletide season ended.
There had been no improvement in the weather; it was the coldest, wettest, most miserable winter that Bess could ever recall. But she had finally arrived one bleak day in February at Sheffield Manor. She had sent no outrider; it was best to catch the slackers and laggards by surprise! She simply arrived without warning and began barking orders at the grooms, ostlers and maidservants who followed in her wake as soon as word spread throughout the house that the mistress had returned.
Wearily, she made her way to her apartments. As she passed the door to the rooms that George occupied, she heard a noise. It sounded like laughter. Without either warning or ceremony, she opened the door. George often laid down of an afternoon to nap. Perhaps he had been sharing some jest with the servant who stoked his fire.
The sight that met her eyes did not at first register in her brain. As in moments of great stress, the seemingly insignificant made an impression in equal measure with the fantastic. A roaring fire danced in the grate. The afternoon was gloomy and dark, snow threatened again, so the candles were lit. A plate with a hunk of yellow cheese and piled high with shiny red apples lay on the sideboard; two empty wine goblets sat on a small table next to the great bed. Bess took all this in quite quickly; neither George nor Mary had reacted to her presence yet, for the simple reason that they did not realize she was standing there. George lay on his back, so she could not his face, and he could not see hers; Mary was mounted astride him, with her back to the door. The undulating motions, the satisfied grunts, spoke for themselves.
Bess was standing next to a heavy iron candlestick that stood, man-high, just inside the door. In what seemed like slow motion, she reached out her hand and pushed the candlestick, which fell with a ringing clang onto the stone floor. Mary’s head whipped around; George strained his neck to see around her, that he might understand the source of the clatter.
In that instant, Bess realized that the woman was not Mary of Scotland after all, but someone who bore her an extraordinary resemblance. There was the same auburn hair, glinting in the firelight and the glow of the candles; the hazel eyes which at that moment seemed an intense green rather than brown; the delicate white skin. Bess glanced over at the chair on the other side of the bed. A serving maid’s gown lay there, draped across the arm. An absurd thought occurred to her; she would much rather that George had betrayed her with a queen than a mere serving maid!
It had all happened so fast, and yet it seemed, by some strange alchemy, as if time were suspended. The girl slid off as gracefully as a cat and sat facing Bess, making not even a token attempt to cover her nakedness. Bess knew a fleeting moment of regret for the round, soft breasts with their rose pink nipples, the flat belly, the taut, glowing skin; at fifty-four, she was still a handsome woman, but she would not have been so comfortable with her own stark nakedness. This girl was not yet twenty if she were a day. Bess rarely thought about her own age, but she was seven years older than George. Yes, she could have understood the appeal that any fresh, young face might have held for George in her absence, which had, after all, been of considerable length. But this was no ordinary serving wench.
“How now, husband,” she said very quietly.
Lord George lost his bluster for only a moment; he was a man, after all, and it was to be expected that he would have mistresses. That he had been remarkably faithful to his redoubtable wife during their marriage made the scene before her on the bed all the more grotesque. To know, from sly gossip and innuendo, that one’s husband had been unfaithful, was a penance to be borne with fortitude, if one were to maintain one’s dignity. But to be confronted with the reality of it in front of one’s very eyes was a different thing altogether.
She studied the girl, who belligerently studied her back. George arose and sought out his nightshirt, which lay in a heap beside the bed; further evidence of the abandon with which he had approached his dalliance.
Having received no reply, she said dryly, “It is customary to introduce one to a stranger.”
The girl tilted her head insolently and said, “I am Eleanor Britton.”
Bess turned her gaze from George to the girl. “Indeed,” she said, her eyebrows raised in an impossible arch. There was only one thing to do; she must retain her poise at all costs, and quietly dismiss the girl as the non-entity she was. “Well, Britton,” she said, as she would have addressed any servant; “It is high time you were about your evening duties, is it not?”
The girl’s gaze flicked momentasrily to George, as if seeking either his permission or at least his approval. But George was intent upon gathering up the shreds of his own dignity, which was possible only if he were dressed. Receiving no answering nod, she slid off the bed and walked languidly to the other side, where her dress lay on the chair.
When the door at last closed quietly behind her, Bess lifted her eyes to George’s. In them she read all that she needed to know. She had been right all these years; George was in love with Mary of Scotland. He indulged her every whim, as far as he was able to; for instance, the Queen of Scots now possessed, thanks to George, a veritable menagerie of pets. But one cannot indulge in an affair with a captive queen. To do so would have been not only unseemly, but fraught with danger for all of them. So her husband had found himself a proxy. A doxy, more like, from the insolent gaze with which the girl had confronted her. It was evident that the girl was no fool; she knew her worth to the Earl of Shrewsbury and unless Bess missed her guess, knew full well upon what cause.
And what, pray, did the Queen of Scotland make of all this?
Lord George, fully dressed now, stood straight and tall, prepared to face his wife’s justifiable wrath.
But Bess, for perhaps the first time in her life, was at a loss for words. She turned without a word and left the room, leaving a relieved George staring after her in astonishment.
Dover, Kent, September 1575
Elizabeth had been remarkably silent as the cavalcade made its slow way on the last leg of its journey from Canterbury to Dover. The trip had been made in easy stages; there was plenty of time. Blanche Parry glanced sidelong at the queen; but when she looked at Elizabeth, she saw not the august, feared monarch that others saw when they beheld her. She saw the baby, so small, so helpless, and so heartbreakingly unwanted by everyone; even, at first, by her own mother. For King Henry VIII had been disappointed of his long-awaited son, and the child’s mother was made to feel blameworthy for it. An unhappy, disappointed king made for a nervous, angry wife and queen who had been just as bitterly disappointed with Elizabeth’s birth as everyone else seemed to be. Everyone save Blanche Parry, who when she first beheld the tiny, squalling red-haired baby had lost her heart to it. Poor, unwanted little princess! She had been young then, with still a glimmer of hope for marriage and children of her own. But it was not to be, and so she had given her heart wholly to Elizabeth.
Blanche reflected that it was not like Elizabeth to be so pensive; hers was a garrulous personality, especially in public. And years of being queen had changed the brave, frightened child into a monarch to be reckoned with. But Blanche knew the reason for Elizabeth’s pensiveness. Not many did; the fact that Monsieur, the Duc de Alençon, was to travel to Dover to meet with the Queen of England, and the reason for such a visit, was a closely held secret known by very few. Herself; Walsingham; Cecil; a small number of others who must be trusted with certain tasks where even a clandestine royal visit was concerned. Blanche was aware of Alençon’s letters; she was one of the few people who even knew of their existence. The casket that held them never left her possession; even at this moment it was strapped to t
he pommel of her saddle. So she alone understood the full significance of this meeting. It was not simply a political ploy; Elizabeth had changed subtly since Alençon began his secret wooing. She fancied herself in love because she wanted so desperately to experience love’s fulfillment before it was too late. It was one of the few things that as a queen, she could not command. But perhaps she would find it with Monsieur.
Blanche had always been close to the child whose cradle she had rocked, whose childish tears she had dried, whose hopes and fears, and even her fearful incarceration in the Tower, she had shared. But since Kat Ashley’s death, there was now no one closer to Elizabeth, not even the Earl of Leicester. She did not approve of Elizabeth’s affection for the earl; perhaps it was that which made her all the more in favor of a marriage with the prince of France. Save for her worries about Elizabeth bearing a child at her age, she would have been completely content with the notion of Elizabeth marrying.
“Ah, Parry,” sighed Elizabeth. “Shall we never get there?”
“It is not much further now, Your Grace,” Blanche replied. She had been on this road many times in her sixty-eight years. The slight rise they were climbing was the last stage of the journey before they reached the outskirts of the castle grounds.
Blanche had been far more than a servant to the queen all these years; she was Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber; she was in charge of the Queen's jewels, now grown to a formidable task indeed after so many years. She had held the Great Seal of England for two years, along with all of Elizabeth’s personal papers, clothes, furs and her precious collection of books. She received considerable sums of money on behalf of the Queen, and was responsible for the accounting of it; she wrote Elizabeth’s official letters. Sometimes she served as a secret conduit of information; she had in the past received presentations of parliamentary bills on the queen’s behalf. She had even been associated with the publication of the Anglican Bible in Welsh. She was a well-respected fixture at court; she was Cecil’s cousin, and so was at the heart of affairs. She was a woman of letters and of parts; Elizabeth knew her value and respected her opinion. The fact that she approved of the match with Alençon had gone a long way to convincing Elizabeth that a meeting between them was the right thing, the only thing, to do.
Elizabeth lifted her face to the sun. The day was waning but she could still feel its warmth. September had so far been a pleasant month. The anniversary of her birth was always celebrated with great pomp, and this year was no exception. But it was the first time in many years that she had greeted the event with alacrity instead of a certain alarm. The years were passing like leaves falling from a tree in the autumn. Was there no hope of anything for her except to be queen and rule? And now there was hope…hope was in the air, in the feel of the warmth of the sun on her face, in the nervous anticipation that had her very blood singing. She was unused to being so distracted, but it was a heady feeling, for a change; the things that were usually wont to distract her had their roots in unpleasant consequences. But there was room in her heart for nothing on this day save gladness. The tides were unpredictable and there was no way of knowing what September storms might serve to delay Alençon’s arrival. But that he would come and they would meet was all arranged. The only question was when he would arrive.
But still, she could not give herself up completely to her thoughts of Alençon and all that his coming promised. There were matters that required the queen’s attention, even if Elizabeth the woman found it hard to focus on them.
The news had reached her at Chartley that the Lady Elizabeth Cavendish had given birth to a girl. In her utter contempt, Margaret had named the child Arabella. Despite her bluster to Bess and Margaret that the child born of the union of Charles Stuart and Elizabeth Cavendish would never ascend the throne of England, facts must be faced; she would likely not be there any longer to have a say in the matter one way or the other. But Arabella was no fit name for a Queen of England! Oh, bother Margaret, she thought. She had always been nothing but trouble to everyone starting with her difficult birth, if the stories she had heard were true! Well, Margaret was in the Tower and she had no intention whatsoever of releasing her…yet.
There was, however, one prisoner whom she would give almost anything to be rid of! Mary of Scotland had been a thorn in her side from the moment of her own accession to the throne of England. She was now certain…thanks to Walsingham’s spy in Lord George’s household…that it was the Queen of Scots who had effected the plan to throw Charles and Elizabeth Cavendish together. A spy’s word was proof of nothing; no overt action could be taken against Mary for her perfidy. In short, there was nothing she could do about it, and that galled her. She snorted aloud at that thought; Blanche eyed her quizzically but said nothing.
And Bess! Another perennial troublemaker! That very same spy had imparted another piece of interesting news…Bess and Lord George were estranged, Bess having discovered Lord George in bed with a serving wench. A serving wench who just happened to bear a striking resemblance to Mary Stuart! Bess and Lord George had had many a furious row once Bess recovered from the shock of walking in on the hapless Earl of Shrewsbury with his paramour. It was too rich…Bess had gone off in a huff to Chatsworth and Lord George was left at Sheffield to enjoy his whore whilst he pined for the Queen of Scots. Walsingham had been haranguing her for quite some time to place Mary into the hands of a stricter gaoler; one who was not so obviously smitten with her. But her instincts told her no…leave things as they are. And so she did.
The highest towers of Dover Castle could now be seen peeking over the tops of trees whose leaves were edged ever so slightly with the gold of autumn. Many people believed that it was the spring, when life renewed itself after the long, barren season of winter, when thoughts of romance, love and desire were wont to seize the blood and make it burn. But it was the autumn of the year that always fired Elizabeth’s blood. Her blood was fired now, at this very moment. It was all she could do not to ride straight down to the docks to see if there were a French ship in the harbor. But no…she must arrive and be dignified. And so she would! Her windows overlooked the harbor…she would be able to sit vigil at her window for Alencon’s ship, and none the wiser of her anxious state.
There should not have been room in her heart at that moment for anything save thoughts of Alençon; and yet thoughts of the Queen of Scots would intrude. So many clamoring for the withering hand of a captive queen! What was there about the Queen of Scots, what mysterious, tantalizing alchemy flowed through those veins along with her royal blood, that made men so anxious to marry her? That men who had never even met her should be so persistent in the pursuit of her hand? But what really infuriated her was that Henri III of France, whose response to the suggestions of marriage with the august Queen of England had been so tepid, no, so cold, if truth be told, verged on insult when she was informed that Henri had asked for Mary’s hand. He had always loved her since her days at the French court, it seemed. That would have been bad enough, but there was a virtual Greek chorus of others singing the praises of her cousin of Scotland; Philip’s illegitimate brother, Don Juan, sought marriage with Mary, as did Philip’s son, the Archduke Rodolf; even Robert was still rumored to desire a match with her for the sake of her kingdom, if nothing else. But that rumor she doubted very much. Robert had his hands full enough with Douglass and Lettice, and he had always evinced nothing but the greatest fear of marriage with Mary Stuart. But that other people believed it still had the power to infuriate her.
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And so here they were. She was to be received at the castle with no pomp whatsoever; secrecy was vital. She was admitted through a side door with no ceremony and escorted directly to her chambers by the castellan. She would sup in her rooms.
Weary from the road, a bath awaited her; she had only Blanche and Beatrice ap Rhys, her laundress, to attend her. But both women knew that bathing would be Elizabeth’s first priority upon her arrival, even before she supped. The King’s Chamber, which as que
en regnant she occupied, had a small sitting room off the spacious sleeping chamber that afforded one a fine view of the harbor. Elizabeth removed her headgear, laid it aside, and walked to the window. There was something different about the sea breezes that blew in off the Channel; something that the wind off the waters of the Thames lacked. Or perhaps her perception was clouded by the excited anticipation she felt as her eyes scanned the many bobbing masts in the harbor. In the golden glow of sunset, she searched for one that bore a French flag and Alençon’s royal standard. But there were no French colors amongst the many snapping banners. The sun slipped below the horizon, and where the harbor had been bathed in a strong, golden slanting light just moments before, all was now gray and dim in the dusk. The wheeling, keening seagulls disappeared as though by magic.
Elizabeth turned from the window with a sigh. The waiting was the hardest part. She had been waiting for weeks; she had been waiting all her life!
Little wisps of steam curled up from the surface of the bath water. The copper tub was lined with fine gauze that draped onto the floor. Beatrice approached wordlessly and began to remove the queen’s garments. Blanche received the riding habit and departed for the room where Beatrice would beat the dust from the garment and then sponge the fabric. Each piece of clothing was folded and laid in a stack for laundering. Sleeves, hose, gown, all followed the outer garment that Blanche had taken away.
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