Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (397 page)

I stand like a queen and say nothing.

“Sir Ralph...,” Bess protests. “This is a queen.”

“I could damned well kill you myself!” he shouts. “If I threw you out of the window now I could say that the rope broke and you fell.”

“Do it,” I spit.

He bellows in his rage and Mary dives between us and John moves closer, fearing this brute will lunge at me in his temper. But it is Bess who prevents him, tightening her grip on his arm. “Sir Ralph,” she says quietly, “you cannot. Everyone would know. The queen would have you tried for murder.”

“The queen would thank God for me!” he snaps.

She shakes her head. “She would not. She would never forgive you. She does not want her cousin dead; she has spent three years trying to find a way to restore her to her throne.”

“And look at the thanks she gets! Look at the love which is returned her!”

“Even so,” she says steadily, “she does not want her death.”

“I would give it her as a gift.”

“She does not want her death on her conscience,” Bess says, more precisely. “She could not bear it. She does not wish it. She will never order it. A queen’s life is sacred.”

I feel icy inside. I don’t even admire Bess for defending me. I know she is defending her own house and her own reputation. She doesn’t
want to go down in history as the hostess who killed a royal guest. Mary Seton slips her hand in mine.

“You will not touch her,” she says quietly to Sir Ralph. “You will have to kill me, you will have to kill us all first.”

“You are blessed in the loyalty of your friends,” Sir Ralph says bitterly. “Though you yourself are so disloyal.”

I say nothing.

“A traitor,” he says.

For the first time I look at him. I see him flush under the contempt of my gaze. “I am a queen,” I say. “I cannot be named as a traitor. There can be no such thing. I am of the blood royal; I cannot be accused of treason; I cannot be legally executed. I am untouchable. And I don’t answer to such as you.”

A vein throbs in his temple; his eyes goggle like those of a landed fish. “Her Majesty is a saint to endure you in her lands,” he growls.

“Her Majesty is a criminal to hold me against my consent,” I say. “Leave my room.”

His eyes narrow. I do believe he would kill me if he could. But he cannot. I am untouchable. Bess tugs gently at his arm and together they leave. I could almost laugh: they go backwards, step by stiff step, as they must do when they leave a royal presence. Sadler may hate me, but he cannot free himself from deference.

The door closes behind them. We are left alone with our candle still showing a wisp of smoke, the open window, and the knotted rope dangling in space.

Mary pulls in the rope, snuffs the candle, and closes the window. She looks out over the garden. “I hope Sir Henry got away,” she says. “God help him.”

I shrug. If Sir Ralph knew where to come and at what time, the whole plot was probably penetrated by Cecil from the moment that Sir Henry Percy first hired his horses. No doubt he is under arrest now. No doubt he will be dead within the week.

“What shall we do?” Mary demands. “What shall we do now?”

I take a breath. “We go on planning,” I say. “It is a game, a deadly game, and Elizabeth is a fool for she has left me with nothing to do but to play this game. She will plot to keep me, and I will plot to be free. And we shall see, at the very end, which of us wins and which of us dies.”

1572, MARCH, CHATSWORTH: BESS

I
am bidden to meet my lord, his lawyer, and his steward in his privy chamber, a formal meeting. His lawyer and clerks have come from London, and I have my chief steward to advise me. I pretend to ignorance, but I know what this is all about. I have been waiting for this all the weeks after the verdict of guilty on Howard and my lord’s silent return home.

My lord has served his queen as loyally as any man could do but even after the verdict she wanted, she has not rewarded him. He may be Lord High Steward of England but he is a great lord only in reputation. In reality he is a pauper. He has no money left at all, and not a field that is not mortgaged. He has returned from London as a man broken by his own times. Howard is sentenced to death and it will be Cecil’s England now, and my lord cannot live in peace and prosperity in Cecil’s England.

Under the terms of our marriage contract my lord has to give me great sums of money at my son’s coming of age. Henry is now twenty-one years old and Charles will soon be twenty, and my lord will owe me their inheritance and the money for my other children on the first day of April, as well as other obligations to me. I know he cannot pay it. He cannot get anywhere near to paying it.

In addition to this I have been lending him money to pay for the queen’s keep for the past year, and I have known for the past six months that he won’t be able to repay me this either. The expense of
housing and guarding the Queen of Scots has cost him all the rents and revenues of his land, and there is never enough money coming in. To settle his debt to me, to fulfil his marriage contract, he will have to sell land or offer me land instead of the money he should pay me.

He finally realized what a crisis he was in when he could not hold his usual open house at Christmas. He finally realized that he could not go on pouring his fortune at the feet of the Scots queen. When I told him that there was nothing left in the treasure room, no credit available for us in the whole of Derbyshire, he finally saw the disaster that has been building every day for the past three years, and of which I have warned him, every time that we sent out our bill to the queen and received no payment. I have been thinking every day for three years about what we should do about this unbearable expense, every day for the past three years it has nagged at me like a pain, and so I know what I want. His poverty has come as a surprise to him; to me it is an old enemy.

I have not been idle. Indeed, I have deliberately shifted his debt from the moneylenders to myself, securing his borrowings with my own funds, knowing that he would not be able to repay. Knowing what I want. I know what I will settle for, and I know what I will absolutely reject.

I sit on a straight-backed chair, hands in my lap, attentive, as the lawyer stands before me and explains that the earl’s financial position is straitened through no fault of his own. He has had expenses beyond what any lord could bear, in his service to the queen. I bow my head like an obedient wife and listen. My husband looks out the window as if he can hardly bear to hear his folly described.

The lawyer tells me that in view of the earl’s obligations in terms of our marriage contract, and his later obligations from his borrowing from me, he is prepared to make a proposal. My chief steward glances at me. He has been frightened by my loans; I can feel his hopeful look on my face, but I keep my eyes down.

The lawyer proposes that all the lands that I brought to my lord on marriage shall be restored to me. All the lands that were gifted to me by my dearest husband William St. Loe and my careful husband before him William Cavendish will be returned to me. In return I must forgive my husband his debt to me for the cash loans I have made him, and I must forgive him the support of my children, which he promised on marriage. The agreement we made on marriage is, in effect, to be dissolved. I shall have my own again and he will be responsible neither for me nor for my children.

I could cry with relief, but I say nothing and keep my face still. This is to regain my inheritance; this is to restore to me the fortune I made with husbands who knew the value of money and knew the value of land and kept them safe. This restores to me myself. This makes me once more a woman of property, and a woman of property is a woman in charge of her own destiny. I will own my house. I will own my land. I will manage my fortune. I will be an independent woman. At last I shall be safe again. My husband may be a fool, may be a spendthrift, but his ruin will not drag me down.

“This is a most generous offer,” his lawyer says, when I say nothing.

Actually, no; it is not a generous offer. It is a tempting one. It is designed to tempt me, but if I were to hold out for the cash I am owed, my husband would be forced to sell most of these lands to clear his debts, and I could buy them at rock-bottom prices and show a profit. But, I imagine, this is not the way of an earl and his countess.

“I accept,” I say simply.

“You do?”

They were expecting more haggling. They were expecting a great repining about the loss of money. They expected me to demand coin. Everyone wants money; nobody wants land. Everyone in England but me.

“I accept,” I repeat. I manage a wan smile at my lord, who sits in a sulk, realizing at last how much his infatuation with the Scots queen has cost him. “I would wish to help my husband the earl in this difficult time. I am certain that when the queen is returned to Scotland she will favor him with the repayment of all debts.” This is to rub salt in a raw wound. The queen will never return to Scotland in triumph now, and we all know it.

He smiles thinly at my optimism.

“Do you have a document for me to sign?” I ask.

“I have one prepared,” the lawyer says.

He passes it over to me. It is headed “Deed of Gift” as if my husband the earl had not been forced into repaying me my own again. I will not quibble at this, or at the value of the lands that are overpriced, or at the value of the woodland which has not been properly maintained. There are many items I would argue if I were not eager to finish this, desperate to call my own lands my own again.

“You understand that if you sign this you must provide for your own children?” The lawyer hands me the quill, and I am hard put not to laugh aloud.

Provide for my children! All my husband the earl has ever done is provide for the Queen of Scots. His own children’s inheritance has been squandered on her luxuries. Thank God he will no longer be responsible for me and mine.

“I understand,” I say. “I will provide for myself and for my family, and I will never look to the earl for help again.”

He hears the ring of farewell in this, and his head comes up and he looks at me. “You are wrong if you blame me,” he says with quiet dignity.

“Fool,” I think, but I do not say it. This is the last time I shall call him fool in my thoughts. I promise myself this, as I sign. From this day if he is wise or if he is a fool, he cannot cost me my lands. He can be a fool or not as he pleases, he will never hurt me again. I have my lands back in my own hands and I will keep them safe. He can do
what he wants with his own. He can lose all his own lands for love of her, if he so chooses, but he cannot touch mine.

But he is right to hear dismissal in my voice. This was my husband. I gave him my heart, as a good wife should, and I trusted him with the inheritance of my children and all my fortune, as a good wife must. Now I have my heart and my fortune back safely. This is goodbye.

JUNE 1ST, 1572, LONDON: GEORGE

T
he queen has finally screwed herself to the point that none of us dreamed she would ever reach. She has ordered the death of her cousin and it is to be tomorrow. She summons me to Westminster Palace in the afternoon and I wait among the other men and women in her presence chamber. I have never known the mood so somber at court. Those who have had secret dealings with the other queen are fearful, and with good reason. But even those whose consciences are clear are still nervous. We have become a court of suspicion, we have become a court of doubt. The shadows that Cecil has feared for so long are darkening the very heart of England.

Queen Elizabeth crooks her finger towards me and rises from her throne and leads me to a window overlooking the river where we can stand alone.

“There is no doubt of her guilt,” she says suddenly.

“Her guilt?”

“His, I mean his. His guilt.”

I shake my head. “But he did nothing more than send the money and know of the plans. He did submit himself to you. He did not take arms against you. He obeyed.”

“And then plotted again,” she says.

I bow. I take a little sideways glance at her. Under the white powder
her skin is lined and tired. She holds herself like a queen unbowed but for once anyone can see the effort.