The Other Queen. Philippa Gregory
in her rooms, she likes to ride out accompanied by my husband the earl. She has ten horses that are taking up ten loose boxes in our stables, and are feeding well on our oats. She rides with my lord and his guard in the morning while I go to the small parlour that I have set aside for my business and I meet with the stewards of all my houses and ventures who report to me either by letter or, when there is trouble, in person.
This is a system of my own devising, based on my first lessons from my dear Cavendish with the housekeeping books. Each manor, each house has its own book, each has to meet its own costs. By treating each parcel of land as a separate kingdom I make sure that they each make money. It may seem obvious – but this is unique. I know no other landlord who does it. Unlike me, my lord’s stewards who work in the old ways bundle all their accounts together, use land as security against loans for cash, endow it, buy it, sell it, mortgage it and entail it away on heirs. At best they can always keep my lord’s treasure room rich with cash; but at worst they never know what is earned and what is borrowed and what is owed. Badly handled, a whole fortune can slip through the fingers of a landlord and go out of the family altogether. They can never know if they are in profit or loss, there is a continual exchange of land into debt, into cash, and back to land again. The value of the land changes, even the value of the currency changes, and this is beyond their control – they can never know for sure what is happening. This is the way that the nobility run their business, grandly but vaguely; whereas I run mine like a poor woman’s household and know to a penny what I am worth at the end of every week. Of course, they start with an enormous fortune. All they have to do is not to squander their wealth, whereas I started from nothing and nothing is easily counted. But a landlord like me – a newcomer – has to watch every penny and every acre, has to be alert to every change. It is a different view of the land, and my view is a novelty. Never before was there a landlord in England like me. Never in the world, for all I know, was there a woman in business like me.
Only a trader at his stall, only a cobbler at his last, would understand the pleasure I have at knowing the cost of things, and the profit from things, and the balancing of the books. Only a woman who has been poor would know the heartfelt sense of relief that comes from looking at the household accounts books and seeing a profit. There is nothing that warms my heart more than knowing that I am safe in my house, with cash in my treasure room, with land at my doorstep, and my children endowed or well married. Nothing in the world is better for me than the sense that I have money in my purse and that no-one can rob me.
This should be a strength of course, but it means that any loss strikes me hard. For within the first week of having the Scots queen as our guest, I have a letter from the Lord Treasurer’s office telling me that we will be paid fifty-two pounds a week for hosting the Queen of Scots. Fifty-two pounds! A week!
After my initial dismay I cannot say that I am surprised. Anyone who has served at court knows that Queen Elizabeth is as mean with her money as when she was a bankrupt princess. She was brought up as a girl who was sometimes heir, sometimes pauper, and it has left her with a terrible habit of penny pinching. She is as bad as I am for keeping watch over a groat. She is worse than me, for it is her trade as queen to be generous; whereas it is my trade as a subject to turn a profit.
I look at the letter again. I calculate that she is offering us about a quarter of what we are paying out at present for the pleasure of housing and entertaining our guest. They, in London, have calculated that this queen will be served with thirty people and have a stable of six horses. In truth she has a household of double that number as well as a good hundred of trouble-makers and admirers and followers who have settled in Tutbury and nearby, but visit us constantly, especially at mealtimes. We are not housing a guest with a retinue, we are housing a full royal court. Clearly, the Treasury will have to pay us more. Clearly, this Scots queen’s companions will have to be sent back to their homes. Clearly, I shall have to persuade my husband to make these unwanted announcements, since no-one else can tell the two queens that their arrangements are unworkable. My difficulty is that George will not like to do this, being a lord who has never had to deal with money, and never in his life drawn up an accounts sheet. I doubt I can even make him understand that we can barely afford this; not now, not for this month, certainly not till midsummer.
In the meantime I will have to send to my steward at Chatsworth and tell him to take some of the smaller pieces of silver down to London and sell them for cash. I cannot wait for the rents at quarter day; I have to buy things in Tutbury and pay extra servants, and for this I need more coin than I earn. I could laugh at my own sense of loss when I write to him to sell half a dozen silver plates. I have never used them but they are mine, hoarded away in my own treasure room. To sell them for their value as scrap is as painful to me as a personal loss.
At midday the hunting party comes home. If they have killed on the hunt then the meat goes straight to the kitchens and is an essential addition to the provisioning of this great household. We dine altogether in my lodgings, on this sunny side of the courtyard, and in the afternoon the queen often sits with me in my presence chamber for the light is better for sewing, and the room brighter, and her women can sit with mine and we can all talk.
We talk as women always do: inconsequentially but with enthusiasm. She is the greatest needlewoman I have ever met, she is the only woman I have ever known whose ability and love of sewing matches mine. She has wonderful pattern books that arrive, travel-stained but intact, from Edinburgh Castle and she falls on them like a child and shows me the pictures and explains them to me. She has patterns for Latin inscriptions and classical designs that all mean different things. They are beautiful and all carry hidden meanings, some of them secret codes, and she says that I can copy them out.
Her designer joins our household after a few days – he had been left behind at Bolton Castle. He sets to work for us both, drawing up designs, and I watch him as he sketches freehand on canvas the wonderful symbolic flowers and heraldic beasts as she commands him. She can say to him, ‘And put an eagle over it all,’ and his chalk arcs like a child scribbling in the sand and suddenly, there is an eagle! With a leaf in its beak!
It is a great thing, I think, to have an artist such as this man in your train. She takes him quite for granted, as if it were natural that a man of great talent, a truly fine artist, should do nothing but sketch designs for her to sew. I think of King Henry using Hans Holbein to draw designs for his masques which would be broken up the day after the dance was done, and employing great musicians to write songs for his chamber or the way that the poets spend their talents writing plays for Queen Elizabeth. Truly, these are the luxuries of kings. Of all of the riches that have surrounded this spoilt young woman from childhood, this employment of such a gifted man gives me the best sense of what her life has been like until now. Everything she has had around her has been supreme, the best of the very best; everyone who works for her, or follows in her train, is the most talented or charming or skilled. Even the design for her embroidery must be a work of art before she will touch it.
Together we work on a new cloth of estate for her. It will hang over her chair to proclaim her royalty. Her tapissier has already started stitching the dark red background. In gold curly script the letters will say: ‘En Ma Fin Est Ma Commencement’.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
She is seated on the best chair, between the window and the fire. I am on a lower chair, though this is my own room in my own house, and our ladies-in-waiting are on stools and benches near the windows for the light.
‘It was my mother’s motto,’ she says. ‘It means: “in my end is my beginning”. I have been thinking of it in these troubled days, and decided to take it as my own. When I lost my husband and was no longer Queen of France then I began my life as Queen of Scotland. When I fled from Scotland my new life in England begins. Soon, another phase of my life will start. I will return to my throne, perhaps I shall re-marry. In every end is a new beginning. I am like a queen of the sea, I am a queen of tides. I ebb, but I also flow. One day I shall cease to be queen on earth of any kingdom and be a queen in heaven over all kingdoms.’
I scowl at my women, whose heads bob up like rabbits at this unseemly and papistical assurance.
‘Should you like to do the gold lettering?’ she offers. ‘The silk is such a pleasure to work with.’