The Other Queen. Philippa Gregory
would sit down to inquire into her behaviour, see the most scandalous material ever written, and then rise up, having decided nothing? Who would have thought that I would convene a tribunal three times over, and still be unable to get a conviction? Are you all so besotted with her?’
‘A conviction?’ I repeat. ‘You make it sound like a trial. I thought it was a conference? You told me it was an inquiry.’
‘I fear our queen has been ill-served in this.’
‘But how?’ I ask. ‘I thought we did what she wanted. She stopped the inquiry herself, saying that it was unjust to the Queen of Scots? Surely she has cleared the Scots queen of any wrongdoing? Surely you should be glad? Surely our queen is glad that we held a thorough inquiry but could find nothing against her cousin? And that being so, why should our queen not invite Queen Mary to live with her at court? Why should she come to us at all? Why should they not live as cousins in harmony, queen and heir? Now that her name is cleared?’
Cecil chokes on a laugh that he cannot silence, and claps me on the shoulder. ‘You know, you are the very man to keep her safe for us,’ he says warmly. ‘I think you are the most honourable man in England, indeed. Your wife is right to caution me that you are a man of utter honour. And the queen will be indebted to you for your good guardianship of her dear cousin. I am sure that all of us are as glad as you are that the inquiry cleared the Scots queen’s name, and now we know that she is innocent. You have proved her innocent, thank God. And we will all have to live with the consequences.’
I am troubled, and I let him see it. ‘You did not want her cleared of blame?’ I say slowly. ‘And you want her at Tutbury, and not held with honour at Chatsworth?’ I have a sense of something amiss. ‘I have to warn you: I will only deal with her fairly, Master Secretary. I will have to beg an audience and ask our queen what she intends.’
‘Nothing but good,’ he says smoothly. ‘As I do. As you do. You know that the queen is going to invite you to become a member of the Privy Council?’
I gasp. ‘Privy Council?’ This has been a long time coming. My family name commends me; but I have had to wait a long time for this moment, it is an honour that I have yearned for.
‘Oh yes,’ he says with a smile. ‘Her Majesty trusts you so well. Trusts you with this task, and others that will follow. Will you serve the queen without question?’
‘I always do,’ I say. ‘You know, I always do.’
Cecil smiles. ‘I know. So guard the other queen and keep her safe for us until we can return her safely to Scotland. And make sure you don’t fall in love with her, good Talbot. They say she’s quite irresistible.’
‘Under my Bess’s nose? And us married less than a year?’
‘Bess is your safeguard as you are ours,’ he says. ‘Give her my warmest wishes and tell her that when she next comes to London she must break her journey at my house. She will want to see the progress I am making with it. And if I am not mistaken she will want to borrow some of my plans; but she may not steal my builders. Last time she came I found her in deep conversation with my plasterer. She was tempting him away to flower her hall. I swore I would never trust her with one of my artisans again, she poaches them, she truly does. And I suspect her of putting up wages.’
‘She will give up her building projects while she is caring for the queen,’ I tell him. ‘Anyway, I think she must have finished the work on Chatsworth by now. How much work does a house need? It is good enough now, surely? She will have to give up her business interests too, I shall have my stewards take over her work.’
‘You’ll never get her to hand over her farms and her mines, and she’ll never finish building,’ he predicts. ‘She is a great artificer, your new wife. She likes to build things, she likes property and trade. She is a rare woman, a venturer in her heart. She will build a chain of houses across the country, and run your estates like a kingdom, and launch a fleet of ships for you, and found a dynasty of your children. Bess will only be satisfied when they are all dukes. She is a woman whose only sense of safety is property.’
I never like it when Cecil talks like this. His own rise from clerk to lord has been so sudden, on the coat-tails of the queen, that he likes to think that everyone has made their fortunes from the fall of the church, and that every house is built with the stone of abbeys. He praises Bess and her mind for business, only to excuse himself. He admires her profits because he wants to think that such gains are admirable. But he forgets that some of us come from a great family that was rich long before the church lands were grabbed by greedy new men; and some of us have titles that go back generations. Some of us came over as Norman noblemen in 1066. This means something, if only for some of us. Some of us are wealthy enough, without stealing from priests.
But it is hard to say any of this without sounding pompous. ‘My wife does nothing that does not befit her position,’ I say, and Cecil gives a little laugh as if he knows exactly what I am thinking.
‘There is nothing about the countess and her abilities that does not befit her position,’ he says smoothly. ‘And her position is very grand indeed. You are the greatest nobleman in England, Talbot, we all know that. And you do right to remind us, should we ever make the mistake of forgetting it. And all of us at court appreciate Bess’s good sense, she has been a favourite amongst us all for many years. I have watched her marry upwards and upwards with great pleasure. We are counting on her to make Tutbury Castle a pleasant home for the Queen of Scots. The countess is the only hostess we could consider. No-one else could house the Queen of Scots. Any other house would be too mean. No-one but Bess would know how to do it. No-one but Bess could triumph.’
This flattery from Cecil should content me; but we seem to be back to Bess again, and Cecil should remember that before I married her she was a woman who had come up from nothing.
1568, Winter, Bolton Castle: Mary
It is to be tonight. I am going to escape from Bolton Castle, their so-called, soi-disant, ‘impregnable’ Yorkshire castle, this very night. Part of me thinks: I dare not do this; but I am more terrified of being trapped in this country and unable to go either forward or back. Elizabeth is like a fat ginger cat on a cushion, she is content to sit and dream. But I must reclaim my throne; and in every day of my exile, the situation grows worse for me. I have castles holding out for me in Scotland and I must get relief to them at once. I have men ready to march under my standard, I cannot make them wait. I cannot let my supporters die for lack of my courage. I have Bothwell’s promise that he will escape from Denmark, and return to command my armies. I have written to the King of Denmark, demanding Bothwell’s freedom. He is my husband, the consort of a queen, how dare they hold him on the word of a merchant’s daughter who complains that he promised marriage? It is nonsense, and the complaints of such a woman are of no importance. I have a French army mustering to support me, and promises of Spanish gold to pay them. Most of all, I have a son, a precious heir, mon bébé, mon chéri, my only love; and he is in the hands of my enemies. I cannot leave him in their care: he is only two years old! I have to act. I have to rescue him. The thought of him without proper care, not knowing where I am, not understanding that I was forced to leave him, burns me like an ulcer in my heart. I have to get back to him.
Elizabeth may dawdle; but I cannot. On the last day of her nonsensical inquiry I received a message from one of the Northern lords, Lord Westmorland, who promises me his help. He says he can get me out of Bolton Castle, he can get me to the coast. He has a train of horses waiting in Northallerton and a ship waiting off Whitby. He tells me that when I say the word he can get me to France – and as soon as I am safe at home, in the country of my late husband’s family, where I was raised to be queen, then my fortunes will change in an instant.
I don’t delay, as Elizabeth would delay. I don’t drag my feet and puzzle away and put myself to bed, pretending illness