B009RYSCAU EBOK (30 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Christmas Day, 1559—Whitehall Palace, London

B
ESS STOOD ONLY FEET FROM
Q
UEEN
E
LIZABETH, SURVEYING THE
laughing and chattering crowd that filled the room. It was the same chamber in which she had watched King Henry and his court celebrate Christmas twenty years earlier. How far she had come, she thought. Then she had been merely one of Lady Zouche’s attendants, awed at the noble ladies and gentlemen who surrounded her, wearing the only gown she had that was good enough for such company. Now, she was a lady of the queen’s privy chamber, a titled lady herself, resplendent in a new gown of forest green velvet, her sleeves and underskirt heavily embroidered with gold, and wearing on her head a French hood of the latest fashion. Ropes of shimmering pearls cascaded over her breast, jewels sparkled at her ears, and her fingers were heavy with rings.

Then she had been a budding girl, still a virgin, hoping that she might find love but wary of what marriage might mean. Now she had been thrice married, had borne eight children and buried two, and had finally found the passionate love that she had not even known that she sought until she met Will.

She picked out his tall figure across the room, in conversation with Sir Robert Dudley.
The two handsomest men in London,
she thought, smiling.
One of them is mine and the other the queen’s.

“Lady St. Loe.”

Bess turned to find Sir William Cecil at her elbow. When she had seen him at Hatfield House that autumn, she had noted that the sleeves of his doublet were fraying and his shoes down at heel. Now he wore a handsome black velvet robe, lined with fur, befitting his position as the queen’s secretary of state and head of her privy council.

“Sir William, what a pleasure to see you. I was just thinking how it warmed my heart to see old friends who have weathered all the storms and are now standing safe in the sunlight.”

“Indeed. And while I miss William Cavendish, I’m most pleased that your new husband is a man who has stood so steady by Her Majesty all these years.”

His eyes went to Will, hand on the shoulder of Robert Dudley, leaning in to speak to him above the clamor of voices. The court had been thronged with suitors to the queen these last months, but it was Dudley who was ever at the queen’s side. She had recently made him Lord Lieutenant and Constable of the Tower, and many of his friends now held coveted positions at court. The Duke of Norfolk had publicly accused him of interfering in state matters, but the result was that Norfolk had been sent to the Scottish border to serve as lieutenant general, and Dudley was as close to Elizabeth as ever. More so, perhaps. It was whispered that he was her lover. And the rumors that he would find a way to be rid of his wife would not be quieted. Bess wondered what William Cecil thought; he had been the queen’s man for years, and though Elizabeth’s eyes did not light with love when she looked on him, she relied on his wisdom and advice more than that of any other man, Robert Dudley included.

Bess glanced at the queen, surrounded by Duke John of Finland, brother to the hopeful Erik of Sweden; Baron Breuner, the representative of Ferdinand, the Holy Roman Emperor; the Spanish ambassador Bishop de Cuadra, also pressing the suit of the emperor’s son Archduke Charles; and the envoy of the King of Denmark, in his ridiculous doublet of crimson velvet embroidered with a heart transfixed by an arrow.

“The siege continues,” she remarked.

Cecil’s eyes flickered to the queen’s knot of admirers and he sighed.

“Yes, here is a great resort of wooers and controversy among lovers. I would Her Majesty had one and the rest honorably settled.”

“Then you think she will pick one of the foreign rulers? And not—someone more near to hand?”

Will and Robert Dudley were now at the center of a laughing knot of men that included Robert’s brother Ambrose and brother-in-law Sir Henry Sidney, Sir James Croft, and John Appleyard, the half brother of Lady Dudley.

“I see that your husband is among Dudley’s cronies,” Cecil said. “I mean no offense,” he added, as Bess glanced at him in surprise. “It is only that I am ever thinking who might speak a wise word in the queen’s ear.”

“On what matter?”

“If she takes my Lord Robert,” Cecil said quietly, “she will incur so much enmity that she may one evening lay herself down as the Queen of England, and rise the next morning as plain Mistress Elizabeth.”

“But why?” Bess asked. She had always liked Robert Dudley. “He is Protestant, and the queen loves him. It is said his wife is very ill. Surely if they wait until sometime after her death . . .”

“It is not just that he is married. You well know that his father and brother were executed as traitors, as was his grandfather. Yet she made him Knight of the Garter along with the three highest peers of the realm, the Duke of Norfolk, the Marquess of Northampton, and the Earl of Rutland, who have long served England. And he? He rides well and has a handsome leg and whiskers that curl.”

Bess giggled despite herself and Cecil gave her a dry smile.

“People mistrust the name of Dudley, and mistrust Lord Robert, thinking that he seeks to gain the throne for himself. If she were to look close to home she would do better to pick Edward Courtenay or Arundel or Sir William Pickering. No, there is not a man who does not cry out on him as the Queen’s ruin, and on her with indignation, and yet I have a great fear that she will marry none but the favored Robert.”

Cecil’s eyes were tired and Bess noticed that his beard was frosted with gray as it had not been before.

“I hope she will listen to your counsel,” she said. “For I’m sure you would guide her to what is best for England.”

“She will listen. Whether she will act on my counsel is a different thing entirely.” He bowed and made his way toward Sir Thomas Parry.

Watching the queen dance with Robert Dudley, Bess took the opportunity of seeking out Mary Grey. Although Mary was now fourteen years old, her tiny height, vivid red hair, and freckles made her appear younger.

“Bess! What a joy to see you!” Mary exclaimed, as Bess bent to embrace her.

“And you. I have thought much of you since your mother’s death.”

“It is hard, at Christmastime, to be missing her. She would so much have loved to be at court now, and I cannot help but want to turn to her and see her smile.”

Kate Grey danced past with handsome Henry Carey, the queen’s cousin and a favorite at the new court.

“How stands the matter of Kate’s marriage to Edward Seymour?” Bess asked. “Your mother was so hopeful the last time I saw her.”

“Alas, it is in a frozen state. My poor mother died before sending her letter to the queen, and now there is no one to speak for Kate, begging permission for her to marry Edward Seymour. He writes that perhaps they can importune the queen when the matter of her own marriage is settled.”

The queen’s marriage again, Bess thought. So much hung on that urgent question.

“And Kate must tread most carefully,” Mary said, “and do nothing to bring the queen’s wrath down upon her, for under the will of King Henry the crown would fall to Kate should something happen to Her Majesty, and thus Kate attracts plotters and suitors with their own ends in mind.”

As had Elizabeth, when she stood next in line to Mary. And Jane . . . Bess’s heart clutched with pain, and from the anxious expression on Mary Grey’s face, she knew the poor girl must fear for Kate’s safety, with the shadow of Jane’s fate hanging over them.

It was ironic, Bess thought, that even as Elizabeth was hindered from being able to wed the man she loved, so the unhappiness was passed down to poor Kate Grey.

“Perhaps it will all come out well yet,” she tried to reassure Mary.

* * *

“
G
OD’S WOUNDS,”
W
ILL SWORE ONE COLD MORNING IN
F
EBRUARY, AS
he sat reviewing a letter. “I would the matter of the queen’s marriage were resolved. While it hangs fire I shall have no peace.”

“What’s amiss now?” Bess asked.

“Here is news of a Spanish plot to kidnap Kate Grey and marry her to King Philip’s son Don Carlos, and put them on the throne in Elizabeth’s place.”

“Surely Kate can have no part in this scheme.”

“No, no, but that matters not at all. Until the queen is wed and has a son, there will always be plots and intrigues against her life. But it seems that will be no time soon; she has at last made plain she will not marry the son of the Holy Roman Emperor nor yet Erik of Sweden.”

“Every time I am at court I hear that all is the fault of Robert Dudley.”

Will looked up at Bess and shook his head.

“I’ve nothing against Dudley personally, but the rumors that he is the queen’s lover echo through the courts of Europe, and people lay the queen’s failure to marry at his door. I heard the French ambassador inquire yesterday whether England was so poor in men of courage that no one would assassinate Dudley, and he was but a quarter in jest, I think.”

“And yet all strive most mightily to remain in his favor.”

“Of course they do,” Will snorted. “For it seems like enough he may be king before long. Even Cecil claps him on the shoulder and smiles upon him, though he loves him little enough.”

* * *

W
HEN
B
ESS NEXT WAITED ON THE QUEEN SHE FOUND HER TETCHY
and irritable. Her ladies kept their eyes down and scurried to be out of reach of her fan after she fetched a young page boy a blow with it for bringing her the message that Cecil wanted to see her at the same time she planned to watch Robert Dudley in a shooting match.

“What’s amiss?” Bess whispered to Frances Newton when they were out of the queen’s hearing.

“I think she’s in a temper because she’s just made Kate Grey a lady of the bedchamber, much against her will.”

“She doesn’t like Kate much; why do that?”

“Because she wants to be able to keep a close eye on her,” Frances whispered. “Kate is her nearest relative and next in line for the throne until the queen has a child of her own. Better keep Kate nearby than push her away and let her fall under the influence of God knows who.”

“Not the Spanish,” Bess insisted. “Kate has far more sense than that.”

“There are other possibilities than the Spanish. I’ve heard that Kate might marry the Earl of Arran.” Frances raised an eyebrow at Bess.

“Oh.” The implications struck Bess immediately. “He’s heir to the Scottish throne, and should they have a son . . .”

“The crowns of England and Scotland could be united, exactly. Not a terrible thing for the future, perhaps, but such a marriage now might incite some to remove Her Majesty from the throne in favor of Kate. For she would be married, and soon might bear an heir. I’ve also heard whispers that Kate might marry the Earl of Huntingdon.”

“I doubt that will come to pass,” Bess said. “Or a marriage with Arran either. Kate’s heart lies with Edward Seymour, last I knew. And besides, there are rumors that Her Majesty will adopt Kate. That sounds as if she means to acknowledge her as her successor rather than the Scottish queen. And surely with that prospect, Kate must be prepared to wait and see, and not take some precipitous and foolish action.”

* * *

B
ESS WAS EXTREMELY WARY OF BEING SEEN TO BE PART OF ANY
faction, and when she was in the queen’s company she strove to be blithe and sunny, and to speak of nothing more consequential than the latest needlework pattern and whose baby was the bonniest.

She had plenty to occupy herself with at home. James Crompe, steward at Chatsworth, dispatched news of the progress of the building work, the crops, the livestock, and a dozen other matters, and requested her opinion and authorization of a hundred details. He sent lists of the books that Willie and Harry needed for school, and of the clothes they had outgrown or worn out, which must be replaced.

“They might as well be eating their boots,” Bess remarked to Jenny as she counted out the money to send to Crompe. She wished she didn’t have to worry about costs, but at the back of her mind was always the debt to the crown.

“Better they are healthy and needing clothes than needing none.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Bess agreed, with a silent prayer of thanks that all her children were healthy.

The thought of children brought a trace of sadness to her heart, for she and Will had been married for six months, and no child had taken root within her belly. She was grateful that he had come to love her children as his own, but still longed to give him a son and heir.

As though her thoughts had summoned him, Will came into their bedchamber, a letter in his hand.

“Bess, my brother Ned writes that he will visit at the end of the month, to pay his respects to you as he was not at our wedding.”

“Good,” Bess said. “If he is as charming as your brother Clement I will be most happy to know him.”

“He’s not,” Will said. “He’s never been anything but trouble.”

Will’s face was stony. Did he believe, then, that Ned had murdered John and Bridget Scutt?

“Well, let him come,” Bess said. “Perhaps he wants to make peace, and this visit can be the start of better relations between the two of you.”