B009RYSCAU EBOK (40 page)

“Not if you chose the right man, Your Majesty.”

“But is there one in whom I could find all that I seek? Tell me, Bess, could you make a perfect man by combining the best qualities of your three husbands?”

Bess thought of Will, who she still missed every day. His humor, his vitality, his ardor. William Cavendish, who had been her rock for the many years of their marriage, always wise, always steady. And poor Robbie Barlow. She could scarcely call his face to mind now sometimes, so many years after his death. But she could well remember his sweetness and gentleness, and the feeling she always had that she wished to make his world a safe and comfortable place.

“And what would you seek in a husband now, madam?” the queen persisted.

What would she like? Passion, such as she had found with Will. But surely that burned out over the years of a long marriage. Serene companionship and mutual respect. Those would be excellent qualities for another partnership. Children? No, she was past that now, and would have no more. But for those she had, she wanted the best life possible.

“What do you advise, Your Majesty?”

“Hold out, Bess. Hold out until you find the man you want.” The queen’s eyes were sad now. “And what do you advise me?”

“You wish my advice, Your Majesty?” Bess faltered.

“Certainly. There is no lady who I better love or like than you, Bess.”

“I . . .” Bess had been going to parrot the advice that she knew Cecil and the rest of the council gave the queen—marry a worthy foreign prince. But all the objections that the queen had raised to the various prospective husbands presented to her were valid. Marrying the Archduke Charles or another Papist would cause fear and hostility among much of the populace. Marrying any foreigner carried the risk that England’s power would be lost. Who would Elizabeth wed within England but Robert Dudley, and yet what storms of opposition she had weathered—nay, continued to weather—at the prospect of her marrying the only man whom she seemed truly to love. And whether her husband be foreigner or Englishman, marrying any man would surely mean that she would lose some of her power, for certainly no woman, not even a queen, could really rule a man.

And what harm could come if the queen did not marry? She had been on the throne for near eight years now, and the sun and moon had not fallen from their place in the heavens. Maybe she should not marry. After all, the only reason for her to do so would be to produce an heir, and even if she married soon, it was by no means certain that she would bear a child. She might be past the age. She might have a girl, and then suffer a stillbirth, as had her mother, and countless other women. And how old would she be then? What if she proved barren, like her sister? No, there were heirs aplenty if she would but name them—Mary Stuart and her boy James, or Kate Grey and her two sons—Elizabeth did not need to produce an heir out of her own body.

“What would I advise you, Your Majesty? Why, to do just what you want,” Bess said, meaning it with all her heart.

“I think you advise well,” the queen said. And then—did Bess really see it, or had she imagined it?—she winked.

“Come,” Elizabeth said, turning to Dorothy Stafford. “Unpin me. For I am weary and would be abed.”

Twenty-fifth of May, 1567—Greenwich Palace

“I would not be Mary Stuart for all the world,” Bess said to Frances Brooke.

“Nor I,” Frances agreed. “All of Scotland is mad, it seems.”

The court had been rocked in February by the news from Scotland that Lord Darnley, the Scottish queen’s husband, had been murdered. An enormous explosion at Kirk o’ Field, the house where he lay, was apparently not the cause of his death—it appeared that he and his manservant had been strangled. Queen Elizabeth had released his grief-stricken mother, the Countess of Lennox, from the Tower into the care of Sir Richard Sackville.

Suspicion for the murder had soon settled on the Earl of Bothwell, but after a short trial he had been acquitted. Only a fortnight later, he had abducted the queen, who had inexplicably refused an offer of rescue.

Now, the court was scandalized to learn, Mary had married Bothwell.

“Three husbands, each worse than the last,” Frances said.

“How could she have married him?” Bess wondered. “He raped her, they say. Never mind killing her husband.”

“Perhaps he did that at her bidding.”

“Perhaps. But it’s hard to imagine Her Majesty making Mary her heir now.”

“You would think,” Frances said, “that the prospect of eventually gaining the throne of England would be enough to make a person behave well, wouldn’t you? It would certainly make me think twice before I acted like a fool.”

“Yes.” Bess’s thoughts went to Kate Grey and sadness swept over her. Although Kate had wanted love and happiness more than she had wanted to be queen, Bess reflected.

“What’s the news of Kate Grey? And Mary?” Frances asked, as though reading Bess’s mind.

“Of course Kate’s supporters are using the developments in Scotland as reason to raise her claim to the succession anew, so the queen regards her as more of a threat than ever. She is still in Essex, in the care of Sir John Wentworth. And poor little Mary is at Chequers. They both write to me. Kate is kept without company. Mary still holds out hope that the queen will forgive her and let her out. She is most concerned for her husband. She says he is fed meat that is bad and tainted with poison, and fears it may kill him.”

Bess covered her eyes, as if that would put out of her mind the heartbreaking images of the girls she loved so well.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Twenty-eighth of July, 1567—Greenwich Palace

T
HIS MATTER OF THE
S
COTTISH QUEEN GROWS WORSE AND
worse.” George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, leaned close to Bess as he spoke. Glancing up at him, she observed that his green eyes had gold flecks and were ringed by long, dark lashes that any lady would envy. Why had she never noticed that before, she wondered? Or the bold angle of his jaw, or the width of his shoulders, set off with a cape draped to one side?

They were walking along the riverbank, the peaceful scene a stark contrast to the wild scenes that were the latest talk of the court. “The Scots hold her prisoner like a common criminal,” Shrewsbury continued, “and she has lost the love of her people. Throckmorton writes that when she was captured, the crowds cried out, ‘Burn the whore! Drown her!’ And it is said her husband has fled to Denmark. He can never help her now.”

Shrewsbury seemed to know more about what was happening than anyone else Bess spoke to. He had many friends, she knew, both in London and abroad.

“Is it true that Cecil dissuaded Her Majesty from sending troops to Mary Stuart’s aid?” she asked.

“Yes, most true. For he believes that any attempt to rescue the queen would only lead to her death. And, indeed, when she refused to abdicate in favor of her infant son, Lord Lindsay swore that if she did not do it, he would cut her throat himself. And so she gave in, and the baby is now king of Scotland.”

“Her Majesty has seemed beside herself these last few days,” Bess said. “She ordered that the keys to all of the doors leading to her chambers be hidden, except for only one, but who holds that I do not know. She is terrified, I think.”

“And who can blame her? For if one queen may be so roughly bereft of a crown, why may not another?”

Shrewsbury stopped to gaze out over the water. A small wherry was approaching the landing stairs of the palace, bearing a gentleman whose face Bess could not make out.

“I can scarcely recall such a beautiful day,” she said.

Shrewsbury turned to her and she was surprised to feel a sudden thrill of desire as his eyes met hers. She had known him for years and never thought of him as other than a friend, probably because then she had been married, and so had he. But his wife Gertrude had died in January. Bess knew their match had been a dynastic arrangement, made when George Talbot was only eleven, and she wondered if the marriage had been happy. She had always thought that Gertrude had seemed of too bland a temperament to match the vivid character of the outspoken earl.

“It would be a shame to waste such a lovely afternoon,” he said, smiling down at her. “We could ride—to Eltham perhaps, and still be back for supper.”

“I would like that,” Bess said, feeling that the world was suddenly alive with possibilities.

* * *

“
H
E IS COURTING ME,”
B
ESS TOLD
F
RANCES THE NEXT DAY.

“And why should he not? You would make him an admirable wife.”

“Surely he must have other ladies in mind, though.”

“Bess! You will be the death of me. You are a jewel that any man would be happy to have adorn his life. If you marry Shrewsbury, you’ll break the heart of my poor brother-in-law.”

Bess laughed. “Hardly that.”

“And that reminds me,” Frances said. “You heard about the to-do with the Earl of Oxford? Killing Cecil’s undercook? Surely that strikes him off your list of possible husbands for the girls.”

“He was only practicing his fencing,” Bess said. “And the inquest found that Brincknell was drunk and ran onto Oxford’s blade.” She smiled at the look of amused despair on Frances’s face. “But yes, it does give me pause.”

“Well, that’s something,” Frances said. “Now then, let us get back to the matter of Shrewsbury.” She jumped up and fetched paper, pen, and ink from her desk. “I am determined to get you married, Bess. So let us make a list of all the qualities of the earl, and see if there is anyone else who can touch him.” She dipped the quill in the ink. “Item: only dukes and the royal family are above an earl, and there is only one duke in England just now, and no men in the royal family at all. And our friend George is the premier earl.”

“Countess of Shrewsbury,” Bess said. “That does have a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

Frances quirked an eyebrow at her. “Item,” she continued. “He owns Sheffield Castle and Manor, Tutbury Castle and Abbey, Wingfield Manor, Worksop Manor, Welbeck Abbey, Rufford Abbey, Buxton Hall, that lovely house in Chelsea, and when you would like to be in town, Cold Harbour House in Thames Street and another house near Charing Cross.”

“He holds more land than anyone else in the country,” Bess said. “Great swathes of Derbyshire, Shropshire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Nottinghamshire.”

“Very good. Now you are entering into the proper spirit of the thing,” Frances said, writing. “Item: he is a Knight of the Garter.”

“And Lord Lieutenant of Derbyshire, Yorkshire, and Nottinghamshire, Chief Justice in Eyre, and Chamberlain of the Receipt of the Exchequer.”

“Yes, and sundry other offices, too, I believe.” Frances looked up from her list. “Now, as to his person. He is tall and well made, with a handsome set of whiskers that has just the merest hint of silver. He has hair.”

Bess laughed in delight. “So he does. And he is just my age—in fact a year or so younger, I believe.”

“And he has children, Bess. Are you not most determined on making the finest matches for your children that may be? Is this not an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone?”

Bess caught her breath, for this consideration perhaps more than any other exerted a powerful tug on her mind and heart.

“Perhaps. Some of his children are already married. His oldest boy, Francis, is wedded to Anne Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke’s girl. And his daughter Catherine is the wife of Pembroke’s heir, Henry Herbert.”

“Excellent, so we know he has a mind to good matches, as you have.”

“His son Gilbert is fifteen, I believe, and Edward a little younger,” Bess mused.

“Gilbert is just the age for Bessie then, and perhaps Edward would do for May.”

Bess swallowed. Could it really work? Now that the idea was in her mind, she wanted it very much.

“And he has two girls,” she said. “Mary and Grace, I believe.”

“Excellent. How old is your Harry now?”

“Sixteen. He’ll be finished at Cambridge very soon.”

“He’s a fine boy, Bess, and he’ll eventually inherit Chatsworth and your other properties. Any father would think him a good match for his daughter.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” Bess asked. “All of it, I mean?”

“I do. I feel it in my bones. So when the earl puts his proposal to you—yes, he will, don’t argue with me—do yourself the kindness of accepting him.”

Fourth of October, 1567—London

Bess draped the ropes of pearls around her neck, careful not to disarrange her hair, and then turned to her mirror. She had feared this day, when she had allowed herself to think of it, for today she was forty years old. But the reflection that gazed back at her was not displeasing to her. She was sound and healthy in body, thank God, and stood straight and slender. Her skin was still smooth and white, little marred by wrinkles, and glowed alabaster against the black velvet of her gown. Her hair, its curls restrained beneath the gold and pearl of her cap, retained its copper vibrancy.

Yes, she had weathered her life well thus far, she thought, and today she had reason to expect that her future would be even brighter. For George Talbot, the sixth Earl of Shrewsbury, was coming to supper, and she believed he was going to ask her to marry him.

“He’s here, Bess.” Bess turned to see Jenny, smiling in the door of her bedchamber.

“How do I look?” Bess asked, suddenly anxious for the opinion of a pair of eyes other than her own.

“You have never looked more beautiful.” Jenny came to Bess’s side. “Truly.”

“Thank you, dear heart. Then I had better not keep his lordship waiting.”