The Other Queen (27 page)

“It is my habit,” he says simply. “I have a habit of obedience to my queen. And I am obliged. It is my obligation to Queen Elizabeth.” And he steps back from me, his eyes down. “I came only to see if you needed a physician,” he says, his gaze on his boots. “I am glad to find you well.” He bows, and leaves.

I let him go. I have my safety in his unacknowledged love for me: he is mine, even if he does not know it.

I have my rescue in the army which is coming ever closer. My future marches towards me, step by step, and the young men of the North on their fast beautiful horses are coming to save me from Elizabeth. The finest army in Europe is coming in their great ships. I am about to regain my own.

If Bothwell has escaped, he will be on his way to me, by land, by sea, by foot, by horse, by ship; if he has to crawl on his hands and knees, he will. This will be a battle he will not miss. He hates the English like a man possessed; he hates them like the borderer he is. His kin have raided the English lands and suffered English attack for centuries. He would do anything to threaten them. To defeat them in open battle would be the delight of his life.

We will meet again as we parted, on a battlefield. He left me, after the dreadful long day on Carberry Hill, and he told me, at the last, everything. He predicted that the rebellious Scots lords would give their word for my safety and for his, but they would betray their own oath the minute he was out of sight. He said they would post him as an outlaw and arrest me. He begged me to let him fight our way out, to run together. But I thought I knew better. I said they could not harm me, I was of blood royal. They dared not harm me, I was certain to be safe. No one could touch me, my person was sacred, and he was my husband; they would never dare touch him.

He threw down his hat and swore at me; he said he might be damned but he knew they would harm me—my name and my crown would not protect me. He said I was a fool; had his own kidnap of me taught me nothing? Did I not see? Did I not know? The magic of royalty is an illusion that can be shattered by a man without a conscience. He shouted at me: did I think he was the only rapist in Scotland? Would I leave his protection now?

I lost my own temper in return. I swore he was wrong, that even the wickedest Scots lords know their king. I said they would never harm one of royal blood; they might be angry but they were not outright mad—they could not lay a hand on me.

And then he told me. He told me to my face the truth that I had sworn to discover but feared to hear. He told me that he and the rebel lords had made an alliance and sworn a covenant to kill Darnley, who had royal blood just as I do. They had joined together and signed a bond to kill Darnley, who was consort to a queen, father of the prince, and of blood royal himself. Bothwell put his heavy hands on my shoulders and said, “Marie, listen, your body is not sacred. If it ever was, it is not sacred anymore. I have had it.

They all know that I had you, and without your consent. They all know you are a mortal woman. You can be raped, you can be seduced. You can be killed. You can be pushed into prison, you can be marched to the scaffold, and your head can be laid on the block. I have taught them that. God forgive me, I did not realize that was the lesson they would learn. I thought I would make you safe by making you mine, but all I have done is break your spell. I have shown them what can be done. I have shown them a man can do what he wants with you, with or without your consent.”

I did not even hear him. In that moment he told me the truth as he had never spoken before, and I was not listening. I just said, “Who? Tell me the names. Tell me the regicides that killed Darnley. They are dead men.”

In answer he reached into his doublet and brought out the very bond that they had sworn, folded carefully and kept for this moment. He said, “This is for you. It may be the last thing I can do for you.

This is for you. It proves your absolute innocence in his murder and our guilt. This is my parting gift to you.”

And then he rode away from me without saying goodbye. Not another word.

The paper was the bond, and on it was the name of almost every great lord at my court, the treacherous, rebellious murderers: including my half brother James. They had sworn to join together to kill my husband, Darnley.

And—voilà—Bothwell’s name was at the top. He was as guilty as any of them. That was what he was trying to tell me, on that day when he left me. That they could all bring themselves to kill a sacred royal person, just like me, one of sacred royal blood, like me. Any man without a conscience could do it.

Bothwell too.

Icannot sleep in this dirty town. The noise of our soldiers goes on all night like a rumble of discontent, and the raucous squeals of the girls of the town pierce the night air like vixen calling.

I get dressed by candlelight, leaving Bess asleep. As I go quietly from the bedroom I see her stir and her hand goes across the bed to where I usually lie. I pretend not to see that she is stirring. I don’t want to talk to Bess. I don’t want to talk to anybody.

I am not myself. The thought checks me as I go down the creaking stairs and let myself out the front door. A sentry in the doorway gives an awkward salute as he sees me and lets me go by. I am not myself. I am not the husband that I was, nor the servant of the queen. I am no longer a Talbot, famed for loyalty and steadiness of purpose. I no longer sit well in my clothes, in my place, in my dignity. I feel blown all about, I feel tumbled over by these great gales of history. I feel like a powerless boy.

If the Queen of Scots triumphs, as she is likely to do today, or tomorrow, I will have to negotiate a peace with her as my new queen. The thought of her as Queen of England, of her cool hands around mine as I kneel before her to offer her my vow of fealty, is so powerful that I stop again and put my hand against the town wall to steady myself. A passing soldier asks, “All right, my lord?” and I say, “Yes.

Quite all right. It’s nothing.” I can feel my heart hammering in my chest at the thought of being able to declare myself as her man, in her service, in all honor sworn to her till death.

I am dizzy at the thought of it. If she wins, the country will be turned upside down again, but the people will quickly change. Half of them want the old ways back, the other half will obey. England will have a young beautiful queen; Cecil will be gone; the world will be quite different. It will be like dawn. Like a warm spring dawn, unseasonal hope, in the middle of winter.

And then I remember. If she comes to the throne it will be by Elizabeth’s death or defeat, and Elizabeth is my queen and I am her man. Nothing can change that until her death or surrender, and I have sworn to lay down my life if I can prevent either.

I have walked around the town walls to the south gate, and I pause for a moment to listen. I am sure I hear hoofbeats, and now the sentry looks through the spyhole and shouts, “Who goes there?” and at the shouted reply swings open one half of the wooden gate.

It is a messenger, off his horse in a moment, looking around. “Lord Shrewsbury?” he says to the sentry.

“I am here,” I say, going slowly forward, like a man in no hurry for bad news.

“Message,” he says in little more than a whisper. “From my master.”

I don’t need to ask his master’s name, and he will not tell me his own. This is one of the smartly dressed, well-paid young men of Cecil’s secret band. I put out my hand for the paper and I wave him to the kitchens which have been set up in the Shambles, where already the fires are lit and the bread is baking.

Cecil is brief as always.

Enter into no agreement with the Scots queen as yet. But keep her safe. The Spanish fleet at the Netherlands is armed and ready to sail, but it has not sailed. It is still in port. Be ready to bring her to London as fast as you can travel, as soon as I send word.

Cecil

Aletter came, while you were sleeping.” Agnes Livingstone wakes me with a gentle touch to my shoulder in the early morning. “One of the soldiers brought it in.”

My heart leaps. “Give it to me.”

She hands it over. It is a little scrap of paper from Westmorland, his pinched script blurred with rain.

Not even in code. It says to keep my faith and my hopes high, he will not be defeated, he will not forget me. If not this time, then another. I will see Scotland again, I will be free.

I struggle to sit up and wave to Agnes to move the candle closer so I can see if anything more is written on the paper. I was expecting him to tell me when they would come for me, of his rendezvous with the Spanish. This reads like a prayer, and I was expecting a plan. If it had been a note from Bothwell he would have told me where I should be and at what time; he would have told me what I should do. He would not have told me to keep my hopes high or that he would not forget me. We never spoke so to each other.

But if it had been Bothwell’s note, there would have been no mournful tone. Bothwell never thought of me as a tragic princess. He thinks of me as a real woman in danger. He does not worship me as a work of art, a beautiful thing. He serves me as a soldier; he takes me as a hard-hearted man; he rescues me as a vassal serves a monarch in need. I don’t think he ever promised me anything he did not attempt.

If it had been Bothwell, there would have been no tragic farewell. There would have been a hard-riding party of desperate men, coming by night, armed to kill and certain to win. But Bothwell is lost to me, in prison at Malmö, and I have to trust to the protection of such as Shrewsbury, the determination of Norfolk, and the daring of Westmorland, three uncertain, fearful men, God damn them. They are women compared to my Bothwell.

I tell Agnes to hold the candle close and I bring the note up to the flame, hoping that I will see the secret writing of alum or lemon juice turning brown in the heat. Nothing. I scorch my fingers and pull them away.

He has sent me nothing but this note of regret, of nostalgia. It is not a plan; it is a lament, and I can’t bear sentiment.

I don’t know what is happening; this note tells me nothing, it teaches me nothing but dread. I am very afraid.

To comfort myself, without hope of reply, I write to the man who is utterly free of sentiment.

I fear that Westmorland has failed me and the Spanish have not sailed and the Pope’s bull dethroning Elizabeth has not been published. I know that you are no saint, worse: I know that you are a murderer. I know you are a criminal fit for the scaffold and you will undoubtedly burn in hell.

So come. I don’t know who will save me if you do not. Please come. You are, as before, my only hope.

Marie

Hastings comes upon me as I stand on the town walls, looking north, a bitter wind blowing into my face, making my eyes water as if I were weeping, feeling as bleak as the gray day itself. I wish that George was here to put his arm around my waist and make me feel safe once more. But I don’t think he has touched me since the day at Wingfield when I told him that I am the spy that Cecil has placed in his household.

I wish to God I had news from Chatsworth and from my mother and my sister. I wish I had a note from Robert Dudley to tell me that my two boys are safe. I wish, more than anything in the world, I wish that I had a note, a line, a single word of encouragement from Cecil.

“News from Lord Hunsdon,” Hastings says briefly. A paper flutters in his hand. “At last. Thank God we are saved. Dear God, we are saved. Praise God, we are saved.”

“Saved?” I repeat. I glance north again: it is a gesture we all make; one afternoon against the gray horizon I will see the darker gray of six thousand men marching towards us.

He waves his hand northwards. “No need to look for them anymore. They’re not there!” he exclaims.

“They’re not coming!”

“Not coming?”

“They turned back to meet the Spanish at Hartlepool and the Spanish failed them.”

“Failed them?” It seems all I can do is echo him, like a chorus.

Hastings laughs in his joy and snatches my hands as if he would dance with me. “Failed them. Failed them, Madam Bess! The damned Spanish! Failures, as you would expect! Failed to meet them and broke their hearts!”

“Broke their hearts?”

“Some have given up and gone home. Westmorland and Northumberland are riding separately. Their army is dispersing.”

“We are safe?”

“We are safe.”

“It is over?”

“Over!”

Relief makes friends of us. He holds out his arms and I hug him as if he were my brother. “Thank God,”

I say quietly. “And without a battle joined nor a drop of kinsman’s blood spilled.”

“Amen,” he says quietly. “A victory without a battle, a victory without a death. God save the queen.”

“I cannot believe it!”

“It is true. Cecil writes to me himself. We are saved. Against all the odds we are saved. The Protestant queen keeps her throne and the other queen is at our mercy. Her allies delayed, her friends dispersed, her army gone. Thank God, thank the God of our faith.”

“Why have the Spanish not come?”

Hastings shakes his head, still laughing. “Who knows? Who knows? The main thing is they missed their rendezvous; she is ruined. Her army discouraged, her thousands of men melted away. We have won!

Thank God who smiles on us, His own.”

He whirls me round and I laugh out loud.

“My God, there will be profits to be made out of this,” he says, going from piety to prospect in one swift leap.

“Land?”

“Westmorland’s estates and Northumberland’s lands must be confiscated and broken up,” he says.

“They will be charged with treason; their houses will be awarded to those who have been loyal. Who more loyal than you and me, eh, Countess? Shall you get another grand house from this, d’you think?

How would half of Northumberland suit you?”

“It’s no more than I’ve paid out already,” I say.