The other queen

1570, JANUARY, TUTBURY CASTLE: GEORGE

The wintry days drag by. Hastings is still here, spending his time riding out to supervise the hangings of men named as rebels and given to the gallows as a pagan sacrifice to some ruthless god. I can hardly bear to leave the grounds of the castle; I cannot meet the accusing eyes of the widows in Tutbury. Inside, of course, there is nothing for me to do.

Bess keeps busy with the reports from her stewards and her endless books of accounts. She is anxious to get back to Chatsworth and summon Henry and her other children. But we cannot leave until Hastings takes the Scots queen, and we all wait upon our orders.

When they come, they are not what we expected. I go to find Bess in the little room she has commandeered for her records, with the letter from Cecil in my hand.

“I am ordered to court,” I say quietly.

She looks up at once from her desk, a ledger still open before her, ink drying on the quill pen, the color draining from her face until she is as white as the page before her. “Are you to be charged?”

“Your dear friend Cecil neglects to tell me,” I say bitterly. “Have you heard from him privately? Do you know? Am I to go straight to the Tower? Is it a charge of treason? Have you provided him with evidence against me?”

Bess blinks at my savage tone and glances towards the door. She too fears eavesdroppers now. The spies must be spying on the spies. “He does not write to me anymore,” she says. “I don’t know why. Perhaps he does not trust me either.”

“I have to go at once,” I say. “The messenger who brought this rode with a guard of six men. They are eating in the kitchen and waiting to escort me to London.”

“You are under arrest?” she whispers.

“It is wonderfully unclear. He says I am to ride with an escort at once,” I say wryly. “Whether this is to ensure my safety or to ensure my arrival they don’t specify. Will you pack a saddlebag for me?”

At once she gets to her feet and starts to bustle towards our bedroom. I put my hand on her arm. “Bess, if I go to the Tower, I will do my best to save your fortune from the wreck of my own. I will send for a lawyer; I will settle my fortune upon you. You will not be the widow of a dead traitor. You will not lose your house.”

She shakes her head and her color rises. “I don’t think of my fortune now,” she says, her voice very low. “I think of you. My husband.” Her face is strained with fear.

“You think of me before your house?” I say, trying to make a joke of it. “Bess, this is love indeed.”

“It is love,” she emphasizes. “Itis , George.”

“I know,” I say softly. I clear my throat. “They say I am not allowed to say goodbye to the Queen of Scots. Will you give her my compliments and tell her that I am sorry I cannot say farewell?”

At once I feel her stiffen. “I will tell her,” she says coldly, and she moves away.

I should not go on, but I have to go on. These may be my last words to the Queen of Scots. “And will you tell her to take care, and warn her that Hastings will be a rigorous guardian. Warn her against him. And tell her that I am sorry, very sorry.”

Bess turns away. “I will pack for you,” she says icily, “but I can’t remember all of that. I shall tell her that you are gone, that you may be tried for treason for your kindness to her, that she has cost us our fortune and our reputation and she may cost your life. I don’t think I can bring myself to tell her that you are very, very sorry for her. I think the words would make me sick.”