The other queen

1570, SEPTEMBER, CHATSWORTH: MARY

B—

I will not fail now. This is my chance. I will not fail you. You will see me on my throne again and I shall see you at the head of my armies.

M

This is my great chance to seduce Cecil and I prepare as carefully as a general on campaign. I do not greet him as he arrives; I let Bess supervise the dinner and so wait until he has rested from his journey, dined well, drunk a little, and then I plan my entrance to the Chatsworth dining hall.

The doorway faces west, so that when I enter, the great doors thrown open behind me, the sun comes in with me, and he is dazzled by the light. I am wearing my signature black and white, the white veil that suits my face so well, sitting square on my forehead, just a few tendrils of hair curling around my face. My gown is cut tight, so tight I can hardly breathe—these months in prison have made me fatter than I like—but at least I have the exaggerated curves of a fertile young woman; I am not a spinster stick like the queen he serves.

I wear a ruby crucifix at my throat: it demonstrates the pure whiteness of my skin and will please the Bishop of Ross. My slippers are ruby red too, as is the discreet half-hidden petticoat that Cecil will see as I lift my gown over the step and show the prettiness of my ankles and my embroidered stockings. The mixture of devotion with the ruby red cross and provocation with the ruby red heels and scarlet petticoat should be enough to muddle most men into a slight fever of lust and respect.

Cecil, Mildmay, Ross, and Shrewsbury all rise and bow low as I enter. I greet Shrewsbury as my host first—it gives me such confidence to feel his hand tremble at my touch—and then I turn to Cecil.

He is weary—that’s the first thing that strikes me about him, weary and clever. His dark eyes are set deep in a lined face; he looks like a man who keeps his own counsel. And he does not look impressed by either the ruby cross or the pretty shoes. I smile at him but he does not respond. I see him taking me in, studying me like a secret message, and I see the rise of a little color to his sallow cheeks.

“I am so pleased to meet you at last,” I say in French, my voice very low and sweet. “I have heard so much about the good counsel that you give my cousin. I have wished for so long that I had a wise advisor for myself.”

“I do my duty” is all he says, coldly.

I move on to Sir Walter Mildmay and then I greet my bishop with affection. Sometime in this visit we will seize a moment for him to tell me, face to face, the progress of Ridolfi’s plot, “the Great Enterprise of England,” and the news of my betrothed and my supporters. But in the meantime I have to pretend that we write nothing, that we plan nothing, that great deeds do not shimmer between us like exciting ghosts. I greet him like a queen quietly pleased to see her ambassador after a long silence.

They have papers for me to sign and seal, and Shrewsbury suggests that we go to the smaller family room so that we can be more private.

I take Cecil’s arm and let him lead me to the privy chamber. I smile up at him and laugh at his remarks about the journey. I tell him of my own ride to Wingfield and back again and how much I love to ride out. I tell him that my pantaloons for riding have scandalized Bess but that she allows me out in them after I told her that they are worn by my mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici herself. This makes him laugh, reluctantly, like a man who seldom does so. I ask him attentively after the health of the queen, and I look surprised and interested when he tells me of the Anjou proposal.

He asks me what I think of the bridegroom and I twinkle at him and let him see that I am laughing at the thought of it, and yet I answer him seriously enough and say that I know nothing against young Henri. Indeed, he was offered once to me, though I found it possible to refuse the honor. He smiles down at me; I know I have amused him. I slide my hand a little farther into his arm. He bends his head to say something quietly to me, and I look up at him from under my eyelashes, and I know that this man is for the winning, and I can win him.

And all the while I am thinking, In his doublet he carries the document that will set me free. All the while I am thinking, This is the man that killed my mother. All the while I am thinking, I have to make him like me, I have to make him trust me. Best of all if I could make him hopelessly besotted with me.