Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Read online

  ‘Thank you, Babington,’ I say loudly. ‘I am indebted to you. Make sure you take no risks,’ I say softly. ‘This is a graver matter than bringing a naughty dog home.’

  He flushes red, like the little boy he is. ‘I would do anything …’ he stammers.

  ‘Then do this,’ I caution him. ‘Take no grave risks for me. Do only what you can do safely.’

  ‘I would lay down my life for you,’ he says in a rush. ‘When I am grown to be a man I will set you free myself, you can count on me. I will make a plan, we will call it the Babington plot, everyone will know of it, and I will rescue you.’

  I put my fingertips on his bright cheek. ‘And I thank you for that,’ I say quietly. ‘But don’t forget to take care. Think: I need you free and alive to serve me. I shall look for you when you are a man, Anthony Babington.’

  He smiles at that and bows to me, a great sweep of a bow as if I were an empress, and then he dashes off, long-legged like a colt in a springing field. Such a sweet, sweet boy, he makes me think of my own son, little James, and the man that I hope he will be.

  I carry the dog and the packet to my privy room where my two-winged altar stands. I lock the door and look at Babington’s parcel. I see the unbroken seal of Bishop Lesley of Ross, writing from London.

  I am grieved to my heart to tell you that my lords Westmorland and Northumberland and the Duke of Norfolk are all undone. Norfolk has given himself up, and is in the Tower under charge of treason, God help him. Northumberland will join him there as soon as they bring him in. He was raising an army for you in Scotland but your wicked half-brother captured him and sold him to Elizabeth for a ransom. It should have been thirty pieces of silver.

  Westmorland has disappeared, and the word is that he has got away to Europe, perhaps France, perhaps the Netherlands, and the Countess of Northumberland with him. She rode at the head of your army, God bless her, and now she pays a heavy price. She will be a widow in exile. Westmorland’s own wife has gone to their country house in despair and declares she knows nothing of the plot, and wishes only to live quietly in peace. She hopes that the Tudor lust for revenge will pass over her.

  Your betrothed, Norfolk, is almost certain to be charged with treason, God be with him and you. Cecil will revel in this undoing of his enemies and we have to pray that King Philip of Spain or your French cousins exert themselves to ensure your safety while these brave men face accusation and die for you. You are the third point to this plot, and there is no doubt in my mind that any evidence brought against Norfolk will implicate you. Pray God they do not dare to come near you, though all who love you are in danger of their lives.

  I am in constant contact with de Spes, the Spanish ambassador, for your protection. But your loyal servant Roberto Ridolfi, who loaned money to Norfolk and brought me the Spanish gold and the promise of support from the Holy Father, has disappeared off the face of the earth. I am deeply afraid for him. I think we will have to assume that he has been arrested. But why would they arrest him and not come for me? I pray that he is safe in hiding, and not captive or dead.

  I myself am in fear of my own life and safety. The city is like a darkened courtyard at night, filled with spies, every footstep echoes, every passer-by is watched. No-one trusts his neighbour and everyone listens at every corner. Please God that the queen is merciful and Cecil does not destroy these poor men he has captured. Please God they leave you where you are, with your trustworthy guardian. I shall write again as soon as I can. I wish I had better news to send you and greater courage for myself but I remain, your faithful friend and servant, John Lesley.

  I swear I will never fail you, not now, at this time of your need.

  Slowly, I throw the pages one by one into the little grate. They blacken and flame and curl and I watch the smoke drift up the chimney, and my hopes with it. The Northern lords are defeated in my cause, Norfolk is in the Tower. His life will be in the hands of his cousin Elizabeth. I have to believe that she will never destroy her own kinsman, her own cousin. Surely she will not kill him for nothing more than the offence of loving me, of wanting me as his wife.

  I take the diamond ring he sent to me and press it to my lips. We are betrothed to marry, he has given his word, and I mine, and I will not release him. He has sent me this valuable ring and we are sworn. Besides, if we get through this, if he survives the charge and escapes the scaffold, then our case is as good as ever. Why should she not support him as king consort of Scotland? Why should he not have sons with me? Why should they not inherit the thrones of England and Scotland? He is still my best choice. And, anyway, until Bothwell escapes, I have no other.

  I take out the numbered code which is hidden in the Bible at the altar and start to write a letter to my husband, Norfolk. I shall send the letter to Bishop Lesley and hope that he can get it to my beloved. If he will stand by me now, and Elizabeth spares him, we still might get Scotland by agreement when we could not get it by battle.

  Dearest Husband, I will pray for you daily, I shall fast once a week until you are freed. I am yours and you are mine and I shall be yours until death. May God forgive those who come against us, for I never will. Be brave, be faithful, and I will too. Perhaps our friends will rise up for us and we will conquer at last. Perhaps we will win our throne in peace. Perhaps you can persuade Elizabeth, as I will try, to let us marry and restore us, her loving cousins, to our throne. I will pray for that. I will pray for the day when you are my husband in deed as well as sworn promise; and I am Queen of Scotland again.

  Your wife before God, Mary

  I seal it and put it ready for a chance to smuggle it out, and then Agnes comes to prepare me for bed. My nightgown has been badly pressed and I send it away and choose another, then we pray together, then I dismiss her. All the time my thoughts are like a weasel in a cage, twisting this way and that, going round and round. I think of Bothwell, another animal in a cage. I think of him walking the length of his room, turning, and walking back again. I think of him looking out of his barred window at the moonlight on the dark water of Malmö Sound, watching the sky for storms, scratching another mark on the wall to show another night in captivity. This is the eight hundredth and eighty-seventh night we have been apart, more than two and a half years. He will know that tonight, as well as I do. He will need no scratch on the wall to know how long he has been parted from me. He will be a wolf caged, he will be an eagle pinioned. But he will be himself, they will not break him. The wolf is still there, still a wolf despite the cage. The eagle is ready to soar, unchanged. Before I sleep, I write to him, who is sleepless, thinking of me.

  Bothwell, my star is in eclipse, my friends arrested or exiled, my spies in hiding, my ambassador afraid. But I don’t despair. I don’t surrender. I wait for you and I know you will come.

  Don’t expect a reward. Don’t expect anything of me, we know what we are to each other, and it remains our secret.

  I wait for you, and I know you will come.

  Marie

  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 colour draining from her face until she is as white as the page before her.