The Other Queen Read online

  Before Cecil’s man can say or do anything, I stride to her side. “This is a spy from London,” I say rapidly in a whisper. “Tell me quickly. Have you been plotting? Is there a plot for you to run away? Has a man called Gerard spoken to you? My life depends on this.”

  She is so quick-witted, she sees at once the danger, the waiting man, my urgent tone. She replies at once, without prevarication, in a quick whisper. “No. I swear. I have never even heard of him.”

  “Bess did not speak to you of a plot to free you?”

  “Bess? On my life, no.”

  I bow. “I shall have to delay our ride, if you will forgive me,” I say loudly.

  “I shall walk him round the grounds until you are ready,” she says formally, and turns for her horse.

  I wait till her horse is held steady before her and I can lift her into the saddle. Even with Cecil’s man waiting to question my wife, I cannot bear to let anyone else lift Queen Mary and hold her for that brief, spellbinding moment. She smiles down at me.

  “Soyez brave,”she whispers. “I am innocent of this. Elizabeth has no evidence against me, and she dare do nothing against me. We just have to be brave and wait.”

  I nod, and she turns her horse and rides out of the yard. As she passes Cecil’s spy she flicks him the most mischievous little smile and nods her head to his low bow. When he comes up she is gone, but his face is a picture.

  “I didn’t know…,” he stammers. “Good God, she is beautiful. My God, her smile…”

  “Exactly,” I say grimly. “And that is one of the reasons I pay for double guards, why I never cease watching, and why I can promise you that there are no plots in my household.”

  We find Bess, as I knew we would, in the room which should be the muniments room, the room to store the records of the family, pedigrees, peerages, records of the joust and standards, and the like. Under Bess’s command all this history of honor has been discarded and the shelves and drawers are filled instead with records of the income and expenditure from Chatsworth, yields from the flocks of sheep, timber from the woods, lead from the mines, stone from the quarries, coal production, ship-building reports, and the traveling chest which she takes with her everywhere is filled with all the records of her other lands and estates. These are all mine now, they came to me on marriage. They are all in my name and ownership as her husband. But Bess was so perturbed at the thought that my stewards would manage the estates—though they would do it perfectly well—that she has gone on keeping the records of her old properties, while I merely collect the income. It makes no difference to me. I am not a tradesman whose pleasure is weighing his gold. But Bess likes to know how her lands are doing; she likes to be involved in the tedious business of shepherding, quarrying, mining, and shipping. She likes to see all the business letters and reply to them herself. She likes to add everything up and see her profit. She cannot help herself. It is her great pleasure, and I allow it to her. Though I cannot help but find it far beneath the behavior one would expect of a countess of England.

  I can see that Herbert Gracie is a little taken aback to find Bess in her lair, surrounded with books written up in copperplate and with two clerks heads down and scribbling to her dictation. So I take the moment of his discomfort to step towards her, take her hand, and kiss her, and so whisper in her ear, “Beware.”

  She has not the quick understanding of the Scots queen. “Why, what’s the matter?” she asks, out loud like a fool.

  “This is Herbert Gracie; he comes from Cecil.”

  At once, she is all smiles. “You are welcome,” she says. “And how is the Master Secretary?”

  “He is well,” he says. “But he asked me to speak with you in private.”

  She nods to the clerks, who pick up their pens, ready to go. “Here?” she asks, as if a countess should do business at a clerk’s office.

  “We’ll go to the gallery,” I interrupt, and so I get a chance to lead the way with Bess and try to warn her again: “He is inquiring after a plot to free the queen. He says you are in it. With a man called Thomas Gerard.” Her little gasp tells me everything. “Wife,” I almost groan, “what have you done?”

  She doesn’t answer me; she ignores me, though I am risking my own neck by whispering to her. She spins around to young Mr. Gracie, standing on the stair below her, and puts out her hand to him, with her frank, honest smile.

  “My husband tells me that Cecil knows of the Gerard plot,” she says quickly. “Is this why you are here?”

  I stifle my horror at this plain dealing. If only she would take advice from me; if only she would not act as she does, always so independently.

  He takes her hand as if she were sealing a bargain with him, and nods, watching her intently. “Yes, it is about the Gerard plot.”

  “You must think me very foolish,” she says. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I was going to tell my husband today; he knows nothing of this.”

  A quick glance from Mr. Gracie’s brown eyes to my horror-struck face confirms this well enough, and then he is back to Bess.

  “My servant, John Hall, came to tell me that someone had tried to bribe him to lead the Scots queen riding onto the moor, where she would be met by her friends and taken away.”

  Cecil’s man nods again. It strikes me that all this is old news to him, he knows all about it already; what he is listening for is to hear Bess lie. This is not an inquiry; this is an entrapment.

  “Tell the truth, wife,” I warn her. “Don’t try to protect your servants. This is important.”

  She turns her pale face to me. “I know,” she says. “I will tell Mr. Gracie the whole truth, and he will tell my good friend Mr. Cecil that I am honest and loyal as I ever was.”

  “What did you do, when your servant John Hall came to you?” Mr. Gracie asks her.

  “I asked him who else was in the plot, and he named a Mr. Rolleston and Sir Thomas Gerard and said that there might be another, greater man behind it all.”

  “And what did you do?”

  Bess looks at him with her frank smile. “Now, I daresay that you will think me a scheming woman, but I thought that if I sent John Hall back to the men with word that the plot could go ahead, he could discover the names of the plotters and if there was a greater man behind them. And then I could tell Master Cecil the whole plot, and not a small worthless strand of it.”

  “And has he reported back to you?”

  “I have not seen him today,” she says, and then she looks at him in sudden understanding. “Oh, have you taken him up?”

  Gracie nods. “And his confederates.”

  “He came straight to me though they had bribed him,” she says. “He is loyal. I would vouch for him.”

  “He will be questioned but not tortured,” Gracie says. He is matter-of-fact; I note that torture is now a routine part of Cecil’s questioning, and it can be mentioned in front of a lady in an earl’s own house without remark. We have come to this: that a man can be taken without warrant, without a word from a justice of the peace, without the permission of his master, and he can be tortured on the say-so of Cecil. This is not how it was. This is not English justice. This is not how it should be.

  “And your intention was only to discover the full plot before you alerted your husband or Secretary Cecil?” he confirms.

  Bess widens her eyes. “Of course,” she says. “What else? And John Hall will tell you, those were my exact instructions to him. To lead them on and report to me.”

  Herbert Gracie is satisfied, and Bess is plausible. “Then I must ask you to forgive my intrusion and I shall leave.” He smiles at me. “I promised it would only be a moment.”

  “But you must eat!” Bess presses him.

  “No, I must go. My lord expects me back at once. I was only to ascertain what you have kindly told me, take the relevant men into custody, and bring them back to London. I do thank you for your hospitality.” He bows to Bess, he bows to me, he t