Philippa Gregory - The other queen

He finally realized what a crisis he was in when he could not hold his usual open house at Christmas. He finally realized that he could not go on pouring his fortune at the feet of the Scots queen. When I told him that there was nothing left in the treasure room, no credit available for us in the whole of Derbyshire, he finally saw the disaster that has been building every day for the past three years, and of which I have warned him, every time that we sent out our bill to the queen and received no payment. I have been thinking every day for three years about what we should do about this unbearable expense, every day for the past three years it has nagged at me like a pain, and so I know what I want. His poverty has come as a surprise to him; to me it is an old enemy.

I have not been idle. Indeed, I have deliberately shifted his debt from the moneylenders to myself, securing his borrowings with my own funds, knowing that he would not be able to repay. Knowing what I want. I know what I will settle for, and I know what I will absolutely reject.

I sit on a straight-backed chair, hands in my lap, attentive, as the lawyer stands before me and explains that the earl’s financial position is straitened through no fault of his own. He has had expenses beyond what any lord could bear, in his service to the queen. I bow my head like an obedient wife and listen. My husband looks out the window as if he can hardly bear to hear his folly described.

The lawyer tells me that in view of the earl’s obligations in terms of our marriage contract, and his later obligations from his borrowing from me, he is prepared to make a proposal. My chief steward glances at me. He has been frightened by my loans; I can feel his hopeful look on my face, but I keep my eyes down.

The lawyer proposes that all the lands that I brought to my lord on marriage shall be restored to me. All the lands that were gifted to me by my dearest husband William St. Loe and my careful husband before him William Cavendish will be returned to me. In return I must forgive my husband his debt to me for the cash loans I have made him, and I must forgive him the support of my children, which he promised on marriage. The agreement we made on marriage is, in effect, to be dissolved. I shall have my own again and he will be responsible neither for me nor for my children.

I could cry with relief, but I say nothing and keep my face still. This is to regain my inheritance; this is to restore to me the fortune I made with husbands who knew the value of money and knew the value of land and kept them safe. This restores to me myself. This makes me once more a woman of property, and a woman of property is a woman in charge of her own destiny. I will own my house. I will own my land. I will manage my fortune. I will be an independent woman. At last I shall be safe again. My husband may be a fool, may be a spendthrift, but his ruin will not drag me down.

“This is a most generous offer,” his lawyer says, when I say nothing.

Actually, no; it is not a generous offer. It is a tempting one. It is designed to tempt me, but if I were to hold out for the cash I am owed, my husband would be forced to sell most of these lands to clear his debts, and I could buy them at rock-bottom prices and show a profit. But, I imagine, this is not the way of an earl and his countess.

“I accept,” I say simply.

“You do?”

They were expecting more haggling. They were expecting a great repining about the loss of money. They expected me to demand coin. Everyone wants money; nobody wants land. Everyone in England but me.

“I accept,” I repeat. I manage a wan smile at my lord, who sits in a sulk, realizing at last how much his infatuation with the Scots queen has cost him. “I would wish to help my husband the earl in this difficult time. I am certain that when the queen is returned to Scotland she will favor him with the repayment of all debts.” This is to rub salt in a raw wound. The queen will never return to Scotland in triumph now, and we all know it.

He smiles thinly at my optimism.

“Do you have a document for me to sign?” I ask.

“I have one prepared,” the lawyer says.

He passes it over to me. It is headed “Deed of Gift” as if my husband the earl had not been forced into repaying me my own again. I will not quibble at this, or at the value of the lands that are overpriced, or at the value of the woodland which has not been properly maintained. There are many items I would argue if I were not eager to finish this, desperate to call my own lands my own again.

“You understand that if you sign this you must provide for your own children?” The lawyer hands me the quill, and I am hard put not to laugh aloud.

Provide for my children! All my husband the earl has ever done is provide for the Queen of Scots. His own children’s inheritance has been squandered on her luxuries. Thank God he will no longer be responsible for me and mine.

“I understand,” I say. “I will provide for myself and for my family, and I will never look to the earl for help again.”

He hears the ring of farewell in this, and his head comes up and he looks at me. “You are wrong if you blame me,” he says with quiet dignity.

“Fool,” I think, but I do not say it. This is the last time I shall call him fool in my thoughts. I promise myself this, as I sign. From this day if he is wise or if he is a fool, he cannot cost me my lands. He can be a fool or not as he pleases, he will never hurt me again. I have my lands back in my own hands and I will keep them safe. He can do what he wants with his own. He can lose all his own lands for love of her, if he so chooses, but he cannot touch mine.

But he is right to hear dismissal in my voice. This was my husband. I gave him my heart, as a good wife should, and I trusted him with the inheritance of my children and all my fortune, as a good wife must. Now I have my heart and my fortune back safely. This is goodbye.

The queen has finally screwed herself to the point that none of us dreamed she would ever reach. She has ordered the death of her cousin and it is to be tomorrow. She summons me to Westminster Palace in the afternoon and I wait among the other men and women in her presence chamber. I have never known the mood so somber at court. Those who have had secret dealings with the other queen are fearful, and with good reason. But even those whose consciences are clear are still nervous. We have become a court of suspicion, we have become a court of doubt. The shadows that Cecil has feared for so long are darkening the very heart of England.

Queen Elizabeth crooks her finger towards me and rises from her throne and leads me to a window overlooking the river where we can stand alone.

“There is no doubt of her guilt,” she says suddenly.

“Her guilt?”

“His, I mean his. His guilt.”

I shake my head. “But he did nothing more than send the money and know of the plans. He did submit himself to you. He did not take arms against you. He obeyed.”

“And then plotted again,” she says.

I bow. I take a little sideways glance at her. Under the white powder her skin is lined and tired. She holds herself like a queen unbowed but for once anyone can see the effort.

“Could you pardon him?” I ask. It is a risk to raise this, but I cannot let him face his death without a word.

“No,” she says. “It would be to put a knife in the hand of every assassin in the country. And what is to stop him plotting again? We cannot trust him anymore. And, God knows she will weave plots till the very moment of her death.”

I feel myself freeze at the threat to her. “You would not accuse her next? You would not allow Cecil to accuse her?”

The queen shakes her head. “She is a queen. She is not subject to my laws unless I know that she has conspired to kill me. There is no evidence that she plotted my death. No other accusation can stand against her.”

“If she could be set free…”

“She will never be free,” she says bluntly. “This plot with Ridolfi has cost her that, at least. The Scots would not have her back now if I begged them, and I can release her to no one. She has shown herself as my enemy. I shall keep her imprisoned forever.”

“In the Tower?”

The face she turns to me is hard like a basilisk’s. “I shall leave her with you for the rest of her life,” she says. “That can be your punishment as well as hers.”

Istumble from her presence chamber before she can curse me with worse, and I go home to my London house. I cannot sleep. I get up from my bed and walk the quiet streets. No one is about but whores and spies and neither of them trouble me tonight.

I find my way to the Tower. The thick walls are black against the silver quietness of the river, and then I see the royal barge coming swiftly downriver with the royal standard discreetly lashed. The queen too is restless tonight.

The barge goes silently in the watergate, where she herself once went in as a traitor and cried in the rain and said she would go no farther. I walk to the little barred gate in the great wall, and a porter recognizes me and lets me in. Like a ghost I stand in the shadow of the great walls and see the queen go quietly into the Tower. She has come to see the duke, her cousin, her closest kin, on the very eve of his death. There is no doubt in my mind that she will forgive him. No one could send Thomas Howard to his death if they had seen his pride humbled, and his handsome face lined with pain, but at the very door of his chamber, she shies away. She cannot bear to see him, but she decides to spend the night under the same roof: he in his cell, she in the royal chamber. He will never even know that she is there, sharing his agony. She knows he will be awake: praying and preparing for his death at dawn, writing to his children, begging them to care for each other. He has no idea that she is so close to him as he readies himself for death on her orders. But she is housed beside him, sleepless as he is sleepless, watching for dawn through the windows of the same building, hearing the light rain drizzle on the same roof. God knows what is going through her mind; she must be in an agony of indecision to undertake such a vigil with him.