William Cecil plays his long game; he keeps quiet. Outwardly he agrees with the queen that an attack on a fellow royal cannot be borne, but he points out that any invasion of Scotland would probably lead to the Scots lords assassinating the queen at once. They would panic, he says smoothly, looking into Elizabeth’s panic-stricken face. Far better for England to register a temperate protest, negotiate with the self-proclaimed regent, Lord Moray, Mary’s faithless half brother, and try to get the baby sent south when it is convenient.
Of course, the Protestant lords of Scotland are never going to hand their prince over to a dyed-in-the-wool papist such as Margaret Douglas. Of course, Lady Margaret, having ruined one son, should never be entrusted with another. Elizabeth is so frustrated by events that she will not speak to her great advisor or her beloved cousin; and I have more grounds than ever to predict that she will turn towards us. She has to turn to us. What other family is left to her?
CHEQUERS, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE,
SUMMER 1567
There is Katherine, imprisoned at Gosfield Hall, innocent of any crime, beloved by half of England, her boy being raised as a royal Seymour in hiding. There is Mary, imprisoned at Lochleven, probably a murderer, certainly an adulterer, hated by half of England and a horror to her own coreligionists, her boy held by her half brother, her husband on the run. Who is the better choice of heir? Which is the better choice for England? Of course Elizabeth in her monstrous perversity supports Mary and calls for her release.
The Scots take her money but make no progress, Cecil smoothly blocks any hopes of an English invasion of Scotland. Elizabeth’s resolve falters. Cecil suggests that she goes on progress, Robert Dudley promises her an idyllic summer—why should she not be happy? Elizabeth sets the disaster of her cousin to one side and rides out beside her lover, running away from trouble again.
CHEQUERS, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE,
SUMMER 1567
The swallows arrive in the gardens of Chequers and fly low in the evening. I can hear the nightingale singing in the wood at twilight. Summer is the hardest time to be imprisoned. I feel as if everything is free and living its life, singing at dusk, but me. I feel as if every living thing is seeking its mate and finding joy—everything, everyone—but me and my sister.
I am very low this evening. I usually try to read, or decorate my cramped room with drawings on the walls, or study my Bible or my sister Jane’s writings, but this evening I stand on a chair at the open window and rest my chin on my hands and look out over the darkening horizon to where the solitary star comes out like a pinhead of silver against a dark blue silk gown, and I know that I am far from my family and far from my friends, and I will never see the man that I love again. Never in this life.
I can feel my face is wet with my tears and I know that this is no way for me to spend the evening. I will feel no better for this in the morning, I will have learned nothing by diving to the depth of my sorrow. I am not the sort of woman who says that she always feels better for a good cry. I rather despise that sort of woman. I usually keep myself busy and occupied, and avoid moments of grief for my loss of liberty and the loss of my sisters and the terrible blight that has been laid on our family because we were born Tudor. I pat my face with my sleeve and I search in myself for Jane’s holy certainty, or even my mother’s flinty determination. I cannot be tenderhearted and vulnerable like Katherine or I will simply despair like her.
I am about to swing the window shut and put myself to bed to try to sleep through to another day, so that these lingering lonely hours of the night are escaped. I reach out and put my hand on the latch of the window and then I hear horses coming down the road, several horses, perhaps six, a troop of men riding down the London road to Chequers. These are the hoofbeats that I have waited for. I strain my ears to listen. Yes, definitely, they have not gone past. They turn in towards the house and now I am leaning out of the window, staring into the half-light to see if there is a standard going before them, and whose colors are coming at a brisk trot at this time of the evening.
If someone has come for me, out of the summer dusk, someone determined to see us free, someone taking a chance with Elizabeth on progress and Cecil snatching a week at his new home, then I will go with him, whoever he is. If he takes me to poverty in France or Spain, if he involves me in danger and rebellion, then I will go. I will not spend another summer here, caged like one of Katherine’s linnets. I will not stay. I don’t care if we die as we ride to the coast, or if our ship is captured and sunk at sea. I would rather drown than spend another night in this little bed looking at the white ceiling and my scratched drawings on the walls. I would rather die tonight than live another day in prison.
The riders come around the bend in the track, and now I can see them. The Tudor standard goes before them. It is no outlaw, but a message from Elizabeth. It is brought by a lord riding among his guard on the queen’s business. At last, at last, this must be my freedom. It can only be that she is setting me free. Any other command and it would be a single messenger at a leisurely pace. At last, God be praised, God be praised for it, she is setting me free and I am going to ride out from this damned house and I will never set foot in it again.
I slam the window shut and jump down from the stool. I shake my maid, who is dozing in a chair. “Do my hair,” I command her. “Give me my best hood. Sir William will knock on the door at any moment. Open it to him. He is coming to tell me that we are to be set free.”
She flings open the chest and brings out my hood and I stand with my heart pounding as she pins up my blond hair, and then straightens my hood on top. I take my wedding ring off my finger, kiss it, put it on a chain, and tell her to fasten it round my neck. She tightens the laces of my gown at the sleeves and on the kirtle, and I hold my arms wide like a little doll, so she can settle the bodice into place, and just as she says, “Perfect, your ladyship,” there is a knock on the door and I meet her eyes and smile and say: “At last. God be praised. At last.”
I take my seat on my chair and she opens my door, curtseys to Sir William and steps back to present him to me. He comes into the room and bows low. Behind him I see the captain who led his men to the front door, his bonnet in his hand; he bows as he sees me and I incline my head.
“Lady Mary.” Sir William bows. “Here’s a sudden change.”
I cannot stop myself smiling. “I heard the horses,” I say.
“They have come to take you from us,” Sir William says, flustered. “With no warning, of course. But we will be sorry to see you go, your ladyship.”
I wriggle to the edge of the chair and drop to my feet. I put out my hand to him and he goes down on one knee to kiss it. “God bless you,” he says huskily. “God be praised that you are free.”
“You have been a kind host,” I say. “But of course, I am glad to go.”
“You are to pack your things and leave in the morning,” he says. “I hope that will be convenient.”
I would walk out of here and leave the old bed, the chair, the little table, and the stool tucked underneath it. I would leave my clothes and walk out barefoot in my shift if I could go to Bradgate tonight.
“Perfectly,” I say.
The commander of the guard behind Sir William bows and says: “We will leave after breakfast, your ladyship. At seven of the clock, if that is convenient to you?”
I incline my head. “Perfectly,” I say again.
Sir William hesitates. “You don’t ask where you are going?”
I give a little laugh. I had thought only of my freedom. I have dreamed so long of getting out of here that I had not thought of my destination. I had thought only that I was riding out of that stone gateway and that I can go anywhere. I will want to go to London and visit my husband, Thomas, if he is still imprisoned. If he has been freed, I shall go to wherever he is—Kent, I suppose. I hardly care. All I want is my freedom. I want to be on the road, I hardly care where it leads. “Of course, I should have asked. Where am I going?”