house I am thrown on the world without protection.”
“Just like a queen.” She nods. “A queen has to have a kingdom and without it she has nothing.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And does your fear of losing your house mean that you see your husbands as providers, and nothing more?” she asks inquisitively.
“I loved my husbands because they were good to me and left me their fortunes,” I admit. “And I love my children because they are my dearest own children and because they are my heirs. They will go on after I am gone. They will be heirs to my fortune, they will own my houses and wealth, please God they will add to them, and they will have titles and honor.”
“Some would say you are a woman without a tender heart,” she remarks. “A woman with the heart of a man.”
“I am not a woman who relishes the uncertainty of a woman’s life,” I reply stoutly. “I am not a woman who glories in being dependent. I would rather earn my own fortune than curry the favor of a rich man and look to him for my safety.”
As she is about to reply, the door opens behind me, and I know that it is my husband the earl. I know it before I even turn to see, because of the way her face lights up at the sight of him. I know that she would shine her smile on any man. She has all the discrimination of a whore. Any man or boy, from my eight-year-old page boy Babington to my forty-two-year-old husband: to them all she is equally delightful. She was even gaily flirtatious with Hastings in the days before he left.
I cannot say how galling it is for me to see the intimacy of her smile and the way she extends her hand, and how utterly infuriating to see him bow over her hand and kiss her fingers and hold them for a moment. There is nothing improper in her behavior or his. Her gesture is queenly and he is a restrained courtier. God knows, there is far grosser flirtation between Queen Elizabeth and any new arrival to her presence chamber, more bawdiness in the court too. Elizabeth can be downright lustful and her constant hunger for flattery is a byword amongst her courtiers. In contrast, this queen, though far more desirable, never strays from the most enchanting manners.
But I suppose I am weary to my soul of seeing her in my rooms, seated in my best chair, curtained by her own cloth of state, with my husband bowing to her as if she were an angel descended to illuminate, rather than a most unreliable woman.
“A messenger has come from London,” he says. “He carries letters for you. I thought you might want to see them at once.”
“Indeed I do.” She rises from her seat and so we all have to jump up too. “I will read them in my rooms.”
She throws a smile at me. “I shall see you at dinner, Lady Bess,” she dismisses me. But she turns to my husband. “Will you come and look at what they say?” she invites him. “I would appreciate your advice.”
I press my lips together to swallow words that I should not even think. Such as: What help could he possibly give you, since he thinks of nothing and plans ahead not at all? How could he ever choose any course when he does not know what he is worth, what it would cost him, and if he can afford it? Do either of you know that he is sliding into debt every day? What help would you seek from a fool? Unless you are a fool yourself?
My husband the earl, whom now I inwardly call my husband the fool, gives her his arm and they go out together, their heads close. He has forgotten either to greet me or to say farewell. I feel the eyes of my ladies on me and I sit down on my stool and snap my fingers at them. “Carry on,” I say. “Sheets don’t mend themselves, you know.”
1570, FEBRUARY, TUTBURY CASTLE: MARY
Bothwell,
You will laugh to read this as I laugh while I write. My half brother Moray is dead, and they want me back as queen. I will be back on my throne this summer and have you freed the next day. I always was lucky, and the prison that could keep you has not been built.