her on the throne of England, then George and I are alike lost. But equally, if the English army reach us first, then they will take the Queen of Scots from us, since they don’t trust us to guard her, and George and I are lost, dishonored and accused.
My greatest regret, my deep, deep regret in these anxious days, is that we ever agreed to take the Scots queen, that I thought we could manage her, that I thought I could manage my husband with her in the house. My second sorrow is that when he said he would hand all my lands back to me to punish me for doubting his abilities, that I did not say quickly, “Yes!” and get the deed signed then and there. For if—God forbid—if George is kidnapped by the Scots, or accused by the English, or killed in battle, or runs away with the Scots queen for love of her, then either way alike, I shall lose Chatsworth, my house at Chatsworth, my beloved house of Chatsworth. And I would almost rather die myself than lose Chatsworth.
I can hardly believe that having spent all my life marrying for advantage, gathering small parcels of land, storing small pieces of treasure, at the end I should have one of the greatest houses in England and risk it on the whim of the good will of Elizabeth and the good behavior of her cousin, the other queen. When did Elizabeth ever show good will to another woman? When did Mary ever behave well? My fortune rests on two women and I would trust neither of them. My fortune is in the keeping of a man who serves one and loves the other, and is a fool into the bargain. And I must be the greatest fool of all three of them to be sinking into a mire of their making.
1569, NOVEMBER, COVENTRY: GEORGE
News at last from Durham, but no good news for us. The army of the North is marching south. They heard their Mass in Durham cathedral and celebrated their triumph with a great Te Deum, and have now set out with their banners in their strength down the great north road. We must assume they are coming to free the queen. They were seen on the road at Ripon and are said to have four thousand footmen, but their greatest strength is their horse. They have nearly two thousand mounted men, and these are the dazzling young gentlemen of the houses of the North, hardened by years of border raids, trained in the joust, desperate for battle, passionate about their faith, and all of them in love with the Queen of Scots. They are led by Westmorland and Northumberland; even the Countess of Northumberland rides with the army, swearing that we all might as well die in battle than miss this one great chance to restore the true faith.
When I hear this, I truly waver. I feel my heart leap for a moment at the thought of the banners waving and the march of the army for the true church. If only I could be with them, my friends, if only I could have their conviction. If only I could release the queen and ride out with her to join them. What a day that would be! To ride out with the queen to meet her army! But when I imagine this, I have to bow my head and remember that I owe my duty to Queen Elizabeth, I have given my word as a Talbot. I am incapable of dishonor. I would choose death before dishonor. I have to.
Meanwhile Hastings continues to assure me that Elizabeth’s army is on the way north, but no one can say why they are taking so long, nor where they are. My own men are restless; they don’t like this dirty little town of Coventry; I have had to pay them only half their wages since we are desperately short of coin. Bess does her best but the food supplies are poor, and half the men are longing for their homes and the other half yearn to join our enemies. Some of them are already slipping away.
Lord Hunsdon—faithful cousin to the queen—is pinned down by Queen Mary’s supporters in Newcastle; he can’t get west to relieve York, which is on the brink of desperation. The whole of the northeast has declared for Mary. Hunsdon is marching cautiously down the coast, hoping to get to Hull, at least.