Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (371 page)

1569, NOVEMBER, COVENTRY: GEORGE

N
ews 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. But there are terrible rumors that the Spanish might land in Hull, and the city would certainly declare for them. The Earl of Sussex is trapped in York; he dare not march out. All of Yorkshire has declared for the army of the North. Sir George Bowes alone has held out against them, and raised a siege at the little market town of Barnard Castle. It is the only town to declare for Elizabeth, the only town in the North of England to prefer her claims to those of the Queen of Scots, but even so, every day his men slip out of the castle gates and run away to join the Papists.

Every day that Elizabeth’s army dawdles reluctantly towards us, the army of the North grows in numbers and confidence and marches onward, faster and faster, greeted as liberating heroes. Every day that Elizabeth’s army delays, the army of the North marches closer to us, and every day increases the chance that the army of the North will get here first and take the Scots queen, and then the war is over without a battle, and Elizabeth is defeated in her own country by her own cousin without the rattle of a sword in her defense. A fine ending to a short reign! A quick conclusion to a brief
and unsuccessful experiment with a spinster queen of the Protestant faith! This will be the third child of Henry who has failed to endure. Why should we not try the grandchild of his sister? This will be the second disastrous Protestant Tudor; why should we not go back to the old ways?

Against all this, Bess tells me a little gossip from her steward at Chatsworth, which gives me a tiny glimpse of hope in these hopeless times. He reports to her that half a dozen of the tenant farmers who ran off when the standard of the North was raised have come home, footsore but proud, saying that the rebellion is over. They say that they have marched under the banner of the five wounds of Christ, that they have seen the Host raised in the cathedral at Durham, that the cathedral has been reconsecrated and all their sins have been forgiven, that the good times are here, and wages will be raised, and the Queen of Scots will take the throne of England. They have been greeted as heroes in their villages and now everyone believes that the battle is over and the Queen of Scots has won.

This gives me a moment’s hope that perhaps these simple, trusting people will be satisfied with the capture of Durham and the establishment of the old kingdom of the North and disband. Then we can parley. But I know I am whistling in the dark. I wish to God I had some reliable news. I wish I could be sure that I will be able to keep her safe.

Hastings predicts that the Northern lords are going to establish a kingdom of the North and wait for Elizabeth’s army on the ground of their own choosing. They have the advantage of numbers; they will choose the battlefield as well. They have cavalry, and Elizabeth’s army has next to no horse. The young riders of the North will cut the apprentices of London to pieces. Hastings is grim at this prospect, but anything that delays the battle is good news for me. At least I will not have to face my own countrymen, my friends Westmorland and Percy, in battle today or tomorrow. I am dreading the moment that I have to command men from Derbyshire to sharpen their sickles against men of Westmorland and Northumberland. I am dreading the
day that I will have to command men to fire on their cousins. I am certain that my men will refuse.

I abhor the thought of this war. I thought that God might have called me to defend my home against the Spanish or the French, but never did I dream I would find myself in a battle against fellow Englishmen. To threaten a fellow countryman, led by a man I have known for all my life as my friend, will break my heart. Good God, Westmorland and Northumberland have been companions and advisors and kin to me for all my life. We are third cousins and in-laws and stepcousins to each other through five generations. If those two and their kin are out under the flag of the five wounds of Christ, it is unbelievable to me that I am not at their side. I am their brother; I should be beside them.

The battle will come and then I shall have to look over my horse’s ears at their standards, at their beloved, familiar standards, and see them as the enemy. The day will come when I shall see the honest English faces of the other side, and still I shall have to tell my men to prepare to stand against a murderous charge, but it won’t be today. Thank God it won’t be today. But the only reason it is not today is their choice. They are choosing their moment. We are defeated already.

1569, CHRISTMAS EVE, COVENTRY: MARY

M
y chaplain locks my door and my household and I celebrate Mass on this most special night, as if we were Christians in hiding in the catacombs of Rome, surrounded by the ungodly. And like them we know, with utter conviction, that though they seem so powerful, though they seem to dominate the world, it will be our vision that triumphs and our faith that will grow until it is the only one.

He finishes with the bidding prayers and then he wraps up the sacred goods, puts them in a box, and quietly leaves the room. Only his whispered “Merry Christmas” stirs me from my prayer.

I rise up from the kneeler and blow out the candles before the little altar. “Merry Christmas,” I say to Agnes and Mary, and I kiss them on each cheek. The members of my household file out, one by one, pausing to bow or curtsy to me and whisper their blessings. I smile as they go, and then the room is silent, warm.

“Open the window,” I say to Agnes, and I lean out. The stars are sharp as diamonds against the blackness of the sky. I look for the north star and think that my army will be sleeping beneath it, on its way to me. A story Bothwell once told me comes to my mind and I take in a breath of cold, cold air, and whistle a long cold whistle like the howl of a gale out into the night.

“What are you doing?” Mary asks, throwing a shawl around my shoulders.

“I am whistling up a storm,” I say, smiling at the thought of Bothwell, who whistled up his own storm the night before Carberry Hill. “I am whistling up a storm that is going to blow me all the way to my throne.”

1569, DECEMBER, COVENTRY: BESS

A
cold season and little chance of much joy at a Christmas feast for my household this year. This is the second Christmas for me and my lord that has been spoilt by this other queen. I wish to God I had never heard of her, never mind thinking I could make a profit from serving her. Far from my home, and separated from my children, with no news of my mother and sister or my house, we wait in anxiety for the arrival of the army of the North. Hastings sends out scouts three times a day to see if we can get at least some idea of where it is now, and when it will be upon us, but half the time they are riding blind in mist and rain and could be within feet of the Northern army and not see it.

The town is fortified as well as it can be but there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that we cannot hold out a siege against an army of nearly six thousand men. We have a handful of men whose loyalty we cannot depend on, nor will the citizens of Coventry defend us. They want to see the queen freed too. We are not popular here; we are an army of occupation.

I cannot stop fretting for my mother and sister at Chatsworth. My girls are safe in the south, in service with friends, learning how to run great households and making the friendships which will serve them in later life, and my boy Charles is at school. But the Northern army could march through Chatsworth, and though my mother has the determination and the courage to order them off my land, what if the
soldiers take offense? I worry too for Henry, my son, and Gilbert, my stepson, who are both at court. I cannot stop thinking that they may take it into their heads to volunteer to march with the queen’s army and come north against her enemies. If my Henry is in a battle with the Northern army, I swear I will behead the Queen of Scots myself. I am sure Robert Dudley will not let him go; I am sure the queen would forbid it. But over and over again I start up in the night, certain that my boy will have volunteered for danger and is even now marching north to meet an unstoppable army of traitors.

Hastings has a letter from London, promising relief and pretending to optimism, but it brings the disastrous news that Barnard Castle has fallen to the army of the North. Sir George Bowes was holding out for the queen but his men risked their necks and jumped down from the castle walls to join the rebels. One of them even broke his leg in his determination to change sides, and the townspeople themselves threw open the gates and called the rebels in, singing the old anthems as they advanced. They held Mass in the parish churches; they brought out the hidden stoups for the holy water, the gold, the silver, even the pictures and the stained-glass windows. They declared the return of the faith at the market cross and all the farmers’ wives brought their children to be properly baptized at last.

It will be as it was before, I know it: the church at the center of life, the monasteries and the abbeys rich with their wealth, the faith restored. It is as if the world is knitting itself back together, like a skilled weaver repairing an unraveled cloth. I can hardly believe that I will not walk backwards myself, back past my third good husband, William St. Loe, back past my second good husband, William Cavendish, who gave me Chatsworth and stole the gold candlesticks from the abbey for me, past my first manor, all the way back to my childhood when I married my first husband to escape my life as a poor girl with no prospects at Hardwick and my mother did not even hold the deeds to our home.

I remark to the queen at dinner that every night in this terrible
time of waiting, I dream that I am going backwards to my childhood, and her face lights up as if this were a wonderful prospect. “If I could wish anything I would be back in France,” she says. “I would be a little princess in France once again.”

I smile weakly, as if in agreement. God knows, I wish she was there too.