1569, Winter, Tutbury Castle: Bess

      We do it. I do it. By using the men I have brought from Chatsworth – good men who have served me well, who know how I like things done – by using the hard-working women that I recruit from Tutbury and train into doing things my way, by scattering around the handsome things I have brought from Chatsworth, by patching and nailing and cleaning and thatching as best we can. By hanging tapestries over damp plaster, by lighting fires in blocked chimneys and burning out vermin, by glazing some windows and blocking up others, by curtaining doorways and hammering down loose floorboards; in the end we make a place that, if not fit for a queen, cannot be – of itself – grounds for complaint. The queen herself, Queen Elizabeth, sends me goods from the Tower for the extra comfort of her cousin. Second-rate I have to say, but anything which makes these dark empty rooms look a little less like a dungeon and more like a house must be regarded as a vast improvement.

      It is a great job of work that I and my workmen have done. I don’t expect thanks for it, a nobleman like my husband the earl thinks that houses build themselves, sweep their own floors, and furniture strolls in and arranges itself. But I take a pleasure and a pride in my work. Others in this kingdom build ships and plan ventures far away, raid like pirates, discover new countries and bring back wealth. My work is closer to home. I build, I establish, I run at a profit. But whether it is Sir Francis Drake’s work or mine, it is alike; it is all in the service of the Protestant God, and my clean floor and the gold in my purse both honour His Holy Name.

      The waiting, the feverish preparation, the arrival of the queen’s own goods all build to a sense of such anxiety that when the lad I have posted at the top of the tower yells out: ‘I see them! They are coming!’ the whole household takes to their heels as if they feared a Spanish invasion instead of one young queen. I can feel my stomach lurch as if I had the flux, and I take off the sacking I have tied at my waist to protect my gown, and I go down to the courtyard to greet this unwanted guest.

      It is snowing again, just a flurry, but she has her hood pulled forward over her head to shield herself from the bitter weather, so all I see at first is a big horse and a woman huddled in cloaks in the saddle. My husband is riding at her side and I have an odd, actually, a very odd feeling, when I see him lean towards her as the horses halt. He inclines towards her, as if he would save her the least discomfort or trouble, he looks as if he would spare her the cold wind if he could; and I have a moment when I think that in our businesslike courtship, our well-advised marriage and our cheerful consummation in the big marital bed, that he has never yearned towards me as if he thinks I am fragile, as if he desires to protect me, as if I need protection.

      Because I am not. Because I don’t. And I have always been proud of this.

      I shake my head to clear such folly and I go briskly forward. My Chatsworth master of horse is holding her horse’s head, and my steward is holding her stirrup. ‘Welcome to Tutbury, Your Grace,’ I say.

      It is odd to say ‘Your Grace’ to a young woman again. Elizabeth has been the only queen in England for ten years. She and I have grown old together, I am forty-one, she is thirty-five years old now; and here is a young woman, in her mid-twenties, with an equal claim to the title. She is a queen in her own right in Scotland, she is heir to the throne of England, some would even argue she is the true Queen of England. There are two queens in England now: the one who holds the throne by our good will, and the other one who probably deserves it; and I am in the odd position of being in the service of them both.

      My husband the earl is down from his horse already, and he turns to her without even greeting me – as he should do, as is right and proper, though it feels a little odd to me, a newly wed wife. She reaches both arms out to him and he lifts her down from the saddle. Watching the thoughtless ease they have in this embrace reminds me that he has probably lifted her down every noon and night for the ten days of this journey. She must be light as a child, for he swings her down easily, as if in a dance. I know that I would be more of a weight for him. She turns to greet me while still in his arms, one hand casually on his shoulder, as she extends her other hand in the soft leather glove, and I curtsey low.

      ‘Thank you,’ she says. Her voice is musical, she speaks English like a Frenchwoman – that accent which is the very sound of perfidy and glamour to honest English ears. ‘I thank you for your welcome, Lady Shrewsbury.’

      ‘Please come in,’ I say, hiding my smile at her pronunciation of Shrewsbury, which is really ridiculously affected. She sounds like an infant learning to talk with her ‘Chowsbewwy’. I gesture towards her lodgings. An anxious glance from my husband asks me if the place is habitable and I give him a little nod. He can trust me. I am a partner in this venture, as I am a partner in this marriage. I shall not fail him, nor he me.

      There is a fire in her great hall and she goes towards it and sits herself in the big wooden chair that is drawn close to the blaze for her comfort. Since the wind is in the east the chimney will not blow back a buffet of wood-smoke, please God, and she must admire the table before her, which is spread with a fine Turkey carpet and my best gold abbey candlesticks. The tapestries on the walls are of the very best, woven by nuns, thank God for them, and in her bedroom she will find the bed curtains are of cloth of gold and the coverlet of the richest red velvet which once graced the bed of a most senior churchman.

      Everywhere is bright and warm, lit by the great square wax candles that are hers by right of being a queen, and in the sconces against the stone walls there are torches burning. She puts back the hood of her cape and I see her for the first time.

      I gasp. I can’t help myself. Truly, I gasp at the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. She has a face like a painting, as an artist might draw. She has the face of an angel. She has thick black hair, cropped like a boy’s, but sparkling at the front now with melting snow. She has dark arched eyebrows and eyelashes so long they sweep her cheeks. Her eyes are dark, dark and clear, and her skin is like porcelain, white and smooth without a single flaw. Her face is perfect like the carving of an angel, a serene heartless face; but what makes her remarkable, unlike anyone I have ever seen before, is her charm. She turns a smile on me and suddenly