The Tower and the Dream

by Jan Westcott

 

Part I
Chapter 1

October, 1532

"What are you looking for in that cupboard, Bess?" Lady Zouch asked, severely.

Bess Hardwick jumped. "I didn't hear you, my lady! I want . . . I'm looking for some strong wine."

"It is kept on the sideboard only at mealtimes," Lady Zouch said. "For good reason." She was putting some thin wafers on a silver plate. With the plate in hand, she turned to fix Elizabeth Hardwick with a stern glance. "Suppose you tell me why you are wanting wine?"

"It's not for myself! No, madam, it is young Master Barlow! He has asked me for some hot thick soup, with cream and a little strong wine! He feels so weak!"

Lady Zouch sighed with relief. One never knew about the young, what they were up to, and it was a great trial to have the children of one's friends here in the London house. After the experience she had had last year, she never would have had another girl in the household to train if she hadn't felt so sorry for Elizabeth Hardwick — this child's poor widowed mother, a lovely young woman with four daughters and a son to raise in an old half-timbered manor house in Derbyshire. Last fall Lady Zouch's good nature had got the best of her, and she had offered to take one of the Hardwick daughters to London; Mistress Hardwick had sent her daughter Bess; she had arrived four weeks ago, with a long letter of thanks from her mother.

"Well, now," said Lady Zouch, "Bess, prepare the soup, and cover it, and bring it up to me. I shall add the wine." She swished out, her ample skirts jutting from her waist. At the door she paused. "I'm very worried about young Master Barlow, Bess. Very worried."

And, indeed, she was. She shouldn't have consented to have him visit! He was too frail. Too frail for school, and that was why his father had asked her to give the lad a look at London. Other women were jealous of Lady Zouch for having this fine house in the city that she was able to go to during the winter, instead of being immured in the country like most of the gentry, while their husbands thronged the court of their King Henry VIII. Lady Zouch proceeded to the small withdrawing room off her own chamber. She set down the tray of wafers and said to the tall man who had risen at her entrance: "Trouble, trouble. I've a very sick boy on my hands."

 

Bess went on down to the kitchens; she prepared the tray; when the first curls of steam came from the soup, the head cook poured it into the bowl for her and added the cream. Quickly he clapped the cover on the top and laid a napkin over the whole tray. Bess bore it off.

She proceeded upward very carefully; the stairs were narrow and twisting. When she arrived at Lady Zouch's door, she didn't want to hold the tray with one hand, so she lifted one foot and tapped on the door with it. When the door then opened suddenly, she was standing with one foot raised, and she had never felt so foolish in her life because she was looking up into the dark face and eyes of the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life. Her lips parted in a little round o.

The deep dark eyes regarded her steadily, as though they could see behind her own. Then two big hands reached for the tray and took it from her.

"Thank you, sir," she stammered.

"Elizabeth," said Lady Zouch, "I present Master William Cavendish to you."

Bess curtsied.

"Elizabeth Hardwick from Derbyshire, here with me for a while, sir." Cavendish bowed, smiled. He still held the tray. "This isn't for me?"

"Oh, no, sir! It's for young Master Barlow, who is sick!"

Cavendish looked down at her; Lady Zouch hastened over, lifted the napkin and cover, and poured some wine in the soup, and recovered all hastily. "There," she said. Taking the tray from Cavendish, she went to the door and handed the tray once more to Bess. She closed the door firmly.

Cavendish regarded his hostess. The girl had the long pale oval face, with dark velvet brown eyes, and the ivory skin, which went of necessity with the red gold hair. She had an elegant slim body. He asked casually, "How old is she?"

"Twelve," said Lady Zouch, snapping out the word. Then she added, "Bess will be twelve in six weeks." Lady Zouch frowned. Had she heard the faintest sigh of regret from him?

 

Young Master Barlow had his own very narrow, very small chamber, but it was a great luxury, and it was because he was a guest, and a rich one at that, Bess thought. Not that she would have wanted her own room; she had never enjoyed such a thing; at home at Hardwick, she shared a room with her three sisters, and shared a bed, too. Here she shared with Lady Zouch's two daughters; they were older than she and more accomplished, and they fascinated her. For although Mistress Hardwick, like many ladies in the manor houses of England, carefully taught her son and daughters to read and write and do their sums, Bess had had no Latin, no French, no Italian, nor did she know how to play the lute, the viol, or the virginals. Lady Zouch's daughters did, and they spoke a pretty French; they had had a tutor. But Bess had no envy; she had only a great deal of interest; she was learning rapidly, and that was precisely why her mother had sent her here.

She bore the tray into the room. Robert Barlow was propped up in his bed, with its rather faded but heavy red damask curtains and spread. He was wearing a very elegant bedgown, which had been his last year New Year's present, he had told her. He looked pale and weary, with shadowed eyes, but they brightened at the sight of her, and he smiled; he had the most pleasant smile she had ever seen, she thought, and beautiful, even, white teeth, his servant had shaved him, and there was a nice aroma of soap in the room.

"You look so happy!" he said, and then a fit of coughing took him, and Bess, who was about to blurt out she had just met the handsomest man she had ever seen, forbore, forgot her own excitement at the encounter, brief as it had been, and put the tray down and leaned over him and rubbed his back. Finally the paroxysm stopped.

"Eat this before it gets cold," she commanded. "Don't talk, just eat!" She sat at the bottom of the bed, her feet swinging, and watched him, smiling. "Good," she said. "That's fine! You're going to eat it all. I shall tell you what I learned to do this morning. We took the fruit from within oranges today, very carefully, and then we will fill the orange with vinegar and spices, and tie it in a ribbon, with cloves stuck in it, as the kind of pomander men like. They are for presents! I'll give you one!"

"I would treasure anything you gave me," he said. He lay back and closed his eyes, the last view of her face impressed behind the closed lids. Lately he had been thinking of her every minute of the day and in his dreams. He heard her move and knew she would take the tray; he put his hand over hers. "Don't go away," he said.

She came back and he felt her settle on the bottom of the bed. His blue eyes opened.

"When I open my eyes and find you there," he said, "I think I'm already in heaven."

Bess made to speak and then stopped. She couldn't understand him. "You will get better!" She was positive!

He smiled at her. "I've been thinking of you and me, Bess," he said. Her arched light brows drew together faintly; she tried to divert him.

"Tell me what you know about someone called William Cavendish. You know so much about politics and people."

"I know more about George Cavendish, his older brother. George Cavendish was Cardinal Wolsey's 'gentleman-usher', which means he stood closer to the cardinal probably than any other man; he was the one on whom Wolsey relied, his second in command.

"George Cavendish served Cardinal Wolsey while he lived," he said. "But there is another man who used to be in the late cardinal's service, a man called Cromwell. And this William Cavendish serves Cromwell."

"I met him," she said. "Here. He is very tall and handsome; he wears a narrow sideburn and very close-cut beard, so you can see the shape of his face. How old is he?"

"About twenty-four, I guess," he said. "His brother George is more of an intellectual, a writer, a very respected and unique man. They say William Cavendish is a more exciting fellow, honorable but perhaps not completely scrupulous."

"He is very gallant," Bess said.

"He is married, Bess."

She made a mock sigh. "All the ones I like are married."

"Bess," he said gravely, "last week I wrote to my father about you."

She sat up straight, curled her legs underneath her, and looked straight, into his eyes, those deep blue eyes, so honest, so loving, so terribly young. "God's blood, Robin," she whispered, "we're too young!"

He shook his head. "I love you, Bess. I love you better than anything in the entire world, or sky or sea. I don't have much time. I want to take care of you; I want to marry you."

"Robin," she whispered.

"You surely knew or guessed?"

"Yes, and I thank you." He could barely hear her.

"You don't have to whisper; what we speak of is perfectly honorable. A contract of marriage!" His eyes lighted and he smiled.

She was silent, trying to conceal the trouble of her thoughts. What of me, she thought? I'm not in love. I like you, Robin, I like you, but — can I say that aloud? I must. But I can't. Her voice trembled. "But my mother, Robin, my mother will think we're too young. So will your father."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks," he said. "I've made up my mind. I know what I want, and I have very very little time to do it in. You must understand that, Bess! You must not try to blink your eyes at the facts. And I'm surprised at you. You are romantic, but you are practical. They are remarkable assets. You can fly and you can walk. Do it all your life."

He was silent then, as though the effort of talking thus was too tiring. And he was thinking, How shall I put it to her? Shall I be blunt and overbearing, or shall I try to woo her with soft words and a kiss on her cheek? But he couldn't do either chained to this bed. He would have to meet her on her own ground, not lying here in disarray, in bed.

He was fairly tall, even pale as he was and thin as he was, nature had bestowed good features, a strong chin, and fine thick blond hair. The dress of the day, for men, was dictated by the king, and it emphasized the overbearing maleness of that king — in the heavy doublet, for instance, which broadened any shoulder to a magnificent width. "I'm going to get up, Bess," he said. "Take out that tray, and call Jack for me. Get your cloak, Bess. We'll go out for a walk."

She started to say he wasn't well enough to go out, but it would do no good. She left the tray on the floor by his door for one of the servants to pick up. She got her cloak, brushed the old white fur around the hood so that it looked as good as possible, and came down to the lower hall to wait. At the top of the curving steps, out of sight, she heard Lady Zouch bid good-bye to her guest, although the words were indistinguishable. Then William Cavendish came running down and stopped short as he saw her.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, mistress," he said.

She dipped him a small curtsey. "Mine also, sir."

"Good-bye." He hesitated — the white fur about her face was not becoming; it was yellowed and cheap. Anyway, against the tendrils of red hair it was wrong. "When you grow up," he said, low, "I'd like to put sables with gold clasps around your head and shoulders." Surprised, she looked up into the dark eyes; they were reckless and glinting, and yet there was a hint of patronage in them, to which she took instant umbrage.

"Good God, sir," she said levelly, "I shouldn't want to wait that long." Then she blushed, for she had forgot he was older and, in her newfound liberty, being away from her mother, had used an oath. But William Cavendish grinned; he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

"I deserved that," he said, and then he reached for the door and was gone down the steps to the street.

Bess stood there watching him, the door open.

A pox on the man, she thought angrily. He might just as well have said my cloak is not becoming; in fact, he did say it! She scowled and turned that frown onto Robert Barlow, who was coming slowly down the stairs, holding to the rail. As he came further into view, though, the scowl left her face, and she smiled up at him. He looked so different! His cap, with a jewel and a little flat feather, sat rakishly on his thick blond hair. He was clean shaven because he wasn't old enough to grow a beard, but she liked clean-shaven men. They were young, like her. His doublet was red and black, and the sleeves slashed and puffed with white silk, so he looked as broad as a bear; his blue eyes shone at the sight of her.

"Oh, you look so fair," he said.

He came up to her, and his servant put his rich furred cloak over his shoulders. And suddenly Bess sighed with pure pleasure. What a delightful prospect — to go out walking, in London, with an escort like this! "Thank you for telling me I look fair," she said, wishing that clod Cavendish could hear.

"You're not only fair, my love," he said, regardless of the listening servant, "you are beautiful." He tucked her hand in his arm, and proudly Bess started down the steps and into the streets of this wonderful, wonderful city, her city, her London.

 

They sat, watching the river, the endless stream of river traffic, the noise, the cry of birds and boatmen. The sun shone, and the October wind was soft. Robert Barlow had taken her hand, and in their walk here, she had forgot temporarily that he had spoken to her of marriage. But now, suddenly, she knew that he was about to ask her again, and soberly she looked at him, sideways, and then averted her eyes. She sighed deeply. "Before you speak, Robin, I must tell you we are too young." She bit her lip, she didn't know exactly what else to say, but then she decided she had better continue. "I'm not ready for marriage." She glanced at him; did he know what she meant?

"I know that, Bess," he said, squeezing her hand. "You don't need to be embarrassed."

She sighed again, now in relief. "Oh, well, then — "

"But the subject is not closed." His voice was firm. "Bess, at the risk of being dramatic, which I despise, I must tell you something, too. I may not have long to live. Don't argue with me. I love you, and when I die, I want to have wed with you, and I want to give you security; I am a wealthy man, Bess, and I want to share it with you. We don't have time to wait."

Bess took her eyes from the river and looked down at the hand on top of hers. What a tragedy, she thought. Suppose I, Elizabeth Hardwick, thought I wouldn't live, suppose, I were mortally ill?

"You see, Bess," he said gently, "there is just one thing I want from my life, and that is to know that I am taking care of you. I will die happy if I am sure that I, your husband, have provided for you. It's the only thing in the world I want. You are my life, my hold on life. You have become the purpose of it, ever since I met you six weeks ago. With you at my side, I am happy. But you don't need to get into my bed, Bess. You are too young, and I am too sick, my love."

"I can't believe it!" she cried. "You are only fifteen! You will get better!"

He shook his head. "I doubt it, Bess; but I am happy when I am with you. Bess, my dearest love, will you marry me and allow me to take care of you for the rest of my life, to hold and cherish, and to endow you with all my goods, forever and ever? You will be my immortality, you and your quick wit and your beautiful face and body. You will live, and I will have a hand in it! You will bear my name, and you will be comforted and secure in the future, by my doing."

She thought, I can't believe it. It is the strangest proposal in the world, it doesn't seem possible; when I tell Mother, she won't believe me, either.

"What will my mother say, Robin?" she whispered.

He patted her hand. "We'll ask her and see," he said.

 

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